After the inauguration, hunting became an organised and well-supported recreation among the dwellers within the influence of the social wavelets of the lake. The Benmohr firm found, on the whole—though the stabling of hunters was not unaccompanied by expense—that it brought their stud prominently before the public. Hence they found ready sale, at an ascending scale of prices, for all the colts they could turn out. Strangers came for the hunting, and made purchases. The hounds, too, meeting regularly once a week during the winter months, exercised a repressive influence upon the dingos, so much so, that M.F.H. (not being a sheep-owner) began seriously to think of preserving these much-maligned yet indispensable animals.

So widely spread and honourably mentioned was the fame of the Lake William Hunt Club, that His Vice-regal Highness the Governor himself more than once deigned to partake of the hospitality of The Chase, bringing with him aides-de-camp and private secretaries, pleasant of manner, and refreshing as such to the souls of the daughters of the house.

Meanwhile Wilfred worked away at the serious business of the estate, only taking occasional interest in these extraneous pleasures; grumbling, moreover, at the expense, indirect or otherwise, that the kennel necessitated.

However, it must be said in justice to him, that it was rarely he was betrayed into impatience with regard to an occupation which, with other branches of acclimatised field sports, had become the mainstay of his father’s interest in life.

‘Really,’ Mr. Effingham would say, ‘in a few years—say about eighteen hundred and forty-five or thereabouts—I believe we shall be nearly as secure of decent sport as we were in old England. The Murray cod are increasing in the lake. I have brown trout, dace, and tench in the little river. There are almost too many rabbits; and as to hares, pheasants, and partridges, we can invite half-a-dozen guns next season, without fear of consequences. I have been offered deer from Tasmania. With the inducement of a stag-hunt and a haunch of venison, I don’t see why we shouldn’t finish our season right royally. Depend upon it, New South Wales only wants enterprise, in the department of field sports, to become one of the finest countries under the sun.’

There was no doubt that in the eyes of an observer not endowed with the apprehensive temperament which numbers so many successful men amongst its possessors, the appearance of matters generally at The Chase justified reasonable outlay.

Wilfred had made a few guarded investments—all successful so far. What, for instance, could pay better than the purchase of the quiet, dairy steers from the small farmers in the autumn, when grass and cash were scarce, to fatten them in the lake paddocks? Adjacent freeholds, from time to time in the market, were added to the snug estate of The Chase. True, he could not always find the cash at call for these tempting bargains—(is there anything so enticing as the desire to add farm to farm and house to house, as in the old, old days of Judah?)—but Mr. Rockley was ready to endorse his bill, which, with his credit at the Bank of New Holland, was as good as cash.

Thus passed the time until the close of the hunting season, before which Major Glendinning had returned and apparently taken up his abode in the neighbourhood, in great request at all the stations, and earning for himself daily the character of a thorough sportsman. He purchased a couple of horses from the Benmohr stud, on which, from time to time, he performed such feats across country as caused it to be surmised that, in the event of his settling in the neighbourhood, Bob Clarke would find a rival.

He spoke highly of the standard as to blood and bone of the horses bred in the district, openly stating that, in the event of the proprietors being minded to establish a system of shipment to India, they might expect extraordinary prices for their best horses, while the medium ones would be worth double or treble their colonial value.

Mr. Rockley, after reckoning up expenses, together with the rather serious item of risk of loss on ship-board, decided that there was a handsome margin. He finished by declaring that in the following spring, which would be in time for the cool season at Calcutta, he would send a dozen horses of his own breeding, and join them in a cargo from the district.

The idea was adopted. Preparations were made by handling and stable-feeding as many of the saleable horses as could be spared. O’Desmond was a warm supporter of the movement. He offered to find from his long-established stud fully half the number necessary for the undertaking. The Major, who was compelled to revisit India once more, if but for the last time, had agreed to accompany the emigrants, and to see them safely into the stables of old Sheik Mahommed, the great Arab horse-dealer.

‘Fancy getting a hundred or two for our colts!’ said Hamilton. ‘Not more than they are worth when you come to think of their breeding. I look upon the Camerton stock as the very best horses in New South Wales, probably in Australia. But of course we never expect more than a third of such prices in these markets.’

‘The Major deserves a statue,’ said Argyll, ‘inscribed—“Ad centurionem fortissimum, qui, equis canibusque gaudens, primus in Indis et in Nova Cambria erat.”’

‘Very neat and classical,’ affirmed Fred Churbett. ‘I intend to send Duellist. I should be sure to get three hundred for him, shouldn’t I? He’s a sweet hack, but the price is tempting. I daresay I could pick up another one up to my weight.’

‘A horse of Duellist’s blood, size, and fashion would sell for that sum any day in Calcutta,’ assented the Major. ‘He would be a remarkable horse anywhere, and I need not tell you, would fetch more as a park hack in London.’

‘Would we were both there!’ murmured Fred softly. ‘I fancy I see myself on him doing Rotten Row. I have half a mind to go with you to Calcutta, Major. If the trade develops we might make money a little faster than at present, and have our fling in the old country before these locks are tinged with grey,’ melodramatically patting his auburn chevelure.

‘It might be a desirable change,’ said Forbes. ‘Many people are said to improve in appearance as they grow older.’

‘But not in mildness of disposition, James,’ retorted Churbett. ‘A tendency to flat contradiction and aggressive argument has rarely been known to abate with advancing years. But this is wide of the Indian Remount Association. I don’t see why we shouldn’t offer to ship and sell on commission. Many people in the district breed a good nag and don’t know what to do with him afterwards. Suppose we consult the Squire about it. He’s not a business man, but he knows India well.’

It was agreed that they should make up a party, consisting of Forbes, Churbett, the Major, and Argyll, to ride over to The Chase that afternoon. This was always a popular proceeding if any colour of business, news, or sport could be discovered for the visit.

As they were nearing the gate of the home-paddock, they encountered Wilfred Effingham, accompanied by his old stock-rider, bringing in a draft of cattle. They amused themselves watching the efficient aid rendered by the dog, and remarked incidentally the fiery impatience and clever horsemanship of old Tom, who, roused by the difficulty of driving some of the outlying younger cattle, was flying round the drove upon old Boney at a terrific pace.

‘How well that old vagabond rides!’ said Fred Churbett, as Tom came racing down the range after a perverse heifer, forcing her along at the very top of her speed, with Boney’s opened mouth just at her quarter, at which, with ears laid back and menacing teeth, he reached over from time to time, the old man’s whip meanwhile rattling over her in a succession of pistol-cracks, while he audibly devoted her to the infernal deities.

‘There, thin, may the divil take ye for a cross-grained, contrairy, brindle-hided baste of a scrubber; may I niver if I don’t have ye in the cask the first time yer bones is dacently covered!’ he wrathfully ejaculated, as Boney stopped dead at the rear of the drove, into which the alarmed heifer shot with the velocity of a shell.

As they rode up to Wilfred and his man, Major Glendinning addressed the old stock-rider:

‘By the way, Tom, do you happen to know any one of your own name in this part of the country—or elsewhere in the colony, as you have been such a traveller?’

‘The divil a know I know,’ replied Tom (who was in one of his worst humours, and at such times had little control over himself), ‘of any man but Parson Glendinning that lives on the Hunter River, and he’s a Scotchman and never seen “the black North” at all. But what raison have ye to ask me? I’m Tom Stewart Glendinning, the stock-rider, and barrin’ that I was “lagged” and was a fool to myself all my life long, I’ve no call to be ashamed of my name, more than another man.’

As he spoke the old man raised himself in his saddle and looked steadily, even fiercely, into the eyes of his interlocutor, who in turn, half astonished, half irritated at the old man’s manner, frowned as he returned the gaze with military sternness of rebuke.

Wilfred came up with the intention of rating his follower for his acerbity, but as he marked the fixed expression of the two men, something prevented him interposing. A similar feeling took possession of the others, as they stopped speaking and unconsciously constituted themselves an audience during this peculiar colloquy. Did a shadow of doubt, a half-acknowledged idea cross the minds of the spectators, as they watched the two men whose paths in life lay so wide apart? Was it the fire which burned with sudden glow, at that moment, in the eyes of both speakers, as they confronted each other, the chance similarity of their aquiline features, closely compressd lips, and knitted brows? Whatever the unseen influence, it was simultaneous, as it awed to silence men, at no time easy to control, and placed them in a position of mesmeric domination.

The Major rapidly, but with strangely husky intonation, then said:

‘Under that name did you send to Simon Glendinning, in the county of Derry, certain sums of money?’

‘I did thin; and why wouldn’t I, if it was my own? It was asy made in thim days; the country was worth living in,—not like now, overstocked with “jimmies” and foreign trash.’

‘You sent that money, as I was informed,’ continued the Major, persistently unheeding the old man’s petulance, ‘for the benefit of a child, a nephew of your own, whom you desired to provide for?’

‘Nephew be hanged! The boy was my son, Owen Walter Glendinning by name. Maybe he’s dead and gone this many a day, for I niver heard tale or tidings of him since. It’s as well for him and betther. ’Tis little use I see in draggin’ on life in this world at all, unless you’ve great luck intirely. But what call have ye to be cross-examinin’ me—like a lawyer—about my family affairs, and what makes the colour lave yer face like a dead man’s? Who are ye at all?’

‘I am Owen Walter Glendinning! It was for me that your money was used. I am—your—son!’

As he spoke an ashen hue overspread the bronzed cheek, and the strong man swayed in his saddle as if he would have fallen to the ground. His lips were clenched, and every feature bore the impress of the agony that strains nature’s every capacity. As for the spectators, they looked upon the actors in this life drama, of which the catastrophe had been so unexpectedly sprung upon them, with silent respect accorded to those beyond human aid. Words would have been worse than useless. They could but look, but sit motionless on their horses, but school every feature to passive recipiency, until the end should come.

‘God in Heaven!’ cried the old man; ‘do you tell me so? May the tongue be blistered that spoke the word! It was a lie I tould you—lies—lies—I tell ye; sure ye don’t belave a word of it?’

Then he looked at the despairing face of the soldier with wistful entreaty and bitter regret, piteous to behold.

‘It is too late; it is useless to declare that you misled me. You have betrayed the truth, which in pity for my unworthy pride you attempt to conceal.’

‘It’s all a lie—a lie—a hellish lie!’ screamed the old man, transported with rage and regret. ‘What you, my son! You! Major Glendinning, a fine gintleman, and a soldier every inch of ye, the ayquals of the best gintry in the land and they proud of ye, the son of a drunken old convict stock-rider! I tell ye it can’t be. I swear it’s a lie. I knew the man ye spake of. He’s dead now, but he was book-larned and come of an old family. I heard tell of his sending home money to his nephew in the North, and our names being the same I just said it out of divilment. Sure I’d cut my throat if I thought I’d be the manes of harmin’ ye. Why don’t ye curse me? Why don’t ye tell thim gintlemen I’m a lyin’ old villain? They know me well. Here, I’ll swear on my bended knees, by the blessed Virgin and all the saints, there’s no word of truth in what I said.’

As old Tom raved, implored, and blasphemed, cursing at once his own folly and evil hap, his face writhed with the working of inward feeling. His features were deadly pale, well-nigh livid; the tears ran down his furrowed cheeks, while his eyes blazed with an unearthly light. As he fell on his knees and commenced his oath of renunciation the calm tones of the Major were again heard.

‘All this is vain and useless. Get up, and listen to reason. That you are my—my father, I have now not the slightest reason to doubt. Your knowledge of the name, of the annual sum sent, is sufficient evidence; if these facts were not ample, the resemblance of feature is to me at this moment, as doubtless to our good friends here, unmistakable. Fate has brought about this meeting, why, I dare not question. You are too excited to listen now’—here the old man made as though he would burst in with a torrent of imprecations on the childish absurdity of the speaker—‘but we shall meet again before I leave for India.’

‘May we niver meet again on God’s earth! ’Tis yerself that’s to blame if this divil’s blast gets out. Sure the Benmohr gintlemen and Mr. Churbett won’t let on. Mr. Wilfred’s close enough. Kape your saycret, and divil a soul need hear of the sell ould Tom gave ye. My sarvice to ye, Major!’

Here the old man mounted and devoted his energies to the cattle. Wilfred moved forward, by no means sorry that the strange scene had concluded.

‘Look here, Effingham, I will ride on to The Chase and make my adieus; as well now as another time. I return at once to India. You understand my position, I feel sure.’

He rode forward with a more upright seat, a firmer hand upon his bridle-rein, and that stern lighting of the eyes that may be seen when, and when only—

ere each man spurs to the death feast, wherein his own name has, perchance, been sounded on a shadowy roll-call by a phantom herald.

Hamilton urged his horse alongside of the Major and held out his hand. Their eyes met as each wrung the proffered palm. But no word was spoken. Argyll and Churbett rode slightly ahead. Before long they reached the gate of The Chase, which, with its peculiar fastening, their horses began to know pretty well, either sidling steadily up or commencing to gambade at the very sight of it, in token of detestation, as did Grey Surrey.

‘It seems odd that I shall perhaps never see this house again,’ said Major Glendinning, slowly and reflectively. ‘I was beginning to be very fond of it, and had made up my mind to buy a place for a stud farm and settle near it. But why think of it now, or of anything else? “What is decreed by Allah is decreed,” as saith the Moslem. Who am I to complain of the universal fate?’

But as the strong man spoke there was an involuntary tremor in his voice, a contraction of the muscles, as when the dumb, tortured frame quivers under the surgeon’s knife.

‘Oh, how glad I am that you all came to-day,’ said Annabel, as they walked in; ‘that is, if a girl is permitted to express her pleasure at the arrival of gentlemen. Perhaps I should have said “how fortunate a coincidence.” But, as a fact, all our horses are in to-day, and we were just wondering if we could make up a riding-party after lunch. Mr. Churbett, I can order you to come, because you never have any work to do; not like some tiresome people who will go home late at night or early in the morning.’

‘I never get credit for my labours, Miss Annabel. I’m too good-natured and easily intimidated—by ladies. But did you never hear of my memorable journey with cattle from Gundagai to the coast, all in the depth of winter; and—and—in fact—several other exploring enterprises?’

‘What, really, Mr. Churbett? Then I recant. But I thought you managed the station from your verandah, sitting in a large cane chair, with a pile of books on the floor.’

‘An enemy hath done this,’ said Mr. Churbett impressively. ‘Miss Annabel, I never shall be exonerated till you immortalise The She-oaks with your presence at a muster. Then, and then only, can you dimly shadow forth the deeds that the knight Frederico Churbetto, with his good steed Grey Surrey, is capable of achieving.’

‘“I wadna doot,” as Andrew says; and indeed, Mr. Churbett, I should like very much to see all the galloping and watch you and your stock-riders at work. You must ask mamma. Only, the present question is, can we have a canter down to the lake side?’

‘We shall be truly thankful,’ said Hamilton. ‘I can answer for it. We did not know the good fortune in store for us when we started.’

‘Oh, thanks, thanks! Consider everything nice said on both sides. But what have you done to Major Glendinning? He looks so serious.’

‘Oh, he’s all right,’ said Hamilton, thinking it best to suffer their friend to make his explanations personally. ‘Indian warriors, you know, are apt to suffer from old wounds. Change of weather, I think.’

‘Poor fellow!’ said Annabel. ‘It seems hard that if one is not killed in battle, he should have to suffer afterwards. However, we must cheer him up. I will go and put my habit on.’

The afternoon was fine, so after a preliminary saddling-up, the whole party filed off, apparently in high spirits. The roads in one direction were always sound, while by ascending slightly one of the spurs of the range a grand view was always obtainable.

Rosamond rode foremost, as she generally did, by right of the exceptional walking of Fergus. She was accompanied by Forbes, whose hackney had been selected after great research, his friends averred, in order that he might rank as the next fastest pacer in those parts. Argyll and Wilfred brought up the rear, occasionally joining company with Annabel and Fred Churbett. The Major and Beatrice went next behind the leaders. The couples preserved the order in which they set out, with the exception of the inroad upon Fred and Annabel’s eager colloquies, which were not deeply sentimental. That amiable personage complained that no one scrupled to break in upon his tÊte-À-tÊtes. He ‘thought he should have to grow a moustache and call some one out, in order to inspire respect.’

Major Glendinning had made frequent visits to Warbrok, and familiar intercourse having naturally resulted from his intimacy with their friends at Benmohr, the family had come to look upon him as one of their particular set. Of a nature constitutionally reserved, and more specially self-contained from long residence as a military autocrat in one of the provinces of Northern India, he had read and thought more deeply than men of his class are apt to do. In proportion, therefore, to his general reticence was his satisfaction in unlocking his stores of experience when he met with congenial minds.

A few chance questions on the part of Beatrice Effingham, after his first introduction to the family, had discovered to him that she was better informed as to the administration of Northern India than most people. Hence grew up between them a common ground of interest in which he could expatiate and explain. And his listener was never tired of hearing from an eye-witness and an actor the true story of the splendours and tragedies of that historic land.

The real reason of this research, apart from the hunger for literary pabulum, which at all times possessed Beatrice, was an affectionate interest in the life of an uncle, who, after entering upon a brilliant career, had perished through the treachery of a native Rajah. His adventures had fascinated the romantic girl from early childhood; hence she had loved to verify every detail of the circumstances under which the star of the ill-fated Raymond Effingham had faded into darkness.

By those indescribable degrees of advance, of which the heart can note the progress, but rarely the first approach, a friendship between the Major and the thoughtful girl became so apparent as to be the subject of jesting remark. When, therefore, he had announced his intention of settling in the neighbourhood, a thrill of unusual force invaded the calm pulses of Beatrice Effingham. Had his retirement from the service, from the profession he loved so well, some reason in which her future was concerned? If so, if he settled down on one of the adjoining properties, could any union be more consonant with her every feeling, taste, and aspirations than with one whom, in every way, she could so fully respect and admire, whose deeds in that wonderland of her fancies were written on the records of his country’s fame? It was a dream too bright for reality. And though it would occasionally disturb the even tenor of Beatrice’s hours in the library, her well-regulated mind refused to dwell upon possibilities as yet unsanctioned.

When, therefore, Major Glendinning promptly availed himself of the opportunity afforded by the ride to the lake to constitute himself her escort; when, after a few commonplace observations, she observed that his countenance, though more grave than was usual in her presence, had yet an expression of fixed resolve, an indefinable feeling of expectation, almost amounting to dread, took possession of her, and it was with a beating heart and changing cheek that she listened.

‘I take advantage of this opportunity, Miss Beatrice, to say the words which must be said before we part.’

‘Part!’ said the girl, shaking in every limb, though she bravely struggled against her emotions and tried to impart firmness to her voice. ‘Then you are going to leave us for India? Have you been ordered back suddenly?’

‘That is as it may be,’ said the soldier; and as he spoke their eyes met. His face wore a look of unalterable decision, yet so fraught was it with misery, even despair, that she instinctively felt that Fate had dealt her a remorseless stroke. ‘I have heard this day,’ he continued, ‘what has altered the chief purpose of my life—has killed my every hope. I return to India by the next ship.’

‘You have heard terribly bad news,’ she answered very softly. ‘I see it in your face. I need not tell you how we shall all sympathise with you; how grieved we shall be at your departure.’

Here the womanly instinct of the consoler proved stronger than that of the much-vaunted ruler of courts and camps, inasmuch as Beatrice lost sight of her personal feelings in bethinking herself how she could aid the strong man, whose features bore evidence of the agony which racked every nerve and fibre.

‘I feel deeply grateful for your sympathy. I knew you would bestow it. No living man needs it more. This morning I rode out fuller of pleasant anticipation than I can recall, prepared to take a step which I hoped would result in my life’s happiness. I had arranged for an extension of leave, after which I intended to sell out and live in this neighbourhood, which for many reasons—for every reason—I have found so delightful.’

‘And your plans are altered?’

This query was made in tones studiously free from all trace of interest or disapproval, although the beating heart and throbbing brain of the girl almost prevented utterance.

‘I have this day—this day only—you will do me the justice hereafter to believe—heard a statement, unhappily too true, which clears up the mystery which has rested upon me from my birth. That cloud has been removed. But behind it lies a foul blot, a dark shadow of dishonour, which I deemed could never have rested on the name of Walter Glendinning.’

‘Dishonour!’ echoed Beatrice. ‘Impossible! How can that be?’

‘It is as I say—deep and ineradicable,’ groaned out the unhappy man. ‘You will hear more from your brother. All is known to him and your friends of Benmohr. Enough that I have no personal responsibility. But it is a burden that I must carry till the day of a soldier’s death. You will believe me when I say that my honour demands that I quit Australia—to me so dear, yet so fatal. The years that may remain to me belong to my country.’

‘I feel,’ said the girl, with kindling eye and a pride of bearing which equalled his own, ‘that you are doing what your high sense of honour, of duty, demands. I can but counsel you to take them, for guide and inspiration. I know not the doom which has fallen on you, but I can bid you God-speed, and pray for you evermore.’

‘You have spoken my inmost thoughts. God help us that it should be so. But I were disloyal to every thought and aspiration of my nature if I stooped to link the life of another, as God is my witness and judge, to my tarnished name. We must part—never, perhaps, to meet on earth—but, Beatrice, dearest and only loved—may I not call you so?—I who now look upon your face, and hear your voice for the last time—you will think in your happy home of one who tore the heart from his bosom, which a dark fate forbade him to offer you. When you hear that Walter Glendinning died a soldier’s death, give a tear to his memory—to his fate who scorned death, but could not endure dishonour.’

Neither spoke for some moments. The girl’s tears flowed fast as she gazed before her, while both rode steadily onward. The man’s form was bowed, and his set features wore the livid aspect of him who has received a death-wound but strives to hide the inward agony. Slowly, mechanically, they rode side by side along the homeward track, in the rear of the others until the entrance gate was reached. Then, as if by mutual impulse, they turned towards each other, and their eyes met in one long sorrowful glance. Such light has shone in the eyes of those who parted ere now, sanctified by a martyr’s hope—a martyr’s death.

‘We shall meet,’ she said, ‘no more on earth; but oh, if you value my love, cherish the thought of a higher life—of a better world, where no false human pride, no barrier of man’s cruelty or injustice may sever us. I hold the trust which my heart, if not my lips, confessed. Till then, farewell, and may a merciful God keep our lives unstained until the day of His coming.’

She drew the glove from her hand hurriedly. It fell at his horse’s feet. He dismounted hastily, and placed it in his bosom, and raising her ice-cold hand to his lips, pressed it with fervour. Then accompanying her to the hall door, he committed her to the charge of Wilfred, who, with his mother and sister, stood on the verandah, took a hurried leave of the family, regretting that he was compelled, by sudden summons, to rejoin his regiment, and with his friends, who with ready tact made excuse for returning, took the familiar track to Benmohr.

Few words were spoken on the homeward road, which was traversed at a pace that tried the mettle of the descendants of Camerton. That night the friends sat late, talking earnestly. It was long after midnight before they separated. On the following day Major Glendinning and his father met at a spot half-way between The Chase and Benmohr, the interview being arranged by Hamilton, who rode over and persuaded the old man to accompany him. What passed between them was never known, but ere that night was ended the Major was far on his way to Sydney, which he reached in time to secure a passage in the good ship Governor Bourke, outward bound for China. In the course of the week Mr. Effingham received a letter in explanation of the circumstances, signed Owen Walter Glendinning, declaring his unworthiness to aspire to his daughter’s hand, as well as his inability to remain in the country after the mystery of his birth had been so unexpectedly revealed to him. He held himself pledged to act in the matter after the expiration of a year in accordance with what Mr. Effingham, acting as the guardian of his daughter’s happiness, might consider in the light of an honourable obligation. A bank draft drawn in favour of Thomas Stewart Glendinning was enclosed, with an intimation that an annual payment would be forwarded for his use henceforth during the writer’s life.

The first cloud which the Effinghams had descried since their arrival in Australia had appeared in the undimmed horizon. The breath of evil, which knows no bound nor space beneath the sun, had rested on them. Habitually taking deeper interest in the subjective issues of life than in its material transaction, they were proportionately depressed. All that maternal love and the most tender sisterly affection could give was lavished upon the sufferer. Her well-disciplined mind, strengthened by culture and purified by religion, gradually acquired equilibrium. But it was long ere the tranquil features of Beatrice Effingham recovered their wonted expression; and a close observer could have detected the trace of an inward woe in the depths of her erstwhile clear, untroubled eyes.

In his answer to the letter which he had received, Mr. Effingham ‘fully agreed with the course which his friend had taken, and the determination which he had expressed. Looking at the situation, which he deplored with his whole heart, he was unable to see any other mode of action open to him as a man of honour. Deeply prejudicial as had been the issue to the happiness of his beloved daughter, he could not ask him (Major Glendinning) to swerve by one hair’s-breadth from the path which he had laid down for himself. His wishes would be attended to with respect to the bank draft forwarded for the use of the person named, but he would suggest that Mr. Sternworth should be chosen as the recipient of future remittances. He would, in conclusion, wish him the fullest measure of success and distinction which his profession offered, with, if not happiness, the inward satisfaction known to those who marched ever in the vanguard of honourable duty. In this wish he was warmly seconded by every member of the family.’

Old Tom, after notice of his intention to leave the employment, presented himself before his master, dressed and accoutred as for a journey, leading Boney and followed by the uncompromising Crab. His effects were fastened in a roll in front of his saddle, his coiled stockwhip was pendent from the side-buckle. All things, even to the fixed look upon the weather-beaten features, betokened a settled resolution.

‘I’m going to lave the ould place, Captain,’ he said; ‘and it’s sorry I am this day to quit the family and the lake and the hounds, where I laid it out to lave the ould bones of me. I’m wishin’ the divil betther divarshion than to bother with the family saycrets of the likes o’ me. Sure he has lashins of work in this counthry, without disturbin’ the last days of poor ould Tom Glendinning—and he sure of me, anyhow. My heart’s bruk, so it is.’

‘Hush, Tom,’ said his employer. ‘We can understand Major Glendinning’s feelings. But, after all, it is his duty to acknowledge the ties of nature. I have no doubt that after a time he will become—er—used to the relationship.’

‘D——n the relationship!’ burst out the old man menacingly. ‘Ah, an’ sure I ax yer pardon, yer honour, for the word; but ’tis wild I am that the Major, a soldier and a rale gintleman every inch of him, that’s fought for the Queen and skivered them infernal blackamoors in the Injies, should be given out as the son of a blasted ould rapparee like me. It was asy knowing when I seen that look on him when he heard the name, but how could I drame that my son could have turned into a king’s officer—all as one as the best of the land? If I had known it for sartain, before he axed me, I’d have lived beside him as a common stock-rider for years, if he’d come here, and he’s niver have known no more than the dead. It’s a burning shame and a sin, that’s what it is!’

‘It may have been unfortunate,’ said Mr. Effingham; ‘but I can never regard it as wrong that a father and a son should come to know of the tie which binds them to each other.’

‘And why not, I ask ye?’ demanded the old man savagely. ‘What good has it done aither of us? It’s sent him back, with a sore heart, to live among them black divils and snakes and tigers, a murdtherin’ hot counthry it is by all accounts, when he might have bought a place handy here and bred horses and cattle—sure he’s an iligant rider and shoots beautiful, don’t he now? I wonder did he take them gifts after me?’ said the old man, with the first softened expression and a half sigh. ‘Sure, if I could have plazed myself with lookin’ at him and he not to know, I wouldn’t say but that I might have listened to Parson Sternworth and—and—repinted,—yes, repinted,—after all that’s come and gone! And now I’m on the ould thrack agin, with tin divils tearin’ at me, and who knows what will happen.’

‘There’s no need for you to lead a wandering life, or indeed, to work at all, even if you leave the district,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘I have a sum in my hands, forwarded by the Major, sufficient for all your wants.’

‘I’ll not touch a pinny of it!’ cried out the old man; ‘sure it’s blood money, no less, his life, anyway, that will pay for this! Didn’t I see his eye, when he shook hands with me, and begged my pardon for his pride, and asked me to bless him—me!’—and here the old man laughed derisively, a sound not pleasant to hear. ‘If there’s fighting where he’s going, and he lives out the year, it will be because lead and cowld steel has no power to harm a man that wants to die. Mr. Effingham, I’ll never touch it; and why would I? Sure the drink’ll kill me, fast enough, without help.’

‘But why go away? I am so grieved that, after your faithful service, you should leave in such a state of mind.’

‘Maybe I’ll do ye more sarvice before I die, but I must get into the far-out runs, or I’ll go mad thinking of him. It was my hellish timper that let the words out so quick, or he’d never have known till his dying day. Maybe the rheumatiz was to blame, that keeps burning in the bones of me like red-hot iron, till I couldn’t spake a civil word to the blessed Saviour Himself. Anyhow, it’s done now; but of all I ever did—and there’s what would hang me on the list—I repint over that, the worst, and will till I die. Good-bye, sir. God bless the house, and thim that’s in it.’

The old man remounted his wayworn steed with more agility than his appearance promised, and taking the track which led southward, went slowly along the road without turning his head or making further speech. The dog rose to his feet and trotted after him. In a few moments the characteristic trio passed from sight.

‘Mysterious indeed are the ways of Providence!’ thought Effingham, as he turned towards the house. ‘Who would ever have thought that the fortunes of this strange old man would ever have been associated with me or mine. I feel an unaccountable presentiment, as if this incident, inexplicable as it is, were but the forerunner of evil!’