Chapter Seventeen.

“What are you going to do, James, dear?” said Mrs Wilton.

“Eh?”

“What are you going to do, dear? Oh, you don’t know what a relief it is to me. I was going to beg you to have the pike pond dragged.”

James Wilton’s strong desire was to do nothing, and give his son plenty of time; but there was a Mrs Grundy even at Northwood, and she had to be studied.

“Do? Errum!” He cleared his throat with a long imposing, rolling sound. “Well, search must be made for them directly, and they must be brought back. It is disgraceful I did mean to sit down and do nothing, but it will not do. I am very angry and indignant with them both, for Kate is as bad as Claud. It must not be said that we connived at the—the—the—what’s the word?—escapade.”

“Of course not, my dear; and it is such a pity. Such a nice wedding as she might have had, and made it a regular ‘at home,’ to pay off all the people round I’d quite made up my mind about my dress.”

“Oh, I’m glad of that,” said Wilton, with a grim smile. “Nothing like being well prepared for the future. Have you quite made up your mind about your dress when I pop off? Crape, of course?”

“James, my darling, you shouldn’t. How can you say such dreadful things?”

“You make me—being such a fool.”

“James!”

“Hold your tongue, do. Yes, I must have inquiries made.”

“But do you feel quite sure that they have eloped like that?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, thoughtfully; “there’s no doubt about it.”

“I don’t know, my dear,” said Mrs Wilton, plaintively. “It seems so strange, when she was so ill and in such trouble.”

“Bah! Sham! Like all women, kicking up a row about the first kiss, and wanting it all the time.”

“James, my dear, you shouldn’t say such things. It was no sham. She was in dreadful trouble, I’m sure, and I cannot help thinking about the pike pond. It haunts me—it does indeed. Don’t you think that in her agony she may have gone and drowned herself?”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Wilton, with a scowl at his wife.

“Oh! Horrible! I was having dreadful dreams all last night. You do think so, then?”

“Yes, you’ve hit it now, old lady. She must have jumped down from her window on to the soft flower-bed, and then gone and fetched the ladder, and put it up there, and afterwards gone and called Claud to come down and go hand in hand with her, so as to have company.”

“Jumped down—the ladder—what did she want a ladder for, James, dear?”

“What do people want ladders for? Why, to come down by.”

“But she was down, dear. I—I really don’t know what you mean. You confuse me so. But, oh, James, dear, you don’t mean that about Claud?”

“Why not? Depend upon it, they’re at the bottom of that hole where the pig was drowned, and the pike are eating bits out of them.”

“James!—Oh, what a shame! You’re laughing at me.”

“Laughing at you? You’d make a horse laugh at you. Such idiocy. Be quiet if you can. Don’t you see how worried and busy I am? And look here—if anyone calls out of curiosity, you don’t know anything. Refer ’em to me.”

“Yes, my dear. But really it is very shocking of the young people. It’s almost immoral. But you think they will get married directly?”

“Trust Claud for that. Fancy the jade going off in that way. Ah, they’re all alike.”

“No, James; I would sooner have died than consented to such a proceeding.”

“Not you. Now be quiet.”

“Going out, dear?”

“Only round the house for a few minutes. By the way, have you examined Eliza—asked her what Kate has taken with her?”

“Yes, dear. Nothing at all but her hat, scarf, and cloak. Such a shabby way of getting married.”

“Never mind that,” said Wilton; and he went into the hall, through the porch and on to the place where the ladder had been found.

There was little to find there but the deep impressions made by the heels, except that a man’s footprints were plainly to be seen; and Wilton returned to his wife, rang the bell, and assuming his most judicial air waited.

“Send Miss Kate’s maid here,” he said, sternly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Stop. Look here, Samuel, you are my servant, and I call upon you to speak the whole truth to me about this matter, one which, on further thought, I feel it to be my duty to investigate. Now, tell me, did you know anything about this proceeding on Mr Claud’s part?”

“No, sir; ’strue as goodness, I didn’t.”

“Mr Claud did not speak to you about it?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t you see him last night?”

“No, sir; I went up to his room to fetch his boots to bring down and dry, but the door was locked, but when I knocked and asked for them he did say something then.”

“Yes, what did he say?”

Samuel glanced at his mistress and hesitated.

“Don’t look at me, Samuel,” said Mrs Wilton; “speak the whole truth.”

“Yes; what did he say?” cried Wilton, sternly.

“Well, sir, he told me to go to the devil.”

Wilton coughed.

“That will do. Go and fetch Miss Wilton’s maid.”

Eliza came, looking red-eyed and pale, but she could give no information, only assure them that she did not understand it, but was certain something must be wrong, for Miss Kate would never have taken such a step without consulting her.

And so on, and so on. A regular examination of the servants remaining followed in quite a judicial manner, and once more Kate’s aunt and uncle were alone.

“There,” he said; “I think I have done my duty, my dear. Perhaps, though, I ought to drive over to the station and make inquiries there; but I don’t see what good it would do. I could only at the most find out that they had gone to London.”

“Don’t you think, dear, that you ought to communicate with the police?”

“No; what for?”

“To trace them, dear. The police are so clever; they would be sure to find them out.”

Wilton coughed.

“Perhaps we had better wait, my dear. I fully anticipate that they will come back to-night—or to-morrow morning, full of repentance to ask our forgiveness; and er—I suppose we shall have to look over it.”

“Well, yes, my dear,” said Mrs Wilton. “What’s done can’t be undone; but I’m sure I don’t know what people will say.”

“I shall be very stern with Claud, though, for it is a most disgraceful act. I wonder at Kate.”

“Well, I did, my dear, till I began to think, and then I did not; for Claud has such a masterful way with him. He was always too much for me.”

“Yes,” said Wilton dryly; “always. Well, we had better wait and see if they come back.”

“I am terribly disappointed, though, my dear, for we could have had such a grand wedding. To go off like that and get married, just like a footman and housemaid. Don’t you remember James and Sarah?”

“Bah! No, I don’t remember James and Sarah,” said Wilton irascibly.

“Yes, you do, my dear. It’s just ten years ago, and you must remember about them both wanting a holiday on the same day, and coming back at night, and Sarah saying so demurely: ‘Please, ma’am, we’ve been married.’”

Wilton twisted his chair round and kicked a piece of coal on the top of the fire which required breaking.

“James, my dear, you shouldn’t do that,” said his wife, reprovingly. “You’re as bad as Claud, only he always does it with his heel. There is a poker, my dear.”

“I thought you always wanted it kept bright.”

“Well, it does look better so, dear. But I do hope going off in the night like that won’t give Kate a cold.”

Wilton ground his teeth and was about to burst into a furious fit of anger against his wife’s tongue, but matters seemed to have taken so satisfactory a turn since the previous day that the bite was wanting, and he planted his heels on the great hob, warmed himself, and started involuntarily as he saw in the future mortgages, first, second and third, paid off, and himself free from the meshes which he gave Garstang the credit of having spun round him. As for Claud, he could, he felt, mould him like wax. So long as he had some ready money to spend he would be quiet enough, and, of course, it was all for his benefit, for he would succeed to the unencumbered estates.

Altogether the future looked so rosy that Wilton chuckled at the glowing fire and rubbed his hands, without noticing that the fire dogs were grinning at him like a pair of malignant brazen imps; and just then Mrs Wilton let her work fall into her lap and gave vent to a merry laugh.

“What now?” said Wilton, facing round sharply. “Don’t do that. Suppose one of the servants came in and saw you grinning. Just recollect that we are in great trouble and anxiety about this—this—what you may call it—escapade.”

“Yes, dear; I forgot. But it does seem so funny.”

“Didn’t seem very funny last night.”

“No, dear, of course not; and I never could have thought our troubles would come right so soon. But only think of it; those two coming back together, and Kate not having changed her name. There won’t be a thing in her linen that will want marking again.”

“Bah!” growled Wilton. “Yes, what is it?” he cried, as the footman appeared.

“Beg pardon, sir, but Tom Jonson had to go to the village shop for some harness paste, and it’s all over the place.”

“Oh, is it?” growled Wilton. “Of course, if Mr Tom Jonson goes out on purpose to spread it.”

“I don’t think he said a word, sir, but they were talking about it at the shop, and young Barker saw ’em last.”

“Barker—Barker? Not—”

“Yes, sir, him as you give a month to for stealing pheasants’ eggs. That loafing chap.”

“He saw them last night? Here, go and tell Smith to fetch him here before me.”

Samuel smiled.

“Do you hear, sir? Don’t stand grinning there.”

“No, sir; certainly not, sir,” said the man, “but Tom Jonson thought you’d like to see him, sir, and he collared him at once and brought him on.”

“Quite right. Bring him in at once. Stop a moment. Put two or three ‘Statutes at Large’ and ‘Burns’ Justice of the Peace’ on the table.”

The man hurriedly gave the side-table a magisterial look with four or fire pie-crust coloured quartos and a couple of bulky manuals, while Wilton turned to his wife.

“Here, Maria,” he growled, in a low tone; “you’d better be off.”

“Oh, don’t send me away, please, dear,” she whispered; “it isn’t one of those horrid cases you have sometimes, and I do so want to hear.”

“Very well; only don’t speak.”

“No, my dear, not a word,” whispered Mrs Wilton, and she half closed her eyes and pinched her lips together, but her ears twitched as she sat waiting anxiously for the return of the footman, followed by the groom, who seemed to have had no little trouble in pushing and dragging a rough-looking lout of about eighteen into the room, where he stood with his smock frock raised on each side so as to allow his hands to be thrust deeply into his trousers pockets.

“Take your hat off,” said Samuel, in a sharp whisper.

“Sheeawn’t!” said the fellow, defiantly. “I arn’t done nothin’.”

Samuel promptly knocked the hat off on to the floor, which necessitated a hand being taken slowly from a pocket to pick it up.

“Here, don’t you do that ag’in,” cried the lad.

“Silence, sir. Stand up,” cried Wilton.

“Mayn’t I pick up my hat? I arn’t done nothin’.”

“Say ‘sir’,” whispered the footman.

“Sheeawn’t. I arn’t done nothin’, I tell yer. No business to bring me here.”

“Silence, sir,” cried Wilton, taking up a pen and shaking it at the lad, which acted upon him as if it were some terrible judicial wand which might write a document consigning him to hard labour, skilly, and bread and water in the county jail. The consequence being that he stood with his head bent forward, brow one mass of wrinkles, and mouth partly open, staring at the fierce-looking justice of the peace.

“Listen to me: you are not brought here for punishment.”

“Well, I arn’t done nothin’,” said the lad.

“I am glad to hear it, and I hope you will improve, Barker. Now, what you have to do is to answer a few questions, and if you do so truthfully and well, you will be rewarded.”

“Beer?” said the lout, with a grin.

“My servant will give you some beer as you go out, but first of all I shall give you a shilling.”

The fellow grinned.

“Shall I get the book and swear him, sir?” said Samuel, who was used to the library being turned into a court for petty cases.

“There is no need,” said Wilton austerely. “Now, my lad, answer me.”

“Yes, I sin ’em both last night.”

“Saw whom?”

“Young Squire and his gal.”

“Young Squire” made Mrs Wilton smile; “his gal” seemed to set her teeth on edge.

“Humph! Are you sure?” said Wilton.

“Sewer? Ay, I know young Squire well enough. Hit me many a time. Haw-haw! Know young Squire—I should think I do!”

“Say ‘sir,’” whispered Samuel again.

“Sheeawn’t,” cried the fellow. “You mind your own business.”

“Attend to me, sir,” cried Wilton, in his sternest bench manner.

“Well, I am a-try’n’ to, master, on’y he keeps on kedgin’ me.”

“Where did you see my son and—er—the lady?”

“Where did I sin ’em? Up road.”

“Where were you?”

“Ahint the hedge.”

“And what were you doing behind the hedge—wiring?”

“Naw. On’y got me bat-fowling nets.”

“But you were hiding, sir?”

“Well, what o’ that? ’Bliged to hide. Can’t go out anywhere o’ nights now wi’out summun watching yer. Can’t go for a few sparrers but some on ’em says its pardridges.”

“What time was it?”

“Hey?”

“What time was it?”

“I d’know; nine or ten, or ’leven. Twelve, may-be.”

“Well?”

“Hey?”

“What then?”

“What then? Nothin’ as I knows on. Yes, there weer; he puts his arm round her waist, and she give him a dowse in the faace.”

“Humph! Which way did they go then?”

“Up road.”

“Did you follow them?”

“What’d I got to follow ’em for? Shouldn’t want nobody to follow me when I went out wi’ a gal.”

Wilton frowned.

“Did you see any carriage about, waiting?”

“Naw.”

“What did you do then?”

“Waited till they was out o’ sight.”

“Yes, and what then?”

“Ketched sparrers, and they arn’t game.”

The lout looked round, grinning at all present, as if he had posed the magistrate in whose presence he was standing, till his eyes lit on Mrs Wilton, who was listening to him intently, and to her he raised his hand, passing the open palm upward past his face till it was as high as he could reach, and then descending the arc of a circle, a movement supposed in rustic schools to represent a most respectful bow.

“Ah, Barker, Barker!” said the recipient, shaking her head at him; “you never come to the Sunday school now.”

“Grow’d too big, missus,” said the lad, grinning, and then noisily using his cuff for the pocket-handkerchief he lacked.

“We are never too big to learn to be good, Barker,” continued Mrs Wilton, “and I’m afraid you are growing a bad boy now.”

“Oh, I don’t know, missus; I shouldn’t be a bad ’un if there was no game.”

“That will do, that will do,” said the Squire, impatiently. “That’s all you know, then, sir?”

“Oh, no; I knows a lot more than that,” said the lad, grinning.

“Then why the deuce don’t you speak?”

“What say?”

“Tell me what more you know about Mr Claud and the lady, and I’ll give you another shilling.”

“Will yer?” cried the lad, eagerly. “Well, I’ve seed’d ’em five or six times afore going along by the copse and down the narrow lane, and I sin him put his arm round her oncet, and I was close by, lying clost to a rabbud hole; and she says, ‘How dare you, sir! how dare you!’ just like that I dunno any more, and that makes two shillin’.”

“There; be off. Take him away, Samuel, and give him a horn of beer.”

“Yes sir—Now, then, come on.”

But the lad stood and grinned, first at the Squire and then at Mrs Wilton, rubbing his hands down his sides the while.

“D’yer hear?” whispered the footman, as the groom opened the door. “Come on.”

“Sheeawn’t.”

“Come on. Beer.”

“But he arn’t give me the two shillings yet.”

“Eh? Oh, forgot,” said the Squire.

“Gahn. None o’ your games. Couldn’t ha’ forgetted it so soon.”

“There—Take him away.”

Wilton held out a couple of shillings, and the fellow snatched them, bit both between his big white teeth, stuffed one in each pocket, made Mrs Wilton another bow, and turned to go; but his wardrobe had been sadly neglected, and at the first step one of the shillings trickled down the leg of his trousers, escaped the opening into his ill-laced boot, rattled on the polished oaken floor, and then ran along, after the fashion of coins, to hide itself in the darkest corner of the room. But Barker was too sharp for it, and forgetting entirely the lessons he had learned at school about ordering “himself lowly and reverently to all his betters,” he shouted: “Loo, loo, loo!” pounced upon it like a cat does upon a mouse, picked it up, and thrust it where it could join its fellow, and turned to Mrs Wilton.

“Hole in the pocket,” he said, confidentially, and went off to get the beer.

“Bah! Savage!” growled Wilton, as the door closed. “There, Maria, no doubt about it now.”

“No, my dear, and we can sleep in peace.”

But Mrs Wilton was wrong save and except the little nap she had after dinner while her husband was smoking his pipe; for that night, just before the last light was out—that last light being in the Squire’s room where certain arrangements connected with hair and pieces of paper had detained Mrs Wilton nearly half an hour after her husband had announced in regular cadence that he was fast asleep—there came a long ringing at the hall door bell.

It was so utterly unexpected in the silence and solitude of the country place that Mrs Wilton sprang from her seat in front of the dressing-glass, jarring the table so that a scent-bottle fell with a crash, and injuring her knees.

“James—James!” she cried.

“Eh, what’s the matter?” came from the bed, as the Squire sat up suddenly.

“Fire! Fire! Another stack burning, I’m sure.”

Wilton sprang out of bed, ran to the window, tore aside the blind, flung open the casement, and looked down.

“Where is it?” he shouted, for he had more than once been summoned from his bed to rick fires.

“Where’s what?” came in a familiar voice.

Wilton darted back, letting fall the blind.

“Slip on your dressing gown,” he said, hastily, “and pull out those confounded things from your hair. They’ve come back.”

“Oh, my dear, and me this figure!” cried the lady, and for the next ten minutes there was a hurried sound of dressing going on.

“Look sharp,” said Wilton. “I’ll go down and let them in. You’d better rouse up Cook and Samuel; they’ll want something to eat.”

“I won’t be two minutes, my dear. Take them in the library; the wood ashes will soon glow up again. My own darlings! I am glad.”

Mrs Wilton was less, for by the time the heavy bolts, lock, and bar had been undone, she was out of her room, and hurried to the balustrade to look down into the hall, paying no heed to the cool puff of wind that rushed upward and nearly extinguished the candle her husband had set down upon the marble table.

“My own boy!” she sighed, as she saw Claud enter, and heard his words.

“Thankye,” he said. “Gone to bed soon.”

“The usual time, my boy,” said Wilton, in very different tones to those he had used at their last meeting. “But haven’t you brought her?”

“Brought her?”

“Yes; where’s Kate?”

“Fast asleep in bed by now, I suppose,” said the young man sulkily.

“Oh, but you should have brought her. Where have you come from?”

“Fast train down. London. Didn’t suppose I was going to stop here, did you, to be kicked?”

“Don’t say any more about that, my boy. It’s all over now; but why didn’t you bring her down?”

“Oh, Claud, my boy, you shouldn’t have left her like that.”

“Brought her down—Kate—shouldn’t have left,” said the young man, excitedly. “Here, what do you both mean?”

“There, nonsense; what is the use of dissimulation now, my boy,” said Wilton. “Of course we know, and—there—it’s of no use to cry over spilt milk. We did not like it, and you shouldn’t have both tried to throw dust in our eyes.”

“Look here, guv’nor, have you been to a dinner anywhere to-night?”

“Absurd, sir. Stop this fooling. Where did you leave Kate?”

“In bed and asleep, I suppose.”

“But—but where have you been, then?”

“London, I tell you. Shouldn’t have been back now, only I couldn’t find Harry Dasent. He’s off somewhere, so I thought I’d better come back. I say, is she all right again?”

“I knew it! I knew it!” shrieked Mrs Wilton. “I said it from the first. Oh, James, James!—The pond—the pond! She’s gone—she’s gone!”

“Who’s gone?” stammered Claud, looking from father to mother, and back again.

“Kate, dear; drowned—drowned,” wailed Mrs Wilton.

“What!” shouted Claud.

“Look here, sir,” said his father, catching him by the arm in a tremendous grip, as he raised the candle to gaze searchingly in his son’s face; “let’s have the truth at once. You’re playing some game of your own to hide this—this escapade.”

“Guv’nor!” cried the young man, catching his father by the arm in turn; “put down that cursed candle; you’ll burn my face. You don’t mean to say the little thing has cut?”

Chapter Nineteen.

For the better part of two days Pierce Leigh went about like one who had received some terrible mental shock; and Jenny’s pleasant little rounded cheeks told the tale of the anxiety from which she suffered, while her eyes followed him wistfully, and she seemed never weary of trying to perform little offices for him which would distract his attention from the thoughts which were sapping his vitality.

The life at the quiet little cottage home was entirely changed, for brother and sister were playing parts for which they were quite unsuited in a melancholy farce of real life, wearing masks, and trying to hide their sufferings from each other, with a miserable want of success.

And all the time Leigh was longing to open his heart to the loving, affectionate little thing who had been his companion from a child, his confidante over all his hopes, and counsellor in every movement or plan. She had read and studied with him, helped him to puzzle out abstruse questions, and for years they had gone on together leading a life full of happiness, and ready to laugh lightly over money troubles connected with the disappointment over the purchase of the Northwood practice through a swindling, or grossly ignorant, agent.

“Don’t worry about it, Pierce dear,” Jenny had said, “it is only the loss of some money, and as it’s in the country we can live on less, and wear out our old clothes over again. I do wish I could cut up and turn your coats and trousers. You men laugh at us and our fashions, but we women can laugh at you and yours. Granted that our hats and dresses are flimsy, see how we can re-trim and unpick, and make them look new again, while your stupid things get worn and shiny, and then they’re good for nothing. They’re quite hopeless, for I daren’t try to make you a new coat out of two old ones.”

There was many a merry laugh over such matters, Jenny’s spirits rising, as the country life brought back the bloom of health that had been failing in Westminster; and existence, in spite of the want of patients, was a very happy one, till the change came. This change to a certain extent resembled that in the yard of the amateur who was bitten by the fancy for keeping and showing those great lumbering fowls—the Brahmas, so popular years ago.

He had a pen of half-a-dozen cockerels, the result of the hatching of a clutch of eggs laid by a feathered princess of the blood royal; and as he watched them through their infancy it was with high hopes of winning prizes—silver cups and vases, at all the crack poultry shows. And how he tended and pampered his pets, watching them through the various stages passed by this kind of fowl—one can hardly say feathered fowl in the earlier stages of their existence, for through their early boyhood, so to speak, they run about in a raw unclad condition that is pitiful to see, for they are almost “birds of a feather” in the Dundreary idea of the singularity of plumage; and it is not until they have arrived pretty well at full growth that they assume the heavy massive plumage that makes their skeleton lanky forms look so huge. These six young Brahmas masculine grew and throve in their pen, innocent, happy, and at peace, till one morning their owner gazed upon them in pride, for they were all that a Brahma fancier could wish to see—small of comb, heavy of hackle, tail slightly developed, broad in the beam, short-legged, and without a trace of vulture hock. “First prize for one of them,” said the owner, and after feeding them he went to town, and came back to find his hopes ruined, his cockerels six panting, ragged, bleeding wrecks, squatting about in the pen, half dead, too much exhausted to spur and peck again.

For there had been battle royal in that pen, the young birds engaging in a furious melÉe. For what reason? Because, as good old Doctor Watts said, “It is their nature to.” They did not know it till that morning, but there was the great passion in each one’s breast, waiting to be evoked, and transform them from pacific pecking and scratching birds into perfect demons of discord.

There was wire netting spread all over the top of their carefully sanded pen, and till then they had never seen others of their kind. It was their world, and as far as they knew there was neither fowl nor chicken save themselves. The memory of the mother beneath whose plumage they had nestled had passed away, for the gallinaceous brain cavity is small.

That morning, a stray, pert-looking, elegantly spangled, golden Hambro’ pullet appeared upon the wall, looked down for a moment on the pen of full-grown, innocent young Brahmas, uttered the monosyllables “Took, took!” and flew away.

For a brief space, the long necks of the cockerels were strained in the direction where that vision of loveliness had appeared for a brief instant; the fire of jealous love blazed out, and they turned and fought almost to the death. It would have been quite, had there been strength.

The owner of these six cripples did not take a prize.

So at Northwood, women, save as sister or friend, had been non-existent to Pierce Leigh. Now the desire to rend his human brother was upon him strong.

Jenny knew it, and for more than one reason she trembled for the time that must come when Pierce should first meet Claud Wilton, for it had rapidly dawned upon her that the long-deferred grand passion of her brother was the stronger for its sudden growth.

In her anxiety, she went out during those two days a great deal for the benefit of her health, but really on the qui vive for the news that she felt must soon come of Claud’s proceedings with his cousin; and twice over she had started the subject of their projected leaving, making Leigh raise his eyebrows slightly in wonder at the sudden change in his sister’s ideas. But it was not till nearly evening that, during her brother’s temporary absence, she heard the news for which she was waiting.

One of Leigh’s poor patients called to see him—one of the class suffered by most young doctors, who go through life believing they are very ill, and that it is the duty of a medical man to pay extra attention to their ailments, and lavish upon them knowledge and medicine to the fullest extent, without a thought of payment entering their heads.

Betsy Bray was the lady in question, and as was her custom, Jenny saw the woman, ready to hear her last grievance, and tell her brother when he returned.

Betsy was fifty-five, and possessed of the strong constitution which bears a great deal of ease; but in her own estimation she was very bad. From frequenting surgeries, she had picked up a few medical terms, and larded her discourse with them and others of a religious tendency, her attendance at church dole-giving, and other charitable distributions being of the most regular description.

“Doctor at home, miss?” she said, plaintively, as she slowly and plumply subsided upon the little couch in the surgery, the said piece of furniture groaning in all its springs, for Betsy possessed weight.

“No, Mrs Bray. He has gone to call on the Dudges, at West Gale.”

“Ah, he always is calling on somebody when I’ve managed to drag my weary bones all this way up from the village.”

“I am very sorry. What is the matter now?” said Jenny, soothingly.

“Matter, miss? What’s allus the matter with me? It’s my chronics. Not a wink of sleep have I had all the blessed night.”

“Well, I must give you something.”

“Nay, nay, my dear; you don’t understand my troubles. It’s the absorption is all wrong; and you’d be giving me something out of the wrong bottles. You just give me a taste of sperrits to give me strength to get home again, and beg and pray o’ the doctor to come on and see me as soon as he comes home, if you don’t want me to be laid out stark and cold afore another day’s done.”

“But I have no spirits, Mrs Bray.”

“Got none? Well, I dessay a glass o’ wine might do. Keep me alive p’raps till I’d crawled home to die.”

“But we have no wine.”

“Dear, dear, dear, think o’ that,” said the woman fretfully. “The old doctor always had some, and a drop o’ sperrits, too. Ah, it’s a hard thing to be old and poor and in bad health, carrying your grey hairs in sorrow to the grave; and all about you rich and well and happy, rolling in money, and marrying and giving in marriage and wearing their wedding garments, one and all. You’ve heard about the doings up at the Manor House?”

“Yes, yes, something about them, Mrs Bray; but I’ll tell my brother, and he will, I know, come and see you.”

“Yes, you tell him; not as I believe in him much, but poor people must take what they can get—He’s come back, you know?”

“My brother? No; he would have come straight in here.”

“Your brother? Tchah, no!” cried the woman, forgetting her “chronics” in the interest she felt in the fresh subject. “You’re always thinking about your brother, and if’s time you began to think of a husband. I meant him at the Manor—young Claud Wilton. He’s come back.”

“Come back?” cried Jenny excitedly.

“Yes; but I hear he arn’t brought his young missus with him. Nice goings on, running away, them two, to get married. But I arn’t surprised; he fell out with the parson long enough ago about Sally Deal, down the village, and parson give it him well for not marrying her. Wouldn’t be married here out o’ spite, I suppose. Well, I must go. You’re sure you haven’t got a drop o’ gin in the house?”

“Quite sure,” said Jenny quickly; “and I’ll be sure and tell my brother to come.”

“Ay, do; and tell him I say it’s a shame he lives so far out of the village. I feel sometimes that I shall die in one of the ditches before I get here, it’s so far. There, don’t hurry me so; I don’t want to be took ill here. I know, doctors aren’t above helping people out of the world when they get tired of them.”

“Gone!” cried Jenny at last, with a sigh of relief; and then, with the tears rising to her eyes, “Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? If they meet—if he ever gets to know!”

She hurried upstairs, put on her hat and jacket, and came down looking pale and excited, but without any very definite plans. One idea was foremost in her mind; but as she reached the door she caught sight of her brother coming with rapid strides from the direction opposite to that taken by the old woman who had just gone.

“Too late!” she said, with a piteous sigh; and she ran upstairs hurriedly, and threw off her things.

She had hardly re-arranged her hair when she heard her brother’s voice calling her.

“Yes, dear,” she said, and she ran down, to find him looking ghastly.

“Who was that went away from here?” he said huskily.

She told him, but not of her promise to send him over.

“I’ll go to her at once,” he said.

“No, no, Pierce, dear; she is not ill. Pray stay at home; there is really no need.”

“Why should I stay at home?” he said, looking at her suspiciously.

“I—I am not very well, dear. You have been so dull, it has upset me. I wish you would stay in with me this evening; I feel so nervous and lonely.”

“Yes, I will,” he said; “but I must go there first.”

“No, no, dear; don’t, please, don’t go,” she pleaded, as she caught his arm. “Please stay. She is not in the least ill, and I want you to stop. There, I’ll make some tea directly, and we’ll sit over it and have a long cosy chat, and it will do us both good, dear.”

“Jenny,” he cried harshly, “you want to keep me at home.”

“Yes, dear, I told you so; but don’t speak in that harsh way; you frighten me.”

“I’m not blind,” he cried. “Don’t deny it. You’ve heard from that old woman what I have just found out. He has come back.”

“Pierce!” she cried; and she shrank away from him, and covered her face with her hands.

“Yes,” he said wildly, and there was a look in his ghastly face which she had never seen before. “I knew it; and you are afraid that I shall meet him and wring his miserable neck.”

“Oh, Pierce, Pierce,” she cried piteously, as she threw herself at his feet; “don’t, don’t, pray don’t talk in this mad way.”

“Why not?” he said, with a mocking laugh. “It is consistent. There, get up; don’t kneel there praying to a madman.”

She sprang up quickly and seized him by the shoulder, and then threw herself across his knees and her arms about his neck.

“It is not true,” she cried passionately. “You are not mad; you are only horribly angry, and I am frightened to death for fear that you should meet and be violent.”

“Violent! I could kill him!” he muttered, with a hard look in his eyes. “Good God, what a profanation! He marry her! She must have been mad, or there has been some cruel act of violence. Jenny, girl, I will see him and take him by the throat and make him tell me all. I have fought against it. I have told myself that she is unworthy of a second thought, but my heart tells me that it is not so. There has been some horrible trick played upon her; she would not—as you have said—she could not have gone off of her own will with that miserable little hound.”

“Yes, yes, that is what I think,” she said, hysterically. “So wait patiently, dear, and we shall know the truth some day.”

“Wait!” he cried, with a mocking laugh. “Wait! With my brain feeling as if it were on fire. No, I have waited too long; I ought to have gone off after him at once, and learned the truth.”

“No, no, dear; you two must not meet. Now then, listen to me.”

“Some day, little bird,” he said, lifting her from his knee, as he rose; then kissing her tenderly he extricated himself from her clinging hands as gently as he could, and rushed out.

“O, Pierce, Pierce!” she cried. “Stay, stay!”

But the only answer to her call as she ran to the door was the heavy beat of his feet in the gloom of the misty evening.

“And if they meet he’ll find out all,” she wailed piteously. She paused, waiting for a few moments, and then searched in her pocket and brought out a tiny silver whistle, which she placed in the bosom of her dress, after flinging the ribbon which was in its ring over her head.

A minute later, with her cloak thrown on and hood drawn over her head, she had slipped out of the cottage, and was running down the by-lane in the direction of the Manor House.