Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.

Terrestrial Trials.

“I think it was very foolish of your brother to invite them, Lucy,” said Mrs Alleyne, austerely. “All these preparations are not made without money; and when they are made, we have the bitterness of feeling that what is luxury to us is to them contemptible and mean.”

“Oh, but, mamma, you don’t know Glynne, or you would not talk like that. She is as simple in her tastes as can be, and thinks nothing of the luxury in which they live.”

“She would think a great deal of it, my dear, if, by any misfortune in life, it should all pass from her.”

“No, mamma, I don’t think she would,” said Lucy. “She is a strange girl.”

“For my part,” said Mrs Alleyne, very sternly, “I don’t think we are doing wisely in keeping up this intimacy.”

“Oh, mamma!”

“I have said it. Look at the expense I have been put to in preparations. In the constant struggle which I go through day after day, paring and contriving to make our little income last out; any addition of this kind is a weariness and a care. Of what good, pray, is this visit but to satisfy the curiosity of a few heartless people?”

“Oh, mamma, don’t say that. Glynne is the kindest and most amiable of girls, and nobody could be nicer to me than the major and Sir John.”

“Of course they are nice to you—to my daughter,” said Mrs Alleyne, pulling up her mittens—a very dingy black pair that had lain by till they were specked with a few grey spots of mildew.

“And the major thinks very highly of Moray.”

“It is only natural that he should,” said Mrs Alleyne, haughtily. “But I repeat, I see no advantage of a social nature to be gained by this intimacy, even if we wished it.”

“But you forget about Moray, mamma, dear.”

“I forget nothing about your brother, Lucy. But pray, what do you mean by this allusion?”

“His need of change. He has certainly been better lately.”

“Decidedly not,” replied Mrs Alleyne, making a fresh effort to cover a very large and unpleasantly prominent vein that ran from the back of her hand above her wrist. “I have noticed that Moray is more quiet and thoughtful than ever.”

“But Mr Oldroyd said yesterday, mamma, that he was better.”

“Mr Oldroyd gave his opinion, my dear, but it was only the opinion of one man. Mr Oldroyd may be mistaken.”

“But, mamma, he seems so clever, and to know so much about Moray’s case.”

“Yes, my child—seems; but these young medical men often jump at conclusions, and are ready to take for granted that they understand matters which are completely sealed.”

Lucy coloured slightly, and remained silent.

“For my part,” continued Mrs Alleyne, “I do not feel at all easy respecting Moray’s state, and his health is too serious a thing to be trifled with.”

Lucy’s colour deepened as Mrs Alleyne swept out of the room.

“I’m sure he’s clever, and I’m sure he was quite right about Moray,” she said. “It’s a shame to say so, but I wish mamma would not be so prejudiced. She will not be, though, when she knows Glynne better.”

There was a pause here, and Lucy sat looking very intently before her, the intent gaze in her face being precisely similar to that seen in her brother’s countenance when he was watching a far-off planet, and striving to learn from it something of its mysteries and ways.

But Lucy was not studying some far-off planet, though her task was perhaps as hard, for she was trying to read the future, and to discover what there was in store for her brother and herself. She could not think of Moray being always engaged studying stars, nor of herself as continually at home with her mother leading that secluded life in the sombre brick mansion, finding it cheerless and dull in summer, cold and bleak in winter when the wind roared in the pine trees, till it was as if the sea were beating the shore hard by.

“There is sure to be some change,” she said, brightening up. “I know it, but I hope it will not bring trouble.”

No further allusions were made to the coming visit of the family from Brackley, but the next day and the next, to use Lucy’s words, mamma led her such a life that she wished—and yet she did not wish—that the visit was not coming off, so troublesome did the preparations grow.

Mrs Alleyne was going about her blank, chilly house one morning, looking very much troubled; and now and then she stopped to wring her hands, but it was generally in a cupboard or in a drawer, when there was not the slightest likelihood of her being seen. Her forehead was deeply lined, and there was a peculiar drawing down about the corners of her lips that indicated care.

It was the old story—money. She had been up to town only the week before to sell out a sum in Government Stock, to pay for an astronomical instrument her son required—a tremendously costly piece of mechanism, thus leaving herself poorer than ever; and now her idol had been putting her to fresh expense.

“So thoughtless of him,” she moaned, with her face in the linen closet—“so foolish. He seems to have no idea whatever of the value of money, and I don’t know what I shall do.”

But all the same there was the same glow of satisfaction in Mrs Alleyne’s breast that she used to feel when she had bought the idol a wooden horse, or a toy waggon full of sacks, or one of those instruments of torture upon wheels, which, when a child draws it across the floor, emits a series of wire-born notes of a most discordant kind.

Mrs Alleyne turned over three or four clean tablecloths, opening them out and looking wistfully at darns and frayings, and places where the clothes pegs had torn away the hems when they had been hung out to dry. These she refolded with a sigh, and put back.

“Oh, my boy, my boy, if you only thought a little more about this world as well as the other worlds!” she sighed, as she closed the door, and, with her brow growing more wrinkled, wrung her hands over the pantry sink.

It was not that she had washed them, for the tap was dry, no water being ever pumped into the upper cistern, and the pantry was devoted to the reception of Mrs Alleyne’s meagre stores.

There were cupboards here that held glass and china—good old china and glass; but in the one, there were marks of mendings and rivets, and in the other chips and, worse troubles, cracks, and odd glasses without feet, or whose feet were upon the next shelf.

“I don’t know how we shall manage,” sighed Mrs Alleyne, wringing her hands once more. “It was very, very thoughtless of him. The knives are worst of all.”

She unrolled a packet or two, which contained nothing but table knives that had once been remarkably good, but which had done their work in company with hard usage, and some of which had shed their ivory handles, while others were thin and double edged, others again being bent at the points, or worn down by cleaning until they were about two-thirds of their original length.

“Dear me—dear me! how things do wear out!” sighed Mrs Alleyne; and, raising her eyes, she saw her face reflected in a little square glass hanging upon the wall—“even ourselves,” she added, sadly.

Just then Lucy came in hurriedly.

“Oh, mamma,” she cried, “I’m sure I don’t know what we shall do. The more I look up things, the worse they seem. It is dreadful; it is horrible. I shall blush for shame.”

“And why, may I ask?” said Mrs Alleyne, sternly.

“Because people will do nothing but spy out the poverty of the land. Moray has no sense at all, or he would never have been so foolish as to ask them.”

“Your brother had his own good reasons for asking Sir John Day, his brother, and his daughter, and I beg that you will not speak in that disrespectful way of your brother’s plans.”

“But you don’t see, mamma.”

“I see everything, my child,” said Mrs Alleyne, stiffly.

“But you don’t think how awkward it will be.”

“Yes, I have thought of all that.”

“But Moray never does. How are we to entertain people who are accustomed to live in luxury, and who have abundance of plate and china and glass, and servants to wait upon them? Oh, we shall look ridiculous.”

“Lucy!”

“I don’t care, mamma, I can’t help it. I’ve been working away to see if I could not get things in proper trim to do us justice, but it is horrible. Moray must write and tell them they are not to come.”

“My son shall do nothing of the kind, Lucy, and I desire that you do the best you can, so that Moray may be content.”

“But, mamma, we have no flowers, no fruit for dessert, no pretty glass and vases; and I know the dinner will be horrible.”

“Moray asked the Days to come and see us, not our household arrangements, and we must give them some dinner before they go up into the observatory.”

“Oh, very well, mamma,” said Lucy, “I have protested. You and Moray must have it your own way.”

“Of course,” said Mrs Alleyne, composedly; “and I beg that you will find no more fault with your brother’s arrangements.”

“No, mamma: I have done.”

“I dare say Captain Rolph very often dines far worse at his mess than we shall dine to-morrow.”

“But surely he is not coming, mamma,” cried Lucy in horror; “he will be jeering at everything.”

“If he is so extremely ungentlemanly, it is no fault of ours. Yes, he is coming; and, by the way, I did not tell you, I have just asked Mr Oldroyd to join us.”

“Mamma!” cried Lucy, turning scarlet.

“Now don’t exclaim against that, my dear,” said Mrs Alleyne. “I am sure it will be almost a charity to have him here. He cannot be too grand for our simple ways.”

Poor Lucy shrank away looking very thoughtful, and, resigning herself to fate, went busily about the house, working like a little slave, and arranging the place to the best advantage; but only to break down at last, with a piteous burst of tears, as she saw how miserable a result she had achieved, and compared her home with that of Glynne.

Mrs Alleyne was not in much better spirits, indulging herself as she did in various wringings of the hands in closets and corners, but all in the most furtive way, as she too thought of the barrenness of the house.

The next morning the preparations for the little dinner were in hurried progress, Lucy busily working with gloomy resignation, and the kitchen given over to the woman who had come to cook. Then the large covered cart from Brackley drew up to the gate, and upon Eliza going down, the man who drove helped her to unbar the great gates, and led his horse in and right round to the kitchen door.

He was the bearer of a note for Mrs Alleyne, and while Eliza had taken it in, and the recipient was reading it, to afterwards hand it over to Lucy, Sir John’s man began unloading the cart in the most matter-of-fact way, and arranging things upon the kitchen dresser.

“What does he say, that he begs your pardon, and knowing that we have no garden, would we accept a few trifles of flowers and a little fruit?”

Mrs Alleyne frowned, and the shadow on her countenance deepened after Sir John’s man had departed with the cart, for the trifles sent over were a magnificent collection of cut flowers, with grapes, a pine, hot-house peaches, and nectarines and plums.

Lucy coloured with pleasure, for all was most thoughtfully contrived. Even choice leaves in a neat bunch were included, ready for decorating the fruit in the dessert dishes. But directly after she could not help sharing her mother’s annoyance—it seemed so like looking upon them as poor.

“It is almost an insult,” said Mrs Alleyne at last.

Lucy looked up at her wistfully, with the cloud now crossing her own bright little face.

“It is because we live in so humble a manner,” cried Mrs Alleyne, angrily. “It is cruel—a display of arrogance—because I choose to live quietly that Moray may proceed with his great discoveries in science.”

Lucy gazed at her mother’s face, in which she could read the growing anger and mortification.

“Oh, I wish Moray had not been so ready to invite them,” she said to herself.

“The things shall go back,” exclaimed Mrs Alleyne at last.

“Oh, mamma,” whispered Lucy, clinging to her and trying to calm her anger, “don’t—pray don’t say that. It is only a present of fruit and flowers, after all.”

“You will not send the things back, mamma.”

Mrs Alleyne was silent for a few moments, and then said huskily,—

“No: they shall remain, but Moray must not know; and mind this, Lucy, when they come there is sure to be an offer for the man-servant to stop and wait. This must be declined.”

“Oh, yes, mamma,” cried Lucy, excitedly, as she began to imagine Sir John’s footman being witness of the shifts made in re-washing plates, and forks, and spoons.

“We must submit to the insult, I suppose. I cannot resent it for Moray’s sake. They are his guests, and must be treated with respect.”

In due time Sir John and Glynne, with Rolph and the major, arrived, and were heartily welcomed by Moray, who seemed to have thrown off his quiet thoughtfulness of manner, and to be striving to set the visitors at their ease. So warm and hearty, too, were Sir John and the major, that Lucy brightened; and had Rolph taken another tone, and Mrs Alleyne been satisfied with doing all that lay in her power to make her visitors welcome, leaving the rest, all would have gone well. But, in face of the stern, calm dignity of mien which she displayed, it was impossible for Sir John to adopt his easy-going sociability. In fact, between them, Mrs Alleyne and Rolph spoiled the dinner.

It was not by any means the greatest mistake that Mrs Alleyne had ever made in her life, but it was a serious one all the same, to attempt a regular society dinner in the face of so many difficulties. Poor woman: she felt that it was her duty to show Sir John that she was a lady, and understood the social amenities of life.

The consequence was that, having attempted too much, all went wrong: Eliza got into the most horrible tangles, and half-a-dozen times over, Sir John wished they had had a good Southdown leg of mutton, vegetables, and a pudding, and nothing else.

But he did not have his wish—for there was soup that was not good; soles that had become torn and tattered in the extraction from the frying-pan; veal cutlets, whose golden egging and crumbing had been in vain, for this coating had dissolved apparently into the sauce. The other entrÉe emitted an odour which made the major hungry, being a curried chicken; but, alas! the rice was in the condition known by schoolboys as “mosh-posh.” Then came a sirloin of beef and a pair of boiled fowls, with an intervening tongue and white sauce—at least the sauce should have been white, and the chickens should have been young—while what kind of conscience the butcher possessed who defrauded Mrs Alleyne by sending her in that sirloin of beef, with the announcement that it was prime, it is impossible to say.

The table looked bright and pretty with its fine white cloth, bright flowers and fruit, but the dinner itself was a series of miserable failures, through all of which Mrs Alleyne sat, stern, and with a fixed smile upon her countenance. Moray and Glynne were serenely unconscious, eating what was before them, but with their thoughts and conversation far away amongst the stars. Sir John and the major, with the most chivalrous courtesy, ignored everything, and kept up the heartiest of conversation; while Rolph, who was in a furious temper at having been obliged to come, fixed his glass in his eye and stolidly stared when he did not sneer.

It was poor Lucy upon whom the burden of the dinner cares fell, and she suffered a martyrdom. Oldroyd saw that she was troubled, but did not fully realise the cause, while the poor girl shivered and shrank, and turned now hot, now cold, as she read Rolph’s contempt for the miserable fare.

“Yes,” said the Major to himself, “it’s a mistake. She meant well, poor woman, but if she had given us a well-cooked steak how much better it would have been.”

Mrs Alleyne, behind her mask of smiles, also noted how Rolph’s eye-glass was directed at the various dishes, and how his plate went away, time after time, with the viands scarcely tasted. She hated him with a bitter hatred, and felt full of rejoicing to see his annoyance with Glynne, whose calm, handsome face lit up and grew animated when Alleyne spoke to her, answering questions, questioning her in return, and telling her of his work during the past few days.

The meal went on very slowly, and such success as attended it was due to Sir John and the major, the former devoting himself to his hostess, while the latter relieved poor little Lucy’s breast of some of its burden of trouble.

“Ah,” he said once, out of sheer kindness, just after Rolph had laughed silently at a grievous mistake made by Eliza, who, in a violent perspiration with work and excitement, had dropped a dish in the second course, breaking it, and spreading a too tremulous cabinet pudding and its sauce upon the well—worn carpet. “Ah, a capital dinner, Miss Alleyne, only wanted one dish to have made it complete.”

“How can you be so unkind, Major Day!” said Lucy, in a low, choking voice; “the poor girl is so unused to company, and she could not help it.”

Major Day looked petrified. He had advanced his remark like a squadron to cover the rout of the cabinet pudding, and he was astounded by Lucy’s flank movement, as she took his remark to refer to the maid.

“My dear child,” he stammered, “you mistake me.”

Poor Lucy could not contain herself. The vexations of the whole dinner which had been gathering within her now burst forth; and though she spoke to him in an undertone, her face was crimson, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting into a flood of tears.

“It is so unkind of you,” continued Lucy; “we are not used to having company. Moray did not think how difficult it would be for us to make proper preparations, and it is not our fault that everything is so bad.”

“My dear child!” whispered the major again.

“You need not have added to my misery by calling it a capital dinner, and alluding to the dish.”

Fortunately Sir John was chatting loudly to Mrs Alleyne, Oldroyd was in a warm argument with Rolph on the subject of training, and Alleyne was holding Glynne’s attention by describing to her the theory that the stars were in all probability suns with planets revolving round them, as we do about our own giver of warmth and light. Hence, then, the major’s little interlude with Lucy was unnoticed, and Eliza was able to remove the evidences of the disaster with a dustpan and brush.

“My dear Miss Alleyne, give me credit for being an officer and a gentleman,” said the major, quietly; “the dish I alluded to was one of some choice fungi, such as we discover for ourselves in the woods and fields. I meant nothing else—believe me.”

Lucy darted a grateful look in his eyes, and followed it up with a smile, which sent a peculiar little sting into Oldroyd’s breast.

“For,” the latter argued with himself, “elderly gentlemen do sometimes manage to exercise a great deal of influence over the susceptible hearts of maidens, and Major Day is a smart, attractive, old man.”

His attention was, however, taken up directly by Rolph, who, in a half-haughty, condescending tone asked him if he had studied training from its medical and surgical side, nettling him by his manner, and putting him upon his mettle to demolish his adversary in argument.

“Thank you, major,” whispered Lucy. “I might have known—I ought to have known better.”

And then, with the ice broken between herself and her old botanical tutor and friend, she seemed to jump with girlish eagerness at the opportunity for lightening her burdened heart.

“Everything has gone so dreadfully,” she whispered. “I have been sitting upon thorns ever since you all came. It has been heartbreaking, and I shall be so glad when it is all over, and you are gone.”

“Tut—tut! you inhospitable little creature,” said the major. “For shame. I shall not. Why, surely my little pupil does not think we came over here for the sake of the dinner. Fie!—fie!—fie! Brother John, there, enjoys a crust of bread and cheese and a glass of ale better than anything; while I, an old campaigner, used, when I was on service, to think myself very lucky if I got a biscuit and a slice of melon, or a handful of dates, for a meal.”

“But Sir John said you were so particular, and that was why he sent the fruit.”

“My brother John is a gentleman,” said the major, smiling. “But there, there, let me see my little pupil smiling, and at her ease again. Why, we’ve come over this evening to feast upon stars and planets, when the proper time comes. I say, look at Glynne, how bright and eager she looks. She is not troubling herself about the dinner; nor your brother neither.”

“Moray?” replied Lucy. “Oh, no; nothing troubles him. Poor fellow! If you gave him only some bran he would eat it and never say a word. It’s throwing nice things away to make them for him.”

At last the dessert plates had been placed upon the table, and the fruit handed round by Eliza, who, in spite of several nods and frowns from Mrs Alleyne, insisted upon staying to the very last, by way of salving her conscience for the pudding lapse. Then she finally departed to look after the coffee; the ladies rose and left the room, and the gentlemen drew closer together to discuss their wine.

Some cups of capital coffee were brought in, its quality being due to the fact that Lucy had slipped into the kitchen to make it herself; and after these had been enjoyed, Sir John drew attention to the object of their visit. Rolph yawned, and made up his mind to remain behind, to go into the garden and have a cigar, and Alleyne led the way into the drawing-room, Glynne rising directly to come and meet them, all eagerness to enjoy the promised inspection of the observatory.

Volume Two—Chapter One.

After a Lapse.

It was about a mile from the Alleynes’ where the sandy lane, going north, led by an eminence, rugged, scarped, and crowned with great columnar firs that must have sprung from seeds a couple of hundred years ago. By day, when the sun shone in from the east at his rising, or from the west at his going down, the great towering trunks that ran up seventy or eighty feet without a branch looked as if cast in ruddy bronze, while overhead the thick, dark, boughs interlaced and shut out the sky.

It was a gloomy enough spot by day amidst the maze of tall columns, with the ground beneath slippery from the dense carpeting of pine needles; by night, whether a soft breeze was overhead whispering in imitation of the surging waves, or it was a storm, there was ever that never-ending sound of the sea upon the shore, making the place in keeping with the spirit of him who sought for change and relief from troublous thoughts.

Moray Alleyne’s brain was full of trouble, of imperious thoughts that would not be kept back, and one night, to calm his disturbed spirit, he went out from the observatory, bare-headed, to walk for a few minutes up and down the garden.

But there was no rest there, and, feeling confined and cribbed within fence and hedge, he glanced for a moment or two at the tall window with its undrawn blinds, through which he could see Mrs Alleyne, seated stiff and with an uncompromising look upon her face, busy stitching at a piece of linen in which she was making rows of the finest nature, in preparation for a garment to be worn by her son.

Lucy was at the other side of the table, also working, but, as the lamplight fell upon her face, Alleyne could see that it was unruffled and full of content.

He sighed as he turned away, and thought of the past, when his thoughts went solely to his absorbing work—when this strange attraction, as he termed it, had not come upon him and drawn him, as it were, out of his course.

Only a short time back, and he went on in his matter-of-fact, mundane orbit, slowly working out problems, sometimes failing, but always returning to the task with the same calm peaceful serenity of spirit, waiting patiently for the triumph of science that sooner or later came for his reward.

How calm and unruffled all this had been. No fever of the soul, no tempest of spirit to disturb the even surface of his life. But now all was changed. They had torn him amongst them from the happy, placid life, to give him rage, and bitterness and pain.

His brow grew rugged and his hands clenched as he walked rapidly out on to the wild heath, heedless of the bushes and the inequalities of the ground, until he fell heavily, and leaped up again, to turn back. Then, giving up the wide waste of moor which he had instinctively chosen as being in accord with his frame of mind, he made straight for the next desolate spot, where it seemed to him that he could be alone with his thoughts, and perhaps school them into subjection.

“Cool down this madness,” he once said aloud, laughing bitterly the while; and the sound of his strange voice made him start and hurry on along the shady lane, as if to escape from the unseen monitor who had reminded him of his suffering.

“Yes, it is madness,” he muttered, “I could not have believed it true. But, discipline, patience, I shall conquer yet.”

He walked on, with the beads of perspiration coming softly out upon his brow; then, from being like a fine dew, they began to join one with the other, till they stood out in great drops unheeded, as he went swiftly on, and almost blindly at last turned rapidly up the steep ascent, climbing at times, and avoiding the pine trunks by a kind of blind instinct. He toiled on farther and farther, till he stood at the highest part of the great natural temple, with its windswept roof hidden in the darkness overhead, and two huge pines bending over to each other, like the sides of some huge east window, at the precipitous broken edge of the hill. Through this he could look straight away over the intervening billowy estate, to where Brackley Hall stood surrounded by trees, and with its lights shining softly against a vast background of darkness.

And now as he rested a hand upon a trunk, his vivid imagination pictured Glynne as being there, behind one or other of the softly-illumined panes.

Here he stopped and stood motionless for a time, gazing straight before him through the dimly-seen vista of the trunks, breathing in the soft, cool night air, dry and invigorating at that height. All was so still and silent, that, obeying his blind instinct, he seemed to have come there to find calmness and repose.

But they were not present; neither was the place dark—to him. For, as he stood there, with knotted brow, and teeth and hands clenched, turn which way he would there was light, and within that light, gazing at him with its intense, rapt expression—as if living and breathing upon his words—the one face that always haunted him now.

It had been so strange at first—that look of thoughtful veneration, that air of belief. Then, from being half-pleased, half-flattered, had come the time when it had created a want in his life—the desire to be master and go on teaching this obedient disciple who dwelt upon his words, took them so faithfully to heart, and waited patiently for fresh utterances from his lips.

It was not love on her part. He knew that. He was sure of it. At least it was the love of the science that he strove to teach—the thirsting of a spirit to know more and more of the wonders of infinite space. She liked to be in his society, to listen to his words. He knew he was gauging Glynne Day’s heart, when, with a sensation of misery that swept over him like some icy wave, he went over the hours they had spent together. But, when he tried to gauge his own he trembled, and asked himself why this madness had come upon him, robbing him of his peace and rest—making him so unfit for his daily work.

He strode on to and fro, winding in and out amongst the tall pillars of this darkened nature-temple, fighting his mental fight and praying from time to time for help to crush down the madness that had assailed him where he had thought himself so strong.

Strive how he would, though, there was Glynne’s face ever gazing up into his; and beside it, half-mockingly, in its calm, satisfied content, was Rolph’s; and as he met the eyes, there was the cool, contemptuous, pitying look, such as he had seen upon the young officer’s face again and again, mingled with the arrogant air of dislike that he made so little effort to conceal.

For a time Alleyne had been growing calmer; his determined efforts to master himself had seemed as if about to be attended with success; but as in fancy he had seen Rolph’s face beside that of Glynne, a feeling of rage—of envious rage—that mastered him in turn held sway.

But it was not for long; the power of a well-disciplined brain was brought to bear, and Moray Alleyne stood at last with his arms folded, leaning against a tree, thinking that after this mad ebullition of passion, he had gained the victory, and that henceforth all this was going to be as a bygone dream.

It must have been by some occult law of attraction that deals with human beings as inanimate objects are drawn together upon the surface of a pond, that Rolph, in contemptuous scorn of the sedative tea that would be on the way in Sir John’s drawing-room, and holding himself free for a little self-indulgence, took three cigars from his future father-in-law’s cabinet in the smoking-room, secured a box of matches, and, after putting on a light overcoat and soft hat, strolled out on to the lawn.

“Been on duty with her all day,” he said, with a half laugh, “and a fellow can’t quite give himself up to petticoat government—not hers. If it wasn’t for Aldershot being so near, it would be awful.”

Glynne was seated alone in the drawing-room, where the shaded lamp stood on the side-table, deep in a book that she was reading with avidity; and as Rolph, with his hands in his pockets, strolled round the house, he, too, stopped to look in at the window.

“There’s no nonsense about it,” he said, “she is pretty—I might say beautiful, and there isn’t a girl in the regiment who comes near her.”

“Humph! what a chance. The old boys are snoring in the dining-room, each with a handkerchief over his head, and for the next two hours I dare say we should be alone, and—drink tea!” he said with an air of disgust. “I hope she won’t be so confoundedly fond of tea when we’re married. It’s rather too much of a good thing sometimes. And a man wants change.”

He thrust his hands deeply into his coat pockets, where one of them came in contact with a cigar, which he took out, bit off the end mechanically, and stood rolling it to and fro between his lips.

“Shall I go in?” he asked himself. “Hang it, no! If one’s too much with a girl she’ll grow tired of you before marriage. Better keep her off a little, and not spoil her too soon. Yes, she really is a very handsome girl. Just fancy her in one of the smartest dresses a tip-top place could turn out, and sitting beside a fellow on a four-in-hand—Ascot, say, or to some big meet. There won’t be many who will put us—her, I mean”—he added, with a dash of modesty—“in the shade. Here, I’ll go and have a talk to her. No, I won’t. I sha’n’t get my cigar if I do. We shall have plenty of tÊte-À-tÊtes, I dare say. And I promised to-night—What’s she reading, I wonder? Last new novel, I suppose. Puzzles me,” he said to himself, as he swung round, “how a woman can go on reading novels at the rate some of them do. Such stuff! It’s only about one in a hundred that is written by anybody who knows what life really is—about horses and dogs—and sport,” he added after a little thought. “Poor little Glynne. It pleases her, though, and I sha’n’t interfere, but she might cultivate subjects more that agree with my tastes—say the hunt—and the field.”

He gave one glance over his shoulder at the picture of the reading girl in the drawing-room and then went off across the lawn, to be stopped by the wire fence, against which he paused as if measuring its height. Then going back for a dozen yards or so he took a sharp run, meaning to leap it, but stopped short close to the wire.

“Won’t do,” he muttered; “too dark.”

He then stepped over it, bending the top wire down and making it give a loud twang when released, as he walked on sharply towards the footway that crossed the path and led away to the fir woods, whistling the while.

Perhaps if he had known that the book Glynne was reading with such eagerness did not happen to be a novel, but a study of the heavens, by one, Mr Lockyer, the ideas that coursed through his mind would not have been of quite so complacent a character—that is to say, if the strain upon his nature to supply him with muscles and endurance had left him wit enough to put that and that together, and judge by the result.

“It’s getting precious dull here, and home’s horrid,” said Rolph, as he stopped in the shadow of a tree, whose huge trunk offered shelter from the breeze.

Here he proceeded, in the quiet deliberate fashion of a man who makes a study of such matters, and who would not on any consideration let a cigar burn sidewise, to light the roll he held in his teeth. He struck a match, coquetted with the flame, holding it near and drawing it away, till the leaf was well alight, when he placed his hands in his pockets, and walked on, puffing complacently, for a short distance at a moderate pace, but, finding the path easy and smooth, his mind began to turn to athletics, and, taking his hands from his pockets, he stopped short and doubled his fists.

“Won’t do to get out of condition with this domestic spaniel life,” he said, with a laugh, and, drawing a long breath, he set off walking, taking long, regular strides, and getting over the ground at a tremendous pace for about half a mile, when he stopped short to smile complacently.

“Not bad that,” he said aloud, “put out my cigar though;” and, again sheltering himself behind a tree, he struck a match and relit the roll of tobacco.

“I must do a little more of this early of a morning,” he said, as he regained his breath, and cooled down gradually by slowly walking on, and as fate arranged it, entering the great fir clump on the side farthest from the lane.

“They say the smell of the fir is healthy, and does a man good,” said Rolph. “I’ll have a good sniff or two.”

There was more of the odour of tobacco, though, than of the pines, as with his footsteps deadened by the soft, half-decayed vegetable matter, he threaded his way amongst the tall trunks.

“Humph! moon rising! see the gates!” said Rolph, with a satisfied air, as if the great yellow orb, slowly rising above the wood and darting horizontal rays through the pines, were illumining the path for his special benefit. Then he looked at his watch. “Ten minutes too soon. But I dare say she’s waiting. If this place were mine I should have all these trees cut down for timber and firewood. Fetch a lot!”

The wondrous effects of black velvety darkness and golden lines of light were thrown away upon the young baronet, who saw in the pale gilding of the tree-trunks only so much to avoid.

All at once his thoughts took a turn in another direction, and unwittingly he began to ponder upon the intimacy that had grown up between the people at the Hall and the Alleynes.

“It’s a great mistake, and I don’t like it,” Rolph said to himself. “That fellow hangs about after Glynne like some great dog. I shall have to speak to the old man about it. Glynne doesn’t see it, of course, and I don’t mean that she should, but it gets to be confoundedly unpleasant to a—to a thoughtful man—to a man of the world. Wiser, perhaps, to have a few words with the fellow himself, and tell him what I think of his conduct. I will too,” he said, after a pause. “He is simply ignorant of the common decencies of society, or he wouldn’t do it. I shall—What the devil’s he doing here—come to watch?”

Rolph stopped short, completely astounded upon seeing, not two yards away, the statue-like figure of Alleyne, with arms folded, leaning against a tree, thoroughly intent upon his thoughts.

For some time neither Rolph nor Alleyne spoke, the latter being profoundly ignorant of the presence of the former.

The shadows of the fir wood, as well as those of Alleyne’s mind, were to blame for this, for where Rolph had paused the moonbeams had not touched, and though Alleyne’s eyes were turned in that direction, they were filmed by the black darkness of the future, a deep shadow that he could not pierce. But by degrees, as the great golden shield, whose every light or speck was as familiar to him as his daily life, swept slowly on, a broad bar of darkness passed to his left, revealing first a part, then the whole of Sir Robert Rolph’s figure, as he stood scowling there, his hands in his pockets, and puff after puff of smoke coming from his lips.

Some few moments glided by before Alleyne realised the truth. He had been thinking so deeply—so bitterly of his rival, that it seemed as if his imagination had evoked this figure, and that his nerves had been so overstrained that this was some waking dream.

Then came the reaction, making him start violently, as Rolph emitted a tremendous cloud of smoke, and then said shortly, without taking his cigar from his lips,—

“How do?”

“Captain Rolph!” cried Alleyne, finding speech at last. “That’s me. Well, what is it?” There was another pause, for what appeared to be an interminable time. Alleyne wished to speak, but his lips were sealed. Years of quiet, thoughtful life had made him, save when led on by some object in which he took deep interest, slow of speech, while now the dislike, more than the disgust this man caused him, seemed to have robbed him of all power of reply.

“Confounded cad!” thought Rolph; “he is watching;” and then, aloud, “Star-gazing and mooning?”

The bitterly contemptuous tone in which this was said stung Alleyne to the quick, and he replied, promptly,—

“No.”

There was something in that tone that startled Rolph for the moment, but he was of too blunt and heavy a nature to detect the subtle meaning a tone of voice might convey, and, seizing the opportunity that had come to him, he ran at it with the clumsiness of a bull at some object that offends its eye.

“Hang the cad, there couldn’t be a better chance,” he said to himself; and, adopting the attitude popular with cavalry officers not largely addicted to brains, he straddled as if on horseback, and setting his feet down as though he expected each heel to make the rowel of a spur to ring, he walked straight up to Alleyne, smoking furiously, and puffed a cloud almost into his face.

“Look here, Mr—Mr—er—Alleyne,” he said, loudly, “I wanted to talk to you, and present time seems as suitable as any other time.”

Alleyne had recovered himself, and bowed coldly.

“I was not aware that Captain Rolph had any communication to make to me,” he said quietly.

“S’pose not,” replied Rolph, offensively; “people of your class never do.—Hang the cad! He is spying so as to get a pull on me,” he muttered to himself.

“I’m just in the humour, and for two pins I’d give him as good a thrashing as I really could.”

“Will you proceed,” said Alleyne, in whose pale cheeks a couple of spots were coming, for it was impossible not to read the meaning of the other’s words and tone.

“When I please,” said Rolph, in the tone of voice he would have adopted towards some groom, or to one of the privates of his troop.

Alleyne bowed his head and stood waiting, for he said to himself—“I am in the wrong—I am bitterly to blame. Whatever he says, I will bear without a word.”

A deep silence followed, for, though Rolph pleased to speak, he could not quite make up his mind what to say. He did not wish to blurt out anything, he told himself, that should compromise his dignity, nor yet to let Alleyne off too easily. Hence, being unprepared, he was puzzled.

“Look here, you know,” he said at last, and angrily; for he was enraged with himself for his want of words, “you come a good deal to Sir John’s.”

“Yes, I am invited,” said Alleyne, quietly.

Rolph’s rehearsal was gone.

“I’ll let him have it,” he muttered; “I’m not going to fence and spar. Yes,” he cried aloud, “I know you are. Sir John’s foolishly liberal in that way; but you know, Mr Allen, or Alleyne, or whatever your name is, I’m not blind.”

Alleyne remained silent; and, being now wound up, Rolph swaggered and straddled about with an imaginary horse between his legs.

“Look here, you know, I don’t want to be hard on a man who is ready to own that he is in the wrong, and apologises, and keeps out of the way for the future; but this sort of thing won’t do. By Jove, no, it sha’n’t do, you know. I won’t have it. Do you hear? I won’t have it.”

Something seemed to rise to Moray Alleyne’s throat—some vital force to run through his nerves and muscles, making them twitch and quiver, as the young officer went on in an increasingly bullying tone. For some moments Alleyne, of the calm, peaceful existence, did not realise what it meant—what this sensation was; but at last it forced itself upon him that it was the madness of anger, the fierce desire of a furious man to seize an enemy and struggle with him till he is beaten down, crushed beneath the feet.

As he realised all this he wondered and shrank within himself, gazing straight before him with knitted brows and half-closed eyes.

“You see,” continued Rolph, “I always have my eyes open—make a point of keeping my eyes open, and it’s time you understood that, because Miss—”

“Silence!” cried Alleyne fiercely. “What! What do you mean?” cried Rolph, as if he was addressing some delinquent in his regiment.

“Confound it all! How dare you, sir! How dare you speak to me like that?”

“Say what you like, speak what you will to me,” said Alleyne, excitedly, “but let that name be held sacred. It must not be drawn into this quarrel.”

“How dare you, sir! How dare you!” roared Rolph. “What do you mean in dictating to me what I should say? Name held sacred? Drawn into this—what do you say—quarrel. Do you think I should stoop to quarrel with you?”

Alleyne raised one hand deprecatingly. “I’d have you to know, sir, that I am telling you that I am not blind,”—he repeated this as if to mend his observations—“I tell you to keep away from the Hall, and to recollect that because a certain lady has condescended to speak to you in the innocency of her heart—yes, innocency of her heart,” he repeated, for it was a phrase that pleased him, and sounded well—“it is not for you to dare to presume to talk to her as you do—to look at her as you do—or to come to the Hall as you do. I’ve watched you, and I’ve seen your looks and ways—confound your insolence! And now, look here, if ever you dare to presume to speak to Miss—to the lady, I mean, as you have addressed her before, I’ll take you, sir, and horsewhip you till you cannot stand. Do you hear, sir; do you hear? Till you cannot stand.”

Alleyne stood there without speaking, while this brutal tirade was going on. His breast heaved, and his breath was drawn heavily; but he gave no sign, and presuming upon the success that had attended his speaking, Rolph continued with all the offensiveness of tone and manner that he had acquired from his colonel, a rough, overbearing martinet of the old school.

“I cannot understand your presumption,” continued Rolph. “I cannot understand of what you have been thinking, coming cringing over to the Hall, day after day, forcing your contemptible twaddle about stars and comets, and such far-fetched nonsense upon unwilling ears. Good heavens, sir! are you mad, or a fool?—I say, do you hear me—what are you, mad or a fool?”

Still Alleyne did not reply, but listened to his rival’s words with so bitter a feeling of anguish at his heart, that it took all his self-command to keep him from groaning aloud.

And still Rolph went on, for, naturally sluggish of mind, it took some time to bring that mind, as he would have termed it, into action. Once started, however, he found abundance of words of a sort, and he kept on loudly, evidently pleased with what he was saying, till once more he completed the circle in which he had been galloping, and ended with,—

“You hear me—thrash you as I would a dog.”

Rolph had run down, and, coughing to clear away the huskiness of his throat, he muttered to himself,—

“Cigar’s out.”

Hastily taking another from his pocket, he bit off the end, lit up, gave a few puffs, scowling at Alleyne the while, and then said loudly,—

“And now you understand, I think, sir?”

There were spurs imaginary jingling at Rolph’s heels, and the steel scabbard of a sabre banging about his legs, as he turned and strode away, whistling.

And then there was silence amidst the tall columnar pines, which looked as if carved out of black marble, save where the moonlight streamed through, cutting them sharply as it were, leaving some with bright patches of light, and dividing others into sections of light and darkness. There was not even a sigh now in the dark branches overhead, not a sound but the heavy, hoarse breathing of Moray Alleyne, as he stood there fighting against the terrible emotion that made him quiver.

He had listened to the coarsely brutal language of this man of athleticism, borne his taunts, his insults, as beneath him to notice, for there was another and a greater mental pain whose contemplation seemed to madden him till his sufferings were greater than he could bear.

If it had been some bright, talented man—officer, civilian, cleric, anything, so that he had been worthy and great, he could have borne it; but for Glynne, whose sweet eyes seemed day by day to be growing fuller of wisdom, whose animated countenance was brightening over with a keener intelligence that told of the workings of a mind whose latent powers were beginning to dawn, to be pledged to this overbearing brutal man of thews and sinews, it was a sacrilege; and, after standing there, forgetful of his own wrongs, the insults that he had borne unmoved, he suddenly seemed to awaken to his agony; and, uttering a bitter cry, he flung himself face downwards upon the earth.

“Glynne, my darling—my own love!”

There was none to hear, none to heed, as he lay there clutching at the soft loose pine needles for a time, and then lying motionless, lost to everything—to time, to all but his own misery and despair.