Neither of the ladies were at home when Bagenal Daly, followed by his servant Sandy, reached “The Corvy,” and sat down in the porch to await their return. Busied with his own reflections, which, to judge from the deep abstraction of his manner, seemed weighty and important, Daly never looked up from the ground, while Sandy leisurely walked round the building to note the changes made in his absence, and comment, in no flattering sense, on the art by which the builder had concealed so many traits of “The Corvy's” origin.

“Ye 'd no ken she was a ship ava!” said he to himself, as he examined the walls over which the trellised creepers were trained, and the latticed windows festooned by the honeysuckle and the clematis, and gazed in sadness over the altered building. “She's no a bit like the auld Corvy!”

“Of course she 's not!” said Daly, testily, for the remark had suddenly aroused him from his musings. “What the devil would you have? Are you like the raw and ragged fellow I took from this bleak coast, and led over more than half the world?”

“Troth, I am no the same man noo that I was sax-and-forty years agane, and sorry I am to say it.”

“Sorry,—sorry! not to be half-starved and less than half-clad; hauling a net one day, and being dragged for yourself the next—sorry!”

“Even sae, sore sorry. Eight-and-sixty may be aye sorry not to be twa-and-twenty. I ken nae rise in life can pay off that score. It 's na ower pleasant to think on, but I'm no the man I was then. No, nor, for that matter, yerself neither.”

Daly was too long accustomed to the familiarity of Sandy's manner to feel offended at the remark, though he did not seem by any means to relish its application. Without making any reply, he arose and entered the hall. On every side were objects reminding him of the past, strange and sad commentary on the words of his servant. Sandy appeared to feel the force of such allies, and, as he stood near, watched the effect the various articles produced on his master's countenance.

“A bonnie rifle she is,” said he, as if interpreting the admiring look Daly bestowed upon a richly ornamented gun. “Do you mind the day yer honor shot the corbie at the Tegern See?”

“Where the Tyrol fellows set on us, on the road to Innspruck, and I brought down the bird to show them that they had to deal with a marksman as good at least as themselves.”

“Just sae; it was a bra' shot; your hand was as firm, and your eye as steady then as any man's.”

“I could do the feat this minute,” said Daly, angrily, as turning away he detached a heavy broadsword from the wall.

“She was aye over weighty in the hilt,” said Sandy, with a dry malice.

“You used to draw that bowstring to your ear,” said Daly, sternly, as he pointed to a Swiss bow of portentous size.

“I had twa hands in those days,” said the other, calmly, and without the slightest change of either voice or manner.

Not so with him to whom they were addressed. A flood of feelings seemed to pour across his memory, and, laying his hand on Sandy's shoulder, he said, in an accent of very unusual emotion, “You are right, Sandy, I must be changed from what I used to be.”

“Let us awa to the auld life we led in those days,” said the other, impetuously, “and we 'll soon be ourselves again! Does n't that remind yer honor of the dark night on the Ottawa, when you sent the canoe, with the pine-torch burning in her bow, down the stream, and drew all the fire of the Indian fellows on her?”

“It was a grand sight,” cried Daly, rapturously, “to see the dark river glittering with its torchlight, and the chiefs, as they stood rifle in hand, peering into the dense pine copse, and making the echoes ring with their war-cries.”

“It was unco near at one time,” said Sandy, as he took up the fold of the blanket with which his effigy in the canoe was costumed. “There 's the twa bullet-holes, and here the arrow-bead in the plank, where I had my bead! If ye had missed the Delaware chap wi' the yellow cloth on his forehead—”

“I soon changed its color for him,” said Daly, savagely.

“Troth did ye; ye gied him a bonny war-paint. How he sprang into the air! I think I see him noo; many a night when I 'm lying awake, I think I can hear the dreadful screech he gave, as he plunged into the river.”

“It was not a cry of pain, it was baffled vengeance,” said Daly.

“He never forgave the day ye gripped him by the twa hands in yer ain one, and made the squaws laugh at him. Eh, how that auld deevil they cau'd Black Buffalo yelled! Her greasy cheeks shook and swelled over her dark eyes, till the face looked like nothing but a tar lake in Demerara when there 's a hurricane blowin' over it.”

“You had rather a tenderness in that quarter, if I remember aright,” said Daly, dryly.

“I 'll no deny she was a bra sauncie woman, and kenned weel to make a haggis wi' an ape's head and shoulders.” Sandy smacked his lips, as if the thought had brought up pleasant memories.

“How I escaped that bullet is more than I can guess,” said Daly, as he inspected the blanket where it was pierced by a shot; and as he spoke, he threw its wide folds over his shoulders, the better to judge of the position.

“Ye aye wore it more on this side,” said Sandy, arranging the folds with tasteful pride; “an', troth, it becomes you well. Tak the bit tomahawk in your hand, noo. Ech! but yer like yoursel once more.”

“We may have to don this gear again, and sooner than you think,” said Daly, thoughtfully.

“Nae a bit sooner than I 'd like,” said Sandy. “The salvages, as they ca' them, hae neither baillies nor policemen, they hae nae cranks about lawyers and 'tornies; a grip o' a man's hair and a sharp knife is even as mickle a reason as a hempen cord and a gallows tree! Ech, it warms my bluid again to see you stridin' up and doon,—if you had but a smudge o' yellow ochre, or a bit o' red round your eyes, ye 'd look awful well.”

“What are you staring at?” said Daly, as Sandy opened a door stealthily, and gazed down the passage towards the kitchen.

“I 'm thinking that as there is naebody in the house but the twa lasses, maybe your honor would try a war-cry,—ye ken ye could do it bra'ly once.”

“I may need the craft soon again,” said Daly, thoughtfully.

“Mercy upon us! here 's the leddies!” cried Sandy. But before Daly could disencumber himself of his weapons and costume, Helen entered the hall. 154

If Lady Eleanor started at the strange apparition before her, and involuntarily turned her eye towards the canoe, to see that its occupant was still there, it is not much to be wondered at, so strongly did the real and the counterfeit man resemble each other. The first surprise over, he was welcomed with sincere pleasure. All the eccentricities of character which in former days were commented on so sharply were forgotten, or their memory replaced by the proofs of his ardent devotion.

“How well you are looking!” was his first exclamation, as he gazed at Lady Eleanor and Helen alternately, with that steady stare which is one of the prerogatives of age towards beauty.

“There is no such tonic as necessity,” said Lady Eleanor, smiling, “and it would seem as if health were too jealous to visit us when we have every other blessing.”

“It is worth them all, madam. I am an old man, and have seen much of the world, and I can safely aver that what are called its trials lie chiefly in our weaknesses. We can all of us carry a heavier load than fortune lays on us—” He suddenly checked himself, as if having unwittingly lapsed into something like rebuke, and then said, “I find you alone; is it not so?”

“Yes; Darcy has left us, suddenly and almost mysteriously, without you can help us to a clearer insight. A letter from the War Office arrived here on Tuesday, acknowledging, in most complimentary terms, the fairness of his claim for military employment, and requesting his presence in London. This was evidently in reply to an application, although the Knight made none such.”

“But he has friends, mamma,—warm-hearted and affectionate ones,-who might have done so,” said Helen, as she fixed her gaze steadily on Daly.

“And you, madam, have relatives of high and commanding influence,” said he, avoiding to return Helen's glance,—“men of rank and station, who might well feel proud of such a protÉgÉ as Maurice Darcy. And what have they given him?”

“We can tell you nothing; the official letter may explain more to your clear-sightedness, and I will fetch it.” So saying, Lady Eleanor arose and left the room. Scarcely had the door closed, when Daly stood up, and, walking over, leaned his arm on the back of Helen's chair.

“You received my letter, did you not?” said he, hurriedly. “You know the result of the trial?”

Helen nodded assent, while a secret emotion covered her face with crimson, as Daly resumed,—

“There was ill-luck everywhere: the case badly stated; Lionel absent; I myself detained in Dublin, by an unavoidable necessity,—everything unfortunate even to the last incident. Had I been there, matters would have taken another course. Still, Helen, Forester was right; and, depend upon it, there is no scanty store of generous warmth in a heart that can throb so strongly beneath the aiguiletted coat of an aide-de-camp. The holiday habits of that tinsel life teach few lessons of self-devotion, and the poor fellow has paid the penalty heavily.”

“What has happened?” said Helen, in a voice scarcely audible.

“He is disinherited, I hear. All his prospects depended on his mother; she has cast him off, and, as the story goes, is about to marry. Marriage is always the last vengeance of a widow.”

“Here is the letter,” said Lady Eleanor, entering; “let us hope you can read its intentions better than we have.”

“Flattering, certainly,” muttered Daly, as he conned over the lines to himself. “It's quite plain they mean to do something generous. I trust I may learn it before I sail.”

“Sail! you are not about to travel, are you?” asked Lady Eleanor, in a voice that betrayed her dread of being deprived of such support.

“Oh! I forgot I had n't told you. Yes, madam, another of those strange riddles which have beset my life compels me to take a long voyage—to America.”

“To America!” echoed Helen; and her eye glanced as she spoke to the Indian war-cloak and the weapons that lay beside his chair.

“Not so, Helen,” said Daly, smiling, as if replying to the insinuated remark; “I am too old for such follies now. Not in heart, indeed, but in limb,” added he, sternly; “for I own I could ask nothing better than the prairie or the pine-forest. I know of no cruelty in savage life that has not its counterpart amid our civilization; and for the rude virtues that are nurtured there, they are never warmed into existence by the hotbed of selfishness.”

“But why leave your friends,—your sister?”

“My sister!” He paused, and a tinge of red came to his cheek as he remembered how she had failed in all attention to the Darcys. “My sister, madam, is self-willed and headstrong as myself. She acknowledges none of the restraints or influence by which the social world consents to be bound and regulated; her path has ever been wild and erratic as my own. We sometimes cross, we never contradict, each other.” He paused, and then muttered to himself, “Poor Molly! how different I knew you once! And so,” added he, aloud, “I must leave without seeing Darcy! and there stands Sandy, admonishing me that my time is already up. Good-bye, Lady Eleanor; good-bye, Helen.” He turned his head away for a second, and then, in a voice of unusual feeling, said: “Farewell is always a sad word, and doubly sad when spoken by one old as I am; but if my heart is heavy at this moment, it is the selfish sorrow of him who parts from those so near. As for you, madam, and your fortunes, I am full of good hope. When people talk of suffering virtue, believe me, the element of courage must be wanting; but where the stout heart unites with the good cause, success will come at last.”

He pressed his lips to the hands he held within his own, and hurried, before they could reply, from the room.

“Our last friend gone!” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, as she sank into a chair.

Helen's heart was too full for utterance, and she sat down silently, and watched the retiring figure of Daly and his servant till they disappeared in the distance.