To account for Sir Archibald Oswald’s disappearance from Arandale, and the subsequent discovery of his body in the lake, we must accompany him in a walk before breakfast, on the morning after he had evinced so much emotion the previous evening; first of a furious description, when Henry’s voice arrested his attention; and finally, of a tender and subdued nature, when, on hearing Julia sing, all violence had not only been allayed, but, unconscious tears had flowed over his haggard countenance.

Having retired without supper, and, consequently, without the excess in wine, which, with him, too frequently formed the principal part of that meal, the unhappy Oswald slept better than was his custom. He rose earlier; he felt some degree of composure; a lucid interval was probably approaching.

He wandered into the deep woods that surround Arandale Castle. The solitude they afforded was of a cheering and animated kind. Stately deer crossed his path; birds sang, and peacocks screamed in every branch, and the cawing rooks were, as usual, in busy motion, in and over the tops of all the high old trees.

The path he chanced to take, led him to the sheet of water before noticed. Our old acquaintances, the two swans, were slowly sailing on its calm surface. Half the quiet bosom of the lake was in deep shadow from the great trees, which seemed resting the weight of their branches upon it. The other half shone brightly in the early sun; and every leaf, every blade of grass, which, amid so much cover, the rays of light could reach, was glittering with dew. The morning air was exhilarating. Oswald’s broken heart felt soothed by the influence of surrounding objects. He stood contemplating the scene with calmer feelings than were common to him. There was a peculiar stillness in the moment; the next, the sound of approaching footsteps fell on his ear. He looked round, and beheld, as he believed, one who had long been the object of his search, and of his hatred, coming towards him.

Oswald stamped on the earth, uttered a yell, at once of triumph and defiance. His eyes flashed with the fire of phrenzy; he gnashed his teeth; his whole countenance became distorted with the horrible rage of a maniac. Henry paused! for it was, indeed, this unfortunate son of a desperate father, whom the bewildered perceptions of the madman had mistaken for that father. A father whose very memory could thus entail on his offspring, not only the wild vengeance of others, but almost a necessity in himself to become the perpetrator of crime, actual, if not intentional.

Henry saw, and endeavoured to avoid Oswald; but the unhappy being crossed his path, and seized on his throat with violence, reiterating, “Villain! villain! villain!” accusing him of deeds of the blackest dye, and calling upon him with threats and imprecations to restore the rights of his son! At first Henry, to do him justice, only sought to escape; next, only to defend himself: but when it became evident that the maniac’s purpose was to put him to death, and that, with that purpose, was coupled an insane glee at the immediate prospect of its fulfilment; and that, added to all this, Henry began to feel himself actually threatened with strangulation; his own angry passions kindled, and he put his strength to the struggle. Oswald, however, having at first fastened on Henry’s cravat, maintained his hold with the ferocious tenacity of a bull-dog, and pursued his advantage with the supernatural force derived from phrenzy. There were moments when Henry gave himself up for lost! It was now that he forgot his assailant’s age and imbecility of mind, and with all the strength of youthful sinews clasped his arms round the old man’s waist, and, in a few seconds, brought him to the ground. Here the sight of Oswald’s grey hairs lying amid the grass and fallen leaves might have recalled better feelings; but even here the poor maniac’s fury was unabated: his countenance still expressed his horrible intention, and his hand still grasped the cravat of Henry. In the latter the instinct of self-preservation grew each moment more fierce.

The efforts of Oswald, even in this prostrate position, continued for a time as frantic as ever. When, suddenly, all became still: the hands had relaxed their hold, and Henry gazed in mute horror and unavailing remorse on a passive—nay, a lifeless form!—himself as motionless.

“Self-defence is not murder!” he at length murmured. “Self-defence is not murder!” he repeated. But no false arguments could stifle the shocking conviction to which his suddenly cooled faculties had awakened. The conviction that a too fatal fierceness had accompanied the pressure with which he had held the fallen madman to the earth after immediate danger to himself had ceased. The vital breath, suspended by wild excitement and frantic exertion, might have, would have returned had not that cruelly continued pressure impeded the efforts of nature.

Such feelings, however, shortly yielded to a dread of the consequences of what had happened; attended thus by, at least, very suspicious circumstances.

He stood up, and looked all round him. It was solitude everywhere; and Oswald’s hat had rolled into the lake. He seized the thought, drew the body towards the margin, and pushed it in also.

It sunk, and the water closed over it. Henry gazed on the spot whence it had disappeared, till the last spreading circle had melted away; then, turned to depart. But, started and shuddered on beholding full, attentive eyes fixed upon him, as it were observing his movements! For a moment, he felt detected; but the next, recovered from his panic, for the eyes were only those of a stately deer. The animal stood at a little distance, beneath a tree; his face turned full round, his head proudly erect, sustaining the weight of his branching horns.

Henry envied him! And now striking hastily into a walk, that led towards the Castle, he debated with himself, in great agitation, whether he should mention what had happened to Lord Arandale, pleading the dreadful necessity of self-defence, against a maniac, who would else have taken his life; or, whether he should remain silent, and suffer it to be supposed that Oswald had drowned himself. That such a man should commit an act of suicide could not surprise any one, and Henry, therefore, determined on the latter alternative.

It was on this occasion that he entered the breakfast-room on the first morning of the races, just as Lady Arandale was enquiring of the butler, if any one had been in Sir Archibald’s room. It was at this breakfast that Lady Susan had observed on Henry’s not having any appetite.

It may now too be imagined what his feelings of consternation must have been, when, within an hour after, little Arthur, mistaking him for Edmund, laid hold of the side of his coat, and asked him, in a cautious whisper, where his poor papa was.

The body of Sir Archibald Oswald, over which we have seen the peaceful surface of the waters close, rose again at the usual time. But before any one had chanced to visit a place so sequestered, both it and the hat had been gently borne along towards a narrow outlet, at the further end of the lake, and received into the strait, or pass, which was too confined to allow of their further progress.

And here they might still have lain, had not the work people, mentioned by the Earl, found it necessary to clear this pass.

END OF VOL. II.

Gunnell and Shearman, 13, Salisbury Square.