WHILE these dark elements of tragedy were gathering about the lonely house of Marchmain, things went on very cheerfully in Milnehill, where everybody was vaguely encouraged by the idea of the investigation going on which might restore some wreck of fortune to the young Rifleman; and where a still more engrossing pursuit reconciled that hero himself to the necessity of waiting for news of this possible enrichment. Roger, who had no great hopes on the subject, bore the suspense with the greatest patience, and never, indeed, showed the least signs of anxiety, except when it seemed likely that a word or two of lamentation over his fate would call forth the compassion of the ladies—which compassion was very sincere on Susan’s part, and good-humouredly satirical on that of Mrs. Melrose. “It’s easy to see the poor young man’s losing heart altogether with this waiting,” the old lady would say with much gravity; “for you see, Susan, my dear, it’s not to be expected that he can find anything here to amuse him, poor man, seeing nothing but two old people and a quiet little girl like you.” Mrs. Melrose had quite taken up her abode at Milnehill since Roger’s arrival. She said it was good for her health to smell the chestnut blossoms, and overlook Uncle Edward’s gardening—and a very cheerful and lively addition she made to the happy house.

One morning, however, the quiet progress of affairs was interrupted by a letter, which Roger read not without a little agitation at the breakfast-table. When he had come to the end he handed it over suddenly, with a slight impetuous impulse, to the Colonel, who took it with his usual kind look of serious attention, put on his spectacles immediately, and addressed himself to the perusal of the letter with much gravity and earnestness. It was from Roger’s mother, and written partly under the inspiration of little Edmund, messages from whom were mixed with everything the timid woman said—

“MY DEAREST BOY—Your dear letter and the news of your arrival brought the greatest pleasure I have known for many a long day, though it came in the midst of great trouble, my dear Mr. Stenhouse having been buried just a few days before; a very great affliction, which I trust, for all your sakes, my dear boy, yours and little Edmund’s, and your dear sisters’, I shall have strength to bear. Little Edmund interrupts me to say—and I must give you the very words of his message, or he will not be pleased—that, please, you’re to come home directly, and that his papa has left him a great deal of money, and he means to give you half of it, and wants so very, very much to see his brother Roger. My own boy, I must ask you to be very good to dear little Edmund; he has been such an invalid, the dear child, that everybody has always yielded to him all his life, and he does love you so! Since ever he could speak he has kept on entreating me to tell him of his brother Roger, and he thinks there is not such another in the world; and he is very good, the dear little fellow, when he is not in pain, and one takes a little care and knows his way. However, I have something to tell you besides. The day before yesterday along with your letter there came a letter to my dear Mr. Stenhouse, which Edmund opened before I saw what he was doing. Edmund tells me to say that he does so hope you will come soon to see the cricketing in Leasough Park; and he thinks if you would join the Leasough eleven—Leasough is a village two miles off, where we always go for our drive, and where everybody knows Edmund—they would be sure to win. But about Mr. Pouncet’s letter, my dear son. It seemed written in a great fright, saying that Sir John Armitage had written to him something about you, and what should he do?—and speaking in a very improper manner, actually cursing the day he did something, which it seems my dear Mr. Stenhouse must have known of, and asking that young Mr. Scarsdale, Colonel Sutherland’s nephew, who seemed to know about it too, might be sent to Kenlisle at once. Edmund said, ‘Mamma, send for Mr. Scarsdale directly’ (he is so clever, the dear child), and so I did. But I must first go back to tell you that my dear Mr. Stenhouse himself had sent for young Mr. Scarsdale, and spoke with him in private, and charged him, as I heard with my own ears—dear Julius being taken very bad, and not knowing what he said—that ‘the boy was not to know’—just the day before his death. When Mr. Scarsdale came, I am sorry to say he was not so polite as I should have expected from Colonel Sutherland’s nephew, and would not tell either Edmund or me anything, but rather sneered at my poor child, and went off all in haste, keeping the letter in his hand. I should have sent it to you if he had not taken it away. Now, I do not know what this may mean—nor can it be expected that Edmund should, as he is only a child; but both he and I, my dear boy, beg of you to ask the Colonel what he thinks, and to try to find out yourself. And whatever you do, dear, don’t trust to that Mr. Pouncet; for it was quite clear to me by his letter that he had somehow done you wrong, and wanted to conceal it. Edmund says, ‘Tell Roger, mamma, he’s not to trust Scarsdale either;’ but indeed I scarcely have the heart to say so, remembering that he’s the dear good Colonel’s nephew—only he was not so kind as he might have been, you know, and I have some reason to think he is fond of Amelia—which should surely keep him from doing anything that would harm her brother.

“But, my dearest boy, come home. I have not seen you—my son—my baby—my first-born!—for so many years, and my heart yearns for a sight of you. Oh, come to me! Let me see you under my own roof! Roger—my son—my dear boy—come home to your mother! There is no other friend who can have so close a claim upon my darling child!

“Always your loving mother,
“A. Stenhouse.”

“You will go at once?” said the Colonel, with some gravity, as he gave the letter back into Roger’s hand.

Go at once! The words rung upon Susan’s ear like a cannon-shot. She turned her blue eyes with a look of amazed alarm from her uncle to Roger; then she became suddenly very much busied with the duties of the breakfast table, swallowing down, as a very attentive observer might have noticed, something in her throat, and carefully keeping her eyes upon her tea-pot and coffee-pot. Roger had made no answer as yet. While the Colonel inclined his ear attentively across the table for the young man’s reply, Roger was studying Susan’s face; and it is not hard to explain that common paradox of youthful nature, which made Susan’s silent signs of sudden disappointment and vexation the most exhilarating sight in the world to the young Rifleman. While Uncle Edward listened, and heard nothing, and fancied his own deaf ear in fault, Roger, quite otherwise occupied—thinking, it is to be feared, not much about his mother, and nothing at all about Mr. Pouncet—concentrated all his faculties on the honest face of Susan, with its womanly but unconcealable dismay.

“Eh, Musgrave?” said the Colonel, stooping towards his young guest, and putting up his kind hand over his deaf ear.

“I suppose so, sir,” said Roger, in high spirits. Then, after a little pause, with sham sentiment, got up simply as a trap for Susan—“If one could only find out the secret of ubiquity, so that one might be able to content one’s mother, and enjoy one’s self, at the same time.”

Yielding to this temptation, Susan glanced up at the young hero for a moment, with some tender tearfulness about her eyes; but, finding nothing but triumph and delight in his, returned, disgusted, and much more inclined to cry than before, to the contemplation of her coffee-pot.

“One may manage that, I hope, without any ubiquity,” said the Colonel, still very gravely; for the old soldier was moved too seriously by this letter to notice the by-play of the youthful drama going on under his eyes. “But I am surprised you are not more excited by your mother’s communication, Roger. My dear fellow, it is quite evident now that there must be something in it; and a pretty person to conduct an investigation this Pouncet must be, after what you have just heard. Why, to be sure, referring the search to a guilty party is the very way to keep ourselves in darkness. I’ll tell you what, Musgrave; if you do not see after it at once, I shall take the liberty of constituting myself your guardian, and set out to-day.”

Roger stretched out his hand to meet that of Colonel Sutherland, who had gradually warmed as he spoke. “Amen,” said the young man. “Till I can persuade some still kinder and fairer hand to assume the reins, I could not have any guardian I should like so well.”

“Pshaw!” said Uncle Edward, awakening to the fact that his young guest was speaking at Susan much more than to himself—“never mind fairer hands. What do you mean to do?”

Upon which, Roger perceiving that his last shot had taken due effect, grew serious all at once.

“It does look at last as if there was something in it,” he said. “I have thought all along that if any mischief had been done Pouncet must have known of it; and he was a man of such character! I cannot think yet how it is possible that he could put himself or his reputation in danger to defraud me;—but certainly,” continued Roger, growing rather red and wrathful, “the pretence of a sham investigation and a confidential clerk—”

“Ah!” cried Uncle Edward, with a sharp short exclamation like a sudden pang—“most likely it was—well, well, well!—we cannot help it; it is to his own Master that each of us standeth or falleth: let us not blame till we know.”

“Uncle,” said Susan in alarm, coming round to his side and sliding her hand into his, “it is something about Horace?—something more?”

“No, my love, nothing more—nothing at all that one could build upon,” said the Colonel tenderly; “only I rather fear, Susan, as we both did when you came first to Milnehill, that Horace knows of some injury which has been done to Roger, and yet does not let him know.”

Susan made a momentary pause of shame and distress as her uncle spoke, and then raised her eyes, full of tears and entreaty, to Roger’s face. Poor Susan believed that these tears were all about her brother, and would not have acknowledged that a single drop of that gentle rain had relation to the “going away” with which this conversation arose.

Roger, however, could not bear these tears. He put his mother’s letter hastily into her hand—would she read it? There was really nothing blaming Mr. Scarsdale, as she would see. And Susan stood shy and tearful, with the paper trembling in her hand—a maidenly, womanly, natural restraint forbidding her to read, while her heart yearned, notwithstanding, towards Roger’s mother; while Roger kept looking at her with anxious eyes, as earnest to have her read it as though his fate depended on the issue. Did either of them think of Horace in connection with this letter? or what, between these two young dreamers, trembling on the edge of their romance, was Colonel Sutherland, with very serious thoughts in his mind and matters in his hand, to do? He got up after a few minutes waiting, with good-humoured impatience.

“Boys and girls,” said Uncle Edward, “with all their life before them, like you young people, may waste a few hours of it without much harm done; but what I have to do must be done quickly. Make up your mind, Roger, my good friend; but as for me, I am going off to Armitage by the first train. Susan, my love, Mrs. Melrose will stay with you; for this young fellow’s interests, you see, must be looked after, whether he wishes it or not—especially, my dear”—and Uncle Edward’s kind face grew darker as he made that significant pause.

“Especially if Horace has had any share in it,” cried Susan. “Oh, Mr. Musgrave!” and a few tears fell suddenly over Roger’s mother’s letter. The Colonel at the moment had stepped out of the room to give his instructions to Patchey, and Susan’s one sole remaining intention, on which all her mind was fixed, was to rush after him; but that involuntary turn of her head and exclamation of her lips sealed Susan’s fate. Roger was not the man to let slip so advantageous a moment—and had things to do of more importance than packing his portmanteau before he left Milnehill.