Angela's departure from Netherglen had already taken place. Hugo was not sorry that she was gone. Her gentle words and ways were a restraint upon him: he felt obliged to command himself in her presence. And self-command was becoming more and more a difficult task. What he wanted to say or to do presented itself to him with overmastering force: it seemed foolishly weak to give up, for the sake of a mere scruple of conscience, any design on which he had set his heart. And above all things in life he desired just now to win Kitty Heron for himself.

"She has deceived me," he thought, as he sat alone on the evening of the day on which she had refused to marry him. "She made me believe that she cared for me, the little witch, and then she deliberately threw me over. I suppose she wants to marry Vivian. I'll stop that scheme. I'll tell her something about Vivian which she does not know."

The fire before which he was sitting burnt up brightly, and threw a red glow on the dark panelling of the room, on the brocaded velvet of the old chair against which he leaned his handsome head, on the pale, but finely-chiselled, features of his face. The look of subtlety, of mingled passion and cruelty, was becoming engraved upon that face: in moments of repose its expression was evil and sinister—an expression which told its own tale of his life and thoughts. Once, in London, when he had incautiously given himself up in a public place to rejection upon his plans, an artist said to a friend as they passed him by: "That young fellow has got the very look I want for the fallen angel in my picture. There's a sort of malevolent beauty about his face which one doesn't often meet." Hugo heard the remark, and smoothed his brow, inwardly determining to control his facial muscles better. He did not wish to give people a bad impression of him. To look like a fallen angel was the last thing he desired. In society, therefore, he took pains to appear gentle and agreeable; but the hours of his solitude were stamping his face with ineradicable traces of the vicious habits, the thoughts of crime, the attempts to do evil, in which his life was passed.

The ominous look was strongly marked on his face as he sat by the fire that evening. It was not the firelight only that gave a strange glow to his dark eyes—they were unnaturally luminous, as the eyes of madmen sometimes are, and full of a painful restlessness. The old, dreamy, sensuous languor was seldom seen in their shadowy depths.

"I will win her in spite of herself," he went on, muttering the words half-aloud: "I will make her love me whether she will or no. She may fight and she may struggle, but she shall be mine after all. And before very long. Before the month is out, shall I say? Before Brian and her brother come home at any rate. They are expected in February. Yes—before February. Then, Kitty, you will be my wife."

He smiled as he said the words, but the smile was not a pleasant one.

He did not sleep much that night. He had lately grown very wakeful, and on this night he did not go to bed at all. The servants heard him wandering about the house in the early hours of the morning, opening and shutting doors, pacing the long passages, stealing up and downstairs. One of the maids put her head out of her door, and reported that the house was all lit up as if for a dance—rooms and corridors were illuminated. It was one of Hugo's whims that he could not bear the dark. When he walked the house in this way he always lighted every lamp and candle that he could find. He fancied that strange faces looked at him in the dark.

Confusion and distress reigned next day at Netherglen. Mr. Luttrell had taken upon himself to dismiss one or two of the servants, and this was resented as a liberty by the housekeeper, who had lived there long before he had made his appearance in Scotland at all. He had paid two of the maids a month's wages in advance, and told them to leave the house within four-and-twenty hours. The household had already been considerably reduced, and the indignant housekeeper immediately announced her intention of going to Mr. Colquhoun and inquiring whether young Mr. Luttrell had been legally empowered to manage his aunt's affairs. And seeing that this really was her intention, Hugo smiled and spoke her fair.

"You're a little hard on me, Mrs. Shairp," he said, in dulcet tones. "I was going to speak to you privately about these arrangements. You, of course, ought never to go away from Netherglen, and, whoever goes, you shall not. You must be here to welcome Mr. Brian when he comes home again, and to give my wife a greeting when I bring her to Netherglen—which I hope I shall do very shortly."

"An' wha's the leddy, Maister Hugo?" said the housekeeper, a little mollified by his words. "It'll be Miss Murray, maybe? The mistress liked the glint of her bonny een. 'Jean,' she said to me; the day Miss Murray cam' to pay her respects, 'Jean, yon lassie steps like a princess.' Ye'll be nae sae far wrang, Maister Hugo, if it's Miss Murray that ye mak' your bride."

"It is not Miss Murray," said Hugo, carelessly; "it is her cousin, Miss Heron."

Mrs. Shairp's eyebrows expressed astonishment and contempt, although her lips murmured only—"That wee bit lassie!" But she made no further objection to the plan which Hugo now suggested to her. He wanted her not to leave Mrs. Luttrell's service (or so he said), but to take a few weeks' holiday. She had a sister in Aberdeen—could she not pay this sister a visit? Mrs. Luttrell should have every care during the housekeeper's absence—two trained nurses were with her night and day; and a Miss Corcoran, a cousin of the Luttrell family, was shortly expected. Mr. Colquhoun had spoken to him about the necessity of economy, and for that reason he wished to reduce the number of servants as much as possible. He was going away to London, and there would be no need of more than one servant in the house. In fact, the gardener and his wife could do all that would be required.

"Me leave my mistress to the care o' John Robertson and his wife!" ejaculated the housekeeper, indignantly.

Whereupon Hugo had to convince her that Mrs. Luttrell was perfectly safe in the hands of the two nurses—at any rate for a week. During that week, one or two necessary alterations could be made in the house—there was a water-pipe and a drain that needed attention, in Hugo's opinion—and this could be done while the house was comparatively empty—"before Brian came home." With this formula he never failed to calm Mrs. Shairp's wrath and allay her rising fears.

For she had fears. She did not know why Mr. Hugo seemed to want her out of the way. She fancied that he had secret plans which he could not carry out if the house were full of servants. She tried every possible pretext for staying at home, but she felt herself worsted at all points when it came to matters of argument. She did not like to appeal to Mr. Colquhoun. For she knew, as well as everybody in the county knew, that Mrs. Luttrell had made Hugo the heir to all she had to leave; and that before very long he would probably be the master of Netherglen. As a matter of fact, he was even now virtually the master, and she had gone beyond her duty, she thought, in trying to argue with him. She did not know what to do, and so she succumbed to his more persistent will. After all, she had no reason to fear that anything would go wrong. She said that she would go for a week or ten days, but not for a longer time. "Well, well," said Hugo, in a soothing tone, as if he were making a concession, "come back in a week, if you like, my good Mrs. Shairp. You will find the house very uncomfortable—that is all. I am going to turn painters and decorators loose in the upper rooms; the servants' quarters are in a most dilapidated condition."

"If the penters are coming in, it's just the time that I sud be here, sir," said Mrs. Shairp, firmly, but respectfully. And Hugo smiled an assent.

As a matter of fact he had got all he wanted. He wanted Mrs. Shairp out of the house for a week or ten days. For that space of time he wished to have Netherglen to himself. She announced, after some hesitation, that she would leave for Aberdeen on the twenty-eighth, and that she should stay a week, or at the most, a day or two longer. "She's safe for a fortnight," said Hugo to himself with a triumphant smile. He had other preparations to make, and he set to work to make them steadily.

It was a remark made by Kitty herself at their last interview that had suggested to his mind the whole mad scheme to which he was devoting his mental powers. It all hinged upon the fact that Kitty was going to spend a week with some friends in Edinburgh—friends whom Hugo knew only by name. She went to them on the twenty-seventh. Mrs. Shairp left Netherglen the twenty-eighth. Two hours after Mrs. Shairp had started on her journey the two remaining servants were dismissed. The plumber, who had been severely inspected and cautioned as to his behaviour that morning by Mrs. Shairp, was sent about his business. One of the nurses was also discharged. The only persons left in the house beside Mrs. Luttrell, the solitary nurse, and Hugo himself, were two; a young kitchen-maid, generally supposed to be somewhat deficient in intellect, and a man named Stevens, whom Hugo had employed at various times in various capacities, and characterised (with rather an odd smile) as "a very useful fellow." The nurse who remained, protested vigorously against this state of affairs, but was assured by Hugo in the politest manner, that it would last only for a day or two, that he regretted it as much as she did, that he would telegraph to Edinburgh for another nurse immediately. What could the poor woman do? She was obliged to submit to circumstances. She could no more withstand Hugo's smiling, than she liked to refuse—in despite of all rules—the handsome gratuity that he slid into her hand.

Meanwhile, Kitty was trying to forget her past sorrows in the society of some newly-made friends in Edinburgh. Here, if anywhere, she might forget that Rupert Vivian had despised her, and that Hugo Luttrell accused her of being a heartless coquette. She was not heartless—or, at least, not more so than girls of eighteen usually are—but, perhaps, she was a little bit of a coquette. Of course, she had acted foolishly with respect to Vivian and Hugo Luttrell. But her foolishness brought its own punishment.

It was on the second day of her visit that a telegram was brought to her. She tore it open in some surprise, exclaiming:—

"They must have had news of Percival!"

Then she read the message and turned pale.

"What is it?" said one of her friends, coming to her side.

Kitty held out the paper for her to read.

"Elizabeth Murray, Queen's Hotel, Muirside, to Miss Heron, Merchiston Terrace, Edinburgh. Your father has met with a serious accident, and is not able to move from Muirside. He wishes you to come by the next train, which leaves Edinburgh at four-thirty. You shall be met at the Muirside Station either by Hugo or myself."

"There is time for me to catch the train, is there not?" said Kitty, jumping up, with her eyes full of tears.

"Oh, yes, dear, yes, plenty of time. But who is to go with you?" said Mrs. Baxter, rather nervously. "I am so sorry John is not at home; but there is scarcely time to let him know."

"I can go perfectly well by myself," said Kitty. "You must put me into the train at the station, Mrs. Baxter, under the care of the guard, if you like, and I shall be met at Muirside."

"Where is Muirside?" asked Jessie Baxter, a girl of Kitty's age.

"Five miles from Dunmuir. I suppose papa was sketching or something. Oh! I hope it is not a very bad accident!" said Kitty, turning great, tearful eyes first on Mrs. Baxter, and then on the girls. "What shall we do! I must go and get ready instantly."

They followed her to her room, and anxiously assisted in the preparations for her journey, but even then Mrs. Baxter could not refrain from inquiring:—

"Who is the person who is to meet you? 'Hugo'—do you know him?"

"Oh, yes, he is Elizabeth's cousin, and Elizabeth is my cousin. We are connections you see. I know him very well," said Kitty, with a blush, which Mrs. Baxter remembered afterwards.

"I would go with you myself," she said, "if it were not for the cold, but I am afraid I should be laid up with bronchitis if I went."

"Let Janet go, mamma," cried one of the girls.

"I don't want Janet, indeed, I don't want her," said Kitty, earnestly. "I am much obliged to you, Mrs. Baxter, but, indeed, I can manage quite well by myself. It is quite a short journey, only two-hours-and-a-half; and it would be a pity to take her, especially as she could not get back to-night."

She carried her point, and was allowed to depart without an attendant. Mrs. Baxter went with her to the station, and put her under the care of the guard who promised to look after her.

"You will write to us, Kitty, and tell us how Mr. Heron is," said Mrs. Baxter, before the train moved off.

"Yes, I will telegraph," said Kitty, "as soon as I reach Muirside."

"Do, dear. I hope you will find him better. Take care of yourself," and then the train moved out of the station, and Mrs. Baxter went home.

Kitty's journey was a perfectly uneventful one, and would have been comfortable enough but for the circumstances under which she made it. The telegram lay upon her lap, and she read it over and over again with increasing alarm as she noticed its careful vagueness, which seemed to her the worst sign of all. She was heartily relieved when she found that she was nearing Muirside: the journey had never seemed so long to her before. It was, indeed, longer than usual, for the railway line was in some places partly blocked with snow, and eight o'clock was past before Kitty reached Muirside. She looked anxiously out of the window, and saw Hugo Luttrell on the platform before the train had stopped. He sprang up to the step, and looked at her for a moment without speaking. Kitty had time to think that the expression of his face was odd before he replied to her eager questions about her father.

"Yes, he is a little better; he wants to see you," said Hugo at last.

"But how has he hurt himself? Is he seriously ill? Oh, Hugo, do tell me everything. Anything is better than suspense."

"There is no need for such great anxiety; he is a great deal better, quite out of danger," Hugo answered, with a rather strange smile. "I will tell you more as we go up to the house. Don't be afraid."

And then the guard came up to assure himself of the young lady's safety, and to receive his tip. Hugo made it a large one. Kitty's luggage was already in the hands of a man whom she thought she recognised: she had seen him once or twice with Hugo, and once when she paid a state-call at Netherglen. Just as she was leaving the station, a thought occurred to her, and she turned back.

"I said I would telegraph to Mrs. Baxter as soon as I reached Muirside. Is it too late?"

"The office is shut, I think."

"I am so sorry! She will be anxious."

"Not if you telegraph first thing in the morning," said Hugo, soothingly. "Or—stay: I'll tell you what you can do. Come with me here, into the waiting-room—now you can write your message on a leaf of my pocket-book, and we will leave it with the station-master, to be sent off as soon as possible."

"What shall I say?" said Kitty, sitting down at the painted deal table, which was sparsely adorned with a water-bottle and a tract, and chafing her little cold hands. "Do write it for me, Hugo, please. My fingers are quite numb."

"Poor little fingers! You will be warmer soon," said Hugo, with more of his usual manner. "I will write in your name then. 'Arrived safely and found my father much better, but will write in a day or two and give particulars.' That does not tie you down, you see. You may be too busy to write to-morrow."

"Thank you. It will do very nicely."

She was left for a few minutes, whilst he went to the station-master with the message, and she took the opportunity of looking at herself in the glass above the mantelpiece, partly in order to see whether her bonnet was straight, partly in order to escape the stare of the waiting-room woman, who seemed to take a great deal of interest in her movements. Kitty was rather vexed when Hugo returned, to hear him say, in a very distinct tone:—

"Come, dearest. We shall be late if we don't set off at once."

"Hugo!" she ejaculated, as she met him at the door.

"What is it, dear? What is wrong?"

It seemed to her that he made his words still more purposely distinct. The woman in the waiting-room came to the door, and gazed after them as they moved away towards the carriage which stood in waiting. They made a handsome pair, and Hugo looked particularly lover-like as he gave the girl his arm and bent his head to listen to what she had to say. But Kitty's words were not loving; they were only indignant and distressed.

"You should not speak to me in that way," she said.

But Hugo laughed and pressed her arm as he helped her into the carriage. The man Stevens was already on the box. Hugo entered with her, closed the door and drew up the window. The carriage drove away into the darkness of an unlighted road, and disappeared from the sight of a knot of gazers collected round the station door.

"It's like a wedding," said the woman of the waiting-room, as she turned back to the deal table with the water bottle and the tract. "Just like a wedding."

Mrs. Baxter received her telegram next morning, and was comforted by it. She noticed that the message was dated from Muirside Station, and that she must, therefore, wait until Kitty sent the promised letter before she wrote to Kitty, as she did not know where Mr. Heron might be staying. But as the days passed on and nothing more was heard, she addressed a letter of inquiry to Kitty at Strathleckie. To her amaze it was sent back to Merchiston Terrace, as if the Herons thought that Kitty was still with her, and a batch of letters with the Dunmuir postmark began to accumulate on the Baxters' table. Finally there came a postcard from Elizabeth, which Mrs. Baxter took the liberty of reading.

"Dear Kitty," it ran, "why do you not write to us? When are you coming back? We shall expect you on Saturday, if we hear nothing to the contrary from you. Uncle Alfred will meet you at Dunmuir."

"There is something wrong here," gasped poor Mrs. Baxter.

"What has become of that child if she is not with her friends? What does it mean?"