No sooner had the carriage door closed, than Kitty began to question her companion about the accident to her father. Hugo replied with evident reluctance—a reluctance which only increased her alarm. She began, to shed tears at last, and implored him to tell her the whole story, repeating that "anything would be better than suspense."

"I cannot say more than I have done," said Hugo, in a muffled voice. "You will know soon—and, besides, as I have told you, there is nothing for you to be alarmed at; indeed there is not. Do you think I would deceive you in that?"

"I hope not," faltered Kitty. "You are very kind."

"Don't call it kindness. You know that I would do anything for you." Then, noticing that the vehemence of his tone made her shrink away from him, he added more calmly, "you will soon understand why I am acting in this way. Wait for a little while and you will see."

She was silent for a few minutes, and then said in a subdued tone:—

"You frighten me, Hugo, by telling me that I shall know—soon; that I shall see—soon. What are you hiding from me? You make me fancy terrible things. My father is not—not-dying—dead? Hugo, tell me the truth."

"I solemnly assure you, Kitty, that your father is not even in danger."

"Then someone else is ill?"

"No, indeed. Be patient for a little time, and you shall see them all."

Kitty clasped her hands together with a sigh, and resigned herself to her position. She leaned back in the comfortably-cushioned seat for a time, and then roused herself to look out of the window. The night was a dark one: she could see little but vague forms of tall trees on either hand, but she felt by the motion of the carriage that they were going uphill.

"We have not much further to go, have we?" she asked.

"Some distance, I am sorry to say. Your father was removed to a farmhouse four miles from the station—the house nearest the scene of the accident."

"Four miles!" faltered Kitty. "I thought that it was close to the station."

"Is it disagreeable to you to drive so far with me?" said Hugo. "I will get out and sit on the box if you do not want me."

"Oh, no, I should not like you to do that," said Kitty. But in her heart, she wished that she had brought Mrs. Baxter's Janet.

Her next question showed some uneasiness, though of what kind Hugo could not exactly discover.

"Whose brougham is this?"

"Mrs. Luttrell's. I borrowed it for the occasion."

"You are very good. I could easily have come in a fly."

"Don't say you would rather have done so," said Hugo, allowing his voice to fall into a caressing murmur. But either Kitty did not hear, or was displeased by this recurrence to his old habit of saying lover-like things; for she gazed blankly out of the window, and made no reply.

After an hour's drive, the carriage turned in at some white gates, and stopped in a paved courtyard surrounded by high walls. Kitty gazed round her, thinking that she had seen the place before, but she was not allowed to linger. Hugo hurried her through a door into a stone hall, and down some dark passages, cautioning her from time to time to make no noise. Once Kitty tried to draw back. "Where is Elizabeth?" she said. "Is not Isabel here? Why is everything so still?"

Hugo pointed to the end of the corridor in which they stood. A nurse, in white cap and apron, was going from one room to another. She did not look round, but Kitty was reassured by her appearance. "Is papa there?" she said in a whisper. "Is this the farmhouse?"

"Come this way," said Hugo, pointing with his finger to a narrow wooden staircase before them. Kitty obeyed him without a word. Her limbs trembled beneath her with fatigue, and cold, and fear. It seemed to her that Hugo was agitated, too. His face was averted, but his voice had an unnatural sound.

They mounted two flights of stairs and came out upon a narrow landing, where there were three doors: one of them a thick baize door, the others narrow wooden ones. Hugo opened one of the wooden doors and showed a small sitting-room, where a meal was laid, and a fire spread a pleasant glow over the scene. The other door opened upon another narrow flight of stairs, leading, as Kitty afterwards ascertained, to a small bed-room.

"Where is papa?" said Kitty, glancing hurriedly around her. "He cannot be on this floor surely? Please take me to him at once, Mr. Luttrell."

"What have I done that I should be called Mr. Luttrell?" said Hugo, who was pulling off his fur gloves and standing with his back to the door. There was a look of triumph upon his face, which Kitty thought very insolent, and could not understand. "We are cousins after a fashion, are we not? You must eat and drink after your journey before you undergo any agitation. There is a room prepared for you upstairs, I believe. This meal seems to have been made ready for me as well as for you, however. Let me give you a glass of wine."

He walked slowly towards the table as he spoke.

"I do not want anything," said Kitty, impatiently. "I want to see my father. Where are the people of the house?"

"The people of the house? You saw the nurse just now. I will go and ascertain, if you like, whether the patient can be seen or not."

"Let me come with you."

"I think not," said Hugo, slowly. "No, I will not trouble you to do that. I will be back in a moment or two. Excuse me."

He made his exit very rapidly. From the sound that followed, it seemed that he had gone through the baize door. After a moment's hesitation Kitty followed and laid her hand on the brass handle. But she pushed in vain. There was no latch and no key to be seen, but the door resisted her efforts; and, as she stood hesitating, a man came up the narrow stair which she had mounted on her way from the courtyard, and forced her to retreat a step or two. He was carrying her box and hand-bag.

"This door is difficult to open," said Kitty. "Will you please open it for me?"

The man, Hugo's factotum, Stevens, gave her an odd glance as he set down his burden.

"The door won't open from this side unless you have the key, miss," he said.

"Not open from this side? Then I must have the key," said Kitty, decidedly.

"Yes, miss." Steven's tone was perfectly respectful, and yet Kitty felt that he was laughing at her in his sleeve. "Mr. Luttrell, perhaps, can get you the key, miss."

"Yes, I suppose so. Put the box down, please. No, it need not be uncorded until I know whether I shall stay the night."

The man obeyed her somewhat imperiously-uttered commands with an air of careful submission. He then went down the dark stairs. Kitty heard his footsteps for some little distance. Then, came the sound of a closing door, and the click of a key in the lock. Then silence. Was she locked in? She wished that the baize door had not been closed, and she chid herself for nervousness. Hugo had shut it accidentally—it would be all right when he came back. Excited and fearful as she was, she chose to fortify herself against the unknown, by swallowing a biscuit and a draught of black coffee. When this was done she felt stronger in every way—morally as well as physically. She had been faint for want of food.

Would Hugo never come back? He was absent a quarter-of-an-hour, she verified that fact by reference to a little enamelled watch which Elizabeth had given her on her last birthday. She had taken off her hat and cloak, and smoothed her rebellious locks into something like order before he returned.

"Why have you been so long?" she said, rather plaintively, when the door moved at last. "And, oh, please, if I am to stop here at all, will you find out whether I can have the key of that door? The man who brought up my boxes says it will not open from this side, and I cannot bear to feel that I am shut in. May I go to papa, now?"

"You do not like being a prisoner, do you?" said Hugo, totally ignoring, her last question. "So much the better for you—so much the better for me."

Kitty recoiled a little. She did not know what had happened to him, but she saw that his face expressed some mood which she had never seen it express before. It was flushed, and his eyes glittered with an unnatural light. And surely there was a faint odour of brandy in the room which had not been there before his entrance! She recoiled from him, but she was brave enough to show no other sign of fear.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, "but I know that I want to go to my father. Please put an end to this mystery and take me to him at once."

"Yes, I will put an end to the mystery," said Hugo, drawing nearer to her, and putting out his hands as if he wished to take hers. "There is more of a mystery than you can guess, but there shall be one no longer. Ah, Kitty, won't you forgive me when I tell you what I have done? It was for your sake that I have sunk to these depths—or risen to these heights, I hardly know which to call them—for your sake, because I love you, love you as no other woman in the world, Kitty, was ever loved before!"

He threw himself down on his knees before her, in passionate self-abasement, and lifted his ardent eyes pleadingly to her face.

"Kitty, forgive me," he said. "Tell me that you forgive me before I tell you what I have done."

Kitty had turned very pale. "What have you done?" she asked. "How can I forgive you if I do not know what to forgive? Pray get up, Hugo; I cannot bear to see you acting in this way."

"How can I rise till I have confessed?" said Hugo, seizing one of her hands and pressing it to his lips. "Ah, Kitty, remember that it was all because I loved you! You will not be too hard upon me, darling? Tell me that you love me a little, and then I shall not despair."

"But, I do not love you; I told you so before," said Kitty, trying hard to draw away her hand. "And it is wicked of you to say these things to me here and now. Where is my father? Take me to him at once."

"Oh, my dearest, be kind and good to me," entreated Hugo. "Can you not guess?—then how can I tell you?—your father is well—as well as ever he was in his life."

"Well?" cried Kitty. "Then was it a mistake? Was it some one else who was hurt? Who sent the telegram?"

"I sent the telegram. I wanted you here."

"Then it was a trick—a hoax—a lie? How dare you, sir! And why have you brought me here? What is this place?"

"This place, Kitty, is Netherglen."

"Netherglen!" said Kitty, in a relieved tone of voice. "Oh, it is not so very far from home."

Then she turned sharply upon him with a flash in her eye that he had never seen before.

"You must let me go home at once; and you will please understand, Mr. Luttrell, that I wish to have no further intercourse with you of any sort. After the cruel and unkind and useless trick that you have played upon me, you must see that you have put an end to all friendship between yourself and my family. My father will call you to account for it."

Kitty spoke strongly and proudly. Her eyes met his undauntedly: her head was held high, her step was firm as she moved towards the door. If she trembled internally, she showed at least no sign of fear.

"Ah, I knew that you would be angry at first," said Hugo; "but you will listen to me, and you will understand——"

"I will not listen. I do not want to understand," cried Kitty, with a slight stamp of her little foot. "Angry at first! Do you think I shall ever forgive you? I shall never see you nor speak to you again. Let me pass."

Hugo had still been kneeling, but he now rose to his feet and confronted her. The flush was dying out of his face, but his eyes retained their unnatural brightness still.

"You cannot pass that door just yet," he said, with sudden, dangerous calmness. "You must wait until I let you go. You ask if I think you will ever forgive me? Yes, I do. You say you will never see me or speak to me again? I say that you will see me many times, and speak to me in a very different tone before you leave Netherglen."

"Be kind enough to stand out of the way and open the door for me," said Kitty, with supreme contempt. "I do not want to hear any more of this nonsense."

"Nonsense, do you call it? You will give it a very different name before long, my fair Kitty. Do you think I am in play? Do you think I should risk—what I have risked, if I meant to gain nothing by it? I am in sober, solemn earnest, and know very well what I am doing, and what I want to gain."

"What can you gain," said Kitty, boldly facing him, "except disgrace and punishment? What do you think my father will say to you for bringing me away from Edinburgh on false pretences? What will you tell my brother when he comes home?"

"As for your brother," said Hugo, with a sneer, "he is not very likely to come home again at all. His ship has been wrecked, and all lives lost. As for your father——"

He was interrupted by a passionate cry from the girl's pale lips.

"Wrecked! Percival's ship lost! Oh, it cannot be true!"

"It is true enough—at least report says so. It may be a false report!"

"It must be a false report! You would not have the heart to tell me the news so cruelly if it were true! But no, I forgot. You made me believe that my father was dying; you do not mind being cruel. Still, I don't believe you. I shall never again believe a word you say. Oh! Percival, Percival!" And then, to prove how little she believed him, Kitty burst into tears, and pressed her handkerchief to her face. Hugo stood and watched her earnestly, and she, on looking up, found his eyes fixed upon her. The gaze brought back all her ire. "Order the carriage for me at once, and let me go out of your sight," she said. "I cannot bear to look at you!"

Kitty was not dignified in her wrath, but she was so pretty that Hugo's lips curled with a smile of enjoyment. At the same time he felt that he must bring her to a sense of her position. She had not as yet the least notion of what he meant to require of her. And it would be better that she should understand. He folded his arms and leant against the door as he spoke.

"You are not going away just yet," he said. "I have got my pretty bird caged at last, and she may beat her wings against the bars as much as she pleases, but she will not leave her cage until she is a little tamer than she is now. When she can sing to the tune I will teach her, I will let her go."

"What do you mean?" said Kitty. "Stand away from the door, Mr. Luttrell. I want to pass."

"I will stand aside presently and let you go—as far as the doors will let you. But just now you must listen to me."

"I will not listen. I will call the servants," she said, pulling a bell-handle which she had found beside the mantelpiece.

"Ring as much as you please. Nobody will come. The bell-wire has been cut."

"Then I will call. Somebody must hear."

"My man, Stevens, may hear, perhaps. But he will not come unless I summon him."

"But the other servants——"

"There are no other servants in this part of the house. The kitchen-maid and the nurse sleep close to Mrs. Luttrell's room—so far away that not your loudest scream would reach their ears. You are in my power, Kitty. I could kill you if I liked, and nobody could interfere."

What strange light was that within his eyes? Was it the light of madness or of love? For the first time Kitty was seized with positive fear of him. She listened, the colour dying out of her face, and her eyes slowly dilating with terror as she heard what he had to say.

"I will tell you now what I have done," he said, "and then I will ask you, once more, to forgive me. It is your own fault if I love you madly, wildly, as I do. You led me on. You let me tell you that I loved you; you seemed to care for me too, sometimes. By the time that you had made up your mind, to throw me over, Kitty, my love had grown into a passion that must be satisfied. There are two ways in which, it can end, and two only. I might kill you—other men of my race have killed the women who trifled with them and deceived them. I could forgive you for what you have made me suffer, if I saw you lying dead at my feet, child; that is the first way. And the second—be mine—be my wife; that is the better way."

"Never!" said Kitty, firmly, although her white lips quivered with an unspoken fear. "Kill me, if you like. I would rather be killed than be your wife now."

"Ah, but I do not want to kill you!" cried Hugo, his dark face lighting up with a sudden glow, which made it hatefully brilliant and beautiful, even in Kitty's frightened eyes. He left the door and came towards her, holding out his hands and gesticulating as he spoke. "I want you to be my wife, my own sweet flower, my exquisite bird, for whom no cage can be half too fine! I want you to be mine; my own darling——. I would give Heaven and earth for that; I have already risked all that makes life worth living. Men love selfishly; but you shall be loved as no other woman was ever loved. You shall be my queen, my angel, my wife!"

"I will die first," said Kitty. Before he could interpose, she snatched a knife from the table, and held it with the point turned towards him. "Come a step nearer," she cried, "and I shall know how to defend myself."

Hugo stopped short. "You little fool!" he said, angrily. "Put the knife down."

She thought that he was afraid; and, still holding her weapon, she made a rush for the door; but Hugo caught her skilfully by the wrists, disarmed her, and threw the knife to the other end of the room. Then he made her sit down in an arm-chair near the fire, and without relaxing his hold upon her arm, addressed her in cool but forcible tones.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said. "You need not be so frightened or so foolish. I won't come near you, unless you give me leave. I am going to have your full and free consent, my little lady, before I make you my wife. But, this I want you to understand. I have you here—a prisoner; and a prisoner you will remain until you do consent. Nobody knows where you are—nobody will look for you here. You cannot escape; and if you could escape, nobody would believe your story. Do you hear?"

He took away his hand from her arm. But she did not try to move. She was trembling from head to foot. He looked at her silently for a little time, and then withdrew to the door.

"I will leave you now until to-morrow," he said, quietly. "There is a girl—a kitchen-maid—who will bring you your breakfast in the morning. You have this little wing of the house entirely to yourself, but I don't think that you will find any means of getting out of it. Good-night, my darling. You will forgive me yet."