Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.Nice Task for an Old Maid.“I declare,” said Aunt Sophia to herself, “it is quite ridiculous as well as shocking. Here I seem to be set up as the head of a sort of wedding bureau, for everybody seized with the silly complaint.”“Oh, aunt, dear, it isn’t a silly complaint—it’s a very bad one,” sobbed Naomi, who had sought the old lady in her bedroom.“Oh, stuff and nonsense, child!”“But it is, aunt; it’s dreadful—worse than anything. You never knew how bad it was.”“No, child,” said Aunt Sophia softly—“so people say;” and she laid her hand tenderly upon the head of the sobbing girl.“It—it’s bad enough when—when you think—he loves you—and you—you—you—you are waiting—for him to speak; but—when—wh—wh—when he doesn’t speak at all, and—and you find out—he—he loves some one else—it—it breaks your heart,” sobbed poor Naomi. “I shall never be happy again.”“Hush, hush, my darling. Not so bad as that, I hope. And pray, who is is that you love, and who loves some one else?”“Nobody!” cried Naomi, lifting her face and speaking passionately, and with all the child-like anger of a susceptible girl with no very great depth of feeling. “I hate him—I detest him—I’ll never speak to him again. He’s a wicked, base, bad man, and—and—I wish he was dead.”“Softly, softly. Why, what a baby love is this! Come, come, Naomi; we can’t all pick the bright fruit we see upon the tree; and, my child, those who do, often wish, as I daresay Eve did, that they had left it untouched.”“I—I don’t know what you mean, aunt dear, but it’s very, very cruel. I did think him so nice and good and handsome.”“Poor child!” said Aunt Sophia, smiling as the girl rested her head upon her arm, which was upon the old lady’s knee. “And who is this wicked man? Is it Doctor Scales?”“Oh, what nonsense, aunt! He has always treated me as if I were a child, and—and that’s what I am. To think that I should have made myself so miserable about such a wretch!”It was a curious mingling of the very young girl and the passionate budding woman, and Aunt Sophia read her very truly as she said softly: “Ah, well, child, time will cure all this. But who has troubled the poor little baby heart?”“Yes, aunt, that’s right; that’s what it is; but it will never be a baby heart again for such a man as Mr Prayle.”“And so Mr Prayle has been playing fast and loose with you, has he, dear?”“No, aunt,” said the girl sadly. “It was all my silliness. He never said a word to me; and I am glad now,” she cried, firing up. “He’s a bad, wicked man.”“Indeed, my dear,” thought Aunt Sophia, as she recalled Saxby’s words.“I—I—I went into the study this morning, for I did not like it. I was hurt and annoyed, aunt, dear. Ought I to tell you all this?”“Think for yourself, my dear. You have been with me these fifteen years, ever since your poor mother died. I am a cross old woman, I know, full of whims and caprices; but I thought I had tried to fill a mother’s place to you.”“Oh, auntie, auntie!” sobbed the girl, clinging lightly to her, and drawing herself more and more up, till she could rest her head upon the old lady’s shoulder, “don’t think me ungrateful. I do—I do love you very dearly.”“Enough to make you feel that there should be no want of confidence between us?”“O yes, aunt, dear; and I’ll never think of keeping anything back from you again. I’ll tell you everything now, and then I’m sure you’ll say we ought to go away from here.”“Well, well—we’ll see.”“I thought I was very fond of Mr Prayle, aunt dear; and then I grew sure that I was, when I saw how he was always being shut up in the study with Kate, and it—it—”“Speak out, my dear,” said Aunt Sophia gravely.“It made me feel so miserable.”Aunt Sophia’s face puckered, and she bowed her head.“Then I said that it was wicked and degrading to think what I did, and I drove such thoughts away, and tried to believe that it was all Cousin James’s affairs; and then I saw something else; but I would not believe it was true till this morning.”“Well, Naomi, my child, and what was it?”“Why, aunt—Oh, I don’t like to confess—it was so shameless and unmaidenly; but I thought I loved him so very much. I—I—don’t like to confess.”“Not to me, my dear?”“Yes, yes; I will, aunt dear—I will,” cried the girl, whose cheeks were now aflame. “It’s about a fortnight ago that one evening, when we were all sitting in the drawing-room with the windows open, and it was so beautiful and soft and warm, Mr Prayle got up and came across and talked to me for a few minutes. It was only about that sketch I was making, and he did not say much, but he said it in such a way that it set my heart beating; and when he left the room, I fancied it meant something. So I got up, feeling terribly guilty, and went out of the window on to the lawn and then down to the rose garden, and picked two or three buds. Then I went round to the grass path where Mr Prayle walks up and down so much with his book.”“Because you thought he would be there, my dear?”“Yes, aunt! It was very wrong—but I did.”“And you thought he had gone out there to read his book in the dark, eh?”“No, aunt dear; I thought he would be there waiting to see if I would go to him.”“And you were going?”“Yes, aunt dear.”“Was he there?”“Yes, aunt.”“Waiting for you?”“O no, aunt dear; for as I went softly over the grass, I stopped short all at once, and turned giddy, and felt as if everything was at an end.”“Why, Naomi?”“He was going by me in the darkness with his arm round some one else’s waist!”Aunt Sophia’s face had never looked so old before, for every wrinkle was deeply marked, and her eyes seemed sunk and strange in their fixed intensity as she waited to hear more; but Naomi remained silent, as if afraid to speak.“Well, child, and who was it with Mr Prayle?”Naomi hesitated for a few moments, and then said in a passionate burst: “I did not believe it till this morning, aunt. I thought then that it was Kate; but it seemed so impossible—so terrible—that I dare not think it was she. But when I went quickly into the study this morning, Mr Prayle was just raising her hand to his lips. O aunt, how can people be so wicked! I shall go and be a nun!” Aunt Sophia looked still older, for a time, as she tenderly caressed and fondled the sobbing girl. Then a more serene aspect came over her face, and she said softly: “There, there; you have learned a severe lesson—that Mr Prayle does not care for you; and as to being a nun—no, no, my darling: there is plenty of good work to be done in the world. Don’t shirk it by shutting yourself up. Come, you have been almost a child so far; now, be a woman. Show your pride. There are other and better men than Arthur Prayle; and as to what you saw—it may have been a mistake. Let’s wait and see.”“Yes, aunt.”“And you’ll be brave, and think no more of him?”“Never again, aunt dear. There!”“That’s my brave little woman.—Now, bathe your eyes, and stop here till the redness has gone off. I’m going down to write.” She kissed Naomi tenderly, and left her, making her way to the drawing-room, where she wrote several letters, one being to Mr Saxby to ask him to come down again for a day or two, as she wanted to ask his advice about an investment.

“I declare,” said Aunt Sophia to herself, “it is quite ridiculous as well as shocking. Here I seem to be set up as the head of a sort of wedding bureau, for everybody seized with the silly complaint.”

“Oh, aunt, dear, it isn’t a silly complaint—it’s a very bad one,” sobbed Naomi, who had sought the old lady in her bedroom.

“Oh, stuff and nonsense, child!”

“But it is, aunt; it’s dreadful—worse than anything. You never knew how bad it was.”

“No, child,” said Aunt Sophia softly—“so people say;” and she laid her hand tenderly upon the head of the sobbing girl.

“It—it’s bad enough when—when you think—he loves you—and you—you—you—you are waiting—for him to speak; but—when—wh—wh—when he doesn’t speak at all, and—and you find out—he—he loves some one else—it—it breaks your heart,” sobbed poor Naomi. “I shall never be happy again.”

“Hush, hush, my darling. Not so bad as that, I hope. And pray, who is is that you love, and who loves some one else?”

“Nobody!” cried Naomi, lifting her face and speaking passionately, and with all the child-like anger of a susceptible girl with no very great depth of feeling. “I hate him—I detest him—I’ll never speak to him again. He’s a wicked, base, bad man, and—and—I wish he was dead.”

“Softly, softly. Why, what a baby love is this! Come, come, Naomi; we can’t all pick the bright fruit we see upon the tree; and, my child, those who do, often wish, as I daresay Eve did, that they had left it untouched.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean, aunt dear, but it’s very, very cruel. I did think him so nice and good and handsome.”

“Poor child!” said Aunt Sophia, smiling as the girl rested her head upon her arm, which was upon the old lady’s knee. “And who is this wicked man? Is it Doctor Scales?”

“Oh, what nonsense, aunt! He has always treated me as if I were a child, and—and that’s what I am. To think that I should have made myself so miserable about such a wretch!”

It was a curious mingling of the very young girl and the passionate budding woman, and Aunt Sophia read her very truly as she said softly: “Ah, well, child, time will cure all this. But who has troubled the poor little baby heart?”

“Yes, aunt, that’s right; that’s what it is; but it will never be a baby heart again for such a man as Mr Prayle.”

“And so Mr Prayle has been playing fast and loose with you, has he, dear?”

“No, aunt,” said the girl sadly. “It was all my silliness. He never said a word to me; and I am glad now,” she cried, firing up. “He’s a bad, wicked man.”

“Indeed, my dear,” thought Aunt Sophia, as she recalled Saxby’s words.

“I—I—I went into the study this morning, for I did not like it. I was hurt and annoyed, aunt, dear. Ought I to tell you all this?”

“Think for yourself, my dear. You have been with me these fifteen years, ever since your poor mother died. I am a cross old woman, I know, full of whims and caprices; but I thought I had tried to fill a mother’s place to you.”

“Oh, auntie, auntie!” sobbed the girl, clinging lightly to her, and drawing herself more and more up, till she could rest her head upon the old lady’s shoulder, “don’t think me ungrateful. I do—I do love you very dearly.”

“Enough to make you feel that there should be no want of confidence between us?”

“O yes, aunt, dear; and I’ll never think of keeping anything back from you again. I’ll tell you everything now, and then I’m sure you’ll say we ought to go away from here.”

“Well, well—we’ll see.”

“I thought I was very fond of Mr Prayle, aunt dear; and then I grew sure that I was, when I saw how he was always being shut up in the study with Kate, and it—it—”

“Speak out, my dear,” said Aunt Sophia gravely.

“It made me feel so miserable.”

Aunt Sophia’s face puckered, and she bowed her head.

“Then I said that it was wicked and degrading to think what I did, and I drove such thoughts away, and tried to believe that it was all Cousin James’s affairs; and then I saw something else; but I would not believe it was true till this morning.”

“Well, Naomi, my child, and what was it?”

“Why, aunt—Oh, I don’t like to confess—it was so shameless and unmaidenly; but I thought I loved him so very much. I—I—don’t like to confess.”

“Not to me, my dear?”

“Yes, yes; I will, aunt dear—I will,” cried the girl, whose cheeks were now aflame. “It’s about a fortnight ago that one evening, when we were all sitting in the drawing-room with the windows open, and it was so beautiful and soft and warm, Mr Prayle got up and came across and talked to me for a few minutes. It was only about that sketch I was making, and he did not say much, but he said it in such a way that it set my heart beating; and when he left the room, I fancied it meant something. So I got up, feeling terribly guilty, and went out of the window on to the lawn and then down to the rose garden, and picked two or three buds. Then I went round to the grass path where Mr Prayle walks up and down so much with his book.”

“Because you thought he would be there, my dear?”

“Yes, aunt! It was very wrong—but I did.”

“And you thought he had gone out there to read his book in the dark, eh?”

“No, aunt dear; I thought he would be there waiting to see if I would go to him.”

“And you were going?”

“Yes, aunt dear.”

“Was he there?”

“Yes, aunt.”

“Waiting for you?”

“O no, aunt dear; for as I went softly over the grass, I stopped short all at once, and turned giddy, and felt as if everything was at an end.”

“Why, Naomi?”

“He was going by me in the darkness with his arm round some one else’s waist!”

Aunt Sophia’s face had never looked so old before, for every wrinkle was deeply marked, and her eyes seemed sunk and strange in their fixed intensity as she waited to hear more; but Naomi remained silent, as if afraid to speak.

“Well, child, and who was it with Mr Prayle?”

Naomi hesitated for a few moments, and then said in a passionate burst: “I did not believe it till this morning, aunt. I thought then that it was Kate; but it seemed so impossible—so terrible—that I dare not think it was she. But when I went quickly into the study this morning, Mr Prayle was just raising her hand to his lips. O aunt, how can people be so wicked! I shall go and be a nun!” Aunt Sophia looked still older, for a time, as she tenderly caressed and fondled the sobbing girl. Then a more serene aspect came over her face, and she said softly: “There, there; you have learned a severe lesson—that Mr Prayle does not care for you; and as to being a nun—no, no, my darling: there is plenty of good work to be done in the world. Don’t shirk it by shutting yourself up. Come, you have been almost a child so far; now, be a woman. Show your pride. There are other and better men than Arthur Prayle; and as to what you saw—it may have been a mistake. Let’s wait and see.”

“Yes, aunt.”

“And you’ll be brave, and think no more of him?”

“Never again, aunt dear. There!”

“That’s my brave little woman.—Now, bathe your eyes, and stop here till the redness has gone off. I’m going down to write.” She kissed Naomi tenderly, and left her, making her way to the drawing-room, where she wrote several letters, one being to Mr Saxby to ask him to come down again for a day or two, as she wanted to ask his advice about an investment.

Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.John Monnick Looks at his Traps.It was one of those dark, soft, autumn evenings when the country seems dream-like and delicious. Summer is past, but winter is yet far away; and the year having gone through the light fickleness of spring and the heats of summer, with its changes of cold and passions of storm, has settled down into the mellow maturity, the softened glow, the ripeness of life which indicate its prime.Doctor Scales was not happy in his mind, he was—and he owned it—in love with the imperious beauty Lady Martlett, but he was at odds with himself for loving her.“The absurd part of it is,” he said to himself as he lit a cigar and went out into the garden, “that there seems to be no medicine by which a fellow could put himself right.—There,” he said after a pause, “I will not think about her, but about Scarlett.”He strolled slowly along, finding it intensely dark; but he knew the position of every flower-bed now too well to let his feet stray off the velvet grass, and as he went on, he came round by the open window of the drawing-room, and, looking through the conservatory, stood thinking what a pleasant picture the prettily lighted room formed, with severe Aunt Sophia spectacled and reading, while Naomi was busy over some sketch that she had made during the day.Lady Scarlett was not there; but it did not excite any surprise; and the doctor stood for some minutes thinking, from his post of observation, that Naomi was a very sweet girl, as nice and simple as she was pretty, and that she would make a man who loved her, one of those gentle equable wives who never change.“Very different from Lady Scarlett,” he said to himself, as he stood there invisible, but for the glowing end of his cigar. “Ha! I don’t like the way in which things are going, a bit.”He walked on over the soft mossy grass, with his feet sinking in at every step, and his hands in his pockets, round past the dining-room to where a soft glow shone out from the study window; and on pausing where he could obtain a good view, he stood for some time watching his friend’s countenance, as James Scarlett sat back in his chair with the light from the shaded lamp full upon his face.“I’m about beaten,” the doctor said to himself. “I’ve tried all I know; and I’m beginning to think that they are all right, and that if Nature does not step in, or fate, or whatever it may be, does not give him some powerful shock, he will remain the wreck he is, perhaps to the end of his days.—Yes, I’m about beaten,” he thought again, as he seized this opportunity of studying his friend’s face unobserved; “but I’m as far off giving up, as I was on the day I started. I won’t give it over as a bad job; but how to go on next, I cannot say.—Just the same,” he muttered after a time, as he noted one or two uneasy movements, and saw a curious wrinkled expression come into the thin troubled face. “Poor old boy! I’d give something to work a cure.—By the way, where’s Prayle? I thought he was here.”The doctor thrust his hands more deeply into his pockets and strolled away, threading his course in and out amongst the flower-beds, and then, thinking deeply, going on and on down first one green path and then another, his footsteps perfectly inaudible. As he walked on, his mind grew so intent upon the question of his patient’s state, that the cigar went out, and he contented himself with rolling it to and fro between his lips, till he paused involuntarily beside a seat under the tall green hedge that separated the garden from one of the meadows.“Damp?” said the doctor to himself, as he passed one hand over the seat. “No; dry as a bone;” and he seated himself, throwing up his legs, and leaning back in the corner, listening to the soft crop, crop, crop of one of the cows, still busy in the darkness preparing grass for rumination during the night. “I wonder whether cows ever have any troubles on their minds?” thought Scales. “Yes; of course they do. Calves are taken away, and they fret, and—Hallo! Who’s this?”He tried to pierce the darkness as he heard heavy breathing, and the dull sound of footsteps coming along the walk, the heavy sound of one who was clumsy of tread, and who was coming cautiously towards him.“Some scoundrel after the pears. I’ll startle him.”He had every opportunity for carrying out his plan, for the steps came closer, stopped, and he who had made them drew a long breath, and though the movements were not visible, Scales knew, as well as if he had seen each motion, that the man before him had taken off his hat and was wiping the perspiration from his face.“Hallo!”The man started and made a step back; and the doctor told a fib.“Oh, you needn’t run,” he said. “I see you. I know who you are.”“I—I wasn’t going to run, sir,” said John Monnick softly.“What are you doing here?”“Well, sir, you see, sir—I—I have got a trap or two down the garden here, and—and—I’ve been seeing whether there’s anything in. You see, sir,” continued the old gardener in an eager whisper, “the rarebuds do such a mort o’ mischief among my young plahnts, that I’m druv-like—reg’lar druv-like—to snare ’em.”It was rather high moral ground for a man to take who had just told a deliberate untruth; but Doctor Scales took it, and said sharply: “John Monnick, you are telling me a lie!”“A lie, sir!” whispered the old man. “Hush, sir! pray.”“Are you afraid the rabbits will hear me?—Shame, man! An old servant like you.—John Monnick, you know me.”“Ay, sir, I do.”“Now, don’t you feel ashamed of yourself, an old servant, like you, with always a Scripture text on your tongue, telling me a lie like that about the traps?”The gardener was silent, and the doctor heard him draw a long breath.“Well, sir,” he said at last—“and I hope I may be forgiven, as I meant well—it weer not the truth.”“Then you were after the fruit?”“I? After the fruit, sir? Bless your heart, no; I was only watching.”“What! for thieves?”The gardener hesitated, and remained silent.“There, that’s better; don’t tell a lie, man. I think the better of you. But shame upon you! with your poor master broken, helpless, and obliged to depend upon his people. To go and rob him now, of all times. John Monnick, you are a contemptible, canting old humbug.”“No, I aren’t, doctor,” said the old fellow angrily; “and you’ll beg my pardon for this.”“Beg your pardon?”“Ay, that you will, sir. It was all on account of master, and him not being able to look after things, as brought me here.”“I don’t believe you, Monnick.”“You can do as you like, sir,” said the old man sturdily; “but it’s all as true as gorspel. I couldn’t bear to see such goings-on; and I says to myself, it’s time as they was stopped; and I thought they was, till I come in late to lock up the peach-house, and see her go down the garden.”The doctor rose from his seat, startled.“And then I says to myself, he won’t be long before he comes, for its a pyntment.”“Yes. Well?” said the doctor, who, generally cool to excess, now felt his heart heating strangely.“Oh, you needn’t believe it without you like, sir. I dessay I am a canting old humbug, sir; but far as in me lies, I means well by him, as I’ve eat his bread and his father’s afore him this many a year.”“I’m afraid I’ve wronged you, Monnick,” said the doctor hastily.“You aren’t the first by a good many, sir; but you may as well speak low, or they’ll maybe hear, for I walked up torst the house, and I see him pass the window, and then I watched him. P’r’aps I oughtn’t, but I knowed it weren’t right, and Sir James ought to know.”“You—you knew of this, then?”“Yes, sir. Was it likely I shouldn’t, when it was all in my garden! Why, a slug don’t get at a leaf, or a battletwig, or wops at a plum, without me knowing of it; so, was it likely as a gent was going to carry on like that wi’out me finding of it out?”“And—and is he down the garden now?” said the doctor, involuntarily pressing his hand to his side, to check the action of his heart.“Ay, that he be, sir; and him a gent as seemed so religious and good, and allus saying proper sort o’ things. It’s set me agen saying ought script’ral evermore.”There was a dead silence for a few moments; and then the doctor hissed out: “The scoundrel!”“Ay, that’s it, sir; and of course it’s all his doing, for she was so good and sweet; and it’s touched me quite like to the heart, sir, for master thought so much o’ she.”“Good heavens!—then my suspicions were right!”“You suspected too, sir? Well, I don’t wonder.”“No, no; it is impossible, Monnick, impossible. Man, it must be a mistake.”“Well, sir,” said the old fellow sturdily, “maybe it be. All of us makes mistakes sometimes, and suspects wrongfully. Even you, sir. But I’m pretty sure as I’m right; and for her sake, I’m going to go and tell master, and have it stopped.”“No, no, man; are you mad?” cried the doctor, catching him by the arm.“No more nor most folks be, sir; but I’m not going to see a woman go wrong, and a good true young man’s heart broke, to save a smooth-tongued gent from getting into trouble. It’ll do him good too.”“Then you mean Mr Prayle?”“Course I do, sir. There aren’t no one else here, I hope, as would behave that how.”“Where are you going?” said the doctor, holding the old man tightly by the arm.“Straight up to Sir James, sir.”“No, no, man. Let me go.”“To master, sir?”“No, no. To Prayle—to them. Where are they?” The doctor’s voice sounded very hoarse, and the blood flushed to his face in his bitter anger as he clenched his hand.“They’re down in the lower summer-house, sir,” said the old man; “and it’s my dooty to take Sir James strite down to confront him and ask him what he means; see what a bad un he be and then send him about his business, never to come meddling here no more.”Scales stood perfectly silent, but gripping the old man’s arm tightly. It was confirmation of suspicions that had troubled him again and again. He had crushed them constantly, telling himself that there was no truth in them; that they disgraced him; and here was the end. What should he do? The shock to his friend would be terrible; but would it not be better that he should know—better than going on in such a state as this? The knowledge must come sooner or later, and why not now?The shock? What of the effects of that shock with his mind in such a state? Would it work ill or good?“Poor fellow!” he muttered, “as if he had not suffered enough. I never thoroughly believed in her, and yet I have tried. No, no; he must not know.”“Now, sir, if you’ll let go o’ me, I’m going up to master.”“No, my man; he must not be told.”“It’s my dooty to tell him, sir; and I’m a-going to do it.”“But I don’t know what effect it may have upon him, man.”“It can’t have a bad one, sir; and it may rouse Sir James up into being the man he was afore the accident. I must make haste, please, sir, or I may be too late.”“No, Monnick; you must not go.”“Not go, sir? Well, sir, I don’t want to be disrespeckful to my master’s friends; but I’ve thought this over, and my conscience says it’s my dooty, and I shall go.” The old man shook himself free, and went off at a trot, leaving the doctor hesitating as to the course to pursue.Should he run after and stop him? Should he go down the garden, interrupt the meeting, and enable them to escape? “No; a hundred times no!” he muttered, stamping his foot. “I must stop him at any cost.” He ran up the garden; but he was too late, for before he reached the house he heard low voices, and found that Scarlett had been tempted out by the beauty of the night—or by fate, as the doctor put it—and was half-way down the path when Monnick had met him.“Who is this?” he said in a low, agitated voice, as the doctor met them.“It is I, old fellow,” said the doctor, hastily.—“Now come, be calm. You must govern yourself. Has he told you something?”“I wanted no telling, Jack,” groaned Scarlett. “The moment he opened his lips, I knew it. I have suspected it for long enough; but I could not stir—I would not stir. He, my own cousin, too; the man I have made my friend. O, heaven, is there no gratitude or manly feeling on the earth!”“My dear boy, you must—you shall be cool,” whispered the doctor. “You are in a low nervous state, and—”“It is false! I am strong. I never felt stronger than to-night. This has brought me to myself. I would not see it, Jack. I blinded myself. I told myself I was mad and a traitor, to imagine such things; but I have felt it all along.”“And has this been preying on your mind?”“Preying? Gnawing my heart out.—Don’t stop me. Let us go. Quick! He shall know me for what I am. Not the weak miserable fool he thinks.—Come quickly!—No! stop!” He stood panting, with Scales holding tightly by his arm, trembling for the result.“Monnick, go back to the house,” said Scarlett, at last in a low whisper; and the old man went without a word.“Now you stop here,” said Scarlett, in the same low painful whisper. “I will not degrade her more by bringing a witness.”“But Scarlett—my dear old fellow. There must be no violence. Recollect that you are a gentleman.”“Yes! I recollect. I am not going to act like a ruffian. You see how calm I am.”“But it may be some mistake. I have seen nothing. It is all dependent on your gardener’s words. What did he tell you?”“Hardly a word,” groaned Scarlett, “hardly a word. ‘Prayle—the summer-house.’ It was enough. I tell you, I have suspected it so long. It has been killing me. How could I get well with this upon my mind!”“But, now?”“Stay here, man—stay here.”“Promise me you will use no violence, and I will loose your arm.”“I promise—I will act like—a gentleman.”The doctor loosed his arm; and drawing a long hissing breath, James Scarlett walked swiftly down the garden-path to where, in the moist dark shades below the trained hazels, the summer-house had been formed as a nook for sunny scorching days. It was close to the river, and from it there was a glorious view of one of the most beautiful reaches of the Thames.James Scarlett recalled many a happy hour passed within its shade, and the rage that burned within his breast gave place to a misery so profound that, as he reached the turn that led to the retreat, he stopped short, pressing his hands to his throat and panting for his breath, which hardly came to his labouring breast. And as he stood there, he heard his cousin’s voice, in the silence of the evening, saying softly: “Then you promise? I will be at the station to meet you, and no one will know where you have gone.”James Scarlett’s brain swam as he heard the answer. It was: “Yes!” A faithful promise for the next evening; and as he listened and heard each word clearly, he staggered back and nearly fell. Recovering himself somewhat, though, he walked slowly back, groping in the dark as it were, with his hands spread out before him, to keep from striking against one or other of the trees. The next minute, the doctor had him by the hand, and was hurrying him away, when Scarlett gave a sudden lurch, and would have fallen, had not his friend thrown one arm about him, and then, lifting him by main force, carried him to the house. The French window of the study was open; and he bore him in and laid him upon a couch, where, after a liberal application of cold water to his temples, he began to revive, opening his eyes and gazing wonderingly around. Then, as recollection came back, he uttered a low sigh, and caught at the doctor’s hand.“Kate!” he said softly. “Go and fetch poor Kate.”

It was one of those dark, soft, autumn evenings when the country seems dream-like and delicious. Summer is past, but winter is yet far away; and the year having gone through the light fickleness of spring and the heats of summer, with its changes of cold and passions of storm, has settled down into the mellow maturity, the softened glow, the ripeness of life which indicate its prime.

Doctor Scales was not happy in his mind, he was—and he owned it—in love with the imperious beauty Lady Martlett, but he was at odds with himself for loving her.

“The absurd part of it is,” he said to himself as he lit a cigar and went out into the garden, “that there seems to be no medicine by which a fellow could put himself right.—There,” he said after a pause, “I will not think about her, but about Scarlett.”

He strolled slowly along, finding it intensely dark; but he knew the position of every flower-bed now too well to let his feet stray off the velvet grass, and as he went on, he came round by the open window of the drawing-room, and, looking through the conservatory, stood thinking what a pleasant picture the prettily lighted room formed, with severe Aunt Sophia spectacled and reading, while Naomi was busy over some sketch that she had made during the day.

Lady Scarlett was not there; but it did not excite any surprise; and the doctor stood for some minutes thinking, from his post of observation, that Naomi was a very sweet girl, as nice and simple as she was pretty, and that she would make a man who loved her, one of those gentle equable wives who never change.

“Very different from Lady Scarlett,” he said to himself, as he stood there invisible, but for the glowing end of his cigar. “Ha! I don’t like the way in which things are going, a bit.”

He walked on over the soft mossy grass, with his feet sinking in at every step, and his hands in his pockets, round past the dining-room to where a soft glow shone out from the study window; and on pausing where he could obtain a good view, he stood for some time watching his friend’s countenance, as James Scarlett sat back in his chair with the light from the shaded lamp full upon his face.

“I’m about beaten,” the doctor said to himself. “I’ve tried all I know; and I’m beginning to think that they are all right, and that if Nature does not step in, or fate, or whatever it may be, does not give him some powerful shock, he will remain the wreck he is, perhaps to the end of his days.—Yes, I’m about beaten,” he thought again, as he seized this opportunity of studying his friend’s face unobserved; “but I’m as far off giving up, as I was on the day I started. I won’t give it over as a bad job; but how to go on next, I cannot say.—Just the same,” he muttered after a time, as he noted one or two uneasy movements, and saw a curious wrinkled expression come into the thin troubled face. “Poor old boy! I’d give something to work a cure.—By the way, where’s Prayle? I thought he was here.”

The doctor thrust his hands more deeply into his pockets and strolled away, threading his course in and out amongst the flower-beds, and then, thinking deeply, going on and on down first one green path and then another, his footsteps perfectly inaudible. As he walked on, his mind grew so intent upon the question of his patient’s state, that the cigar went out, and he contented himself with rolling it to and fro between his lips, till he paused involuntarily beside a seat under the tall green hedge that separated the garden from one of the meadows.

“Damp?” said the doctor to himself, as he passed one hand over the seat. “No; dry as a bone;” and he seated himself, throwing up his legs, and leaning back in the corner, listening to the soft crop, crop, crop of one of the cows, still busy in the darkness preparing grass for rumination during the night. “I wonder whether cows ever have any troubles on their minds?” thought Scales. “Yes; of course they do. Calves are taken away, and they fret, and—Hallo! Who’s this?”

He tried to pierce the darkness as he heard heavy breathing, and the dull sound of footsteps coming along the walk, the heavy sound of one who was clumsy of tread, and who was coming cautiously towards him.

“Some scoundrel after the pears. I’ll startle him.”

He had every opportunity for carrying out his plan, for the steps came closer, stopped, and he who had made them drew a long breath, and though the movements were not visible, Scales knew, as well as if he had seen each motion, that the man before him had taken off his hat and was wiping the perspiration from his face.

“Hallo!”

The man started and made a step back; and the doctor told a fib.

“Oh, you needn’t run,” he said. “I see you. I know who you are.”

“I—I wasn’t going to run, sir,” said John Monnick softly.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, sir, you see, sir—I—I have got a trap or two down the garden here, and—and—I’ve been seeing whether there’s anything in. You see, sir,” continued the old gardener in an eager whisper, “the rarebuds do such a mort o’ mischief among my young plahnts, that I’m druv-like—reg’lar druv-like—to snare ’em.”

It was rather high moral ground for a man to take who had just told a deliberate untruth; but Doctor Scales took it, and said sharply: “John Monnick, you are telling me a lie!”

“A lie, sir!” whispered the old man. “Hush, sir! pray.”

“Are you afraid the rabbits will hear me?—Shame, man! An old servant like you.—John Monnick, you know me.”

“Ay, sir, I do.”

“Now, don’t you feel ashamed of yourself, an old servant, like you, with always a Scripture text on your tongue, telling me a lie like that about the traps?”

The gardener was silent, and the doctor heard him draw a long breath.

“Well, sir,” he said at last—“and I hope I may be forgiven, as I meant well—it weer not the truth.”

“Then you were after the fruit?”

“I? After the fruit, sir? Bless your heart, no; I was only watching.”

“What! for thieves?”

The gardener hesitated, and remained silent.

“There, that’s better; don’t tell a lie, man. I think the better of you. But shame upon you! with your poor master broken, helpless, and obliged to depend upon his people. To go and rob him now, of all times. John Monnick, you are a contemptible, canting old humbug.”

“No, I aren’t, doctor,” said the old fellow angrily; “and you’ll beg my pardon for this.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Ay, that you will, sir. It was all on account of master, and him not being able to look after things, as brought me here.”

“I don’t believe you, Monnick.”

“You can do as you like, sir,” said the old man sturdily; “but it’s all as true as gorspel. I couldn’t bear to see such goings-on; and I says to myself, it’s time as they was stopped; and I thought they was, till I come in late to lock up the peach-house, and see her go down the garden.”

The doctor rose from his seat, startled.

“And then I says to myself, he won’t be long before he comes, for its a pyntment.”

“Yes. Well?” said the doctor, who, generally cool to excess, now felt his heart heating strangely.

“Oh, you needn’t believe it without you like, sir. I dessay I am a canting old humbug, sir; but far as in me lies, I means well by him, as I’ve eat his bread and his father’s afore him this many a year.”

“I’m afraid I’ve wronged you, Monnick,” said the doctor hastily.

“You aren’t the first by a good many, sir; but you may as well speak low, or they’ll maybe hear, for I walked up torst the house, and I see him pass the window, and then I watched him. P’r’aps I oughtn’t, but I knowed it weren’t right, and Sir James ought to know.”

“You—you knew of this, then?”

“Yes, sir. Was it likely I shouldn’t, when it was all in my garden! Why, a slug don’t get at a leaf, or a battletwig, or wops at a plum, without me knowing of it; so, was it likely as a gent was going to carry on like that wi’out me finding of it out?”

“And—and is he down the garden now?” said the doctor, involuntarily pressing his hand to his side, to check the action of his heart.

“Ay, that he be, sir; and him a gent as seemed so religious and good, and allus saying proper sort o’ things. It’s set me agen saying ought script’ral evermore.”

There was a dead silence for a few moments; and then the doctor hissed out: “The scoundrel!”

“Ay, that’s it, sir; and of course it’s all his doing, for she was so good and sweet; and it’s touched me quite like to the heart, sir, for master thought so much o’ she.”

“Good heavens!—then my suspicions were right!”

“You suspected too, sir? Well, I don’t wonder.”

“No, no; it is impossible, Monnick, impossible. Man, it must be a mistake.”

“Well, sir,” said the old fellow sturdily, “maybe it be. All of us makes mistakes sometimes, and suspects wrongfully. Even you, sir. But I’m pretty sure as I’m right; and for her sake, I’m going to go and tell master, and have it stopped.”

“No, no, man; are you mad?” cried the doctor, catching him by the arm.

“No more nor most folks be, sir; but I’m not going to see a woman go wrong, and a good true young man’s heart broke, to save a smooth-tongued gent from getting into trouble. It’ll do him good too.”

“Then you mean Mr Prayle?”

“Course I do, sir. There aren’t no one else here, I hope, as would behave that how.”

“Where are you going?” said the doctor, holding the old man tightly by the arm.

“Straight up to Sir James, sir.”

“No, no, man. Let me go.”

“To master, sir?”

“No, no. To Prayle—to them. Where are they?” The doctor’s voice sounded very hoarse, and the blood flushed to his face in his bitter anger as he clenched his hand.

“They’re down in the lower summer-house, sir,” said the old man; “and it’s my dooty to take Sir James strite down to confront him and ask him what he means; see what a bad un he be and then send him about his business, never to come meddling here no more.”

Scales stood perfectly silent, but gripping the old man’s arm tightly. It was confirmation of suspicions that had troubled him again and again. He had crushed them constantly, telling himself that there was no truth in them; that they disgraced him; and here was the end. What should he do? The shock to his friend would be terrible; but would it not be better that he should know—better than going on in such a state as this? The knowledge must come sooner or later, and why not now?

The shock? What of the effects of that shock with his mind in such a state? Would it work ill or good?

“Poor fellow!” he muttered, “as if he had not suffered enough. I never thoroughly believed in her, and yet I have tried. No, no; he must not know.”

“Now, sir, if you’ll let go o’ me, I’m going up to master.”

“No, my man; he must not be told.”

“It’s my dooty to tell him, sir; and I’m a-going to do it.”

“But I don’t know what effect it may have upon him, man.”

“It can’t have a bad one, sir; and it may rouse Sir James up into being the man he was afore the accident. I must make haste, please, sir, or I may be too late.”

“No, Monnick; you must not go.”

“Not go, sir? Well, sir, I don’t want to be disrespeckful to my master’s friends; but I’ve thought this over, and my conscience says it’s my dooty, and I shall go.” The old man shook himself free, and went off at a trot, leaving the doctor hesitating as to the course to pursue.

Should he run after and stop him? Should he go down the garden, interrupt the meeting, and enable them to escape? “No; a hundred times no!” he muttered, stamping his foot. “I must stop him at any cost.” He ran up the garden; but he was too late, for before he reached the house he heard low voices, and found that Scarlett had been tempted out by the beauty of the night—or by fate, as the doctor put it—and was half-way down the path when Monnick had met him.

“Who is this?” he said in a low, agitated voice, as the doctor met them.

“It is I, old fellow,” said the doctor, hastily.—“Now come, be calm. You must govern yourself. Has he told you something?”

“I wanted no telling, Jack,” groaned Scarlett. “The moment he opened his lips, I knew it. I have suspected it for long enough; but I could not stir—I would not stir. He, my own cousin, too; the man I have made my friend. O, heaven, is there no gratitude or manly feeling on the earth!”

“My dear boy, you must—you shall be cool,” whispered the doctor. “You are in a low nervous state, and—”

“It is false! I am strong. I never felt stronger than to-night. This has brought me to myself. I would not see it, Jack. I blinded myself. I told myself I was mad and a traitor, to imagine such things; but I have felt it all along.”

“And has this been preying on your mind?”

“Preying? Gnawing my heart out.—Don’t stop me. Let us go. Quick! He shall know me for what I am. Not the weak miserable fool he thinks.—Come quickly!—No! stop!” He stood panting, with Scales holding tightly by his arm, trembling for the result.

“Monnick, go back to the house,” said Scarlett, at last in a low whisper; and the old man went without a word.

“Now you stop here,” said Scarlett, in the same low painful whisper. “I will not degrade her more by bringing a witness.”

“But Scarlett—my dear old fellow. There must be no violence. Recollect that you are a gentleman.”

“Yes! I recollect. I am not going to act like a ruffian. You see how calm I am.”

“But it may be some mistake. I have seen nothing. It is all dependent on your gardener’s words. What did he tell you?”

“Hardly a word,” groaned Scarlett, “hardly a word. ‘Prayle—the summer-house.’ It was enough. I tell you, I have suspected it so long. It has been killing me. How could I get well with this upon my mind!”

“But, now?”

“Stay here, man—stay here.”

“Promise me you will use no violence, and I will loose your arm.”

“I promise—I will act like—a gentleman.”

The doctor loosed his arm; and drawing a long hissing breath, James Scarlett walked swiftly down the garden-path to where, in the moist dark shades below the trained hazels, the summer-house had been formed as a nook for sunny scorching days. It was close to the river, and from it there was a glorious view of one of the most beautiful reaches of the Thames.

James Scarlett recalled many a happy hour passed within its shade, and the rage that burned within his breast gave place to a misery so profound that, as he reached the turn that led to the retreat, he stopped short, pressing his hands to his throat and panting for his breath, which hardly came to his labouring breast. And as he stood there, he heard his cousin’s voice, in the silence of the evening, saying softly: “Then you promise? I will be at the station to meet you, and no one will know where you have gone.”

James Scarlett’s brain swam as he heard the answer. It was: “Yes!” A faithful promise for the next evening; and as he listened and heard each word clearly, he staggered back and nearly fell. Recovering himself somewhat, though, he walked slowly back, groping in the dark as it were, with his hands spread out before him, to keep from striking against one or other of the trees. The next minute, the doctor had him by the hand, and was hurrying him away, when Scarlett gave a sudden lurch, and would have fallen, had not his friend thrown one arm about him, and then, lifting him by main force, carried him to the house. The French window of the study was open; and he bore him in and laid him upon a couch, where, after a liberal application of cold water to his temples, he began to revive, opening his eyes and gazing wonderingly around. Then, as recollection came back, he uttered a low sigh, and caught at the doctor’s hand.

“Kate!” he said softly. “Go and fetch poor Kate.”

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.The Doctor’s Eyesight Improves.Doctor Scales left his friend, after sending word by one of the servants that he wished to see Lady Scarlett. The meeting would be very painful, and it was one to be avoided. Consequently, beyond encountering Aunt Sophia in the course of the evening and answering a few questions, the doctor managed so well that he saw no one else belonging to the establishment before asking whether Scarlett would see him again, and retiring for the night.“It isn’t a question of medicine,” he had said to himself. “Wretched woman! I always mistrusted her. I don’t know why, but I did. And now, what will be the next movement? They will separate of course; and after poor Scarlett has got over the shock, I daresay he will mend.—How closely he kept it, poor fellow. He must have loved her very dearly, and would not speak while it was mere suspicion.”It was just about this time that Aunt Sophia came to him, to ask him if he would have some tea.“No,” he said shortly; “not to-night.”“Do you know what agitated my nephew so much?”“Yes,” said the doctor; “but I am not at liberty to tell you.”“I will not press you,” said Aunt Sophia gravely. “Lady Scarlett is with him now.”She walked away; and after making sure that he would not be wanted, as has been said, Scales sought his room.The night passed quietly enough; and in good time the doctor rose to take his morning walk about the grounds, when, as he returned, towards eight o’clock, he heard the grating of wheels upon the gravel, and saw the dogcart driven up to the door. He involuntarily drew back and stayed amongst the shrubs, just as Prayle came out quickly, with his coat over his arm, and thin umbrella in hand. His little portmanteau was handed in by the servant, and at a word, the groom drove off.“Thank goodness!” ejaculated the doctor. “We’ve seen the last of him, I hope; and as to that woman—Pah! What brazen effrontery!” This was consequent upon seeing Prayle turn slightly in his place and look back at the end of the house, where, from a staircase window, a hand appeared, and a kerchief was for a moment waved.Prayle, however, made no sign, and the doctor went in.“I can’t help people’s emotions,” he said to himself. “I have to quell all mine and be matter-of-fact. Consequently, hunger has an opportunity to develop itself, and I want my breakfast as at any other time.”There was no one in the breakfast-room when he entered; but in a few minutes Naomi came down, looking rather pale and troubled; and soon after Miss Raleigh appeared with a very solemn, stern countenance, which relaxed, however, as she laid her hand in that of the young doctor.“You have not seen James this morning, of course?”“No,” he replied.“Ah! You will be glad to hear that he has had a better night. So Kate tells me.”“Then he has forgiven her,” said the doctor to himself. “Well, I could not. It is Christian-like, though; and I suppose they will separate quietly.”Just then, Lady Scarlett entered the room, looking very pale and red-eyed, as if from weeping. She went up to Aunt Sophia and kissed her, the kiss being coldly received; paid the same attention to Naomi; and then held out her hand to the doctor. He hesitated for a moment, and then, from force of habit more than anything else, he took a couple of steps forward and shook hands in a cold limp fashion, astounded at the fact that Lady Scarlett raised her eyes to his with a frank ingenuous look of pain.“As much like that of a sweet innocent girl as I ever saw,” he thought, as he took his place.The meal was not a sociable one, for everybody seemed awkward and constrained, and it passed off almost in silence; while, when soon after it was ended, the doctor asked if he might go up to Scarlett’s room, there was a look almost of reproach in Lady Scarlett’s eyes as she said: “O yes; of course.”For some time past it had been Scarlett’s habit to stay in his room till mid-day. He dressed at eight, and then lay down again in a heavy, dreamy way, to lie moodily thinking; but this time the doctor found him fast asleep, looking very calm and peaceful, as his breath came regularly, and there was a slight flush upon his haggard face.“Poor fellow!” thought the doctor, “How wretchedly thin he has grown. I was afraid the encounter last night would have been too much for him; but it almost seems as if he is better, now he knows the worst.”As he stood watching him, he heard Lady Scarlett pass, on her way to her own room; but she seemed to change her mind, came lightly back, and opened the door softly.“He is asleep,” said the doctor sternly; and she at once withdrew, leaving Scales at his post, from which he did not stir till luncheon-time, when he went down.Lady Scarlett had been twice to the door, to look in with wistful eyes; but each time she had been forbidden to enter, as the patient was not to be awakened at any cost; so the anxious woman went patiently away to wait, for she never even dreamed of resisting the medical man’s command.Sleep seemed to have so thoroughly taken possession of James Scarlett, that he remained under its influence hour after hour; and when Lady Scarlett timidly asked if it was right, she received the same answer—that under the circumstances nothing could be better—and went away content.It was quite evening when Scarlett awoke to find the doctor sitting reading by his bed. “Why, Jack!” he cried, rather excitedly, “am I—am I—worse?”“My dear fellow, no; I hope not.”“No; of course not. I’m—I must be—Thank God!” he sighed fervently; “what a restful, grateful sleep.—Where’s Kate?”“She has been here several times, but I would not have you disturbed.”“Bless her!” said Scarlett softly. “Jack you are my one friend, the only one to whom I ever opened my heart, I trust you, Jack, with everything.”“My dear old boy,” said the doctor warmly, grasping his hands, “I hope I deserve it. Heaven knows, I try.”“You do deserve it, Jack. I can never repay you for hat you’ve done for me.”“Tchah, man, stuff! Why, I owe you a debt for letting me try to cure you.”“Now let me be more in your debt, Jack,” said Scarlett.“As much as you like, old fellow. I’ll do all I can.”Scarlett paused, and his face flushed almost feverishly as he gazed earnestly at his friend. At last he spoke. “I have been weak—unstrung; and that, made me what I was, Jack,” he said piteously. “You saw the weak side of my character last night. I had hidden it so well before; but when you came to me then, I was half mad, and—well, I need not confess—you must have seen the turn my thoughts took. You don’t wish me to degrade myself again—to make confession?”“No, no—say nothing,” said Scales quietly. “My dear old fellow, believe me, I am your friend.”“You are, Jack; you are more—my very brother at heart; and if you ever think again of my cruel sacrilegious doubts, set them down as a sick man’s fancies, and then bury them for ever. And—Jack, old friend—let last night’s outburst be a thing that’s dead.”“I promise you, Scarlett, upon my word.”“Thanks, Jack, thanks! I shiver when I think of it. If Kate knew, it would break her heart.”The doctor was silent.“When I came back with my brain reeling, I was drunk with a great joy. You know what I had fancied. O Jack! if I could forgive myself!—but I never can.”“You are growing excited. You must be quiet, now.”“Excited, man? Oh, it is only with my happiness. That accursed idea, born of my nervous state, was eating my very life away; while now that I know that it was but the foul emanation of my own brain, I can scarcely contain myself, and I seem to have leaped back to health and strength.”Scales did not speak.“But I am forgetting.—Good heavens! I have slept away the day, and the night is here. That wretched girl!”The doctor gazed at him fixedly, asking himself if his friend’s brain was wandering.“She promised to meet him—at some station—in London—to-night. Jack, it must be stopped before it is too late.—Where is that scoundrel Prayle?”“He left this morning, early, to catch the train.”“And I’ve lain here as if in a stupor—Quick, Jack—my wife—no, poor girl, she must not be troubled with this; she has borne enough. Ring for—No; fetch my aunt. Yes; she will be the best. Go, old fellow, quick!”“Is he wandering, or am I a fool?” muttered the doctor, as he hurried from the room to encounter Lady Scarlett on the stairs. “He is worse!” she cried. “No, no,” said the doctor, almost roughly. “Not yet. You must not go, Lady Scarlett. I forbid it.”She shrank back meekly. “Tell me that he is in no danger,” she said imploringly.“Yes; I do tell you that,” he said with a feeling of repugnance that would tinge his voice.—“Where is Miss Raleigh?”“In the drawing-room. I will fetch her,” cried Lady Scarlett, rushing to perform the task, while the doctor stood rubbing his ear.“It is I who am mad,” he said to himself, “and not poor Scarlett.—Yes,” he said aloud, as Aunt Sophia came up, “Scarlett wants to see you at once.” He led the way back, and closed the door almost angrily after them, leaving Lady Scarlett with her head leaning against the wall, as the tears coursed down her cheeks.“Why does he dislike me so?” she sighed. “He is jealous of my love for him—they are such friends. I ought to hate him; but how can I when he is so true!”“Auntie!” exclaimed Scarlett excitedly, as the old lady entered his room, “I want you, quick—before it is too late. That smooth-tongued scoundrel Prayle—”“Amen!” said Aunt Sophia softly.“Has been practising upon the weakness of that pretty little lass of ours—Fanny. He has gone up to town, and she promised him to follow. Go and stop her at any cost. Then send for her brother, and let him know the truth; and if he follows and thrashes—What?”“The girl has gone,” said Aunt Sophia.“Gone?”“She asked Kate for a holiday, and went this afternoon. She was to be back to-morrow night.”“Good heavens!” cried Scarlett. “I would sooner have given a thousand pounds.—What is it, Jack?”“Nothing—only this—so sad!” said the doctor hoarsely, as he sat where he had literally dropped—into a chair.“What is to be done?” cried Scarlett excitedly. “Here, send for William Cressy. Let a man gallop over at once.”“Yes, I’ll send,” said the doctor; and he literally staggered out of the room. “Am I really out of my senses?” he said to himself as he hurried down. “Have I been blundering all this time; or is it a ruse of the poor fellow to throw us off the truth?—Good heavens! what am I to think!” he ran into the study and rang the bell loudly, when Martha Betts came into the room at once in her calm grave way.“Can you find the gardener—Monnick,” he said, “quickly.”“Yes, sir.”“Send him here—at once.”The girl hurried out, and the doctor paced the room.“If I am wrong, I shall never forgive myself. I can never look her in the face again. Good heavens!—good heavens! I must, have been mad and blind, and an utter scoundrel, to think such things of—Oh, what a villain I have been!”Just then, there was a heavy footstep in the passage, and the old gardener tapped at the door.“Come in,” cried the doctor, running to meet him; and as the old man entered, he caught him by the arm. “Quick!” he cried—“tell me—speak out, man—the truth.”“Ay, sir, I will,” muttered the old fellow.“Who—who—now speak out; keep nothing back; I am your master’s trusted friend. Who was in the summer-house last night with Mr Prayle?”“That poor foolish little wench, Fanny, sir; and—”“Fool, fool, fool!” cried the doctor, stamping upon the floor.“Ay, that’s so, sir; that’s so; and she’ll know better soon, let’s hope.”“Quick!” cried the doctor. “Go—at once—and fetch her brother William Cressy here. Your master wants to see him instantly. Go yourself, or send some one who can run.”The old man hesitated, and then hurried out. “I’d better go mysen,” he muttered. “P’raps it’s best; but I don’t think Willyum Cressy will be here to-night.”He had hardly closed the door before the doctor had opened it again, and was on his way upstairs, but only to be waylaid by Lady Scarlett, who caught him by the arm, and literally made him enter the drawing-room.“Doctor Scales, I am his wife,” she pleaded. “I have borne so much; for pity’s sake tell me. You see how I obey you and keep away; but tell me what is wrong—or I shall die.”“Wrong?” cried the doctor, catching her hands, and kissing them again and again. “Nothing about him, my dear child. He is better—much better. The trouble—forgive me for saying it to you—is a scandal about that scoundrel—double scoundrel—Prayle.”“And my husband?”“Is better—much better.”Lady Scarlett’s hands joined, and were raised towards heaven as she sank upon her knees motionless, but for a low sob that forced its way from her breast from time to time.Doctor Scales stood gazing down at her for a few moments, and then stooping low, he laid his hand reverently upon her head.This brought her back from her rapt state of thankful prayer, and she rose and caught his hand.“I have been so rude and harsh,” he blundered out. “Can you forgive me?”“Forgive? You, who have devoted yourself to him I love? My husband’s dearest friend has never yet truly read his poor wife’s heart.”She said this with a quiet womanly dignity that humbled the doctor to the very dust, and his voice was broken as he replied gently:“I never have—I have been very blind.”He said no more, but went slowly to the door. There he turned.“Once more,” he said: “Scarlett is much better. It was only to save you from pain that he sent for Miss Raleigh. That is all.”

Doctor Scales left his friend, after sending word by one of the servants that he wished to see Lady Scarlett. The meeting would be very painful, and it was one to be avoided. Consequently, beyond encountering Aunt Sophia in the course of the evening and answering a few questions, the doctor managed so well that he saw no one else belonging to the establishment before asking whether Scarlett would see him again, and retiring for the night.

“It isn’t a question of medicine,” he had said to himself. “Wretched woman! I always mistrusted her. I don’t know why, but I did. And now, what will be the next movement? They will separate of course; and after poor Scarlett has got over the shock, I daresay he will mend.—How closely he kept it, poor fellow. He must have loved her very dearly, and would not speak while it was mere suspicion.”

It was just about this time that Aunt Sophia came to him, to ask him if he would have some tea.

“No,” he said shortly; “not to-night.”

“Do you know what agitated my nephew so much?”

“Yes,” said the doctor; “but I am not at liberty to tell you.”

“I will not press you,” said Aunt Sophia gravely. “Lady Scarlett is with him now.”

She walked away; and after making sure that he would not be wanted, as has been said, Scales sought his room.

The night passed quietly enough; and in good time the doctor rose to take his morning walk about the grounds, when, as he returned, towards eight o’clock, he heard the grating of wheels upon the gravel, and saw the dogcart driven up to the door. He involuntarily drew back and stayed amongst the shrubs, just as Prayle came out quickly, with his coat over his arm, and thin umbrella in hand. His little portmanteau was handed in by the servant, and at a word, the groom drove off.

“Thank goodness!” ejaculated the doctor. “We’ve seen the last of him, I hope; and as to that woman—Pah! What brazen effrontery!” This was consequent upon seeing Prayle turn slightly in his place and look back at the end of the house, where, from a staircase window, a hand appeared, and a kerchief was for a moment waved.

Prayle, however, made no sign, and the doctor went in.

“I can’t help people’s emotions,” he said to himself. “I have to quell all mine and be matter-of-fact. Consequently, hunger has an opportunity to develop itself, and I want my breakfast as at any other time.”

There was no one in the breakfast-room when he entered; but in a few minutes Naomi came down, looking rather pale and troubled; and soon after Miss Raleigh appeared with a very solemn, stern countenance, which relaxed, however, as she laid her hand in that of the young doctor.

“You have not seen James this morning, of course?”

“No,” he replied.

“Ah! You will be glad to hear that he has had a better night. So Kate tells me.”

“Then he has forgiven her,” said the doctor to himself. “Well, I could not. It is Christian-like, though; and I suppose they will separate quietly.”

Just then, Lady Scarlett entered the room, looking very pale and red-eyed, as if from weeping. She went up to Aunt Sophia and kissed her, the kiss being coldly received; paid the same attention to Naomi; and then held out her hand to the doctor. He hesitated for a moment, and then, from force of habit more than anything else, he took a couple of steps forward and shook hands in a cold limp fashion, astounded at the fact that Lady Scarlett raised her eyes to his with a frank ingenuous look of pain.

“As much like that of a sweet innocent girl as I ever saw,” he thought, as he took his place.

The meal was not a sociable one, for everybody seemed awkward and constrained, and it passed off almost in silence; while, when soon after it was ended, the doctor asked if he might go up to Scarlett’s room, there was a look almost of reproach in Lady Scarlett’s eyes as she said: “O yes; of course.”

For some time past it had been Scarlett’s habit to stay in his room till mid-day. He dressed at eight, and then lay down again in a heavy, dreamy way, to lie moodily thinking; but this time the doctor found him fast asleep, looking very calm and peaceful, as his breath came regularly, and there was a slight flush upon his haggard face.

“Poor fellow!” thought the doctor, “How wretchedly thin he has grown. I was afraid the encounter last night would have been too much for him; but it almost seems as if he is better, now he knows the worst.”

As he stood watching him, he heard Lady Scarlett pass, on her way to her own room; but she seemed to change her mind, came lightly back, and opened the door softly.

“He is asleep,” said the doctor sternly; and she at once withdrew, leaving Scales at his post, from which he did not stir till luncheon-time, when he went down.

Lady Scarlett had been twice to the door, to look in with wistful eyes; but each time she had been forbidden to enter, as the patient was not to be awakened at any cost; so the anxious woman went patiently away to wait, for she never even dreamed of resisting the medical man’s command.

Sleep seemed to have so thoroughly taken possession of James Scarlett, that he remained under its influence hour after hour; and when Lady Scarlett timidly asked if it was right, she received the same answer—that under the circumstances nothing could be better—and went away content.

It was quite evening when Scarlett awoke to find the doctor sitting reading by his bed. “Why, Jack!” he cried, rather excitedly, “am I—am I—worse?”

“My dear fellow, no; I hope not.”

“No; of course not. I’m—I must be—Thank God!” he sighed fervently; “what a restful, grateful sleep.—Where’s Kate?”

“She has been here several times, but I would not have you disturbed.”

“Bless her!” said Scarlett softly. “Jack you are my one friend, the only one to whom I ever opened my heart, I trust you, Jack, with everything.”

“My dear old boy,” said the doctor warmly, grasping his hands, “I hope I deserve it. Heaven knows, I try.”

“You do deserve it, Jack. I can never repay you for hat you’ve done for me.”

“Tchah, man, stuff! Why, I owe you a debt for letting me try to cure you.”

“Now let me be more in your debt, Jack,” said Scarlett.

“As much as you like, old fellow. I’ll do all I can.”

Scarlett paused, and his face flushed almost feverishly as he gazed earnestly at his friend. At last he spoke. “I have been weak—unstrung; and that, made me what I was, Jack,” he said piteously. “You saw the weak side of my character last night. I had hidden it so well before; but when you came to me then, I was half mad, and—well, I need not confess—you must have seen the turn my thoughts took. You don’t wish me to degrade myself again—to make confession?”

“No, no—say nothing,” said Scales quietly. “My dear old fellow, believe me, I am your friend.”

“You are, Jack; you are more—my very brother at heart; and if you ever think again of my cruel sacrilegious doubts, set them down as a sick man’s fancies, and then bury them for ever. And—Jack, old friend—let last night’s outburst be a thing that’s dead.”

“I promise you, Scarlett, upon my word.”

“Thanks, Jack, thanks! I shiver when I think of it. If Kate knew, it would break her heart.”

The doctor was silent.

“When I came back with my brain reeling, I was drunk with a great joy. You know what I had fancied. O Jack! if I could forgive myself!—but I never can.”

“You are growing excited. You must be quiet, now.”

“Excited, man? Oh, it is only with my happiness. That accursed idea, born of my nervous state, was eating my very life away; while now that I know that it was but the foul emanation of my own brain, I can scarcely contain myself, and I seem to have leaped back to health and strength.”

Scales did not speak.

“But I am forgetting.—Good heavens! I have slept away the day, and the night is here. That wretched girl!”

The doctor gazed at him fixedly, asking himself if his friend’s brain was wandering.

“She promised to meet him—at some station—in London—to-night. Jack, it must be stopped before it is too late.—Where is that scoundrel Prayle?”

“He left this morning, early, to catch the train.”

“And I’ve lain here as if in a stupor—Quick, Jack—my wife—no, poor girl, she must not be troubled with this; she has borne enough. Ring for—No; fetch my aunt. Yes; she will be the best. Go, old fellow, quick!”

“Is he wandering, or am I a fool?” muttered the doctor, as he hurried from the room to encounter Lady Scarlett on the stairs. “He is worse!” she cried. “No, no,” said the doctor, almost roughly. “Not yet. You must not go, Lady Scarlett. I forbid it.”

She shrank back meekly. “Tell me that he is in no danger,” she said imploringly.

“Yes; I do tell you that,” he said with a feeling of repugnance that would tinge his voice.—“Where is Miss Raleigh?”

“In the drawing-room. I will fetch her,” cried Lady Scarlett, rushing to perform the task, while the doctor stood rubbing his ear.

“It is I who am mad,” he said to himself, “and not poor Scarlett.—Yes,” he said aloud, as Aunt Sophia came up, “Scarlett wants to see you at once.” He led the way back, and closed the door almost angrily after them, leaving Lady Scarlett with her head leaning against the wall, as the tears coursed down her cheeks.

“Why does he dislike me so?” she sighed. “He is jealous of my love for him—they are such friends. I ought to hate him; but how can I when he is so true!”

“Auntie!” exclaimed Scarlett excitedly, as the old lady entered his room, “I want you, quick—before it is too late. That smooth-tongued scoundrel Prayle—”

“Amen!” said Aunt Sophia softly.

“Has been practising upon the weakness of that pretty little lass of ours—Fanny. He has gone up to town, and she promised him to follow. Go and stop her at any cost. Then send for her brother, and let him know the truth; and if he follows and thrashes—What?”

“The girl has gone,” said Aunt Sophia.

“Gone?”

“She asked Kate for a holiday, and went this afternoon. She was to be back to-morrow night.”

“Good heavens!” cried Scarlett. “I would sooner have given a thousand pounds.—What is it, Jack?”

“Nothing—only this—so sad!” said the doctor hoarsely, as he sat where he had literally dropped—into a chair.

“What is to be done?” cried Scarlett excitedly. “Here, send for William Cressy. Let a man gallop over at once.”

“Yes, I’ll send,” said the doctor; and he literally staggered out of the room. “Am I really out of my senses?” he said to himself as he hurried down. “Have I been blundering all this time; or is it a ruse of the poor fellow to throw us off the truth?—Good heavens! what am I to think!” he ran into the study and rang the bell loudly, when Martha Betts came into the room at once in her calm grave way.

“Can you find the gardener—Monnick,” he said, “quickly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send him here—at once.”

The girl hurried out, and the doctor paced the room.

“If I am wrong, I shall never forgive myself. I can never look her in the face again. Good heavens!—good heavens! I must, have been mad and blind, and an utter scoundrel, to think such things of—Oh, what a villain I have been!”

Just then, there was a heavy footstep in the passage, and the old gardener tapped at the door.

“Come in,” cried the doctor, running to meet him; and as the old man entered, he caught him by the arm. “Quick!” he cried—“tell me—speak out, man—the truth.”

“Ay, sir, I will,” muttered the old fellow.

“Who—who—now speak out; keep nothing back; I am your master’s trusted friend. Who was in the summer-house last night with Mr Prayle?”

“That poor foolish little wench, Fanny, sir; and—”

“Fool, fool, fool!” cried the doctor, stamping upon the floor.

“Ay, that’s so, sir; that’s so; and she’ll know better soon, let’s hope.”

“Quick!” cried the doctor. “Go—at once—and fetch her brother William Cressy here. Your master wants to see him instantly. Go yourself, or send some one who can run.”

The old man hesitated, and then hurried out. “I’d better go mysen,” he muttered. “P’raps it’s best; but I don’t think Willyum Cressy will be here to-night.”

He had hardly closed the door before the doctor had opened it again, and was on his way upstairs, but only to be waylaid by Lady Scarlett, who caught him by the arm, and literally made him enter the drawing-room.

“Doctor Scales, I am his wife,” she pleaded. “I have borne so much; for pity’s sake tell me. You see how I obey you and keep away; but tell me what is wrong—or I shall die.”

“Wrong?” cried the doctor, catching her hands, and kissing them again and again. “Nothing about him, my dear child. He is better—much better. The trouble—forgive me for saying it to you—is a scandal about that scoundrel—double scoundrel—Prayle.”

“And my husband?”

“Is better—much better.”

Lady Scarlett’s hands joined, and were raised towards heaven as she sank upon her knees motionless, but for a low sob that forced its way from her breast from time to time.

Doctor Scales stood gazing down at her for a few moments, and then stooping low, he laid his hand reverently upon her head.

This brought her back from her rapt state of thankful prayer, and she rose and caught his hand.

“I have been so rude and harsh,” he blundered out. “Can you forgive me?”

“Forgive? You, who have devoted yourself to him I love? My husband’s dearest friend has never yet truly read his poor wife’s heart.”

She said this with a quiet womanly dignity that humbled the doctor to the very dust, and his voice was broken as he replied gently:

“I never have—I have been very blind.”

He said no more, but went slowly to the door. There he turned.

“Once more,” he said: “Scarlett is much better. It was only to save you from pain that he sent for Miss Raleigh. That is all.”

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.Events at a Terminus.There was a deeply interested gathering in one of the large offices of the Waterloo Station, where a clerk in his shirt-sleeves was seated beneath a gas-jet making entries, what time two porters, also in shirt-sleeves, and by the light of other gas-jets, seemed to be engaged in a game of “Catch.” They were, however, not displaying their deftness with balls, but with small packets, parcels, baskets, bundles of fishing-rods, and what seemed to be carefully done-up articles fresh from tradespeople’s shops. The game seemed to consist of one porter taking a packet from a great basket upon wheels, and saying something before he jerked it rapidly to the other porter, who also said something and deposited the packet in another basket on wheels; while, apparently, the clerk at the desk where the gas-jet fluttered and whistled as it burned, carefully noted the score in a book. Further inspection, however, showed the casual observer that the men were not at play, but busy manipulating parcels and preparing them for despatch to their various destinations. The business came to a standstill all at once, as a couple of guards just off duty, and an inspector and ticket-collector, came sauntering in, chatting loudly one to the other about some incident that had just taken place upon the platform.“Ah, you fellows get all the fun,” said the clerk, sticking his pen behind his ear, and slewing round his tall stool, as the guards made themselves comfortable, one upon a wine-hamper, and the other upon an upturned box; while the ticket-collector seated himself upon the edge of a huge pigeon-hole, which necessitated his keeping his body in a bent position, something after the fashion of that held by occupants of the pleasant dungeon known in the Tower as “The Little Ease.”“Well, we get all the rough as well,” said one of the guards, “and some ugly customers too.”“Regular ’lopement, then?” said one of the porters, scratching his ear with a piece of straw.“Regular, my lad,” said one of the guards. “You saw the gent before, didn’t you, George?”“Yes; he was walking up and down the platform for half an hour first,” said the ticket-collector. “I hadn’t noticed the other, because he was outside the gate waiting.”“Well, tell us all about it,” said the clerk.“Oh, there ain’t much to tell,” said the guard who had spoken first. “I saw the girl get in at Lympton, regular stylish-looking body, nice figure, closely veiled. I thought it meant sixpence perhaps; and took her bag, and ran and opened a first-class, when she quite staggered me as she says: ‘Third class, please.’ Well, of course that made me notice her more than once, as we stopped coming up, and I could see that she had been crying and was in trouble.”The little party grew more interested and drew closer.“Somehow, I couldn’t help seeing that there was something wrong, for she tried to avoid being noticed, squeezing herself up in the corner of the compartment, and then being very fidgety at every station we stopped at, till I slapped my leg as I got into the break, and says to myself: ‘She’s off!’”“Ah, it would look like it,” said the clerk, nodding, and letting his pen slip from behind his ear, so that it fell, sticking its nib like an arrow in the boarded floor.“Yes; I wasn’t a bit surprised to see a dark good-looking gentleman on the platform, peeping into every carriage as the train drew up; and I managed to be close to her door as the gent opened it and held out his hand.”“‘Why didn’t you come first-class, you foolish girl?’ he says in a whisper; and she didn’t answer, only gave a low moan, like, and let him help her out on to the platform, when he draws her arm right through his, so as to support her well, catches up her little bag, and walks her along towards George here; and I felt so interested, that I followed ’em, just to see how matters went.”“You felt reg’lar suspicious then?” said one of the porters.“I just did, my lad; so that as soon as they’d passed George here, him giving up the girl’s ticket, I wasn’t a bit surprised to see a great stout fellow in a velveteen jacket and a low-crowned hat step right in front of ’em just as my gent had called up a cab, lay one hand on the girl’s arm, and the other on the gent’s breast, and he says, in a rough, country sort o’ way: ‘Here, I want you.’”“Just like a detective,” said the clerk.“Not a bit, my lad—not a bit,” said the guard. “Reg’lar bluff gamekeeper sort of chap, who looked as if he wouldn’t stand any nonsense; and as soon as she saw him, the girl gives a little cry, and looks as if she’d drop, while my gent begins to bluster.—‘Stand aside, fellow,’ he says. ‘How dare you! Stand back!’ The big bluff fellow seemed so staggered by the gent’s way, that for just about a moment he was checked. Then he takes one step forward, and look here—he does so.”“Oh!” shouted the clerk, for the guard brought down one muscular hand sharply upon his shoulder and gripped him tightly.“Lor’ bless you, my lad! that’s nothing to it. He gripped that gent’s shoulder so that you a’most heard his collar-bone crack; and he turned yellow and gashly like, as the other says to him with a growl as savage as a bear, ‘You want to wed my sister, eh? Well, you shall. I won’t leave you till you do.’”“That was business and no mistake,” said the other guard; “wasn’t it?”“Ay, and he meant business too,” continued the first speaker, “for the gent began to bluster, and say, ‘How dare you!’ and ‘I’ll give you in charge;’ and then he calls for a policeman; and then ‘Tak’ howd o’ my sister,’ says the big fellow.”“Ay, that was it,” said the ticket-collector. “‘Tak’ howd,’ just like a Yorkshireman.”“George there catches the girl, as was half-fainting; and as there was getting quite a crowd now, the bluff fellow tightens his grip, brings Mr Gent down on his knees, and gives him such a thrashing with a stout ash-stick as would have half killed him, if we hadn’t interfered; and Thompson come up and outs with his book. ‘Here,’ he says, just like one of the regular force; ‘I’ll take the charge.’”“When,” said the second guard, “up jumps my gentleman, and made the cleanest run for it, dodging through the crowd, and out through the ticket-office, you ever saw.”“Ay,” said the ticket-collector; “and he run round so as to get to the waterside, and over Charing Cross Bridge.”“And did Thompson take up the countryman?”“No,” said the guard. “He gave his name out straightforward—William Cressy, Rayford, Berks. ‘I’m there when I’m wanted,’ he says. ‘This here’s my sister as that chap was stealing away, and I’ve thrashed him, and I’ll do it again if ever we meets.’”“And then the crowd gave a cheer,” said the ticket-collector.“And Thompson put his book in his pocket,” said the second guard.“And the countryman walked the girl off to a cab, put her in, jumped in himself, and the crowd cheered again; and that’s about all.”“And I’d have given him a cheer too, if I’d been there,” said the clerk, flushing. “Why, if a fellow as calls himself a gentleman was to treat my sister like that, I’d half-kill him, law or no law.”“And serve him right too,” was chorused.Then the business of catching parcels began again; the indignant clerk continued his entering; a little more conversation went on in a desultory manner, and the guards and ticket-collector off duty walked home.The station was disturbed by no more extraordinary incident that night. Trains went and trains came, till at last there was only one more for the neighbourhood of Scarlett’s home.Doctor Scales was standing on the platform thinking, and in that confused state of mind that comes upon nearly every one who is in search of a person in the great wilderness of London, and has not the most remote idea of what would be the next best step to take. He was asking himself whether there was anything else that he could do. He had been to the police, given all the information that he could, and the telegraph had been set in motion. Then he had been told that nothing more could be done—that he must wait; and he was waiting, and thinking whether he ought to telegraph again to Scarlett; to take the last train due in a few minutes, and go down again; or stay in town, and see what the morrow brought forth.“I’ll stay,” he said at last; and he turned to go, feeling weary and in that disgusted frame of mind that comes over a man who has been working hard mentally and bodily for days, and who then finds himself low-spirited and thoroughly vexed with everything he has done. It is a mental disease that only one thing will cure, and that is sleep. It was to find this rest that the doctor had turned, and was about to seek his chambers, when he came suddenly upon the object of his search—Fanny Cressy—closely veiled and hanging heavily upon the great arm of her stalwart brother.“You here, Cressy?” cried the doctor excitedly.“Yes, sir,” said the farmer fiercely. “Hev you got to say anything again it?”“No, man, no! But you—you have found your sister.”“I hev, sir,” said Cressy, more fiercely still. “Hev you got anything to say again that—orher?” he added slowly.“No, no; only I say, thank heaven!” cried the doctor fervently. “I came up to try and overtake her.”“You did, sir? Then thank you kindly,” said the farmer, changing the stout walking-stick he carried from one hand to the other, so as to leave the right free to extend for a hearty shake. He altered his menacing tone too, and seemed to interpose his great body as a sort of screen between his sister and the doctor as he continued in a low voice, only intended for the other’s ear: “Don’t you say nowt to her; I’ve said about enough.—And it’s all right now,” he said, raising his voice, as if for his sister to hear. “Me and Fanny understands one another, and she’s coming home wi’ me; and if any one’s got to say anything again her for this night’s work, he’s got to talk to William Cressy, farmer, Rayford, Berks.”There was a low sob here; and the doctor saw that the drooping girl was clinging tightly to her brother’s arm.“I am sure,” said the doctor quietly, “no one would be so brutal as to say anything against a trusting woman, who placed faith in a scoundrel.”“Doctor Scales!” cried Fanny, raising her head as she was about to say a few words in defence of the man she loved.“You hold your tongue, Fan,” said the farmer firmly. “The doctor’s right. He is a scoundrel, a regular bla’guard, as you’d soon have found out, if old John Monnick hadn’t put me up to his games.”“Bill, dear Bill!” sobbed the girl.“Well, ain’t he? If he’d been a man, and had cared for you, wouldn’t he have come fair and open to me, as you hadn’t no father nor mother? And if he’d meant right, would he have sneaked off like a whipped dog, as he did to-night!”“Your brother is right, Fanny,” said the doctor quietly.—“Now, let’s get back, and I can ease the minds of all at the Rosery. It was at Sir James’s wish that I came; and I have been setting the police at work to find your whereabouts.”“Sir James always was a gentleman,” said the farmer, giving his head a satisfied nod; “and it puzzles me how he could have had a cousin who was such a bla— Well, it’s no use for you to nip my arm, Fan; he is a bla’guard, and I’m beginning to repent now as I didn’t half-kill him, and—”“There goes the last bell,” cried the doctor, hurriedly interposing; and taking the same compartment as the brother and sister, he earned poor weak Fanny’s gratitude on the way down by carefully taking her brother’s thoughts away from Arthur Prayle and her escapade, and keeping him in conversation upon questions relating to the diseases of horses, cows, and sheep.

There was a deeply interested gathering in one of the large offices of the Waterloo Station, where a clerk in his shirt-sleeves was seated beneath a gas-jet making entries, what time two porters, also in shirt-sleeves, and by the light of other gas-jets, seemed to be engaged in a game of “Catch.” They were, however, not displaying their deftness with balls, but with small packets, parcels, baskets, bundles of fishing-rods, and what seemed to be carefully done-up articles fresh from tradespeople’s shops. The game seemed to consist of one porter taking a packet from a great basket upon wheels, and saying something before he jerked it rapidly to the other porter, who also said something and deposited the packet in another basket on wheels; while, apparently, the clerk at the desk where the gas-jet fluttered and whistled as it burned, carefully noted the score in a book. Further inspection, however, showed the casual observer that the men were not at play, but busy manipulating parcels and preparing them for despatch to their various destinations. The business came to a standstill all at once, as a couple of guards just off duty, and an inspector and ticket-collector, came sauntering in, chatting loudly one to the other about some incident that had just taken place upon the platform.

“Ah, you fellows get all the fun,” said the clerk, sticking his pen behind his ear, and slewing round his tall stool, as the guards made themselves comfortable, one upon a wine-hamper, and the other upon an upturned box; while the ticket-collector seated himself upon the edge of a huge pigeon-hole, which necessitated his keeping his body in a bent position, something after the fashion of that held by occupants of the pleasant dungeon known in the Tower as “The Little Ease.”

“Well, we get all the rough as well,” said one of the guards, “and some ugly customers too.”

“Regular ’lopement, then?” said one of the porters, scratching his ear with a piece of straw.

“Regular, my lad,” said one of the guards. “You saw the gent before, didn’t you, George?”

“Yes; he was walking up and down the platform for half an hour first,” said the ticket-collector. “I hadn’t noticed the other, because he was outside the gate waiting.”

“Well, tell us all about it,” said the clerk.

“Oh, there ain’t much to tell,” said the guard who had spoken first. “I saw the girl get in at Lympton, regular stylish-looking body, nice figure, closely veiled. I thought it meant sixpence perhaps; and took her bag, and ran and opened a first-class, when she quite staggered me as she says: ‘Third class, please.’ Well, of course that made me notice her more than once, as we stopped coming up, and I could see that she had been crying and was in trouble.”

The little party grew more interested and drew closer.

“Somehow, I couldn’t help seeing that there was something wrong, for she tried to avoid being noticed, squeezing herself up in the corner of the compartment, and then being very fidgety at every station we stopped at, till I slapped my leg as I got into the break, and says to myself: ‘She’s off!’”

“Ah, it would look like it,” said the clerk, nodding, and letting his pen slip from behind his ear, so that it fell, sticking its nib like an arrow in the boarded floor.

“Yes; I wasn’t a bit surprised to see a dark good-looking gentleman on the platform, peeping into every carriage as the train drew up; and I managed to be close to her door as the gent opened it and held out his hand.”

“‘Why didn’t you come first-class, you foolish girl?’ he says in a whisper; and she didn’t answer, only gave a low moan, like, and let him help her out on to the platform, when he draws her arm right through his, so as to support her well, catches up her little bag, and walks her along towards George here; and I felt so interested, that I followed ’em, just to see how matters went.”

“You felt reg’lar suspicious then?” said one of the porters.

“I just did, my lad; so that as soon as they’d passed George here, him giving up the girl’s ticket, I wasn’t a bit surprised to see a great stout fellow in a velveteen jacket and a low-crowned hat step right in front of ’em just as my gent had called up a cab, lay one hand on the girl’s arm, and the other on the gent’s breast, and he says, in a rough, country sort o’ way: ‘Here, I want you.’”

“Just like a detective,” said the clerk.

“Not a bit, my lad—not a bit,” said the guard. “Reg’lar bluff gamekeeper sort of chap, who looked as if he wouldn’t stand any nonsense; and as soon as she saw him, the girl gives a little cry, and looks as if she’d drop, while my gent begins to bluster.—‘Stand aside, fellow,’ he says. ‘How dare you! Stand back!’ The big bluff fellow seemed so staggered by the gent’s way, that for just about a moment he was checked. Then he takes one step forward, and look here—he does so.”

“Oh!” shouted the clerk, for the guard brought down one muscular hand sharply upon his shoulder and gripped him tightly.

“Lor’ bless you, my lad! that’s nothing to it. He gripped that gent’s shoulder so that you a’most heard his collar-bone crack; and he turned yellow and gashly like, as the other says to him with a growl as savage as a bear, ‘You want to wed my sister, eh? Well, you shall. I won’t leave you till you do.’”

“That was business and no mistake,” said the other guard; “wasn’t it?”

“Ay, and he meant business too,” continued the first speaker, “for the gent began to bluster, and say, ‘How dare you!’ and ‘I’ll give you in charge;’ and then he calls for a policeman; and then ‘Tak’ howd o’ my sister,’ says the big fellow.”

“Ay, that was it,” said the ticket-collector. “‘Tak’ howd,’ just like a Yorkshireman.”

“George there catches the girl, as was half-fainting; and as there was getting quite a crowd now, the bluff fellow tightens his grip, brings Mr Gent down on his knees, and gives him such a thrashing with a stout ash-stick as would have half killed him, if we hadn’t interfered; and Thompson come up and outs with his book. ‘Here,’ he says, just like one of the regular force; ‘I’ll take the charge.’”

“When,” said the second guard, “up jumps my gentleman, and made the cleanest run for it, dodging through the crowd, and out through the ticket-office, you ever saw.”

“Ay,” said the ticket-collector; “and he run round so as to get to the waterside, and over Charing Cross Bridge.”

“And did Thompson take up the countryman?”

“No,” said the guard. “He gave his name out straightforward—William Cressy, Rayford, Berks. ‘I’m there when I’m wanted,’ he says. ‘This here’s my sister as that chap was stealing away, and I’ve thrashed him, and I’ll do it again if ever we meets.’”

“And then the crowd gave a cheer,” said the ticket-collector.

“And Thompson put his book in his pocket,” said the second guard.

“And the countryman walked the girl off to a cab, put her in, jumped in himself, and the crowd cheered again; and that’s about all.”

“And I’d have given him a cheer too, if I’d been there,” said the clerk, flushing. “Why, if a fellow as calls himself a gentleman was to treat my sister like that, I’d half-kill him, law or no law.”

“And serve him right too,” was chorused.

Then the business of catching parcels began again; the indignant clerk continued his entering; a little more conversation went on in a desultory manner, and the guards and ticket-collector off duty walked home.

The station was disturbed by no more extraordinary incident that night. Trains went and trains came, till at last there was only one more for the neighbourhood of Scarlett’s home.

Doctor Scales was standing on the platform thinking, and in that confused state of mind that comes upon nearly every one who is in search of a person in the great wilderness of London, and has not the most remote idea of what would be the next best step to take. He was asking himself whether there was anything else that he could do. He had been to the police, given all the information that he could, and the telegraph had been set in motion. Then he had been told that nothing more could be done—that he must wait; and he was waiting, and thinking whether he ought to telegraph again to Scarlett; to take the last train due in a few minutes, and go down again; or stay in town, and see what the morrow brought forth.

“I’ll stay,” he said at last; and he turned to go, feeling weary and in that disgusted frame of mind that comes over a man who has been working hard mentally and bodily for days, and who then finds himself low-spirited and thoroughly vexed with everything he has done. It is a mental disease that only one thing will cure, and that is sleep. It was to find this rest that the doctor had turned, and was about to seek his chambers, when he came suddenly upon the object of his search—Fanny Cressy—closely veiled and hanging heavily upon the great arm of her stalwart brother.

“You here, Cressy?” cried the doctor excitedly.

“Yes, sir,” said the farmer fiercely. “Hev you got to say anything again it?”

“No, man, no! But you—you have found your sister.”

“I hev, sir,” said Cressy, more fiercely still. “Hev you got anything to say again that—orher?” he added slowly.

“No, no; only I say, thank heaven!” cried the doctor fervently. “I came up to try and overtake her.”

“You did, sir? Then thank you kindly,” said the farmer, changing the stout walking-stick he carried from one hand to the other, so as to leave the right free to extend for a hearty shake. He altered his menacing tone too, and seemed to interpose his great body as a sort of screen between his sister and the doctor as he continued in a low voice, only intended for the other’s ear: “Don’t you say nowt to her; I’ve said about enough.—And it’s all right now,” he said, raising his voice, as if for his sister to hear. “Me and Fanny understands one another, and she’s coming home wi’ me; and if any one’s got to say anything again her for this night’s work, he’s got to talk to William Cressy, farmer, Rayford, Berks.”

There was a low sob here; and the doctor saw that the drooping girl was clinging tightly to her brother’s arm.

“I am sure,” said the doctor quietly, “no one would be so brutal as to say anything against a trusting woman, who placed faith in a scoundrel.”

“Doctor Scales!” cried Fanny, raising her head as she was about to say a few words in defence of the man she loved.

“You hold your tongue, Fan,” said the farmer firmly. “The doctor’s right. He is a scoundrel, a regular bla’guard, as you’d soon have found out, if old John Monnick hadn’t put me up to his games.”

“Bill, dear Bill!” sobbed the girl.

“Well, ain’t he? If he’d been a man, and had cared for you, wouldn’t he have come fair and open to me, as you hadn’t no father nor mother? And if he’d meant right, would he have sneaked off like a whipped dog, as he did to-night!”

“Your brother is right, Fanny,” said the doctor quietly.—“Now, let’s get back, and I can ease the minds of all at the Rosery. It was at Sir James’s wish that I came; and I have been setting the police at work to find your whereabouts.”

“Sir James always was a gentleman,” said the farmer, giving his head a satisfied nod; “and it puzzles me how he could have had a cousin who was such a bla— Well, it’s no use for you to nip my arm, Fan; he is a bla’guard, and I’m beginning to repent now as I didn’t half-kill him, and—”

“There goes the last bell,” cried the doctor, hurriedly interposing; and taking the same compartment as the brother and sister, he earned poor weak Fanny’s gratitude on the way down by carefully taking her brother’s thoughts away from Arthur Prayle and her escapade, and keeping him in conversation upon questions relating to the diseases of horses, cows, and sheep.

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