PART 2--"FORSAKING ALL OTHER."

AFTER A LAPSE.

The Lawford people were disappointed, for the Rector thought it better,

and the Portlocks made no objection, that the wedding should be as

simple as possible, so there were no preparations to signify, only such

as were made in a quiet way, and Luke Ross read one morning in the

`Times' that Cyril Mallow, second son of the Rev Eli Mallow, had

espoused Sage, daughter of the late Elias Portlock, Esq, of Melby, and

niece of Joseph Portlock, Esq, the Hall, Kilby, Lawford. He had a

letter afterwards from his father, giving him fuller information, and

saying that Lord Artingale was at the wedding, and Cyril Mallow's

sisters were the bridesmaids, and that the young married people went off

directly to Paris. That Frank Mallow had not gone back to Australia,

and nobody knew when he would go. That Portlock the churchwarden had

been very angry at having _Esquire_ put after his name in the

announcements; that he was very friendly when he met the tanner in the

market-place, and desired to be kindly remembered to Luke.

The letter concluded with a hope that Luke would soon come down, but he

was not to come unless he felt that he did not mind a bit; that they had

a very pleasant little body for schoolmistress now, and that Humphrey

Bone seemed just the same as ever, and that was all at present from

Luke's affectionate father, Michael Ross.

Not quite all at present, for there was a postscript stating that the

Rector was a good deal in trouble about his eldest girl, who seemed to

be getting in a bad way, but all the same, both she and her sister were

engaged to be married.

Luke Ross put the letter away in a drawer with a sigh, and turned to his

reading working as hard as man could work, for in this he found his only

relief from the troubled thoughts that oppressed him, while the change

that had taken place in him in a few months was almost startling.

As the time went on the Rector, far from feeling lighter in his burdens

now that he had Cyril comfortably settled down, had two new sources of

trouble: in his son Frank, who had made the rectory, or the town house

that had been taken and handsomely furnished, his home. He said that he

was going back to Australia, but not yet. Perhaps he should take a wife

back with him.

The Rector's other trouble was Julia, who had grown so pale and weak

that at last, partly in obedience to Mr Perry-Morton's desire, it was

settled that Sir Emerton Riffley should be consulted, and that eminent

and fashionable physician was asked to call.

Sir Emerton did call, and after a long visit, as he saw his patient had

no complaint to make, none to describe, he settled that it was want of

tone.

"There is a want of heart action, my dear madam," he said, though there

were times when poor Julia's heart beat at a fearful rate.

"But you don't think--"

"Oh, dear me, no! Oh, de-_ar_ no! A course of tonic medicine, a little

alteration in diet, and a short stay at the seaside will quite restore

us."

"Do you think Brighton?" said Mrs Mallow.

"Excellent," said Sir Emerton; "and it would benefit you as well."

"Or Bognor?"

"Nothing could be better."

"Perhaps Hastings?"

"My dear madam, if I had the choosing of a place for your daughter's

residence for the present, I should decidedly say Hastings," replied the

great physician, rising from the side table, where he had been writing

out a prescription precisely the same as that which he had written for

hundreds of other young ladies in his time; and then, after a very

courtly smile and bow, he left the drawing-room. The Rector was

summoned, and the next day the family was staying at the "Queen's"

Hotel.

"There, Julia," cried Cynthia, when they had been down a few days, "I

think this is delicious, though we might just as well have stayed at

Lawford. I don't know, though; I like the seaside, and we shall be as

free here as at home in the dear old woods."

Julia shuddered.

"Oh, you foolish girl! There, don't think of that again. Let's enjoy

ourselves while we can. The Perry-Mortons will be here soon."

"Are they coming down?" said Julia, with a look of dismay.

"Yes. Harry's aversion wrote to papa this morning, saying that they

should be at Hastings on Saturday, so we've three whole days clear.

What did Sage say in her letter?"

"Very little," replied Julia. "She said that Cyril had had some little

trouble though at his office."

"I'm not surprised," said Cynthia, "but I hope he won't lose that."

"Hadn't we better turn back, Cynthia?" said her sister, with an uneasy

glance round. "There are no people here."

"That's why I came," said Cynthia, merrily. "I like getting away to

where we can be free. Come along; I'll help you down."

She held out her hand, but Julia did not take it, and after threading

their way amongst the huge rocks and _debris_ fallen from the cliffs at

the eastern end of the town, they started onward, keeping close to the

water where they could, but oftener upon the shingle beneath the

towering cliffs, along whose giddy edges some children were playing, as

if safe as the gulls that softly winged their way above their heads.

"This is just what I like," said Cynthia. "There, I've made one of my

feet wet. Never mind; sea water does not give colds. Isn't it a grand

bit of coast, Julie? But, I say, suppose Bogey was to pop up now from

behind one of those great pieces of rock. Oh, how stupid I am. Julie:

darling sister, don't faint."

"No, no. I am better," exclaimed Julia, across whose face a spasm of

dread had darted.

"It was dreadfully silly of me, dear, but don't you mind what I said.

Why, Julie, we are as safe here as if we were in our own rooms. Nobody

could come down those cliffs, and I feel sure that you will never see

that creature again. There, be a woman. He could not tell that we were

down here. Now, could he?"

"Cynthia," said Julia, after a few moments' pause, and as she spoke she

gazed straight out to sea, "shall you think me very weak and foolish if

I tell you what I think?"

"No, no, of course not," said Cynthia, glancing furtively about, "only

do try to be more firm."

"I do try," said Julia, with a catching of the breath, "so hard--so very

hard; but that man seems to be my fate, and I feel now that go where I

may, or do what I may, he is always close at hand watching for me. Even

now I expect to see him waiting by some of these rocks."

"Nonsense! foolish girl," said Cynthia.

"And that, strive as I will, he will some day take me away."

"What!" cried Cynthia, laughing merrily, "take you away!"

"Yes, dear," said her sister, solemnly. "I feel it. I am sure of it."

"But oh, what nonsense, Julie! You must not let him. You give way to

such thoughts. How can you be so foolish?"

"Is it foolish? I strive against the thoughts till I feel half mad, but

I cannot get rid of them, and his words are ever ringing in my ears.

Oh, Cynthia, sometimes I feel as if it is in vain to fight against my

fate, and that I may as well be resigned."

"Oh, Julie, Julie, Julie!" cried the spirited little maiden. "What am I

to do to you--what am I to say? Shall I whip you, or scold you, or have

you sent to bed without any dinner? It is too dreadful, and you shall

not give way like this. Why, for shame! I know somebody who is dying

of love for you."

"Don't name him, Cynthy dear; I detest the sight of him and his

sisters."

"No, no, I mean dear Harry's friend, Mr Magnus."

"Poor Mr Magnus!" said Julia, dreamily. "I am very glad he is well

again."

"But he is not quite well yet, poor dear man. I think a short stay at

Hastings would do him good," said Cynthia, archly.

"It was very brave and manly of him to do what he did," said Julia,

sadly. "I can never thank him enough."

"Hush I walk faster; let's get beyond those rocks, Julie," cried her

sister, excitedly. "He's coming now."

"Ah!"

Julia's breath came with a spasm of agony, and her features seemed

rigid.

"He hasn't seen us yet," whispered Cynthia, but with the same excitement

in her voice. "Make haste."

They almost ran on now, till they were obliged to pause for breath.

"Don't look round," whispered Cynthia, "whatever you do."

"And we are farther than ever from the town!" moaned Julia, as she

clasped her hands.

"Well, what does that matter?" cried Cynthia. "Why, Julie, how pale you

look!"

"Oh, pray come on faster--faster," whispered Julia.

"No, no, poor boy, I've led him dance enough. He may catch me now.

Why, Julie," she cried, "I declare I've frightened you. Oh, my dear

sissy, I did not mean your Bogey: I meant mine. I wrote and told him we

should be walking along here about four o'clock, but, of course, I never

for a moment expected he would come."

Poor Julia held one hand across her eyes as she drew a long breath of

relief, and holding by her sister's arm she walked slowly on, with her

eyes closed, for they were now on a smooth stretch of sand.

"You must not be so ready to take alarm at nothing, dear. Oh, I say,

Julie," Cynthia added, piteously, "let's turn back, or he won't see us.

No--yes. Hark! it's all right; he has seen us. I can hear his step.

Don't look round, Julie," she whispered, joyously. "Oh, dear, why it's

you, Harry. However did you come down?"

"Train, to be sure," cried the young man, heartily. "Why, you both look

brown already. So glad to see you looking better, Julia."

"Well, it was very nice of you to come, Harry. But how's poor Mr

Magnus?"

"Heaps better. I persuaded him to come down with me for a week. I left

him at the hotel."

"Oh, you good boy," whispered Cynthia; and then they strolled gently on

till they were a long distance from the last houses in the town. The

sun made the calm sea shimmer like damasked silver, and in the

transparent pools the water was many-tinted with the reflections from

the green and grey and yellow cliffs; and, as such people will, both

Cynthia and Harry grew more and more selfish, taking it as a matter of

course that Julia should grow fatigued and seat herself upon one of the

rocks that had fallen from above, to be ground, and beaten, and polished

smooth on one side, while the other was roughened with the limpets and

acorn barnacles that crusted it like a rugged bark.

In fact, they forgot Julia in the intense interest of their pursuit as

they wandered on, for Cynthia had to be helped from rock to rock, as

they went out as far as the water would allow, and she had to make

daring jumps of a few inches over rushing, gurgling streams of water

that ebbed and flowed amongst the stones. Then the tiny point of her

pretty shoe was always poking itself inquiringly into crevices, out of

which Harry had to fish red anemones or unusually large limpets or

mussels. Then _they_ had a mania for gathering enough periwinkles for

tea, Cynthia declaring that she would wriggle them out with a pin and

eat them. But when about a dozen had been found, the search was given

up for some other pursuit; perhaps it was a well-ground oyster-shell,

all pearly, or a peculiar bit of seaweed; and once, close up under the

cliffs where the path was very narrow, and the sea right in, the rocks

were so rough and the way so awkward that Harry had to help little

Cynthia very much--so much, that if a boat had been passing its

occupants would have seen two handsome young faces in extremely close

proximity. But no boat was passing to make Cynthia turn so scarlet as

she did, hence the marvel; and they went on in their love-dream a little

longer, thinking what a wonderfully bright and happy world this was, and

how beautiful sea, sky, rock, and beach had become, glorified as they

were by their young happy love, when Cynthia suddenly awoke.

"Oh, Harry!" she exclaimed, with the tears in her eyes, "how cruel, to

be sure. Poor Julie! Let's make haste back."

"Oh, yes. She'll be rested by now."

"I was so thoughtless," half sobbed Cynthia.

"She is so nervous, and she will be thinking she sees that dreadful

man."

"Who is not likely to be here, my darling," said Artingale, smiling.

"No, but let's make haste back," cried Cynthia.

Artingale seemed disposed to loiter, but Cynthia was in earnest, and

they hurried back towards where they had left Julia seated on a rock,

one of the many scattered about.

It was time they did, for Artingale's words just uttered were not the

words of truth.

PART TWO, CHAPTER TWO.

THE STRAY LAMB.

"Don't be alarmed, Cynthia; these rocks are so much alike, and we

wandered a good way."

"But I am alarmed, Harry; I am sure it was here."

"It does look like the place, certainly," he said; "but there is another

heap further on."

"No, no, this must be the stone. I remember that little pool of clear

water, and the patch of seaweed. Oh, we ought not to have left her!"

Artingale could not endorse those words, for he thought it very pleasant

to have been alone with Cynthia for the past ten minutes--half an hour--

hour--or two hours--he had not the slightest idea how long it had been;

but the trouble and dread in her agitated young face were so marked that

he began to throw off the good-humoured carelessness he felt disposed to

show, and bestirred himself to find the missing girl.

"Give me your hand, pet," he said, "and let's get on to the next pile.

I am sure we shall find her there."

"No, no, Harry. The more I look the more I feel sure it was here we

left her."

"Well, perhaps it was, little one," he said, looking down into the

earnest eyes, "and she has grown tired, and begun to walk back. We

shall find her sitting down waiting for us."

Cynthia gave him her hand, and they ran for a short distance over the

shingle; but it was too rough to go far save at a walk, and then,

reaching another of the little wildernesses of masses of rock, the

result of a fall from the towering cliffs, they searched about for a few

minutes without result, and then walked a little way down towards the

sea, so as to command a view back towards the battery and the works at

the east end of the town.

There was a man tramping along with a shrimping net over his shoulder,

an old lady seated on the shingle under an umbrella, a girl with a

yellow-covered book perched upon a stone, and about twenty yards out an

elderly gentleman with his trousers tucked up, standing in the water

reading a newspaper; not a soul besides on that unfrequented part.

"Oh, Harry!" gasped Cynthia, who was ready to burst into tears.

"Why, you little goose," he said tenderly; "there's nothing to be afraid

of. She isn't along here, that's certain."

"And yet you say there's nothing to be afraid of," half sobbed Cynthia.

"Why, of course not. She hasn't gone back, or we should see her

somewhere. We must have passed her. I know she must have gone close up

to the cliff, so as to find a shady place. All along here is so much

bigger and wilder than any one would think."

"She must have gone up on the cliff, Harry."

"Well, dear," he said, laughing, "you and Julie are the nearest approach

to little angels I ever knew, but even you two have no wings, and I

don't think Julie would get up the face of that cliff without."

"Oh, pray, Harry, don't talk so, now," she cried; "I'm afraid--I don't

know what to think."

"Don't be afraid, little one," he said, encouragingly, "we'll find her

directly."

"Is it possible that any of the cliff has fallen, and crushed her?" said

Cynthia, piteously.

He started, but spoke the next moment decisively.

"No. Such a fall would have made a noise like thunder. Depend upon it

she has changed her place, and we shall find her fast asleep: unless the

Red Rover, or some other dashing pirate, has landed, and carried her off

in his yacht."

"Oh, Harry, you make fun of it all," cried Cynthia, with a stamp of her

little foot, which crushed a tender, young, and unoffending mussel; "and

I feel now quite a chill of horror lest that dreadful man--Oh, look,

look, Harry! Who is that?"

She grasped his arm convulsively, and pointed at a part of the cliff,

about a couple of hundred yards farther away from the town, where a

figure could be seen cautiously climbing from ledge to ledge along the

face of the stones, and in a position where a false step or a slip must

have meant his falling a battered and bleeding mass upon the shingle

beneath.

There was a fascination in the scene that held them breathless, and as

Cynthia's hand glided into his, and clung to him convulsively, Artingale

felt the little palm grow wet and cold.

It was a most daring proceeding, and such as none but the most reckless

would have attempted; but the man seemed to be coolly climbing on,

apparently without effort, though every here and there he had to cling

to the face of the rock, and remain motionless, as if to gather breath.

"By George!" exclaimed Artingale at last, as the man climbed nearer and

nearer to where the grass was just visible on the topmost edge, "he's a

plucky fellow, Cynthy. I wouldn't do that for a good deal."

"But, Harry--don't you see--don't you see?"

"Only that he is close to the top, dear. There, don't look if it makes

you giddy. I'll tell you. He's close up now, and he has got hold of

the grass and stuff. Now he's over the top edge. He's safe enough.

And, yes--there, you can look up now. He's all right, and out of

sight."

"But, Harry, Harry," panted Cynthia, "didn't you see? It was that man."

"What man?"

"The man who follows poor Julie."

"By Jove!" cried Artingale; and he started as if to try and follow the

man up the cliff.

"No, no," cried Cynthia, clinging to him; "don't leave me, Harry, don't

try to climb that dreadful cliff; come and find poor Julie. Oh, Harry,

why did we go away?"

For answer, Artingale ground his teeth, and hurried his companion along

until they were in front of the rock on which they had left Julia

seated.

Mass after mass lay singly here; and nearer to the cliff huge pieces

were piled one upon the other in confusion just as they had fallen from

time to time on splitting off from the face of the precipice.

Helping his companion over some of the rough blocks, and threading his

way amongst others, Artingale uttered a cry of satisfaction.

"Here she is, Cynthy!" he exclaimed; and then he stopped short in alarm,

so strange and haggard did Julia appear.

She was seated upon a piece of rock at the foot of a large shelly mass,

her cheek resting on the stone, and her hands pressed to her face.

"Julie, dear Julie!" cried her sister, springing to her side; and as

Julia heard her voice she slowly lowered her hands, and displayed a

countenance alternately flushed and deadly pale, while her eyes looked

wild and strange.

"Has he gone?" she whispered, giving a frightened glance round.

"Oh, Julie, tell me, has that man been here--has he dared to speak to

you?" cried Cynthia, passionately.

"Yes; he came directly you had gone. He was there, there," she

whispered, pointing towards the cliff. "Take me away: please take me

away."

Her words and looks were those of some frightened child, and on

Artingale taking one of her hands she clung to him convulsively.

"But, Julie dear, tell me," cried Cynthia, whose face was flushed and

angry; "tell me--"

"No, no. Not now. Not now. Let us get back to the hotel. I dare not

stay here."

Artingale and Cynthia exchanged glances, as they led the frightened girl

out from amidst the piled-up rocks into the broad sunshine, and then

slowly along the sandy portions of the beach, with the result that she

gradually became more calm, but she checked at once the slightest effort

made by her sister to gain any information. Even when, at a sign from

Cynthia, Artingale drew back, she did not speak, but turned timidly and

waited for him to come alongside.

"Don't leave me, Harry," she said plaintively; so he joined them again,

and walked with the sisters right up to the hotel, where Julia now

seemed to have grown more herself; but there was that in her countenance

which set Artingale thinking very deeply, and as soon as he had parted

from the sisters, he went straight to James Magnus, whom he found in his

room seated by the open window, and gazing out to sea.

PART TWO, CHAPTER THREE.

PLAYING DETECTIVE.

"I say, old fellow, I've got some news for you that ought to make you

well in half-an-hour," exclaimed Artingale.

"What's that?" said Magnus, eagerly.

"That scoundrel who gave you the ugly cut on the head is down here."

"Down here!" cried Magnus, with his pale face flushing.

"Yes; and he has seen and insulted Julia Mallow."

A deadly pallor came over the countenance of the artist once more, as he

rose from his chair, and caught his friend by the shoulder.

"Harry," he said hoarsely, "you found out my secret when I thought it

was hidden deeply away. You are right; your news does give me strength,

and I shall live to kill that man."

"Well, old fellow, I would rather, for everybody's sake, that you were

not hung; but I don't wonder at what you say, for I feel just now as if

I could shove the beggar over the cliff. But set aside talking, we must

act. What is to be done?"

"Let us see Mr Mallow at once."

"Bah! He would hem and haw, and look rigid, and say we had better leave

the matter to the police."

"Very well, then, in Heaven's name let us speak to the police."

"What about, my dear fellow? What are we to say? Don't you see that we

are helpless. The man has kept outside the pale of the law; and

besides, suppose we have him caught--if we can--think of the unpleasant

_expose_, and how painful it would be to both of those poor girls. No,

we can't do that. It would be horrible, my dear fellow. Suppose the

scoundrel is trapped, and--I only say suppose--gets some sharp,

unscrupulous lawyer to defend him. It would be painful in the extreme."

Magnus began to walk up and down the room, looking agitated.

"What would you do?" he said at last.

"Well," said Artingale, after a pause, "I feel greatly disposed to take

the law in my, or our, own hands."

"Why do you say _our_?" asked Magnus, hoarsely.

"Because I look upon it as your case as much as mine. Look here, old

fellow, Cynthia and I both think you are the man who would make Julia

happy, and if you don't win her it is your own fault."

"And Perry-Morton?"

"Hang Perry-Morton! Confound him for a contemptible, colourless bit of

canvas--or, no, I ought to say brass, for the fellow has the impudence

of a hundred. A man without a pretension to art in any way pretending

to be a patron and connoisseur, and, above all, to be my brother-in-law.

Hang the fellow! I hate him; Cynthia hates him; and we won't have him

at any price. No, dear boy, we want you, and if you don't go in and win

and wear Julia, why, it is your own fault."

Magnus turned to the window, and stood looking out dreamily.

"Faint heart never won fair lady, Mag," cried Artingale, merrily; "and

how you, who have always been like a Mentor to this wandering

Telemachus, can be such a coward about Julia, I can't conceive. Not

afraid of the brothers, are you?"

"Pish! Absurd! How can she help her brothers!"

"Well, then, what is it?" Magnus turned upon him slowly, and gazed at

him fixedly.

"Harry," he said, "you love Cynthia?"

"By George! yes, with all my heart," cried the young man,

enthusiastically.

"Yes," said Magnus, "I am sure you do. Then it should be the easier for

you to think of a love where a man looks up so to the woman he worships

that he would sooner suffer than cause her a moment's pain, when,

knowing that she does not--that she cannot return his affection--"

"Hold hard. Now look here, my dear Magnus, don't let sentiment take the

bit in its teeth and bolt with you, or else we shall have a smash. Now

I say, look here, old man, why cannot Julia return your love?"

"It is impossible. She is engaged."

"Bah! what has such an engagement to do with it? I tell you I believe

that poor little Julia is perfectly heart-whole, and that the flower of

her affection--I say, that's pretty, isn't it?--I told you not to let

sentiment bolt with you, and I am talking like a valentine! But

seriously, old fellow, I am sure that Julia detests Perry-Morton."

"How can you be sure?" said Magnus, gloomily.

"Very easily, my cynical old sage. Don't sisters indulge in

confidences, and when one of the confidential sisters has a young man,

as people in the kitchen call it, doesn't she confide things to him?"

Magnus looked at him for a moment or two excitedly, but a gloom seemed

to settle upon him directly after, and he shook his head.

"No," he said, "it is hopeless; but all the same, Harry, we must, as you

say, put a stop to this annoyance. What do you propose?"

"There are two courses open, as Parliamentary people say."

"Yes; go on. You are so slow; you torture me."

"Well, not to torture you then, my dear boy, one course is to get a

private detective."

"No, no; absurd. I'd sooner employ the genuine article."

"The other is to make private detectives of ourselves, and quietly keep

watch and ward over our treasures--eh? `Our treasures' is good."

"Yes, that seems the wiser plan," said Magnus, thoughtfully. "But it

will be hard to manage."

"Where there's a will there's a way, my dear boy. You join with me, and

we'll manage it."

"You would not speak to Mr Mallow first?"

"No, my boy, we must take the matter in our own hands."

"And if we find this fellow annoying--the--the ladies?" said Magnus, in

a curiously hesitating way.

Artingale set his teeth hard, and spoke through them.

"The blackguard's too big to treat like a black beetle. But let that

rest, and remember the saying attributed to the celebrated Mrs Glasse

of cookery fame--a saying, by the way, that I'm told is not to be found

in her book--let us first catch our hare, which in this case is a fox,

or rather I ought to say a wolf. We'll decide afterwards how we will

cook him."

Magnus nodded, and walked up and down the room in a quick, nervous

fashion.

"That's right! that's capital," cried Artingale, merrily. "I thought my

news would make that sluggish blood of yours begin to move. By George,

there's nothing like a genuine love to make a man of you."

"Or a woman," said Magnus, gloomily.

"Get out! Rubbish! Come, come, no retrograde movements: forward's the

word. Now the next thing is for the knight to meet the lady in whose

defence he was wounded. I'll manage a meeting, or Cynthy will, and if

you don't make good use of your time I'll never forgive you. We'll

speak to the Rector after you have won a little on poor Julia. He's a

good fellow, and wants his girls to be happy. But by Jove, Magnus,

there's nothing like a rattling good crack on the head."

"Why?"

"Excites sympathy. Young lady finds out your value. Why, my dear old

boy, you look a hundred pounds better. Here, take your hat, and let's

go and have a ramble. The sea air and a bit of exercise will beat all

the doctor's tonics."

Magnus said nothing, but taking the cigar offered to him, he lit up, and

the two young men strolled off together, along by the sea.

"Show me the place where you left Miss Mallow," said Magnus at last.

"All right," was the reply; "but wouldn't it be better if we went up the

cliff and walked along the edge? I want to see where that scoundrel

came up; and we might meet him."

James Magnus looked intently in his friend's countenance, and could not

help noticing how hard and fixed the expression had become.

"It would not tire you too much?" he said.

"Oh no," replied Magnus, hastily, "let us do as you say."

Artingale noted the flush that came into his companion's face, and he

could see that it was more due to excitement and returning health than

to fever. And then, saying little but thinking a great deal of their

plans, they strolled on and on, leaving town and castle behind, and

having the glistening, ever-changing sea on one side, the undulating

spread of well-wooded hills and valleys in the Sussex weald upon their

left; but far as eye could reach no sign of human being.

"These cliffs are much higher than I thought for," said Artingale at

last, as he stopped for a moment to gaze down at the beach. "How little

the people look. See there, Mag, those stones lying below, you would

not think they were as high as you? Some of them weigh tons."

"Was it on one of those you left Miss Mallow seated?" said Magnus,

eagerly.

"Oh no, quite half a mile farther on, more or less. I don't know,

though, seashore distances are deceitful. That was the pile, I think,"

he continued, pointing, "there, below where you see that dark streak on

the face of the cliff."

"I see," said Magnus. "Come along."

"All right, but don't walk so close to the edge. You know, of course,

that a false step means death."

"Yes, I suppose so," replied Magnus, going close to where the weathered

cliff suddenly ceased and there was a perpendicular fall to the rough

stones beneath. "It looks an awful depth," he continued, gazing down as

if fascinated.

"Awful!" cried Artingale, "but hang it all, Mag, come away. You give a

fellow the creeps. You are weak yet; suppose you turn giddy."

"No fear," said Magnus, quietly; "but do you know, Harry, whenever I

look over from a height I quite realise how it is that some people end

their wretched lives by jumping down. There always seems to be a

something drawing you."

"Yes, I dare say," cried Artingale, with a shudder, "but if we are to

play amateur detectives here goes to begin. Now then, young fellow,

move on. It's agin the law to jump off these here places."

He spoke laughingly, and in supposed imitation of a constable, as he

took his friend by the wrist, and pulled him away from the giddy edge of

the cliff. But the next moment he was serious.

"Why, you wretched old humbug," he cried, "what are you talking about?

I've a good mind to go back."

"No, no, let's go on," said Magnus smiling, "I was only speaking

scientifically."

"Indeed," said Artingale, gruffly; "then don't talk scientifically any

more."

They walked on for some little distance in silence, Artingale keeping on

the dangerous side, as if he doubted his friend's strength of mind, and

looking down from time to time for the spot where they had found Julia,

and the head of the cliff where Jock Morrison had made his ascent.

"What should we do if we met the fellow?" said Magnus suddenly.

"I don't know quite," said Artingale, shortly. "Let's find him first.

Here, look here, Magnus, those are the stones! No, no, those--the grey

blocks; and that is where the blackguard got up. By George, however did

he manage it? The place is enough to make one shudder--Eh? What?"

Magnus had laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder, and was pointing to

where, about fifty yards away, a figure was lying, apparently asleep on

the short turf, not ten yards from the edge of the cliff; and in an

instant Artingale had sprung forward, recognising as he did the man of

whom they were in search.

PART TWO, CHAPTER FOUR.

LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE.

The two young men had no thought of the consequences that might ensue,

as they hurried over the short elastic turf towards where, almost a

giant among his kind, Jock Morrison lay prone upon his broad back, his

powerful arms crossed upon his chest, and his battered old soft felt hat

drawn over his face to shade it from the sun--rather a work of

supererogation, for the god of day would have had to work hard to tan it

of a richer brown.

Artingale was first, but Magnus was close behind, and as they saw the

man before them who had caused so much annoyance to, and so insulted

those they loved, the feeling of indignation in their breasts bubbled up

rapidly, and overflowed in hot passion before which that better part of

valour known as discretion was swept away. Artingale looked upon the

great fellow as something to be soundly thrashed, but Magnus, in spite

of his weakness, seemed as if his rage had regularly mastered him. He

saw in those brief instants, degrading as was the idea, a rival as well

as an enemy, and panting and excited he strove to be there first, so as

to seize the fellow by the throat, his weakness and suffering from his

late illness being forgotten in the one stern desire to grapple with

this man, and look at him face to face.

But Artingale was there first, and shouted to the fellow to get up, but

without eliciting any reply.

"Do you hear? Get up!" cried Artingale.

Still the man did not stir, but Magnus noted a slight motion of the

hairs of his thick beard, as if his lips had twitched slightly. In

other respects he was motionless, his arms folded across the deep chest

and the cap over his face.

"He's not asleep, he's shamming," cried Artingale angrily; and bending

down he snatched the hat from the fellow's face and sent it skimming

over the cliff, revealing a pair of fierce dark eyes glaring at him like

those of some wild beast.

"Now then, young gentlemen! what's the matter?" came now in a deep voice

like a growl.

"You scoundrel!" began Magnus, but he had over-rated his strength. His

illness had told upon him terribly, and he could neither speak, move,

nor act, but pale and haggard stood there holding his hand pressed upon

his breast.

"Who are you calling names?" said the fellow fiercely.

"Leave him to me," cried Artingale. "I'll talk to him."

"Oh, two of you, eh?" exclaimed Jack; "two of you to a man as is down.

Well, as I said before, and I say again, what's the matter?"

"Look here, you dog!" cried Artingale, planting his foot upon the man's

broad chest, but without eliciting a movement, "I know everything about

you, and where you come from."

"Oh, do you?" said the fellow with a chuckle. "And so do I know you.

You're a game preserver from Lincolnshire."

"Never mind who or what I am," cried Artingale, who felt in his

excitement as if he had never spoken worse in his life; "but just you

listen to me, you scoundrel. I know how you have followed and insulted

those two young ladies."

"What two young ladies? I don't know anything about two young ladies."

"I know that you have watched for their coming, and, knowing that they

were unprotected, you have tried to alarm them into giving you money, I

suppose, and so far you have escaped the police."

"Ho!" said the fellow, making Artingale's foot rise and fall, as he

indulged in a rumbling chuckle; "it's a police case, then, after all?

Lawford magistrates?"

"No, not now," cried Artingale, angrily. "Keep back, Magnus, I'll

manage him," he cried; "you're not fit. I say, it is not a police case

now."

"Oh!" growled the fellow, laughing defiantly, "what may it be, then?"

"A thrashing, you dog, for if ever there was a time when a gentleman

might dirty his hands by touching a blackguard it is now."

"Ho! it's a leathering is it, your lordship!"

"Yes," cried Artingale, "it's a thrashing now, you great hulking brute;

and after that, if ever you dare approach those ladies again--if ever

you speak to them, or look at them, or annoy them, directly or

indirectly, either here or down at home, I'll half kill you, and hand

you over afterwards to the police."

"Ho, you will, will you?" said the fellow, mockingly.

"And I--I--" cried Magnus, bending down and approaching his pale,

passion-distorted face to that of the great robust scoundrel at his

feet.

"Yes, I see there's two," growled the fellow. "And what'll you do?"

"_I'll shoot you like a dog_!" There was something horrible in the

intensity of hatred and passion contained in the low, hissing voice in

which these few words were uttered; and as he lay there and heard them

the great ruffian's brown face became of a dirty grey. But the look of

dread was gone on the instant, and his chest heaved as he indulged in a

mocking burst of laughter.

"All right," he said; "fire away, and if you do kill me, I'll come when

I'm a ghost and see you hung. There, be off both of you. This is free

land. This isn't Lawford, and I haven't been taking any of your

lordship's rabbuds this time."

"What are you doing here?" said Artingale.

"Doing here!" said Jock, musingly; "why don't you know I'm a Lawford

man?"

"Yes; I know that," cried Artingale.

"Well, my parson's down here; I miss him when he comes away."

"Get up, you scoundrel!" cried Artingale, throwing off the brown velvet

coat he was wearing, and taking off his watch and chain.

"Not I," growled the fellow. "There's lots o' room for you to pass,

man, and 'taint your path. That's the gainest road back."

"Get up?" roared Artingale, rolling up his sleeves over his white arms.

"Do you hear?"

"Oh, ah! I can hear," growled the fellow.

"Get up, then."

"Not I. It's comfortable here."

"You cowardly ruffian, get up!" roared Artingale.

"Nay, it's not me as is the coward," said Jock, coolly. "You're two to

one. Besides, I don't want to hurt your lordship."

"Get up!" roared Artingale again, but Jock did not move, only lay there

gazing mockingly in his face, making the young man's blood seem to

seethe with rage.

"Get up!" he roared once more.

"Weant!"

As the word left the ruffian's lips, Artingale's passion knew no bounds,

and before his companion realised what he was about to do, he had given

Jock Morrison a tremendous kick in the ribs.

The effect was instantaneous.

With a roar like that of an angry bull, the fellow scrambled to his

feet, and as Magnus sprang forward to seize him, he struck the artist

full in the chest, sending him staggering back to fall heavily, _hors de

combat_, for he was as weak almost as a child.

It was the work of moments, for even as he struck Magnus he turned upon

Artingale, receiving two heavy, well-directed blows, dealt in good

scientific style right in the jaw and cheek, but making no more of them

than if they had been slaps from the open hand of a boy, as he caught

the young man in a tremendous grip like that of a wrestler, and swayed

and struggled with his adversary to and fro, roused now to a pitch of

rage that was murderous.

Artingale knew it. He read it in the fierce eyes so close to his, as he

felt himself crushed against the great fellow's chest. He read it in

the grinding teeth, and felt it in the hot breath that came full in his

face, and he put forth all his strength and all the cultured activity

gained in lessons of the best athletic school. But it was all in vain,

for he felt as helpless as a boy in the giant's grip.

It was but the work of moments; a few struggles here and there, and the

knowledge forced upon him of the scoundrel's murderous aim before

Artingale felt himself swung from his feet as they neared the cliff, and

then, in spite of his manhood, he felt his blood turn cold.

He roused himself though for a supreme effort, and clutching his

adversary with all his might, he strove to recover his foot-hold.

But no--he was mastered. He could do nothing but hold on with all his

might, as he mentally swore that Jock Morrison should share his fate.

Vain oath, vain effort! There was a swing, a jerk, and what seemed to

be a paralysing blow upon his muscles, as he was forced away from his

hold, and the next instant he was falling headlong from the cliff-edge

into the void beneath.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

End of Volume Two.

PART TWO, CHAPTER FIVE.

WHAT PLAN NEXT?

James Magnus had just struggled to his knees, feeling half mad with rage

at his impotence, for it was only now that he fully realised how

terribly he had been reduced by his illness. Here before him was the

man whom he had to thank for his sufferings, and against whom for other

reasons as well he nourished a bitter hatred; and yet, instead of being

able to seize him by the throat and force the scoundrel to his knees, he

was as helpless as a child.

"Dog! villain!" he panted, as he staggered up, and made at the fellow;

but Jock Morrison gave him a contemptuous look for answer, and turned to

him, but seemed to alter his mind, and as if alarmed at what he had

done, started off at a brisk trot; while after vainly looking round for

help, Magnus tottered towards the edge of the cliff, his eyes starting

and the great drops of perspiration gathering upon his face.

For a few moments he dared not approach the extreme verge, for

everything seemed to be swimming before his eyes, but at last,

horror-stricken, and trembling in every limb, he went down on hands and

knees, crept to the spot where Artingale had gone over, and peered down,

expecting to see the mangled remains of his poor friend lying upon the

stones beneath.

"Ahoy!" came from below, in the well-known voice of Artingale; and then,

as Magnus saw his friend some twenty feet below, trying to clamber back,

he uttered a low sigh, and sank back fainting upon the turf.

For in spite of Jock Morrison's murderous intent, fate had been kind to

Harry Artingale, who had been hurled over the edge in one of the few

places where instead of going down perpendicularly, the friable cliff

was broken up into ledges and slopes, upon one of which the young man

had fallen and clung for his life to the rugged pieces of stone,

slipping in a little avalanche of fragments some twenty or thirty feet

farther than his first fall of about ten. Here he managed to check

himself, while one of the largest fragments of stone that he had started

in his course went on, and as he clung there he saw it leap, as it were,

from beside him, and a few seconds after there came up a dull crash from

where the stone had struck and splintered, two hundred feet below.

"I shall lose my nerve," he thought, "if I stop here;" and rousing

himself into action, he began to climb back, and was making his way up

the steep slope without much difficulty, when he saw his friend's

ghastly face for a moment, peering over the edge, and then it

disappeared.

"Poor old fellow, it has made him giddy," muttered Artingale, as he drew

himself up higher and higher, clinging close to the face of the slope

and placing his feet cautiously till he found himself with his hands

resting upon a ledge only a few feet below the top of the cliff.

If he could only get upon this ledge the rest would be easy, but unless

he could draw himself up by the strength of his muscles, he felt that he

must wait for help, and the task was one of no little difficulty, for

there was no firm hold for his hands.

He knew that if he waited for help he must lose his nerve by thinking of

his perilous position, while if he tried to draw himself up and did not

succeed in reaching the ledge he felt that he must fall.

He dared not pause to think of the consequences of that fall, for though

he had escaped so far, it was not likely that he would be so fortunate

again.

He was standing now with his feet on a piece of crumbling sandstone,

which was likely enough to give way if he tried to make a spring

upwards.

Still, there was nothing else to be done, and drawing in a deep breath,

he remained perfectly motionless before making the supreme effort.

His hands were only a few inches above his head, and he began searching

about with them now for a crevice into which he could thrust his

fingers, but the blind search was vain, and feeling that this was

hopeless, he let his eyes fall to scan the surface of the rock below his

chest for some fresh foothold; but there was none, unless he cut a niche

in the soft sandstone, and he had no knife. If he climbed to the right

he would be in no better position; if to the left, he would be in a

worse; so once more drawing a long breath, he began cautiously to draw

himself up higher and higher by sheer force of muscle, till his eyes

were level with the edge of the shelf; then an inch or two higher, and

then he felt that his hands were giving way--that he was falling--that

all was over, and that he must dashed to pieces, when, in his agony, he

saw an opening, a mere crack, across the shelf, but it was sufficient

for him to force in the fingers of one hand with a desperate effort, and

then, how he knew not, he placed the other beside it.

He could cling here and force feet and knees against the face of the

rock, and in the struggle of the next few moments he raised himself

higher, scrambled on to the ledge, rose panting and with every nerve in

his body quivering, seized hold of a stone above him, thrust his feet

into a niche or two, gained the top of the cliff, and, unable to keep up

the tension longer, he loosed the strain upon his nerves and sank down

beside his friend, trembling in every limb.

This, however, did not last many moments, for, shaking off the feeling

of his own horror, Artingale rose, drew down and buttoned his

wristbands, looking pityingly the while at his friend, and then caught

up his coat and threw it on.

The next moment he was kneeling beside Magnus, who soon after opened his

eyes.

"Ah, Harry," he said, feebly, "you didn't know what a miserable reed you

had for a friend."

"Nonsense, man! How are you? Did the blackguard hurt you?"

"No, scarcely at all. I'm weak as a rat. But you!"

"Oh, I'm all right. Only a little skin off my elbows and varnish off my

toes. Which way did the brute go?"

"Over the hill yonder," said Magnus. "Where he may go," said Artingale,

"for hang me if I go after him to-day. Why, confound him, he's as

strong as a bull. I couldn't have thought a man could be so powerful.

But let's get back, old fellow. Can you walk?"

"Oh yes, I'm better now," said Magnus feebly; "but I shall never forgive

myself for failing you at such a pinch."

"Never mind the failing, Jemmy: but pinch it was; the blackguard nearly

broke my ribs. One moment: let me look down."

He walked to the edge and looked over the cliff, realising more plainly

now the terrible risk he had run, for his escape had been narrow indeed,

and in spite of his attempt to preserve his composure, he could not help

feeling a peculiar moisture gathering in the palms of his hands. But he

laughed it off as he took Magnus's arm, and drew it through his own,

saying,--

"It's a great blessing, my dear boy, that I took off this coat. It

would have been completely spoiled."

"You had an awfully narrow escape."

"Yes; and it is almost a pity the brute did not kill me," said

Artingale, coolly.

"Harry!"

"Well, if he had, the police would have hunted the scoundrel down, then

he would have been hung, and little Julie could have rested in peace."

"And Cynthia?" said Magnus, with a sad smile.

"Ah, yes! poor little darling, she would have broken her heart. But I

say, old fellow, it's a pity the scoundrel got away. What are we to

do?"

"He must be taken," exclaimed Magnus, "at any cost. It was a murderous

attempt on your life."

"Humph! yes, but he might swear that I tried to throw him over first.

It was a fight, old fellow, and I got the worst of it."

"But he must be taken."

"No," said Artingale, "I think not, old fellow; his is a peculiar case,

and we can't be going into witness-boxes and answering all sorts of

questions. After to-day's adventure down below on the beach, I don't

see that we can move. No, Magnus, there are things that must be hushed

up, and this is one of them. But we must do something. I declare I'll

mount a revolver, and have a shot at the brute if he annoys them again,

legal or illegal."

"Impossible," said Magnus, bitterly.

"By Jove; if he'd only go down home again and get up to some of his

poaching tricks. I tell you what, Magnus, old man," he said, setting

his teeth, "I hope fate will never place me with my men down at Gatley,

going to meet a poaching party led by Jock Morrison. If she does--

well--"

"Well what?"

"I hope I sha'n't have a gun in my hand."

"You must persuade Mr Mallow to leave here."

"What I just as he has come down for Julia's health. No, my dear

fellow, you might just as well try to move a rock. But I say, our first

attempt at playing detectives don't seem to have been much of a

success."

"No," said Magnus, dreamily. "Let's get back."

"What are you thinking about, old man," said Artingale, after a pause.

"I was thinking whether the fellow could be bribed to go away."

"Oh, yes, easily," said Artingale, "and he'd go and come back next week,

and levy blackmail wherever the family went, while the very fact of his

having been paid off would give the affair an ugly look if ever we had

occasion to drag the scoundrel before the judge."

"Then what is to be done?" said Magnus, angrily, "the police must be

consulted."

"No: won't do," said Artingale, decisively. "Wait a bit, Jemmy, and

I'll hit upon some plan. Unfortunately, we live in these degraded times

when that fine old institution the press-gang is no more."

"This is no time for levity, Harry," said Magnus, bitterly.

"Levity! My dear boy, my feelings towards that fellow are full of

anything but levity. He nearly killed me, and that is no joke; and--oh!

horror of horror! I did not expect this--here's Perry-Morton."

He was quite right, for the idol of the early masters' clique was

advancing to meet them after failing to see poor Julia, who with

throbbing pulses and cheeks now pale, now burning with fever, was

sobbing in her sister's arms.

PART TWO, CHAPTER SIX.

UNSELFISH PROCEEDINGS.

"Frightened away? Not a doubt about it," said Artingale. "I feel as if

I had been a martyr, and offered myself up as a sacrifice."

"Martyr--sacrifice!" cried Cynthia, looking at the speaker keenly, and

with her bright little face flushing. "Now, Harry, I'll never forgive

you. I'm sure you've been keeping something back. There, see how

guilty you look! Oh, shame! shame!"

Artingale protested that he had been silent only from the best motives,

was accused of deceit and want of confidence, and ended by making a full

confession of the whole incident, after which he had to take Cynthia and

show her the exact spot before his shuddering little companion

condescended to forgive.

"And when was this, sir?"

"This day month," said Artingale, humbly, "and we have not seen him

since. Magnus and I have watched, and searched, and hunted, and done

everything possible; but, as I say, I think I have been the sacrifice.

He believes he killed me, and is afraid to show."

"Perhaps he has committed suicide out of remorse," said Cynthia.

"Just the sort of fellow who would," replied Artingale, with a dry look.

"Now you are laughing at me," cried Cynthia, pettishly. "I declare,

Harry, I believe you are tired of me, and want to quarrel. I've been

too easy with you, sir, and ought to have kept you at a distance."

More protesting and pardoning took place here, all very nice in their

way, but of no interest to any save the parties concerned.

"You must get Julie to come out more now," said Artingale. "Tell her

there is nothing to mind."

"I can't make poor Julie out at all," said Cynthia thoughtfully. "She

seems so strange and quiet. That man must have frightened her

dreadfully."

"Did she tell you about it?"

"Very little, and if I press her she shudders, and seems ready to burst

out sobbing. Then I have to comfort her by telling her that I am sure

she will never see him any more, and when I say this she looks at me so

strangely."

"What does mamma say?"

"Oh, only that Julie is foolish and hysterical. She doesn't understand

her at all. Poor mamma never did understand us girls, I'm sure," said

Cynthia, with a profound look of wisdom upon her little face.

"And papa?"

"Oh, poor dear papa thinks of nothing but seeing us married and--Oh,

Harry, I _am_ ashamed."

"What of?" he cried, catching her in his arms and kissing her tenderly.

"Why, Cynthy, I never knew before what a fine old fellow the pater is.

He is up to par in my estimation now."

"Is that meant for a joke, sir?" said Cynthia mockingly.

"Joke?--joke? I don't know what you mean."

"Never mind now; but you need not be so pleased about what papa says. I

think it's very cruel--wanting to get rid of us."

"I don't," exclaimed Artingale, laughing.

"Then you want to see poor Julie married to that dreadful Perry-Morton?"

"No, I don't; I want her to have dear old James Magnus. I say, Cynthy.

We won't be selfish, eh? We won't think about ourselves, will we?

Let's try and make other people happy."

"Yes, Harry, we will."

It was wonderful to see the sincerity with which these two young people

spoke, and how eagerly they set to making plans for other people's

happiness--a process which seemed to need a great deal of clinging

together for mutual support, twining about of arms, and looking long and

deeply into each other's eyes for counsel. Then Artingale's hair was a

little too much over his forehead for the thoughts of Cynthia to flow

freely, and it had to be smoothed back by a little white hand with busy

fingers. But that hair was obstinate, and it was not until the little

pinky fingers had several times been moistened between Cynthia's ruddy

lips and drawn over the objecting strands of hair that they could be

forced to retain the desired position.

After the performance of such a kindly service Artingale would have been

ungrateful if he had not thanked her in the most affectionate way his

brain could suggest, a proceeding of which, with all due modesty, the

young lady seemed highly to approve.

Then Harry's tie was not quite right, and the new collar stud had to be

admired, and a great deal more of this very unselfish _eau sucree_ had

to be imbibed before Julia again came on the _tapis_, her entrance being

heralded by a sister's sigh.

"Poor Julie!" said Cynthia.

"Oh, yes; poor Julia. Now, look here, pet, I dare say it's very

shocking, and if it were known the Rector would be sure to give me my

_conge_."

"Oh, I would never think of telling him, Harry."

"That's right. Well, as I was saying, if she marries Perry-Morton she

will be miserable."

"Horribly," assented Cynthia. "And if she marries old Magnus she will

be very happy."

"But are you sure that Mr Magnus really loves her?"

"He worships her. I'm sure of it."

"Then it would be wicked, wouldn't it, Harry, to keep them apart?"

"I should think it as bad as murder to keep us apart."

"Should you, Harry?"

"Yes." And more unselfish proceedings.

"Then, as papa and mamma have made a mistake, don't you think we ought

to help them?"

"Yes," said Artingale, "but how? Magnus hangs back. He says he is sure

that Julia does not think of him in the slightest degree. What do you

say?"

"I don't know what to say," cried Cynthia thoughtfully, "only that I am

sure she hates Perry-Morton. She says she does."

"But does she show any liking for Magnus?"

"N-no, I'm afraid not. But does that matter, dear?"

"Well, I should think not," replied Artingale thoughtfully. "Magnus

loves her very much, and I'm sure no girl could help loving him in

return. I almost feel jealous when he talks to you."

"No, you don't, Harry," retorted Cynthia, recommencing operations upon

the obstinate lock of hair.

"Then what is to be done?" said Artingale, at last, after another long

display of unselfishness.

"I'm sure I don't know, Harry. It almost seems as if Julia was ready to

let herself go with the stream. She is so quiet and strange and

reserved. I don't know what to make of her. She keeps fancying she

sees that man."

"But she don't see him."

"Oh no: it is impossible; but she is so changed. I find her sometimes

sitting and thinking, looking straight before her as if she were in a

dream. Bring Mr Magnus here more often."

"Here?"

"Well, no; to Lawford. I'll coax papa into asking him. Oh, I say, what

a capital idea!" cried Cynthia, clapping her hands. "I have it. Her

portrait!"

"Her portrait!" exclaimed Artingale, starting, as he recalled the scene

in his friend's studio.

"Yes; the very thing. You take him down to Gatley, and papa shall ask

Mr Magnus over to Lawford to paint Julia's portrait, and then there

will be such long sittings, Harry; and Mr Magnus will have to look at

her so patiently, and move this hand there and that hand here, and get

her into quite the correct pose. Oh, Harry, what fun!"

"Why, you cunning little witch," he exclaimed; "if Magnus does not jump

at the idea, he deserves to lose her."

Then there came a little more unselfishness and a little disinterested

proceeding, which was interrupted by the entrance of Julia herself,

looking very pale and sad. There was a far-off, distant aspect about

her eyes, as of one who was thinking deeply of some great trouble, but

she smiled affectionately when Cynthia spoke, after which the

conspirators exchanged glances, and Artingale went away.

PART TWO, CHAPTER SEVEN.

AN OFFER DECLINED.

They were to be busy times at the Rectory that winter, for the servants

left in charge heard that there was to be a great deal of company.

The Gatley domestics too had to make preparations, for Lord Artingale

intended to entertain that season. A room was set apart for Mr Magnus

the great artist. Miss Mallow's brothers were expected to come over

from the Rectory to shoot, and Mr Cyril Mallow, it was anticipated,

would be asked to bring his young wife and stay there at the fine old

house--a fact, for Sage was a member now of the Mallow family, and Harry

Artingale liked her as much as he disliked her husband.

There was plenty of gossip rife in Lawford, and on the strength of old

Michael Ross saying, when he was told that Mr Magnus the painter was

coming down, that his son Luke knew him, having met him at a London

club, the report ran through the place that Luke Ross was getting to be

quite a big man, and had become a friend of Lord Artingale.

"Not that that's much," said Fullerton, at the King's Head, "for the

young lord isn't what his father was. Old Lord Artingale wouldn't have

married one of Mallow's girls, I know, nor yet made boon companions of

those two sons and Luke Ross."

"I don't think you need put them all together," said Tomlinson, with a

sly laugh; "Luke Ross wouldn't be very good friends with the man who

stole his lass. If he would he's not the Luke Ross that he was when he

was down here."

In due time the blinds went up at Gatley and at the Rectory, and the

tradespeople who had been ready to discuss the shortcomings of the

Rector were obsequious enough in soliciting his orders now the family

had returned.

They had made a long stay at Hastings, for the Rector fancied it did

Mrs Mallow good. She seemed to smile more, and to look brighter, he

told himself, and he would stand and beam at her as he wheeled her couch

to the open window when it was fine, and watch her gazing at the sea

with the greatest of satisfaction.

Frank had made journeys to and from London, making at the latter place

Cyril's house at Kensington his head-quarters, and frequently being his

companion away from home.

Julia was no better, in spite of the opinion of the doctor, who said

that she had decidedly gained tone, and that the change now to her

native air would complete the cure; so the family returned to Lawford as

the winter drew near, and, as a matter of course, Lord Artingale soon

found his way back to Gatley.

There was some preparation too at Kilby, for Portlock said that it was

his turn to have the young folks to stay.

"They may go to the rectory as much as they like, mother,"--a title he

invariably gave Mrs Portlock, on the _lucus a non lucendo_

principle,--"but I mean to have them stay here; not that I'm

particularly fond of Master Cyril; but there, he's the little lassie's

husband, and it's all right."

"But you asked John Berry and Rue to come and bring the little ones,"

said Mrs Portlock.

"Well, I know that, old lady. Isn't Kilby big enough to hold the lot?

Let's have the place made a bit cheerful; I like to hear a good hearty

shout of laughter now and then, and you've taken to do nothing else

lately but grumble softly and scold."

"It's a wicked story, Joseph, and you know it," cried Mrs Portlock, as

the Churchwarden turned away from her and winked at the cat; "and as for

noise, I'm sure you make enough in the house without wanting more."

"Never mind, let's have more; and Cyril Mallow can shoot down the

rabbits, for they're rather getting ahead."

As he spoke he had been filling his pipe, and he now took out a letter,

read it, and slowly folded it up for a pipe-light, saying to himself--

"He's no business to want me to lend him a hundred pound after what I so

lately did for them as a start."

James Magnus had been invited to take Julia's portrait, the Rector,

artfully prompted thereto by Cynthia, accompanying the commission by a

very warm invitation to stay at the rectory as much as he could while

the portrait was in progress, as he heard that Mr Magnus was coming

down to Gatley.

Artingale dropped in at his friends studio on the very day that he

received the Rector's letter--of course by accident, based upon a hint

from Cynthia; and found Magnus sitting thoughtfully by his easel,

pretending to paint, but doing nothing.

"Why, Mag, you look well enough and strong enough now to thrash Hercules

himself, in the person of our gipsy friend."

"Yes, I feel myself again," was the reply. "By the way, Harry, I've had

an invitation to Lawford."

"Indeed! I'm very glad. I go down to-morrow."

"The Rector wishes me to paint his daughter's portrait."

"Not Cynthia's?"

"No, that of his daughter Julia."

"Why, Magnus," said Artingale, smiling to himself and laying his hand

upon his friend's arm, "could you wish for a greater pleasure?"

Magnus looked at him so fixedly for a few moments that Artingale felt

that he must be suspected; but it was not so, the artist only shook his

head, and there was a bitter look in his face, as he spoke again.

"Pleasure!" he said; "how can it be a pleasure to me? Harry, my boy,

how can you be so thoughtless. Do you think I could be guilty of so

dishonourable an act?"

"Dishonourable?"

"Yes," cried Magnus passionately. "Should I not go there on false

pretences to try and win that poor girl from the man to whom she is

engaged?"

"But, my dear fellow, it is a folly of her father's invention; she

detests this Perry-Morton, as every right-thinking, matter-of-fact girl

would. Why, the fellow dances attendance upon every woman of fashion,

and deserves to be encountered with any weapon one could seize. Tell

me, do you think it right that she should marry such a man?"

"No: certainly not. No more right than that she should be deluded into

marrying another man she did not love."

"But she would love you, Mag. My dear fellow, don't refuse to go.

Accept the offer for Julia's sake--for Cynthia's and mine, if you like.

Don't be scrupulous about trifles. I tell you she is a dear, sweet

girl, and I know your secret. She is heart-whole now, but if she began

to learn that there was some one who really loved her, she would fly to

him like a young bird does to her mate."

"Very pretty sophistry, Harry Artingale. When you have bad your fling

of life I should advise you to turn Jesuit."

"Don't talk stuff, my dear fellow. Take my advice. Go down with me at

once to Gatley, and make your hay while the sun shines. I guarantee the

result."

"What, that I shall be kicked out as a scoundrel?"

"Nonsense! kicked out, indeed! That you will win little Julia's heart."

"As I should deserve to be," continued Magnus, without heeding his

friend's words. "No, Harry, I am not blind. I can read Julia Mallow's

heart better, perhaps, than I can read my own, and I know that, whoever

wins her love, I shall not be the man. As to her marriage with this

wretched butterfly of the day, I can say nothing--do nothing. That

rests with the family."

"James Magnus," cried Artingale, angrily, "sophistry or no, I wouldn't

stand by and see the woman I loved taken from before my eyes by that

contemptible cad. The world might say what it liked about honour and

dishonour, and perhaps it might blame you, while, at the same time, it

will praise up and deliver eulogies upon the wedding of that poor girl

to Perry-Morton. But what is the opinion of such a world as that worth?

Come, come--take your opportunity, and win and wear her. Hang it all,

Jemmy! don't say the young Lochinvar was in the wrong."

"You foolish, enthusiastic boy," said Magnus, smiling, "so you think I

study the sayings or doings of the fragment of our people that you call

the world? No, I look elsewhere for the judgment, and, may be, most of

all in my own heart. There, say no more about it. I have made up my

mind."

"And I have made up mine," cried Artingale, sharply, "that you have not

the spirit of a man."

He left the studio hot and angry, went straight to his chambers, and

soon after he was on his way to Gatley, having determined to see Cynthia

at once for a fresh unselfish discussion upon Julia's state.

PART TWO, CHAPTER EIGHT.

A VISIT FROM BROTHER JOCK.

"Well," said Smithson, the tailor, as he looked up from a square patch

that he was inserting in the seat of a fellow-townsman's trousers, "the

parson has his faults, and as a family I don't like 'em, but when

they're down it do make a difference to the town."

This was as the cobble stones of the little place rattled to the beating

of horses' hoofs, while a bright-looking little equestrian party passed

along the main street; Cynthia mounted on a favourite mare belonging to

Lord Artingale, one which she was always pleading to ride, and one

whereon her slave loved to see her, though he always sent her over to

the rectory in fear and trembling, ordering the groom who took her to

give her a good gallop on the way to tame her down.

Not that there was the slightest disposition to vice in the beautiful

little creature, she was only spirited, or, as the people in his

lordship's stable said, "a bit larky," and when Cynthia was mounted

there was plenty of excuse for the young man's pride.

"I shall never have patience to ride an old plodding, humble-stumble

horse again, Harry," the little maiden used to say. "It's like sitting

on air; and she is such a dear, and it's a shame to put two such great

bits in her mouth."

"It is only so that you might check her easily, Cynthy," said Artingale,

anxiously. "You need not mind; with such a hand as yours at the rein

they don't hurt her mouth."

"But I'm sure they do, Harry," cried Cynthia; "and look how she champs

them up, and what a foam she makes, and when she snorts and throws up

her head it flies over my new riding-habit."

"Never mind, my beautiful little darling," he whispered; "you shall have

a new riding-habit every week if you like, only you must have the big

curb for Mad Sal. Oh, I'd give something if Magnus could reproduce you

now with one instantaneous touch of his brush, and--"

"Hush! you silly boy," she whispered reprovingly, as the mare ambled on.

"This is not the time and place to talk such nonsense."

Nonsense or no, it produced a very satisfactory glow in the little

maiden's heart--a glow which shone in her soft cheeks, and made her eyes

flash as they rode on.

These riding parties were very frequent, Cyril and Frank joining;

sometimes John Magnus, but never upon the days when Julia was prevailed

upon to mount.

For Cyril was supposed to be staying with his young wife at the farm,

but he passed the greater part of his time at the rectory, when he was

not at Gatley with his brother.

It was a pleasant time, for the roads were hard that winter, the air

crisp and dry, giving a tone to the nerves and muscles, and an

elasticity to the mind, that made even quiet James Magnus look more like

himself, while there were times when Julia looked less dreamy and pale,

and as if the thoughts of her persecutor were less frequent in her

breast.

Sage and she had grown more intimate, as if there were feelings in

common between them, the quiet toleration of Cyril's wife ripening fast

into affection, so that, as Cynthia's time was so much taken up by Lord

Artingale, Julia and Sage were a good deal together, the latter being

her sister-in-law's companion in her visiting rounds, when, to the Rev

Lawrence Paulby's satisfaction, she tried to counteract some of the

prevalent ill-feeling against the Mallow family by calls here and there

amongst the parishioners.

One place where they often called was at the ford of the river, to have

a chat with little Mrs Morrison, where somehow there seemed to be quite

a magnetic attraction; Cyril's wife sitting down in the neatly-kept

little place to gaze almost in silence at the wheelwright's pretty young

wife, while, as if drawn there against her will, Julia would stop and

talk.

The river was very pretty just there even in winter, brawling and

babbling over the gravel before settling down calm and still as it

flowed slowly amongst the deep holes beneath the willow pollards, where

the big fish were known to lie. And more than once sister and

sister-in-law came upon Cyril in one or other of the fields, trying

after the big jack that no one yet had caught.

"I know he's about here somewhere," said Cyril, over and over again.

"He lies in wait for the dace that come off the shallows, and I mean to

have him before I've done."

That was an artful jack though, for it must have understood Cyril Mallow

and his wiles, obstinately refusing to be caught.

Julia used to look very serious when she saw him there again and again,

but she felt afraid to speak, for the confidence that had existed

between her and her old maid seemed to have passed away, and when their

eyes met at times there was a curious shrinking look on either side; and

so the time went on.

One day Tom Morrison was busily at work at a piece of well-seasoned ash

with his spoke-shave. The day was bright and keen and cold, but he was

stripped to shirt and trousers, the neck unfastened, sleeves rolled up,

and a look of calm satisfaction in his face as his muscles tightened and

he drew off the thin spiral shavings from the piece of wood.

In old days the workshop used to resound with snatches of song, or his

rather melodious whistling; but of late, since the loss of his little

one, he had grown cold and grave, working in a quiet, subdued manner;

and those who knew him said that he was nursing up his revenge against

the parson.

Fullerton gave him several jobs that should by rights have gone to

Biggins the carpenter, and he once went so far as to say--

"They tell me you never go to church now, Tom Morrison."

"Would you like it painted stone-colour or white, Mr Fullerton?" said

Tom Morrison, quietly.

"Oh--er--white," replied Fullerton, and he said no more upon that

occasion.

It was about a month later, over another job, that Fullerton ventured

another advance, and this time he said, as he was leaving the workshop,

and holding out his hand--

"Good-bye, Morrison. Oh, by the way, we've got Samuel Mumbey, D.D., at

the chapel on Sunday. Preaches twice. We'll find you good seats if you

and Mrs Morrison will come. Ours is a nice woshup, Morrison, a very

nice woshup, as you would say if you was to try."

"Thankye, sir," said Tom Morrison, stolidly, and again Fullerton said no

more till he was some distance away, when he rubbed his hands softly and

smiled a satisfied smile, saying to himself--

"I should like to save Tom Morrison and his wife from the pit."

Tom Morrison was hard at work, thinking sometimes of his pretty little

wife in the cottage, and how thin and careworn she had grown of late.

He wondered whether it was his fault, and because he had been so hard

and cold since he had lost his little child and quarrelled with the

Rector; whether, too, he ought not to try and bring back some of the

brightness to her face, when it seemed as if so much light as usual did

not shine in upon his work.

He raised his head, and found that there were a pair of thick arms

leaning on the window-sill, and a great bearded face resting upon them,

the owner's eyes staring hard at him.

"Hallo, Jock!" he said, quietly.

"What, Tommy!" was the deep-toned reply; and then there was a pause, as

Tom Morrison felt angry as he thought of his brothers ne'er-do-well

life, and then of his having been hard and cold of late, and this seemed

the time for beginning in another line.

"Long time since I've seen you, Jock," he said, quietly.

"Ay, 'tis, Tommy. Working hard as usual."

"Ay, working hard, Jock," said Tom, resting his spoke-shave. "Thou used

to be a good workman, Jock. Why not take to it again?"

"Me? Work? Wheer?"

"I'll give you plenty to do, Jock, and find wage for it, lad, if thou'lt

drop being a shack and sattle down."

Jock Morrison laughed in a deep and silent manner.

"Nay, lad, nay," he said at last. "Thankye kindly, Tom, all the same.

What's the good o' working?"

"To be respectable and save money."

"I don't want to be respectable. I don't want to save money, lad.

There's plenty do that wi'out me."

"But how will it be when thou grows old and sick, lad?"

"Why then, Tommy, I shall die; just the same as you will. I'm happy my

way, lad. Thou'rt happy thy way. Folk say I'm a shack, and a

blackguard, and a poacher. Well, let 'em; I don't keer."

"Nay, don't say that, lad," said Tom Morrison; "I don't like it. I'd

like to see thee tak' to work and be a man."

"Ha, ha, ha, Tom! Why, I'm a bigger and a stronger man than thou art

anyways. Nay, I don't keer for work. Let them do it as likes. I don't

want boxing up in a house or a shed. I want to be in the free air, and

to come and go as I like. I see no good in your ways. Let me bide."

Tom looked at him in a dull, careworn way.

"Why, look ye here, lad," cried Jock. "Here am I as blithe and hearty

as a bird, and here are you, plod, plod, plod, from day to day, round

and round, like old Michael Ross's blind horse in the bark mill. I look

as hearty as a buck; you look ten years older, and as if life warn't

worth a gill o' ale."

"I wean't argue with you, Jock," said Tom, quietly. "You must go your

own gate, I suppose, and I'll go mine."

"Ay, that's it, Tommy."

"But if ever you like to try being an honest man again, lad, I'm thy own

brother, and I'll give thee a lift best way I can for the old folks'

sake."

Jock Morrison left the window, and came like a modern edition of Astur

of the stately stride round to the door, walked in amongst the shavings

and sawdust, gave his brother a tremendous slap on the back, and then

seized his hand and stood shaking it for a good minute by the old Dutch

clock in the corner.

He did not speak, but half sat down afterwards upon the bench, watching

his brother as Tom resumed his work.

"How's little wife?" said Jock at last.

"Not hearty, Jock," said Tom Morrison. "She's pined a deal lately.

Never got over losing the bairn."

There was a spell of silence here, and then Tom said quietly--

"Go in and have a crust o' bread and cheese, Jock, and a mug of ale.

The little lass has been baking this morning."

"Ay, I will," said Jock, and thrusting his hands down into his pockets,

he rolled like a great ship on a heaving sea out of the workshop, along

the road, and then through the little garden, and without ceremony into

the cottage, stooping his head as he passed in at the low door.

PART TWO, CHAPTER NINE.

A CRUEL CHARGE.

Polly was busy at needle-work, and as the great fellow strode in and

stood staring at her, she started up and seemed as if about to run away.

"You here, Jock, again?" she faltered.

"Ay! here I am again," he said, in a deep growl, as he fixed her with

his eye, while she trembled before him and his fierce look.

"I'm glad--to see you, Jock," she said, faintly, and she glanced towards

the door.

"That's a lie," he growled, and then he laughed grimly, but only for his

face to darken into a savage scowl. "Tom said I was to come in, lass."

"Oh, you've seen Tom!" she said, as if relieved.

"Ay, and he said I was to have some bread and cheese and beer."

"Yes, Jock," she cried; "I'll get it out."

She had to pass him, and he caught her hand in his, towering over her

and making her shiver, as if fascinated by his gaze, as Julia Mallow had

been a score of times.

"Stop!" he said, in a low, deep voice. "Wait a bit. I don't want the

bread and cheese. Look here, Polly."

"Yes, Jock, yes," she panted; "but don't hurt me."

"Hurt ye!" he growled; "I feel as if I could kill thee."

"Jock!"

"Look here, Polly. I came to see Tom to-day to jump upon him, and call

him a fool, and give him back what he's given me for not settling down

and marrying and being respectable. I was going to laugh at him, and

show him what his respectable married life was."

"I--I don't understand you, Jock," she said, faintly.

"It's a lie," he growled. "I was going to laugh at him, but, damn it,

he's so good a chap I hadn't the heart to mak' him miserable any more

than he is about that poor bairn he thinks was his, and I--"

"How dare you!" cried Polly, flaming up, and trying to tear away her

hand; but he held it fast, and, in spite of her indignation, she cowered

before his fierce, almost savage looks.

"How dare I?" he growled. "Didn't young Serrol run after you at the

house when you were at Mallow's? Hasn't he been after you ever since?

Isn't he every day nearly hanging about the river there fishing, so as

to come and talk to thee? Curse you!" he growled. "This is a wife, is

it? But, by God, it shan't go on, for I'll take him by the neck next

time he's fishing yonder by the willow stumps, and I'll howd him

underwater and drownd him as I would a pup."

"Oh, Jock, Jock, Jock," she cried, sinking on her knees.

"I will--I will, by God!" he cried, in a fierce growl; "and then you may

go and say I did it, when they find his cursed carcase, and get me hung

for drownding thy lover."

"It's a lie!" cried Polly, springing up and speaking passionately.

"Cyril Mallow is no lover of mine. I hate and detest him, but never

dared tell poor Tom how he came and troubled me. But I'll tell him now;

I'll confess all to him. I'd sooner he killed me than you should insult

me with such lies."

She made a rush for the door, and had reached it, but, with an activity

not to be expected in his huge frame, Jock swept round one great arm,

seized her, and drew her back, quivering with indignation.

"Let me go," she cried, passionately. "Tom! Tom!"

"Howd thy noise," he growled, and once more she shrunk cowering from his

fierce eyes. "Now then, say that again. S'elp your God, Serrol Mallow

is nothing to thee, and never has been."

"I won't," she cried, passionately, and she flashed up once more and met

his gaze. "How dare you ask me such a thing?"

"Say it, lass--say it out honest, lass--is what I say true?"

"No," she cried, gazing full in his eyes. "It's a cruel, cruel lie.

Let me go. I'll tell Tom now--every word--everything that man has said,

and--"

Jock let his great hand sink from Polly's little arm to her wrist, and

led her to a chair, she being helpless against his giant strength.

"Nay," he said, "thou shan't tell him. It would half kill him first,

and then he'd go and kill parson's boy."

"Yes, yes; he would, he would," sobbed Polly. "I dared not tell him,

and it's been breaking my heart. But I won't bear it. Go away from

here. How dare you say such things to me?"

"Howd thy tongue, lass," said Jock, in a deep growl, and his strong will

mastered hers. "Hearken to me, Polly. I beg thy pardon, lass, and I

can read it in thy pretty eyes that all I said was a lie. I beg thy

pardon, lass."

"How could you--how dare you?" sobbed Polly. "Tom, Tom! come here--come

here!"

"Hush! he can't hear thee, lass," growled Jock. "I've seen so much that

I thought thou wast playing a bad game against Tom; but I was wrong, my

little lass, and I say forgive me."

"Let me go and tell Tom all now," she sobbed. "I shan't be happy till I

do."

"Dost want to mak' thyself happy," growled Jock, sinking into his old

Lincolnshire brogue, after losing much by absence in other

counties--"happy, half breaking. Tom's heart, and getting murder done?

If thou dost--go!"

Polly bounded to the door to seek her husbands help, and tell him all,

Jock watching her the while; but as she reached the door her courage

failed, and she turned away with a piteous wail.

"Oh, God help me!" she cried; "what shall I do?"

"Come and sit down, lass, and dry thy eyes," said Jock, kindly. "Say

thou forgives me. I'm very sorry, lass. I'm a down bad un, but I like

owd Tom. He's a good 'un, is Tom."

"The best, the truest of men."

"And I'm glad he's got a good little true wife," growled Jock. "There,

it's all right, ain't it, Polly?" he said, taking her little hand in his

and patting it. "Say thou forgives me."

"But--but you don't believe me," sobbed Polly.

"But I do," he said, kissing her little hand in a quiet, reverential way

that ill accorded with his looks. "Say thou forgives me, lass."

"I do forgive you, Jock," she said, wiping her eyes. "Now let's call

dear Tom in and tell him all."

"Nay," said Jock, "he mustn't be told. He's troubled enough as it is.

I'll mak' it reight."

"No, no, Jock," cried Polly, with her checks turning like ashes.

"What, are you afraid I shall drownd him?" he said, sharply.

"Yes! Oh, it is so horrible!"

"Nay, I wean't drownd him if he'll keep away," said Jock, fiercely, "but

I'll hev a word wi' him when he least expects it."

"I--I thought," faltered Polly, "that when he was married he would keep

away."

"Nay, not he," growled Jock; "but I heven't done wi' him and his yet."

"But, Jock!"

"Get me some bread and cheese, lass," he growled, and she rose in a

timid way, and gazing at him fearfully, spread a cloth, and placed the

food before him.

"Now go and bathe thy pretty eyes," he said, as he sat down; "but stay a

moment, lass."

He took both her hands in his, and drew her to him, and kissed her

forehead.

"I beg thy pardon, Polly," he said once again; "and now go, and I

promise that he shall never trouble thee again."

"But, Jock!"

"Howd thy tongue, lass. I wean't drown him, but if I don't scar him

from this lane my name's not Jock."

Polly left the kitchen, and the great fellow sat there eating heartily

for a time, and then Polly came back.

"Sometimes, lass," he said, "I think thou ought to hev towd Tom all;

sometimes I don't. Wait a bit till that Serrol Mallow's gone again, and

then tell him all. Hah! he's a nice 'un, and his brother too. They're

gentlemen, they are. I'm on'y a rough shack. It mak's me laugh though,

Polly, it do. I don't work, they say. Well, I don't see as they do,

and as owd Bone used to mak' us read at school, nobody can't say as Jock

Morrison, bad as he is, ever goes neighing after his neighbour's wife.

Theer lass, theer lass, it's all put away, and I'm down glad as I was

wrong."

"And you will frighten him away, Jock?" said Polly, who looked very

bright and pretty now.

"That I will, Polly," said the great fellow, draining his mug; "and, my

lass, I don't know but what Tom's reight to sattle down wi' such a

pretty little lass as thou. Mebbe I shall be doing something of the

sort myself. Good-bye, lass, good-bye."

"When--when shall we see you again?" said Polly, in a timid way.

"Don't know, my lass, but I may be close at hand when no one sees me.

I'm a curus, hiding sort of a fellow. Theer, good-bye."

He stooped and left the house, and Polly saw him go towards the

workshop, stop talking for a few minutes, and then go slowly rolling

along the lane.

"I'm afraid Jock's after no good, Polly, my little woman," said Tom

quietly that night. "Ah, well, there's worse fellows than he."

"I like Jock better than ever I liked him before," cried Polly, with

animation.

"I wish you could like him into a better life," said Tom, thoughtfully.

"I wonder where the poor old chap has gone."

On a mission of his own. That very afternoon Cynthia had tempted her

sister out of the solitude she so much affected now, by proposing a

ride; for Lord Artingale had sent the horses over with a note saying

that he had been called away to the county town, but would come over in

the evening.

Julia took some pressing, but she agreed at last, the horses were

brought round, and soon after the sisters mounted, and were cantering

along the pleasant sandy lanes, followed some fifty yards or so behind

by a well-mounted groom.

The sun shone brightly, and there was a deliciously fresh breeze, just

sufficient to make the exercise enjoyable. The swift motion, with the

breeze fanning her face, seemed to brighten Julia's eyes and send a

flush into her cheeks, as they cantered on, Cynthia being full of merry

remarks, and gladly noticing her sister's change.

"Oh, if she would only pluck up a little spirit," thought Cynthia; and

then she began to wonder whether Artingale would bring over Magnus.

Then she began to make plans as to how she would bring them together,

and leave them pretty often alone.

One way and another, as they rode on and on, Miss Cynthia mentally

proved herself a very female Von Moltke in the art of warfare, and so

wrapt was she in her thoughts, that she paid no heed to the fidgeting of

the beautiful creature she was riding.

"Isn't your mare very tiresome, Cynthia?" said Julia.

"Only fresh, dear; I don't mind," was the reply. "I can manage her."

They were now in one of the winding, hilly lanes running through a

series of the shaws or little woods common in that part of the country,

and intersected by narrow rides for the convenience of the shooting

parties and those who hunt. Everything looked very beautiful, and with

her troubled breast feeling more at rest than it had for weeks, Julia

was really enjoying her ride.

"Why, this is what we ought often to do," thought Cynthia. "Quiet,

mare! Julia seems to feel safe from the ogre now she is well mounted.

How pretty she looks!"

Julia certainly did look very beautiful just then, though she might have

reciprocated the compliment. Her dark blue habit fitted her to

perfection, her little glossy riding-hat was daintily poised upon her

well-shaped head, and she rode her mare gracefully and well.

"Shall I take up a link or two of her curb, ma'am?" said the groom,

cantering up, as Mad Sal seemed to be growing excited.

"Oh no, Thomas; she'll quiet down. It would only make her more fidgety.

I'll give her a gallop."

If she had not decided to give it, Mad Sal would have taken it; for as

she spoke and loosened her rein, the graceful creature sprang off at a

gallop, and after a few strides began to go like the wind.

"Oh, Thomas, Thomas," cried Julia; "gallop!"

"Don't you be frightened, Miss," said the groom, smiling. "Miss Cynthia

won't hurt. I never see a lady as could go like her. Shall I gallop

after her, miss?"

"Yes, yes, quickly," cried Julia, excitedly; and, knowing the country,

the groom turned his horse's head, put him at and leaped a low hedge

into a field between two patches of coppice, and went off hunting

fashion, to cut off a long corner round which he knew his young charge

would go.

Julia hesitated about following, and then kept on at an easy canter

along the road, following her sister's steps, till suddenly she turned

ghastly pale, as, about fifty yards in front, she saw a man force his

way through the low hedge, and then, evidently hot and panting with a

long run, come towards her.

She had but to lash her mare and dash by him. She could have turned and

cantered off with ease. But she did neither, merely sitting paralysed,

as it were, with her eyes fixed upon the great dark-bearded fellow, who

came boldly up, laid his hand upon the rein, and the mare stopped short.

"Why, my beauty," he said, in a low deep voice, as he passed his arm

through the rein, and placed his great hands upon the trembling girl's

waist, "I thought I was never going to see you again."

Julia did not answer, though her lips parted as if to utter a cry.

"There," he said, "don't look frightened. I wouldn't hurt you for the

world. I've got you safe, and the mare too. I don't know which is the

prettiest. There, you're all right; they won't be back this half-hour.

I've got you safe; jump?"

As he spoke he lifted her out of the saddle, and the next moment she was

clasped tight in the fellow's arms--the dove quite at the mercy of the

hawk.

PART TWO, CHAPTER TEN.

AT KILBY.

Winter came in early that year, but none the less fiercely. Cyril and

his young wife stayed on, Sage eagerly agreeing to her aunt's proposal

that the visit should be prolonged, and consequently the rabbits on the

farm had a very hard time, especially when the snow came, and their

footprints could be tracked with ease.

John Berry brought his young wife and children, to the great delight of

the Churchwarden, of whom they made a perfect slave, for he was never

weary of petting them.

Lord Artingale came over once, and won golden opinions of Mrs Portlock

by what she called his condescension; and as to his nominee at the next

election, the Churchwarden was ready to support him through thick and

thin for the interest he took in Rue Berry's little children.

Harry Artingale was not the only gentleman visitor who found his way to

the farm, for Frank Mallow came one evening soon after the Berrys had

arrived, and that night, when Sage had gone up with her sister to her

room, Rue suddenly burst into a hysterical fit of weeping.