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Part 2, Chapter VII.
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 2, Chapter VIII.
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 2, Chapter IX.
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.