The handsome Brandons

CHAPTER VI.

"HOW OFT HAS THE BANSHEE CRIED?"

Now, I have been going back a good long way, so that I might make it clearly understood what we Brandons have been doing, and, with a long family like ours, it takes time to pick up the threads of all the histories.

The years have passed quietly since then, and brought few changes except in our ages. We have never seen Freda since, though she writes long letters to Aline full of the old affection. She has never come to us, nor asked any of us to go to her, and we have almost given up thinking that she will ever accept Aline's tenderly-worded invitations, or that any of us will ever share the pleasures of her London life. Not that she writes very often from London. She seems to be usually at one country-house or another, and sometimes great names are mentioned in her letters, names of men we have heard of and would dearly like to see.

Her permanent address is Magnolia Cottage, Grove Avenue, Parson's Green, which, we think, sounds pretty and countrified. Aline always says that she is so pleased that Mrs. Vincent and Freda had the good sense to settle in a country place rather than in Belgravia or Mayfair, or even Kensington, which she has heard are stuffy. Freda's home must be, she thinks, in some outlying village or other, though within reach of London. We imagine it a quiet place with a church and a little bit of common, and the houses of a few gentlefolk, standing round amid their hollies and laurels. It must be so good for Jacky, who does not seem to go with Freda to the country-houses, to live among rural surroundings rather than in the dust and smoke of the great city.

One event of the years has been Pierce's quarrel with Mr. Desmond, though they had seemed, from the letters Pierce wrote during their first years together, to be almost like father and son, or perhaps it would be better to say, like an elder and younger brother who dearly loved each other.

Pierce's letters in the old days were full of Mr. Desmond, for whom he seemed to have a kind of hero-worship. Then, without warning, we heard that they had quarrelled, and that Pierce had left Mr. Desmond and gone farther up country. We never heard what the quarrel was about. Pierce merely wrote to Aline that the thing was so; though behind the quiet of his letter there was evidently a cold anger against his former friend.

Then Mr. Desmond wrote to Aline—a letter that I, for one, liked, it was so gentle and deprecatory. He seemed to feel that Aline had trusted him with Pierce, and that he had failed to keep his trust, but not through any fault of his own. He, too, gave no explanation of the quarrel, but only said something about young blood being hot, and his hope that presently the boy would cool down and recognize his real friends, and come back to him.

This letter Aline never answered. Of course she stood by Pierce, and thought Mr. Desmond must have been in the wrong. But though she carried it off so bravely, because her pride and love were up in arms, afterwards she fretted about Pierce. You see our boys have been such home-keeping boys that we are afraid, knowing that one is out in the wide world.

Pierce writes to Aline, of course, but tells her little about himself, and the letters come at longer intervals. There is never a word about the fortune he was to have made, and since those early years when he was with Mr. Desmond he sends home no money, though he must know how poor we are, and becoming poorer every year. I wonder how much longer we will be able to keep the wolf from the door, and Sir Rupert De Lacy out of Brandon.

Oh, by the way, I must mention that Sir Rupert has taken to sending us at intervals proposals for the purchase of the old place! In the beginning Aline used to open these, and then fling them indignantly into the fire; but with the more recent ones she has simply readdressed them and sent them back unopened. I suppose the grim old wolf up there in Castle Angry just chuckles when his epistles come back to him, knowing he can bide his time.

They say he drinks a great deal more than of old; but for the matter of that, no one can know, for he and Gaskin are the only two creatures inside Castle Angry. The place grows wickeder and grayer up there in its gash in the mountain, as legends and stories of its master's doings gather round it. I don't know if I said before that it is built after the manner of a fortified house, with a gateway under two turrets, and a moat drawn round about it. I have seen it from far off, and have thought its aspect had something sinister and frightful about it. The gates are locked and bolted, facing the bridge over the moat that has taken the place of what was once, no doubt, a drawbridge. The boys, who have ventured near, tell me that the moat is covered with green slime and full of unwholesome things, while the grassy space about is sodden, and overgrown with weird fungi of brilliant blue and scarlet. That is, no doubt, because of the exceeding damp of the place, for around and above it is bog, and the sun always seems to pass over that gash in Angry Mountain, as if there were something there which it hated.

The boys are very curious about what lies beyond the moat and the barred gate. I have implored them not to venture near again, for if Sir Rupert caught sight of them, or Gaskin, who is a worse man, either might loose the bloodhounds, and then say afterwards that it was none of their doing.

Poor boys! they are tall young striplings now; so handsome and distinguished for all their shabby clothes, made by Hugh Reilly, the tailor in Brandon village. It is hard that we could give them no proper education, and that they must be condemned indefinitely to do nothing except shoot rabbits on Brandon hill and fish in Brandon river. It is enough, as I say, to make good boys into worthless men.

Aline feels badly about it, I know. If there were but another buyer for Brandon—anyone except Sir Rupert—we would, I think, let it go, dear to us as it is. But it is not the place only, it is the poor people who depend on us, and who are miserably poor, if we are miserably poor. Sir Rupert would show them scant mercy, we know. He has cleared Angry long ago of the few poor creatures who clung to it, despite its unkindliness. The mountain sheep wander now where once there were hearth-fires.

"Let him keep Angry," I say, "he shall not have Brandon."

Curiously enough, I could bear better that he should have the house and Aline's rose-garden, and the park and the river, and the old abbey even, than Brandon Mountain. Brandon and Angry are twin mountains; but there was a good fairy by the cradle of one, and a wicked fairy by the other. Blue, benign, smiling Brandon Mountain has watched over our race. Must he pass to the race of an enemy? Shall he, and the few little white cottages clustered about his feet, come under the blight that is upon Angry? No, a thousand times, no!

The boys are not so ignorant, however, as might be supposed. Mr. Benson, whether for love of Aline, or because, as he himself says, he would not have his classics rust, has been their unpaid tutor, and I am sure they are really far better educated than most boys of their age, even if their learning be a bit old-fashioned. Will they ever find their opportunities, I wonder? I remember when we used to hope that Mr. Desmond, having set Pierce's feet on a golden road, would perhaps help Hugh, who has never forgotten his childish admiration for the man. But all that has come to nothing. Pierce was the raven we sent out of our ark in search of good tidings; but he came not back.

Aline has grown older almost by years in the months that have elapsed since Pierce and Mr. Desmond parted. I have seen her come down in the morning worn and haggard, and have guessed that she has either spent a great part of the night in prayer for her beloved, or else she has slept ill, and been troubled in her dreams about him.

I think she fears that things are not well with him, and I know that she has implored him in vain to come home. His letters bring her at once joy and disappointment. In every one, I think, she hopes that he will say he is coming back. She herself, with her own hands, still keeps his room swept and garnished, and the bed-clothes ever ready aired, as though at any hour of the day or night a wanderer might return.

Aline's little turret faces the great avenue of Brandon. Lately, I have noticed that at any hour of the night I might waken, her light was burning; but only yesterday Oona told me that a lamp burns all night in the uncurtained window. I am sure that Aline's heart watches awake for Pierce, even when her body is sleeping. But lest he should come suddenly in the dark hours, she sets the light there like a star to draw him home. Who knows through what mirk and what distance it may find him at last?

"Oh, Oona, dear," I cried to our old nurse when she had told me of the light, "I wish he would come back! It troubles me to see the hope and the disappointment that are always following each other in Aline's face. It is wearing her out."

"Now, look here, Miss Hilda dear," the old woman said, putting a comfortable arm about me, "'tis my opinion that Master Pierce 'll never come home unless he brings the riches, my dear. He knows what was expected of him, and he's proud, terrible proud, as becomes a Brandon. No, he'll never come, except with the gold in his hand, or the death in his face; and if he knew he was to be taken, I don't think he could stay away from the sister that's been mother and sweetheart both to him."

"Oona, Oona," cried I, "you're talking horribly! What has death to do with Pierce, who was always so strong and well? I wouldn't have you say such a thing to Aline for worlds."

"No, nor I wouldn't, my pretty; only to you that has the wise head and the still tongue. But I see the trouble coming, and if I don't halve it, my old heart will break."

She looked at me curiously, still keeping me pressed closely to her, and her face had grown indeed full of trouble.

"Do ye sleep very sound o' nights, love?" she asked presently.

"Pretty well, Oona, unless when the wind crying in the corridors keeps me awake."

"There's more cries there nor the wind."

"Oh, Oona, what do you mean? What superstition have you got into your head now?"

"No superstition at all, then," said Oona, a little offended; "and perhaps I'd better have kept my tongue to myself."

"Perhaps you had, Oona; but since you didn't, you may as well go on. I suppose you think you've heard the banshee?"

The old woman nodded her head solemnly.

"There was no thinking about it, dearie. She's cried the last three nights, and grateful I am that Miss Aline slept sound and didn't hear her."

"If Miss Aline heard any crying, she would know it was the wind. Her trust is all in God, and she knows that He keeps the things of life and death in His own hands, and that His love is all about her. She would tell you there was no such thing as the banshee."

"She would not, Miss Hilda, and I wonder at you to say the like. No Brandon should say it. 'Tis just because ye are Brandons, the finest, purest, ould blood alive, that she cries for ye."

Oona went off visibly indignant, and left me vaguely troubled. Though I had spoken so boldly, I fear it is not in Brandon blood quite to disbelieve in the banshee. And would it not be to deprive our ancient race of one of the proudest of its appanages? We have lost so much that we may well keep this shadowy retainer of ours.

After all, I am not surprised at Oona. It is all very well in the broad daylight to deny the banshee, but it is different at night when the lights are out, and one is alone, and starts from one's pillow to hear the wind, or something, crying through the old half-ruined house.

This morning put it out of my mind. For the boys had been wild-duck shooting before it was daybreak, and had heard a bit of news from their crony, Jim Hagarty, with which to regale the breakfast-table. News is scarce with us, I needn't say; and, like all country people, we dearly love to hear of our neighbours.

"Jim says Sir Rupert's grandson has come to visit him. He arrived on Saturday, and there was no one to meet him at the station, and he had to have out O'Haire's fly to carry his portmanteau and things over to Angry."

"And the next day a groom arrived with a fine horse, and asked his way to Castle Angry. But Jim says he went away by the train the same evening. I suppose there was no place for him at Angry," adds Donald, taking up the tale.

Aline's kind face took on a look of concern.

"I hope it is not true," she said. "Castle Angry is no place for a boy."

"Oh, it is true enough!" the boys cried together, "for Tom O'Haire read the name on the luggage, and it was 'Harry De Lacy'. And he says that Gaskin came out and took in the things, and wouldn't let Tom drive inside the courtyard, but Tom heard the dogs howling and yelping, and someone shouting at them, whom he took to be Sir Rupert. So he says that he wasn't sorry to drive away like mad as soon as he'd set down his passenger, fearing they'd take it into their heads to loose the dogs."

"Poor boy!" says Aline regretfully. "He cannot be more than twenty-one. Why has he come to such a place?"

"Possibly Sir Rupert has made him," I suggested. "It would be like one of his grim jokes to introduce the heir to his property. He is the heir, isn't he?"

"Yes, Angry is entailed right enough."

"Probably Sir Rupert's grandson will be able to hold his own even with Sir Rupert," I said; but Aline shook her head.

"His father never could hold his own, and Oona will tell you that his mother was fair and gentle and delicate. It is cruel of Sir Rupert to bring him here, having left him all his years with his English grandfather."

"Is he so different?" asked Esther, who had been listening with interest.

"I have heard that he is a gentle old man, very learned and very pious. His rectory is in Warwickshire, in beautiful English pastoral country. This boy must have had a tenderly-nurtured youth."

"By Jove!" muttered Hugh, "and think of the poor beggar coming to Angry!"

"He can't have been prepared either," said Donald, "or he'd never have brought all those traps with him—gun-cases and fishing-tackle and tennis-rackets and no end of things. By Jove, much use he'll find for them at Angry!"

"We must only hope that his visit will be a short one," said Aline, with one of her gentle sighs.

I am sure this strange boy interests her because she sees in every boy something of Pierce, something, too, of Hugh and Donald. Ah! well, we Brandons, despite short commons and no money, have had as happy a childhood as children ever had. I know Mother left us to Aline, and well has Aline kept trust with her. She will not need to look away when they meet one day in heaven.

CHAPTER VII.

A TRUE WORD SPOKEN IN JEST.

To-day Esther and I were sitting with Aline in her room. It was bitterly cold, though fine and sunny. I should have liked to be out with the twins, whom I could see in the garden below tramping up and down steadily, hand in hand. They are growing up as wild and shy as a little pair of rabbits, and they are quite safe to keep to the gardens once Aline has told them there was a fear of their meeting the hunt if they went out to the park or the woods. They fear nothing except the eyes of strangers. It makes us laugh to know that they who would face Lord Aranmore's tallest stag, or the little wild, horned, mountain cattle, will turn round and run, still hand in hand, if they should happen to see a well-dressed stranger approaching them.

I had promised to help Aline with some baby-clothes she was making for poor Mary Kennedy, whose husband was killed by a falling tree in the summer, and whose first baby was born the other day, else I too should have been out-of-doors, though I am not brisk in getting about; and Esther, who takes care that I am never left behind, nor made to feel a drag on the pleasure of the others, would have been with me.

The things we are sewing at are made out of clothes we ourselves had when we were little. They are fine, dainty little garments, and smell sweetly of lavender. It almost breaks Oona's heart that Aline will use them for the children of the poor. She says that coarse stuffs would be far better, and perhaps she is right, but we have no money to purchase the coarse stuffs if we would. Oona never argues with Aline about it, but gives up the keys of the drawers that contain the treasures, without words indeed, but with sighs as from a breaking heart. Aline, for all her gentleness, makes even Oona feel that she is mistress.

Aline has a curious love and tenderness for little babies, and she would not feel the finest stuffs in the world too good for their little tender bodies. I have seen her nursing them with an expression half-divine. I am not sure that she does not see in every one of them the little Baby of Bethlehem, and that they are not the more precious for being born, like Him, in poverty. Then she is veriest woman. I cannot bear to think of Aline growing old unmarried. But that is one of the secret thoughts I keep to myself.

Suddenly my eyes, that had been straying from my seam, caught sight of a gleam of scarlet in the distant coppice. Another and another, and then I jumped to my feet and limped to the window. There were the hounds stretching in a long line away to Larry's Spinney, and hard on their heels went half a dozen scarlet coats, shadowed with here and there a blue habit. I cried out, "The hunt, the hunt, Esther! Oh, come and see!"

Aline looked with benign amusement at our excitement.

"Run out, children," she said; "you will see better from the summer-house in the rose-garden. Don't let the twins tumble out of the window, and go easily, Hilda dear; there will be plenty of time, for the river will turn them."

We went out rejoicing. The summer-house is in two stories, a wooden structure with seats, and little windows of coloured glass, opening inwards, that may be shut against the weather. We found the twins already in possession of the upper window, but, taking the privileges of elder sisters, we packed them below, where they went rather grumblingly.

Yes, the hunt had turned, and was coming back our way. It would pass quite close to us, and no one would notice us, for their excitement would be too absorbing.

"Why, there are the boys," I cried, "over yonder on the branch of the chestnut! Poor boys, how they must want to follow!"

Even the boys did not see us. As soon as the hunt passed they would go pounding away across country to get another glimpse. Ah! there was Jack Tobin the huntsman, and Graves the whipper-in, and, well in front, Lord Clandeboye the master, and his pretty daughter, and following came a rout of scarlet and black.

"Esther," whispered I, "supposing that as they went by one should look up and fall in love with you, and that he should prove to be Prince Charming."

"Why not with you, Hilda?" she said, with one of her rich blushes.

"What have I to do with love or lovers?" I asked; and it was indeed true that since my accident I had considered that my life was outside the romances of other girls.

The ground slopes under the thick yew hedge of the rose-garden, so that, as the riders came pounding along at the foot of the hill, we had them well in view. One was riding a beautiful bay horse, which attracted my attention before my eyes went to the rider's face. When I looked at him I gave Esther's arm a pinch.

"There goes your knight, Esther," I cried. "Now, if only he would have an accident, and we could take him in and nurse him, it would be like one of your story-books. Let us will him to fall down—shall we?"

But Esther seemed not to have heard me. She had drawn back suddenly into the shadow of the room. The young rider had caught sight of us, and was looking up. For the moment he was evidently not thinking of the hunt, for his sideways gaze was a long, direct one. Then I saw that Esther was blushing hotly all over her dark face, and her eyes had sunk under her long soft lashes.

"I am afraid he heard your voice, Hilda dear," she murmured; and then her eyes flashed out again with sudden horror and fear.

Startled, I looked in the direction of her glance. There, where the young rider had been flashing along in the run downhill, lay the horse kicking and struggling, and a space in front of him the huddled-up figure of his master.

Some of the other hunters were off their horses, and running and shouting, but nearest of all were our two brothers, who in a second of time had reached the prostrate man. Then a group of men hid all from our sight; but in a second or two we saw that they had lifted the young man, and had laid him on a space of sward.

I looked round at Esther. Her eyes were wide open, and she was deadly pale.

"You're not going to faint?" I said.

"No," she answered, and the colour came back to her cheeks and lips. "You don't think he's dead, Hilda?"

"I hope not. Dr. Rivers is there, fortunately. Come and we will see what has happened. Someone will tell us."

"Yes," said Esther. "Come and see. Of course he must be taken to Brandon."

"Unless he is near his own home," I suggested.

Esther looked at me almost angrily.

"He must be taken to Brandon," she said again.

She went out with an air that might have been Aline's own. No one would have thought that she was the younger sister, as I humbly followed her. She went up to the little group that stood about the fallen man, and though everyone turned to look at her, she did not seem to notice them.

"I hope he is not very much hurt, Dr. Rivers," she said. "Of course you will carry him into the house at once."

The doctor lifted his hat

"I'm afraid there's a concussion of the brain—he was flung on his head—but I can't examine him properly here. Thank you, Miss Brandon. Of course the best thing would be to get him indoors at once. Your brother has kindly offered the poor fellow the hospitality of your house."

Esther turned to Hugh, who was standing by. "Run in quickly," she said, "and tell Aline we are coming."

Presently, as they were making up a rough litter on which to carry him, Donald came to my side and whispered that the young man was a stranger in these parts, and that no one seemed to know where he had dropped from. Also that the horse, which they had thought must be badly injured, had done nothing worse than lame himself. He had stepped in a rabbit-hole, and so caused the accident.

"They had better bring in the poor beast too," he added. "There are no lack of empty stalls, and I daresay we can find him a bit of bedding."

In a few minutes they were carrying the young fellow towards the house, the horse following with a hanging head, as if he were conscious that his master was hurt, and felt himself in some degree to blame. He was a beautiful beast, and I was so glad he was not hurt, for all dumb animals are very near my heart, that I felt irrationally hopeful about his master's case also.

However, Dr. Rivers seemed to think the business very serious. There was concussion, he found, and he feared internal injuries as well, so that the young man might lie unconscious and on our hands for some time.

"It is too bad, Miss Brandon," he said to Aline, "that you should have all this trouble thrust upon you. He ought really to have a nurse."

He hesitated and looked at her. Aline smiled faintly.

"Oona, our old nurse, has considerable experience in sick nursing," she said, "and, as you see, she will have several lieutenants."

The doctor nodded approvingly.

"I should not dare to order his removal, even if we knew that he had friends in the neighbourhood."

"Pray do not think of such a thing," said Aline hastily. "The fact that he met with his accident near our doors is his claim upon us. Heaven forbid that we should grudge him anything we can do!"

I saw Dr. Rivers, who is a bachelor, look at her with a very distinct glance of admiration.

"It is curious that no one seems to know him," he said, looking down at the unconscious face of his patient. "Of course, he may have ridden some distance to the meet, yet his horse seemed fresh, and was well in front all the time."

"He must be the stranger within the gates till he can speak for himself," Aline replied. "Only, I pray that no one may be in tortures of suspense about his absence."

Dr. Rivers had already turned out the young fellow's pockets, in a vain search for a clue to his identity. A silver cigar-case with an intricate monogram, a handkerchief with the same lettering, a match-box, a pair of gloves; these told us nothing. We must wait for time to clear up the mystery.

After Dr. Rivers had gone, and Oona was installed in the sick-room, I crept in softly to where she sat beside the fire, sewing and crooning to herself, just as I remember her when I was three years old.

I came in on tiptoe, but Oona smiled at me reassuringly.

"You needn't be afraid, Miss Hilda, child. He's nearly as sound off as if he were dead. It would take nearly as much to waken him."

I looked at the face in the shadow of the chintz curtains. It was a fair, boyish face, with something very sweet and captivating about it, even through its rigid pallor. A small golden moustache hid the quiet mouth, and the hair was golden. The lids were only half-closed over the eyes, so that I was startled a minute.

"He looks as if he were dead, Oona," I cried, starting back.

"He's not dead, Miss Hilda, don't you be afraid of that; and what's more, he's not going to die."

"He is very handsome," I said, venturing on another glance.

"He is,—a downright pretty young gentleman," said Oona; and the phrase seemed the right one. His was an almost feminine charm and sweetness.

Ever since the accident I had been troubled by the foolish thing I had been saying to Esther just at the moment it happened. Of course it was only a jest, and could have had no possible effect; a silly joke couldn't have made the bay put its foot in a rabbit-hole. Still, I felt horribly disquieted about it, and only hoped that Esther had not heard me, as she certainly had not seemed to.

"It would be horrible, Oona," said I, "if your banshee had been crying for him."

Oona looked at me almost with contempt.

"'Tis English he is, by the cut of him," she said. "I never heard tell of an English family that she followed."

Oona shook her head and sighed, and I knew that she was thinking the mysterious warning betokened death for one of us. It made me feel rather creepy, so I went out, closing the door, and in search of Esther.

I found her lying down. She had a headache, she said, and she looked flushed and ill at ease.

"Dear old Essie," I said as I patted her pillows, "the shock of seeing the accident has upset you. You must try and sleep, and then you will be better."

I felt a little lost for want of Esther's company, as I stole down to Aline's room. Finding it empty, I crept into a corner by the fire and lost my sense of loneliness in a novel. But only for a time, for it wasn't a very convincing novel, and the thing which had happened to us only this morning was much more interesting.

Presently my novel slipped from my knee, and I sat with my chin propped in my hands, looking into the heart of the cosy driftwood fire. All of a sudden an illumination came to me. Why, the boy upstairs was, must be, Sir Rupert's grandson. How amazing that nobody should have thought of it but me!

"This makes a horribly awkward complication," I thought, having made up my mind on the first matter. "If Aline recognizes the probability of my guess, she will think it her duty to send word to Sir Rupert. I feel quite sure that Sir Rupert is wicked and determined enough to remove the young fellow at the risk of his life. He wouldn't be beholden to a Brandon for anything. Then, if the removal didn't kill him, the tender mercies of Castle Angry would be sure to do it."

I shuddered to think of the poor young fellow lying ill at Castle Angry. Why, Sir Rupert or James Gaskin might kill him in one of their orgies. There was something helpless and appealing in my memory of the quiet young face that went to my heart.

"I shall keep my counsel," I said aloud, as I have a habit of doing. "I may be right or wrong, but it seems to me that no harm can lie in silence."

So not even to Esther did I whisper my suspicions; but I was surprised at the density of everybody except myself. Even the boys, who told us first that Sir Rupert's grandson had come home, exhausted their conjectures about the stranger's identity, and never once stumbled near the truth.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATE.

The young man had been many days under our roof, and we knew no more of him than at the first; yet the mystery but deepened our interest in him. A handsome, fashionably dressed young man, and a fine bay horse, do not disappear out of the world every day with not a soul apparently to seek after them, or inquire of their fate. We discussed the matter at every meal. We were so much interested, indeed, that we kept more to the house than of old; and the boys had pleasure and exercise enough in cantering the stranger's horse up and down the long avenue; for the fine spirited brute soon grew hot-blooded in the stable, and he would have kicked the crazy stalls to pieces if his spirits had not had some vent.

One or other of us was always stealing in on tiptoe to the high, light room, where Oona sat sewing, her face looking very important in the shadow of her huge frilled cap.

"How is he now, Oona?" we would ask, and Oona would answer, "No better and no worse"; and then, with a glance at the rigid young face on the pillows, we would steal out again.

But the third day I found Esther sitting, in a familiar attitude of hers, on the rug at Oona's feet, with an open book on her knee, and her eyes gazing into the heart of the fire. Esther had been very silent while we gabbled about the young stranger's identity; she was never one to talk much. Yet I could see that she listened eagerly for the doctor's verdict every morning when he would come tramping down to Aline's room after visiting his patient. She did not seem quite the old Esther in those days. She had an absent manner, which no one seemed to notice but myself, and she looked a little pale, and had dark rings about her eyes, as if she did not sleep well at night.

On the sixth day the young man began to come back to life again. So Esther told us when she came gliding into her place at the breakfast-table. She had spoken to Oona outside the door, and Oona had told her. She looked glad and excited, and I felt that pity for the young stranger had been troubling her of late more than the rest of us.

Still, even when the young man was conscious, Dr. Rivers enjoined absolute quiet. We were not to trouble yet about people who might be sorrowing for his absence. As he got better he would remember of himself, and let us know.

Aline was now the only visitor to the sick-room. The sick man seemed to have got as used to her face and Oona's as if he had always known them. Aline told us that he showed pleasure in her visits, and I think that, half unknown to herself, in those days she began to lay the foundation of a warm affection for the boy, in whose case Pierce might have been.

At last he was well enough to ask her to write a letter for him. It was to his grandfather, an English clergyman, and told him in the briefest possible way, for he was not equal to much thought, about his fall, and that he was steadily recovering, so that there was no cause for anxiety.

Aline came downstairs with the letter in her hand, and when I came in from the stables, where I had been giving the bay an apple, I found her standing by the hall-table, gazing at the envelope with a puzzled line between her eyes.

"Come here, Hilda," she said, "and tell me if you have any associations with this name."

I took the letter from her hand. It was addressed to the Rev. Henry Vane, Wrixmundham Rectory, Warwickshire.

"No; I'm sure I haven't," I replied. "Never heard of a Vane before in my life, except Cromwell's Sir Harry. Perhaps you are thinking of him."

"No; I don't think so," said Aline, putting the letter into the tattered basket which served us for post-bag. "I suppose I must have only fancied it, but I certainly did seem to have heard the name before."

I often looked towards Angry in those days, and thought how hard-hearted Sir Rupert must be never to have concerned himself about his grandson's fate. It was probably true that, as people said, he hated the boy, as he had hated his mother and his father, though the latter was his own flesh and blood. Well, I was glad that in his weakness and need the poor boy was in Oona's motherly hands, rather than at the mercy of that pair of old wretches over yonder. I had him on my conscience somehow since I had made that foolish speech, which had hardly left my mouth before the accident occurred.

The rest of the household seemed to think that the mystery was solved. Our visitor was an Englishman, come over for the hunting probably, as many did every year, and whose headquarters were at some inn or other, and that was all.

Meanwhile he progressed slowly, but quite to Dr. Rivers' satisfaction. Presently he was able to come downstairs for longer and longer intervals. At first he leant on the boys as he made the journey, but after a time he was able to manage with my stick and the help of the banisters. I don't think any of us ever asked ourselves when he would be well enough to go, though he must be a strain on our resources. He looked so gentle and so young, and his manner was so grateful, that we all grew quite fond of him. And yet we had never heard his name. The omission did not seem to strike him, and it did not occur to any of us to ask him.

One day Esther suggested shyly to Aline that we should read to our guest and play to him, to relieve the tedium of his invalidism. Aline assented heartily, and made the suggestion to him when he was established on the sofa for the afternoon.

"We have no newspapers," she said, laughing, "except the Lissycasey Leader, and our magazines are thirty years old, but there are some novels and poetry. Or if you do not care for reading, Esther will play to you, but the piano has not been tuned for years."

He lifted up his eyes, which had begun to smile again, though they were hollow.

"I should like the poetry if Miss Hilda or Miss Esther will be so good as to read to me."

I brought down my old Tennyson and selected Maud, which I love best of all the poems. I read on in a silence only broken by the crackling of the logs in the grate. Aline had left us, and Esther had gone over to the fire, and was sitting on the old sheep-skin rug, with her arms leaning on a chair, propping her cheek. Outside there were blue skies and keen frost, and the room with its painted wreaths on the wall, and the faded old brocade of curtains and chair-covers, looked warm and pleasant.

"I have led her home, my love, my only friend;
There is none like her, none.
And never yet so warmly ran my blood,
And sweetly, on and on,
Calming itself to the long-wished-for end,
Full to the banks, close on the promised good.

"None like her, none.
Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk
Seemed her light foot along the garden walk,
And shook my heart to think she comes once more;
But even then I heard her close the door;
The gates of Heaven are closed and she is gone.

"There is none like her, none,
Nor will be when our summers have deceased.
O, art thou sighing for Lebanon;
In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East,
Sighing for Lebanon.
Dark cedar, though thy limbs have here increased
Upon a pastoral slope as fair,
And looking to the South, and fed
With honeyed rain and delicate air,
And haunted by the starry head
Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate,
And made my life a perfumed altar-flame."

When I had read so far, a sense of something electrical in the room made me look up suddenly from the page. The invalid had lifted himself a little on his elbow, and was gazing at my sister's lovely unconscious face, with such a curious intentness and yearning that I felt a shock of surprise and consternation. As my voice ceased he fell back on his pillow, and at the same moment Esther turned slowly like one waking.

"Oh, do go on, Hilda," she said; "it is lovely!"

I read on, but no more forgot myself in the poem. My thoughts were perturbed. Was it possible that my foolish speech the other day could come true? Was there really such a thing as love at first sight? And if the young fellow was in love with Esther, and if she should respond to him, how would things be? The hereditary enemy—why, it would be Romeo and Juliet over again.

The romance of it fluttered my pulses a little, but I have a certain measure of plain common-sense, which Esther has not, where it is a question of romance. I didn't see how such a love affair could end happily, for Sir Rupert would move heaven and earth to keep his grandson from marrying a Brandon, and no doubt the young fellow was dependent on him till his death.

These thoughts came between me and the page. I knew I was reading badly, for the invalid sighed once or twice uneasily, and even Esther turned and looked at me in wonder. At last I went over and put the book into her lap.

"Go on, Essie," said I, "I am tired."

I wanted to go and tell Aline who I guessed the stranger to be, as I ought to have done at first when I suspected it.

"Do you know, Aline," I cried, bursting in on her where she was sitting with a huge pile of mending beside her, "I believe I've guessed who our visitor is."

"Indeed, Hilda! And who is he?"

"Why, Sir Rupert's grandson."

Aline dropped her piece of mending, and stared at me aghast.

"Why should you think so, Hilda? He hasn't told you?"

"I've been putting two and two together, and I think we are a parcel of dunderheads not to have thought of it before. Don't you remember that the boys told us, a couple of days before the accident, that Sir Rupert's grandson had come home, and about the horse following? Then who in the world would be so unnatural as to make no inquiries after the boy except that same horrid old Sir Rupert?"

"You are probably right, Hilda. I wonder we didn't think of it. And that, of course, was why I thought I recognized his grandfather's name. Of course his mother's name was Mary Vane. I remember now to have heard it from our own dear mother."

"It is plain enough to me," I said. "I only wonder we didn't think of it all along."

"Ah, you see you are the wise Hilda! But it wouldn't have made any difference. We couldn't have let him die outside our walls if he were twenty times our hereditary enemy."

"Which he hardly is."

"No, poor boy," said Aline, a little sorrowfully, I thought. "He surely is not. Clearly, he knows nothing about the feud or he would have recognized our name as soon as he heard it."

"If he knew, I don't suppose it would make any difference," said I; "those musty old hatreds can't go on for ever."

"I don't believe any ever existed, except in Sir Rupert's heart. I know our grandfather, whom he had wronged deeply, forgave him fully, and, when he spoke of him in his latter days, wept, I have heard, because at one time he had thought of him like a brother, and, being the good man he was, the old affection had come back."

"You will ask him, I suppose, if we are not right?"

"Oh yes, I shall ask him! but it can make no difference at present. Here he must stay till he is fit to go, and I shall make that plain to him."

"But afterwards?"

"Afterwards?" said Aline, looking sad. "I fear we shall see no more of him. By the way, I left you reading to him."

"Yes, I handed over the reading to Esther when I felt I had to come and tell you."

"Better go back now, dear Hilda," she said gently. "Of course it must make no difference in our treatment of him while he stays, but we must remember that when he goes, he goes finally."

From this I guessed that she, too, had a vague uneasiness about Esther.

When I opened the door of the room and went in, I saw that the reading had evidently been over for some time. Tennyson lay on the floor unheeded, and the two were talking like old friends. The boy looked flushed and happy and a little shy. Esther, more unconscious, was listening to his talk at her ease, but evidently much interested.

"We have been talking, Miss Hilda," said the boy. "Your sister disclaimed any idea of reading poetry after you, so we talked instead; at least I talked, all about myself, and your sister listened."

"Essie is always a good listener," said I absently.

Presently Aline came in to pay the invalid her usual afternoon visit. I was relieved when, a minute or two afterwards, Esther went out. Somehow I wanted to tell her first, not to have it sprung on her suddenly, that the young stranger was one we must not permit ourselves to like.

After a few commonplace phrases had been spoken, Aline said:

"By the way, it is a little odd that we don't yet know your name. It hasn't struck you that we have no name to call you by?"

The young fellow blushed and laughed.

"By Jove, how stupid of me! It never struck me that all your goodness was shown to a man whose name actually you were in ignorance of. I am Harry De Lacy."

"Sir Rupert De Lacy's grandson?"

"Yes. Do you know him? But I don't suppose you do. He is like an ogre shut up in his castle; but you will know of him by repute. He was rather a shock to me, Miss Brandon, for my dear old grandfather in Warwickshire had not at all prepared me for him. He is rather odd, you know."

"Perhaps your English grandfather did not know," said Aline with her face averted.

"Perhaps not. I know they haven't met for years. I always understood that they weren't very good friends, but my English grandfather is not one to rub it in. He probably thought that Time would have changed Sir Rupert."

"Else he would hardly have let you come."

"There was no question of letting. He would have thought it my duty. Beyond that, I think he could scarcely bear me to leave him. But still he could have had no idea of the difference," said the lad impulsively.

"The difference?"

"Between what I had been used to and what I was coming to. He is a saint if ever there was one. I have been brought up there from babyhood, in an atmosphere of peace and love for God and man. Within these four walls I have never heard a rough word. We lived not in luxury, indeed, for so much is given to the poor, but in refinement, and among books and pictures, and all beautiful things. And then to come to Castle Angry—"

He broke off abruptly.

"Miss Brandon, I am talking freely to you, but do you think my grandfather—Sir Rupert, I mean—is mad?"

Aline did not answer at once. Knowing, as we do, Sir Rupert's wickedness, she found it difficult to speak of him to his heir, who apparently knew nothing. At last she answered, looking down:

"Perhaps he is. Only God knows."

"I found the place so filthy," he went on excitedly; "why, a decent kennel would be sweeter and cleaner. The floors are rotting, the plaster falling from the walls and ceiling; everything is going to pieces with damp and neglect. It is horrible, horrible!"

"Poor boy!" said Aline, turning her large limpid eyes upon him; "poor boy!"

The tears suddenly started into his eyes. He was still weak, of course, from his illness, and was likely to be for a long time.

"It isn't the ruin and dirt and discomfort—it is—other things. I believe my poor grandfather is mad, and that fellow Gaskin, his bailiff,—if ever I saw scoundrelism in a human being it is in that fellow. I flogged him soundly the first day I was at Castle Angry. I found him savagely ill-treating one of those wretched dogs, which he had taken care to tie up securely first."

"Oh!" said Aline in a low voice, which, I am afraid, trembled with pleasure. "And what did your grandfather say when he heard?"

"He came out in the middle of it, and roared with laughter. Gaskin was cutting capers to make anyone laugh if the thing hadn't been so sickening. He's a coward too. He slunk off as gray as lead when I let him go. It made me feel that to flog such a creature was degradation."

"Oh no," cried Aline, "surely not! It was right to make him feel something of the pain he had inflicted. Still, you must be careful of the man. I am sure he would make a dangerous enemy. But perhaps you will not go back to Castle Angry when you leave us. You will return to Warwickshire?"

A cloud came over his face.

"I think not; my place is here. My grandfather is very old, Miss Brandon, older than anyone would think. His age will find him out suddenly, as age does with people who have defied it beyond the natural time. He will want me then, even if he does not want me now. Think of him, old and alone, with Gaskin, in that isolated house! No, I shall stay."

"You will be right," said Aline slowly. "But it is a heavy burden for young shoulders. May God protect the right!"

He looked at her gratefully. Then, with a sudden impulse he took up a fold of her skirt and kissed it, and Aline put her hand on his head as if she were blessing him. They seemed to have forgotten me, so I just came out of my corner and extended a hand to him, which he took and pressed warmly.

That night when I was going to bed Aline called me into her room.

"Do you know, Hilda," she said, "I never thought of telling him, after all, that he was the hereditary enemy."

"No more you didn't," said I cheerfully.

Aline looked at me, and then smiled broadly.

"You didn't conduct the interview on those grounds at all," said I; but all the same I felt that there might be a serious side to the matter.