THE ROSS-SHIRE BUFFS

BY

JAMES GRANT

AUTHOR OF "THE ROMANCE OF WAR," &c.

LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE
NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET

LONDON:
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

JAMES GRANT'S NOVELS.

Price 2s. each, Fancy Boards.

THE ROMANCE OF WAR.
THE AIDE-DE-CAMP.
THE SCOTTISH CAVALIER.
BOTHWELL.
JANE SETON; OR, THE QUEEN'S ADVOCATE.
PHILIP ROLLO.
THE BLACK WATCH.
MARY OF LORRAINE.
OLIVER ELLIS; OR, THE FUSILEERS.
LUCY ARDEN; OR, HOLLYWOOD HALL.
FRANK HILTON; OR, THE QUEEN'S OWN.
THE YELLOW FRIGATE.
HARRY OGILVIE; OR, THE BLACK DRAGOONS.
ARTHUR BLANE.
LAURA EVERINGHAM; OR, THE HIGHLANDERS OF GLENORA.
THE CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD.
LETTY HYDE'S LOVERS.
CAVALIERS OF FORTUNE.
SECOND TO NONE.
THE CONSTABLE OF FRANCE.
THE PHANTOM REGIMENT.
THE KING'S OWN BORDERERS.
THE WHITE COCKADE.
FIRST LOVE AND LAST LOVE.
DICK ROONEY.
THE GIRL HE MARRIED.
LADY WEDDERBURN'S WISH.
JACK MANLY.
ONLY AN ENSIGN.
ADVENTURES OF ROB ROY.
UNDER THE RED DRAGON.
THE QUEEN'S CADET.
SHALL I WIN HER?
FAIRER THAN A FAIRY.
ONE OF THE SIX HUNDRED.
MORLEY ASHTON.
DID SHE LOVE HIM?
THE ROSS-SHIRE BUFFS.

CONTENTS.

THE ROSS-SHIRE BUFFS.

CHAP.

"THE ROSS-SHIRE BUFFS."

CHAPTER I.

ENGAGED.

"And will you love me always—always, as you do now?" asked the girl in a low and winning voice, and after a pause, while colouring deeply.

"Could I ever cease to love you, Dove, darling?" replied the other, questioningly and tremulously.

"And so you are to be my own—my very own."

"So long as my heart has pulsation, Dove!"

Thus it is, with a fragment of the "old, old story," first told in Eden, that our new one begins—and told in a veritable Eden too, where, under the glow of a glorious summer sunset, with seemingly all the flowers that the earth can produce, where the trees are of surpassing loveliness, and the tall feathery palms exceed in size and beauty the boasted ones of Kew, beside a pool where the snow-white lilies floated and the golden fish shot to and fro,—yet a place having the most prosaic of names—the Botanical Gardens of Edinburgh,—our two young friends were exchanging what Le Sage would call "marks of their mutual esteem."

The hum of the adjacent city, towering high in air to the south, came with a subdued cadence to the ear; the birds twittered about, the sole witnesses apparently of the half fatuous caresses, which, with tender incoherencies, make up the delight of such a period, when Time itself seems to stand still.

Most decorously and demurely sat the pair, when other bipeds passed near, and, to all appearance, they conversed fluently enough upon botany or anything else that occurred to them; but the moment they were alone face turned to face and eye to eye, while hand sought hand again.

The love-talk in novels, though very delightful to lovers in general, and perhaps to young ladies in particular, we, ourselves, are rather apt to skip; for, remembering our own slight experience in such matters, it seldom seems to have much in it that is capable of coherent record; but, as this is a true narrative and not all romance, a little of it must be given, as preluding and introductory.

"And so you will always love me?" cooed the girl, as her lover, after one swift glance around them, kissed her for the second time, as yet; but her pouting lips invited a third, after which she started and said, "Now, Gillian, we must be very proper, for here come people who may know us."

"Let us walk, then."

And, leaving the rustic sofa which was under a stately tree, they entered a long leafy avenue known as the Lovers' Walk, where doubtless the "old story" would be told over and over again.

And now to introduce them more fully to the reader.

Dove Gainswood—she was well-named "Dove," so gentle and sweet was the girl in her nature—was the only daughter of a wealthy lawyer, living in one of the stateliest squares, at the west-end of the Scottish metropolis—a personage of whom we shall unhappily have much more than his name to record. Under the middle height, she had a face that was charming in its contour and expression, with the pure bright complexion that usually accompanies such thick rich hair as hers, gorgeous dark auburn, of two shades, we may say, for it seemed as if shot with gold when in the sunshine, and her soft dark eyes were of that violet grey which looks black by lamp-light.

Gillian Lamond, her lover and cousin, we shall briefly say, was a handsome, stout, and well-developed young fellow, taller than Dove, by more than a head; with clear, honest, hazel eyes, who looked older than his years, and milder than his real nature, which was proud, fiery, and resentful, for he was, as his name imports, a Highlander by blood.

In the dawn, but not the noon, of love, there is a difference in its effect upon the sexes. At first, a young man is timid—often the more timid of the two; thus hesitation, hope and doubt—doubt of himself and still more of his uncle Gainswood—made Gillian Lamond almost bashful; while Dove was quite, or nearly quite, collected, with a shy yet triumphant smile on her sweet little face.

When they had parted last, a mere boy and girl, she was in her fifteenth year, and since then had spent three years at a finishing educational establishment. Now, when she had returned to Scotland in her eighteenth year, and when Cousin Gillian was close on twenty-one, it was somewhat perilous to be constantly together—for relationship and propinquity are Cupid's greatest accessories; and Gillian formed a portion of their domestic circle, as her father was his legal guardian.

The hoyden of three years ago had returned from France mistress of many accomplishments; she had a very pure intonation, and spoke very sweetly, with a soft, low, cooing voice, quite in accordance with her name; and had, in addition to that great charm in woman, acquired on the Continent—or perhaps they were natural to her—some pretty little ways and tricks of manner, that were very attractive.

Gillian was an only son. His father and Mr. Gainswood had married two sisters; both of them were dead, and had been so for some years, at the time our story opens. The mother of Gillian, with all her little brood, of whom he was the sole survivor, had died far away in India; and he, in early boyhood had been committed to his uncle's care, while his father, Colonel Lachlan Lamond, whom he had not seen for fourteen years, remained "up country," as the phrase is, serving and scorching to amass money for one object, which had ever been the passion of his life.

To regain by purchase the old estate of Avon-na-gillian, which had been for ages in his family, till it passed into other hands through the mischance of his having an extravagant grandfather, had been his aim and ambition since the days when he had first passed the Sand Heads of the Hooghly a poor cadet.

As the chief of the Clan Donoquhy had done, when he purchased back his forfeited patrimony; as the late Glengarry hoped to do, when he parted with all his vast estates, save the old castled rock and the burial-place of his family, was the object of Colonel Lamond, and amid years spent as a collector in Central India, during which time he gradually passed, without much fighting certainly, to the head of his regiment, he never forgot the arid rocks and heathy glens of Avon-na-gillian; but had the mortification to see it thrice in the market, before he had been able to transmit to his brother-in-law, Gainswood, a sum sufficient for the purchase-money; for the coveted estate, though small and poor naturally and originally, was now rendered more valuable by its sheep and shootings.

Trusting implicitly in Gideon Gainswood, whom he believed to be a man of the utmost probity, who was always reputed as such, and whom he deemed safe as the Agra Bank or the India House itself, he confided all to him; among others things, the most priceless, his only son, who, with his name, was to inherit the estate when re-won; and whom he would not permit—though it had been the lad's intense wish—to become a soldier, lest the chances of war or of a tropical climate might cut him off, as it had done all his little brothers, who lay buried far apart in different parts of India.

Without binding him by any indenture, or fully educating him for the legal profession—as the old Colonel had some contempt for it—the injunctions to Gideon Gainswood were, that Gillian should learn habits of order and industry by having a desk in his office, and acquire sufficient knowledge of the law to make him careful, and able to hold his own against all comers when he got it, and became Lamond of Avon-na-gillian, in the Western Isles.

Gillian sighed at this decision, but was compelled to acquiesce in his father's wishes, though repining bitterly; but ere long, after manifesting the greatest reluctance and repugnance, he suddenly began to devote himself with some perseverance to the dry mysteries of the law, and to plod at his desk with a willingness which his brother-clerks supposed to arise from the mere fact that he was a species of volunteer in the work, but which in reality rose from a desire to please his uncle Gainswood, and win his golden opinions, for a reason which did not at first strike that usually astute personage; and this was the return home of Dove, in whose society all the leisure hours of Gillian were passed, and he was her escort everywhere, to the great envy and admiration of his office-chums, who were only permitted to know the young lady by sight, and among whom Gillian was very popular—quite a lion in fact, from, his general bonhommie, suavity, and generosity, as he was always "standing" luncheons and dinners, as they phrased it, "to any extent."

It was quite natural, their companionship, the girl thought—were they not cousins? He was quite the same as a handsome brother; but, of course, a thousand times more tender and attentive. Matters progressed rapidly and delightfully. Gideon Gainswood did not see the situation, so absorbed was he in the legal work of his dirty little world as a lawyer, and in the spiritual affairs of the next, as an Elder of the Kirk; but old Mrs. Elspat McBriar, a poor widowed relation, who managed his household, perceived it without the aid of her spectacles.

And so, with reference to all that we have explained, as they slowly promenaded to and fro, in the leafy tunnel of the Lovers' Walk, with his hand caressingly clasping Dove's—

"I should have been a soldier," said Gillian; "a soldier like my father, and all our forefathers, but for his eccentric reluctance and distinct objection thereto; but now, Dove, that you have come back to us, and now that—that you—"

"Are loved by me, Gillian?"

"Oh, my darling—yes!"

"Well?"

"Ambition of every kind, save to love you in return, and to please you—yes, to adore you, is dead within me!"

Et cætera.

Engaged! So they were engaged, these two, and full of rapture to think that they were so, and at the whole novelty of the sweet, yet secret situation. But to what end? Gillian's allowance was small, and he deemed the Colonel—notwithstanding his Indian pay and allowances—to be poor, as, according to the statements of his uncle Gainswood, the money destined for the acquisition of Avon-na-gillian came home slowly and in small sums, yet he had a vague hope of more monetary assistance from him in the future.

Dove's father was, he knew, rich, far beyond what legal men in Scotland ever are; but he dared not reckon on that, as he knew him to be grasping and avaricious. Still less did the poor lad know that he, personally, was hated by him secretly, with the hate of those who wrong the innocent, and dread discovery, and the unweaving of the web of deceit.

But, of this, more anon.

Withal that their love was in its flush, marriage, the natural sequel, seemed distant—even remote; but both were so young, there was time enough; and both were so happy, so hopeful in Heaven and so true in themselves.

Poor hearts! they foresaw not then how all this love, hope, and truth were to be tested. It was in the sweet season of summer that Gillian Lamond walked there hand-in-hand with Dove, his heart brimming over with the new found joy.

Alas! he could little foresee where that day six months was to find him—with Outram and Havelock, face to face with the fur-capped Persian Cavaliers of Nusser-ud-Deen, in the land of the great Cyrus—of Nusser-ud-Deen, the same shah whom we had so lately among us, at Buckingham Palace and Trentham—a startling transition indeed.

CHAPTER II.

UNCLE GAINSWOOD.

The character we are about to pourtray, though not an uncommon one, is a task alike difficult and distasteful.

Mr. Gideon Gainswood, Writer to the Signet and Notary Public, was a good example of those coarse-looking local notorieties, who, painted in accurate black, yearly figure, in kit-cat size, on the walls of the Royal Scottish Academy. His figure was sturdy, and his hands and feet were as those of a hodman, which, perhaps, his more worthy grandfather had been in his time. His features were of a harsh Scottish type; a cunning and sardonic turn of mind had puckered in minute wrinkles the skin near his cold-grey, ferret-like eyes, which seemed to focus on all he addressed. He had coarse hair of a sandy brown, now well grizzled in his fiftieth year; grey leg-of-mutton whiskers, and a thin-lipped, cruel-looking mouth, the jaw of a bull-dog, and a nose that can only be denominated as a large pug. He seldom laughed; then only from the teeth outwards, and these, being yellow, contrasted unfavourably with the scrupulously white neck-tie, which he was never seen without in his double capacity of a professional man and Elder of the kirk.

Yet he was only one of the legion,—

"Who eat, they drink, they sleep, they spend,
    They go to church on Sunday;
For many are afraid of God,
    But more of Mrs. Grundy,—"

a typical female who is the bugbear—the modern Gyre Carlin—of "the genteel" classes in Scotland, especially in her capital, thereby restraining all honesty of action and inducing an amount of timidity and snobbery that to a stranger seems astounding.

He certainly had the reputation of being an able lawyer and most upright Elder—"a sly fox—a sharp fellow," some ill-natured people averred; "one who took deuced good care not to be found out," whatever that might mean. His chief weakness, besides unsatiable avarice, was that desire, so peculiar to the middle-class Scotsman and Frenchman, to figure on platforms at public meetings and see their names duly recorded in the provincial prints. As a general rule, the learned professions in Scotland now contribute almost nothing to the literature of the country, but Mr. Gainswood had emitted an annotated edition of "A Shove Heavenward for Heavy-doupit Sinners," which won him some fame, and added to the religious reputation he had won for himself, by perpetually quoting Scripture—more than we shall do for him. And texts therefrom—not illuminated, as such savoured of Popery and Episcopacy, but in fair black roman letters—were hung all over his house, which was one of the handsomest in the city.

He observed the seventh day with a rigidity that was edifying to behold. Under the management of Mrs. Elspat McBriar, cold dinners ever graced the Sunday board, for as a writer has it, "spite may be permissible on Sabbath, though hot potatoes and novels are not," as poor Dove sighed to think, when, after three years in France, she came home to all this sort of thing.

How such a man came to have a daughter so good and artless, and, more than all, so exquisitely ladylike as Dove, was passing strange, and one of those idiosyncracies of nature "which," as Dundreary says, "no fellow can understand."

Though it suited him never to say so, the Colonel's fond and romantic idea of buying back Avon-na-gillian, spending the last of his days where its bluff rocks met the vast waves of the Atlantic, and being laid finally under some old pine trees where generations of the Clan Lamond lay, he considered "especial bosh," as he had no sympathy with any such "old world" speculations.

He always deemed the scheme an impracticable one; and, sooth to say, were the real truth known, for sundry cogent and secret reasons of his own, it would have proved far from unwelcome, had tidings come, that his brother-in-law were cut off in India by death in any fashion, fever, battle, or the assassin's steel, and never came home at all, as he hoped to do ere Gillian was twenty-one; yet he never addressed a letter to the confiding old soldier, without preluding it with "D.V.," as he did those to all his clients.

To such a creature as this, and such as he may prove to be, there are, no doubt—even in his profession—good and bright exceptions; yet in the "College of Justice," as it is historically or jocularly called, they are often far apart; and he was one of the representative men of a pretty numerous class of religious pretenders that are to be found in all phases of life.

We have said that, secretly, Mr. Gainswood more than disliked his nephew, yet for the love of his cousin the young fellow was unwearying, and left nothing undone to please him; but so absorbed was the lawyer in his own matters, so little did he seem aware that such an emotion—"folly," he would have termed it—as love existed, that when a wealthy client, the old Laird of Torduff, with whom he was familiar, a sturdy, red-faced old gentleman in a black cutaway coat, top-boots, and corded breeches, ventured to hint at that which poor Mrs. McBriar dared not do, the real state of matters, as they were supposed to be between the cousins, and to offer laughingly his congratulations thereon, the scales fell suddenly from the malicious-like eyes of Gainswood, and he really was, as he asserted himself to be, never more surprised in the whole course of his life.

"What else could you expect, man?" asked Torduff, twirling and untwirling the lash of his hunting-whip.

"It is a complication on which I did not calculate—a mistake I could not foresee, when I undertook the care—the guardianship of my late wife's nephew," said Gainswood, as if half speaking to himself.

"They are a likely and a handsome couple, and all who know and see them say it will be an excellent match."

"The devil they do!" nearly escaped the Elder. "Excellent match for whom?" he asked, with his bushy brows knit and his thin lips set.

"Why, the Colonel's son, of course," stammered the other; "he is a fine manly fellow—young, of course; but I approve of young marriages."

"I don't—marry in haste and repent at leisure."

"No," replied Torduff, testily; "our Scot's proverb says, 'Marry for love and work for siller.'"

"He who marries my daughter shall have no need to work; besides, the relationship is too near, and I have other thoughts for Dove."

"Then, I am sorry to hear it. Come, come, Gainswood, don't be hard on the young folks," rejoined the cheery old country gentleman; "you have made up a jolly big bank-book by this time."

"My dear sir, the grace of God is enough for me," said Gainswood, suddenly relapsing into his pious whine; "I am one of those who take no heed to gather up riches—those of this world, at least."

"Well, I hope I have done no mischief in telling you the on dit—I had it from my own girls," added Torduff, buttoning his riding gloves; "but you go so seldom to places of amusement that you don't know what goes on even in our little world here. And now I am off to the club—good morning."

"Good morning, my dear sir—good morning."

With a serene smile, great empressement, and a warm shake of the hand, he bowed his client out; then, stamping his heel on the floor, he threw himself into his leathern easy chair with a very unmistakeable—well, interjection on his tongue; clenched his coarse hands, and glared with a savage expression at a certain green box on the iron frame close by—a box containing his correspondence with Colonel Lamond, and all that related to him, and muttered,—

"On one hand, I cannot send Gillian away, and on the other, this sort of thing cannot go on longer; at any day his father may come upon me, and what am I to do then? This upsets all my plans—the plans of years!"

He ground his yellow teeth, with fury purpling in his face, and his eyes wandered vacantly on the scenery beyond the tall windows of his room, without seeming to see it.

The sun of the summer afternoon was shining then in all his beauty above the woody undulations of the Corstorphine Hills, and on all that lay between, white-walled villas, green woodlands, and waving thickets, a scene both varied and charming; but the sordid creature saw it not; his whole thoughts were intent on his own schemes, on what he had heard, and the contents of the green box.

So—so! matters must have gone far indeed, between these young folks at home, when others saw plainly that to which he had been blind, and were coupling their names together, as an engaged pair.

So full was he of his own dark thoughts and of his schemes, that some minutes elapsed before he saw one of his clerks, a mere boy, an unpaid drudge, who had timidly approached him from an outer-room, and was silently regarding him with wonder; and certes! at that particular time, Mr. Gideon Gainswood would not have made a pleasant picture; so here now was a helpless object on which to expend the vials of his wrath.

Knitting his brows more deeply, he demanded, in a voice of thunder,—

"Did you fee-fund those papers in Graball's process, at the Register-house, at the time I told you?"

"You told me too late, sir," replied the little lad, trembling from head to heel.

"Too late—you young whelp!"

Though not blessed with much patience, it was seldom that he exhibited himself in this unchristian fashion.

"Sir, it was a Box-day," urged the lad; "when the office closes at two o'clock, and so—so—I thought——"

"What business have you to think? Leave my office, Macquillan, this instant, and let me see you no more!"

He was a knowing young fellow, Macquillan, who kept a copy of "The Shove Heavenward" on his desk, though some lighter literature was often in the recesses thereof; but the former availed him not now. What could it all mean?

He felt himself ruined by this dismissal—ruined without knowing why, and slunk away in utter bewilderment, to weep his heart out on his mother's shoulder in some sordid quarter of the city; and a month from that time found the poor little quill-driver making more noise in the world than he ever expected to do, by beating a drum in Her Majesty's Black Watch.

A sudden thought seized Mr. Gainswood, and he sharply summoned Gillian Lamond, but that young gentleman had left the office early, and assuming his hat and gloves, the former walked sullenly home, when, to Dove's surprise, he presented himself in the drawing-room just as she was having afternoon tea, an hour before his usual time, and near her stood Gillian, suddenly busying himself with a periodical and paper-knife.

"Here is your tea, papa dear—this is an unexpected treat," said the girl, turning up her soft and beautiful face to his, the expression of which was smoothed now and inscrutable to all but his daughter.

"You know I never take tea, Dove, especially at this time of the day, nor can I understand any but fools taking it at the really usual dinner hour," he replied, gruffly. "You left your desk betimes, Gillian," he added.

"Only to bring Dove this magazine."

"And do you mean to return?"

"If you will excuse me, uncle—"

"Do, papa, dear, we are going for a walk," urged Dove in her softest tone, and with a determination not to perceive that he was annoyed; for she had a quick apprehension, and detected something, she knew not what, in the eyes of her father, as he feigned to interest himself behind a newspaper; but the eyes dealt—that which she had more than once detected of late—a dark and unpleasant glance at the unconscious Gillian.

They were unusually silent in his presence to-day, he thought, and this was not what they were wont to be. Gillian was hovering near Dove, and a charming picture the girl made, framed in, as it were, by the drapery of a lofty window, through which a flood of sunshine seemed to enshrine her, edging her auburn hair with burnished gold, as she sat upon her ottoman, sipping and toying with her teaspoon in the prettiest way in the world, and shyly smiling to her lover from time to time.

Mr. Gainswood watched them narrowly and gloomily. Dove had finished her tea, and Gillian hastened to place her cup on the nearest gueridon table. Simple and usual though this small piece of attention, he could perceive an upward and downward glance exchanged between the two—a glance full of tenderness and secret understanding—together with a touch of the hand almost swift as light, and these seemed quite confirmation of what Torduff said, and of his own suddenly awakened fears.

Now, whatever were his secret plans and aspirations, Gideon Gainswood was a man of rapid decision, and when Dove, rising, said,

"Now, Gillian, for our walk—we shall keep papa from his paper."

"Stop," said he; "a word with you, Gillian, in my own room."

The gentlemen retired together, and all that followed was singularly brief, as compared with the importance of all that hinged on the interview. The faintest suspicion of what was about to be referred to, occurred to Gillian Lamond and filled him with confusion, anxiety, and a general emotion of dread. These were no way lessened when Mr. Gainswood, while eyeing him very gravely, said somewhat abruptly,

"This sort of thing between you and Dove cannot go on longer!"

"What sort of thing?" stammered Gillian, scarcely knowing what to say.

"Do not repeat my words, please; you know perfectly well what I mean, but perhaps not that people—gossips—are already coupling your names together."

Gillian coloured deeply and then grew very pale. Was this the beginning of a black ending? and was the bright dawn of love, that but a short time before had come in so sweetly, to have a sunset of cloud and storm?

"Dear uncle," he urged, "then is it possible that you, so clever and sharp, have been the last—the very last to see—"

"What?"

"How much we love each other?"

"Fiddlesticks!"

"Do you disapprove of it?" asked Gillian, almost trembling under the other's cold grey eyes.

"I do," was the snappish rejoinder.

"Uncle!"

"I do—till we have your father's full sanction."

"Oh, sir, we are sure of that; but have we yours?"

Gideon Gainswood paused and played with his eye-glass, for though well versed in duplicity and every art and phrase thereof, the present situation was—to him—a peculiar one. He gave Gillian an indescribable glance—unless that it seemed a threatening one—yet said in a voice like a gasp,

"Yes—you have my sanction."

"God bless you, dearest uncle, for these words!" exclaimed the impulsive young man, as he strove to take one of the other's hands in his; but his "dearest uncle" deliberately placed them both behind his back, and said, briefly and almost sternly—strangely so—

"I shall write to-night to your father, the Colonel, and if he approves, there is nothing more to be said in the matter—the Record will be closed."

With this professional phrase, he added a wave of the hand, as much as to say the conversation was ended. The man's whole manner was singular; in the fulness of his gushing joy, Gillian took no heed of it then; but there came a time when he was to recall it with sorrow and dread. He was about to speak again, when Mr. Gainswood said,

"Dove will be ready now; go for your walk and leave me."

"What can be meant by this coldness?" thought Gillian; "what by those abrupt changes of manner?"

"Oh, what happiness to us, darling," exclaimed Dove, when he had breathlessly told her all, and she clung to his arm when they set forth for their walk, after he had with difficulty restrained her from rushing back to embrace and weep on the breast of her "dearest papa," who seemed in no mood for such ebullition; "but how did it all come about?"

"I can scarcely tell—I care not to inquire, or to think of aught but that you are to be mine—mine for ever, Dove—dearest Dove!"

Yet Gillian was perplexed by the manner of his intended father-in-law; and still more would he have been so, as to what that personage meant, had he heard him, while sitting at his desk, and dipping his pen in a bottle of copying ink—for the letter to the Colonel was to be duly copied—muttering between his set teeth,

"In this act I do but make the best of it! It is not what I intended to do—and not what I may do yet. But, after all, it might be worse—it might be worse! If Lachlan Lamond ever comes home, he must be merciful to me, for the sake of his son, if not for Dove's sake."

Merciful for what? But the lawyer muttered to himself, while with many a low interjection—many a pause of doubt, and fierce, stealthy glances at nothing, he penned the promised letter to Colonel Lamond, then far away in Central India.

CHAPTER III.

THE COLONEL'S ANSWER.

Their love permitted and acknowledged, to Gillian Lamond and Dove it seemed more than ever a fact and reality, and how happy they were in their young hearts, which were filled with gratitude to Mr. Gainswood. But the latter still viewed their engagement with undisguised coldness; there was no doubt about that feature in the affair. He had abruptly consented to it, but with one sternly impressed proviso, that it should be kept as secret as possible, admitted to none, denied to all, till the proper time came, as such arrangements were better not to be canvassed by any coterie of girls, and old female gossips, till the time came, and that had but one meaning full of joy to the pair as they heard him and gave their promise; but another time came when Mr. Gainswood rubbed his hands and ground his teeth with pleasure at his own foresight in this matter.

The Indian mails were watched, and the Colonel's reply anxiously looked for by all; but Gillian had a perfect and perplexing consciousness that since that day on which the engagement had been permitted, the temper of Mr. Gainswood, and his general bearing towards himself, had not been improved. He knew not what to make of it, but trusted vaguely to his father's letter for explaining all.

To his unfortunate employés his manner became almost savage at times, as upon them he could vent his secret wrath unfettered.

Weeks passed on, and no letter came from India; the lovers counted the days, and yet, with them, the time passed happily enough and fast too; equally quickly did they pass with busy Mr. Gainswood, for when not drudging among the drudges in his spacious offices, laying snares for clients, bullying his debtors, toadying or doing something equally dignifying to further his own interests, he was attending religious meetings or others, with reference to which his name was sure to be reported prominently by the provincial press.

One morning, among many others a letter from India—the expected letter was laid on his desk. He uttered a fierce snort, or malediction, but under his breath, as he snatched it up, and by legal force of habit, on glancing at the postmark, he saw that he should have had it the day before.

"Whose duty was it to prepare these letters for me—yours, or Mr. Smith's?" he sternly asked one of his clerks.

"Either Mr. Smith or I, sir—but I left it at the bottom of the letter-box by mistake, and please—"

"You and Mr. Smith," he thundered out to the trembling lad, "may go to the cashier, get what is due to you, and quit my service. I never forgive a dereliction of duty—go!"

The unfortunate fellow saw it was hopeless to urge anything, and slunk away, with a sick heart, no doubt. He was one of those who, from day to day, and year to year, plodded on, under-paid and over-worked, till every hope had died away, and every higher aspiration faded out amid the wearying process of the dullest labour with its ceaseless monotony.

And now for the letter of the Colonel, which was dated from Calcutta, and some time back, as it had been following him "by dawk" for several weeks, as he came down country. It was a manly and soldier-like letter, filled with the warmest profession of regard for Gainswood, and intense gratitude to him for the care and affection bestowed by that personage on his only son, the last left him by the effects and contingencies of life and service in India.

"The proposed marriage of which you write me," continued Colonel Lamond, "is quite what I wish should be, and is in every way the fulfilment of a hope that often occurred to me, though I never hinted of it. The two sisters, our dear dead wives, loved each other with great tenderness, and for both their sakes, as well as Gillian's, I shall dearly love your daughter Dove. I often think of her now, when all duty is past, and I am left over brandy-pawnee and a cheroot in my lonely bungalow. I remember her well when she was a sweet wee birdie indeed, only some three or four years old, and when I could little think she would ever become a daughter to me. Kiss her for my sake, and say I shall bring her a suite of gold ornaments, the best that Delhi can produce and that a queen might wear.

"Before that time, brother Gainswood, I have some work cut out for me. I have to take command of a little mixed force of all arms, destined to act against some of the hill tribes that are marauding near the Bhotan frontier. This will close my long service in India, and luckily it will only be a flash in the pan, as we used to say. The moment it is over, and the field force is broken up, I shall start for Europe to figure at the marriage, so the youngsters must wait a few months for the sake of an old man who loves them well; and so, God bless you all!"

Then followed a postscript about the repurchase of Avon-na-gillian, which the lawyer read with bitter impatience, and muttered with a saturnine smile on his thin lips.

"Long ere this he has been on the march towards Bhotan, where bullets and poisoned arrows will be flying, and one of these may—well—well, but we are all in the hands of the Lord, so let me not anticipate—let me not anticipate," he added, for this man could actually cant to himself!

"My poor old father going to fight again!" exclaimed Gillian, on the letter being read to him. "Oh, Uncle Gainswood, but for his determined wish and my love for Dove, what a coward and slave I should feel myself just now."

"Don't be melodramatic, Gillian," said Mr. Gainswood, eyeing the lad gloomily from under his bushy eyebrows, as he actually seemed to hate him for a tenderness and enthusiasm which his nature failed to comprehend; "when your good aunt left me for a better world—'blessed are the dead which die in the Lord'—she entrusted you to me, as especially your father did, Gillian; but, alas! we cannot gather figs of thistles. We know not what may happen; and, for all your good father's bright hopes, you may still, my boy, be utterly penniless."

The Bhotanese bullets were, perhaps, hovering in the lawyer's mind.

Gillian had more than once heard this unpleasant, and to him inexplicable, inuendo from his uncle, but did not attach to it the weight that, after a time, he found himself compelled to do.

"The dispositions of Providence are mysterious—yea, most mysterious, and no one knoweth what a day may bring forth!" said Mr. Gainswood, shaking his head solemnly, and using one of those phrases of which he had always a ready stock on hand, and which he used most when he was weaving a web of deceit, as he proceeded to fold, and docket and date the letter, by legal force of habit, "Colonel Lamond, anent his son's marriage," and then consigned it to the particular tin box the key of which he always kept himself.

So the dear old Colonel had consented, and nothing was wanted but his return and his presence to crown the happiness of all, as Gillian thought, when, with Mr. Gainswood's permission, he hurried home to acquaint Dove with the contents of his father's letter, the effect of which was very different upon the recipient thereof, for when left alone, he sat long buried in thought, with his brows knit, his teeth clenched, and his hands thrust far into his trowser's pocket, where they played unconsciously—another habit he had—with the loose money he loved so well.

CHAPTER IV

LORD CAMPSIE.

At dinner, a few days after this, Mr. Gainswood, after his usual long benediction, added thereto, somewhat abruptly, as if it had been a part thereof,—

"The Prince's Hussars have just come in."

"Indeed, papa," said Dove, not much interested by the intelligence, though rather surprised that her father should be. So was Gillian, who looked up inquiringly from his soup.

"To Piershill?" he asked.

"To Piershill Barracks," added Mr. Gainswood, a little pompously; "and I have just had a letter from our client, Viscount Kilsythe, stating that his son, Lord Campsie, a captain in the regiment, will call upon me, and that I must be careful in making monetary advances to the young fellow; but that he wishes me to pay him some attention as the son of an old friend."

"In what way, papa?"

"Oh—a dinner or a ball, perhaps!"

"A ball, papa?" repeated Dove, her fine eyes filling more with absolute wonder than delight, while a kind of scared expression stole over the wrinkled front of old Mrs. McBriar.

"Such vanities are not in my way—moreover, I never approved of the sexes dancing together, but we shall have some dinner parties, certainly—what do you think, Mrs. McBriar?"

"I mind me well, that when Quarter-master McBriar, of the Scots Greys, was quartered at Jock's Lodge——"

"Bother Quarter-master McBriar!" said Mr. Gainswood, interrupting one of the old lady's stereotyped reminiscences of her late husband, and without the slightest ceremony.

However, it was carried nem. con. that a dinner-party was to be given. But though used well enough to such entertainments on a large and lavish scale, Dove and her chaperone, Mrs. McBriar, were not wont to have guests of the calibre of Lord Campsie and his brother officers. "Parliament House men," as the legal fraternity are named in Edinburgh, from the circumstance of the old Hall of the Scottish Estates being their "Westminster Hall," and solemn, ponderous, or rough, toddy-imbibing country divines she had of late been well used to, and constantly bored by, as they formed her father's "set;" but the Prince's Hussars!

Poor little Dove was more scared than delighted by the prospect of having the responsibility of acting hostess, though the situation was not without its novelty; and forthwith she and Mrs. McBriar, who, of course, took Gillian into their confidence, became deeply involved in the question of who was to be invited, and in the still greater one of who was to be omitted; for in small circles like the Scottish capital and cathedral cities, that is frequently the most momentous feature in connection with an entertainment.

The daily papers were searched now, in vain, by Gillian and Dove, and by none more anxiously than Gideon Gainswood, for some tidings of Colonel Lamond's remote and obscure expedition against the Hillmen. Whatever the result thereof, no news appeared as yet in the journals of the "modern Athens," where, even now in these railway days, the Times and other metropolitan journals are generally to be found at the club-houses alone.

One day—Dove never forgot it—she and her particular friend and gossip, Flora Stuart, a pretty blonde girl, whose bright face and attractive figure were familiar to all the many idlers of the fashionable promenades of that city of loungers, were setting forth together, when a gentleman on horseback passed them in the huge and otherwise empty square.

"A distinguished-looking young fellow—is not he, Dove?" said Flora, as the rider passed them with his horse at a walk, and gave them a casual, but critical, glance through his eye-glass.

Upright, tall, and flat-shouldered, he sat in his saddle with the ease that declared him a finished horseman, and one who had perfect power over the beautiful animal he rode. He seemed about seven or eight and twenty years of age, closely shaven, all save a dark moustache, with deep grey eyes, and features that were undoubtedly characteristic of good blood and lineage. He had the calm, self-satisfied air peculiar to a thorough man-about-town in the present day, and the horse he rode was sufficient to stamp and prove the excellence of his taste in that matter.

It was a dark-bay hunter about sixteen hands high, with small head, slender neck, ample chest, full barrel, broad loins, muscular and well-formed legs. He was attended by a groom of the orthodox English type—neither man nor boy, in leathers and white-topped boots, hat encircled by a thin gold cord, a cockade and gold acorn thereon; closely buttoned in a green coat with waistbelt and well folded white neck-tie. The horse he rode, a thoroughbred bay, was lighter than that of his master, but seemed, like it, to combine both action and blood.

The master was a style of man more often seen in the Row, the Lady's Mile, or elsewhere at the West-end of London, than at the West-end of Edinburgh, or any other quarter thereof now. Dove's eye casually followed the approving glance of Flora Stuart, but she could little foresee the trouble this identical horseman was to cause her in time to come.

"He has reined up at your house, Dove!" exclaimed her friend, as they turned out of the square.

"Oh! one of those hussars, no doubt," said Dove, and dismissed the subject from her mind, save in so far as the inevitable dinner party was concerned.

The groom handed in the card of his master, whereon was engraved,

"CAPTAIN LORD CAMPSIE,
        "Prince's Hussars,"

a piece of pasteboard destined to occupy a conspicuous place in the card-basket of Mr. Gainswood, on whom, perhaps, his lordship would never have called, but for the circumstance that he was the factor on the little that remained of the Scottish Kilsythe Estates; and that, like Hussars in general, he had debts that required liquidation, and was always getting further into debt to accomplish that desired end.

Mr. Gainswood was at home, and Lord Campsie found himself in the stately double drawing-room, the general good style of which was due to Dove's correct taste; but their magnitude and magnificence would have been sufficient to impress even him, had he not been attracted by the grandeur of the view from the windows—the great extent of beautiful country that—beyond the deep and rugged ravine where the Leith brawled seaward between rocks and gardens, beyond bosky Deanhaugh with its antique mills and stupendous bridge—stretched away in sunny haze towards the Forth with all its isles, and the shores of Fife, with all its clustering towns, green woods and hills, where every tint and outline were softened and mellowed by distance.

"Respectability, according to Sydney Smith, keeps a gig," thought the young lord; "I always supposed that respectability here, was glad enough to be able to keep itself, without the gig; but, by Jove, old Gainswood, you must have feathered your vulture's nest well!"

It was indeed a vulture's nest in some respects, but in it was a dove, of whom Lord Campsie knew nothing yet.

Mr. Gainswood came bustling in, adjusting his wristbands, looking almost fussy, and with great energy shook Lord Campsie's hand, and had it not been gloved, he would have been unpleasantly sensible that the lawyer had just, in haste, washed his digits, as he made a toilette on hearing his noble visitor announced.

He inquired with great impressement after the health of dear Viscount Kilsythe; and though, of course, the peer referred to was a Viscount, it betrayed the lawyer's ignorance of good society to style him so; thus his son replied, with a peculiar smile,

"Thanks—his lordship is quite well—at least, the old fellow was, when he looked me up some time ago at Hounslow."

Old fellow! Mr. Gainswood felt this to be a very free and easy way to speak of a peer of the realm; for, in Scotland, though one of the most democratic countries in the world, there is—as in America—a slavish admiration of, and adulation to, title and rank, which in the former instance, can only be accounted for by the non-residence of the aristocracy in her capital; as, when not on a brief visit to their estates, they are, of course, in London.

After some common-places, and agreement by common consent that the weather was fine for the season, the young lord, who felt no great pleasure in Mr. Gainswood's society, thought him of the object of his visit.

"You are aware, I suppose, that I am quartered at Piershill, near—near—"

"Ah—yes, my lord—near John's Lodge, my lord."

"Vulgar snob!" thought Campsie, his handsome face rippling with quiet laughter.

"My daughter is, unfortunately, out," said Mr. Gainswood, who was greatly irritated that she was so at this time; but he added suavely, "I should so like her to have seen your lordship, of whom she has heard so much."

Dove probably knew not there was such a person in existence till her father mentioned the fact.

"So sorry—most happy—I'm sure," lisped Campsie, stroking his mustache and not much interested in the matter; "I should, perhaps, have called at your place of business; but I was trying a new horse out this way."

He then proceeded to open the trenches at once.

"I am in a scrape, Gainswood."

"Going to be married?"

"Not at all—nothing so stupid."

Gainswood did not think he was; but thought there was no harm in suggesting that personal sacrifice to him, or putting it in his head anyhow.

"What then, my lord?" asked the lawyer, who knew that clients always told their story their own way.

He wanted an advance—"only some cool hundreds—most pressing—a doocid affair—but merely temporary."

Gainswood smiled blandly, and nodded while rubbing his coarse hands over each other. He knew to a farthing the monetary resources and prospects of the Livingstones of Kilsythe, and resolved to advance, as yet, only what he was sure of being repaid, with interest, and not a shilling more; yet for some time he pretended to hesitate and raise doubts. After a time, and having thereby given Campsie cause for a little anxiety, he said, in his most friendly tone,

"We'll arrange it all to-morrow, my lord—lunch with me here at two—sharp; it is quieter than the office, we'll just have a bird and some quiet talk over it."

"Thanks—a thousand thanks—most happy—I'm sure," drawled Campsie, assuming his hat, and little thinking that "the bird," most likely referred to, was poor Dove Gainswood.

To her great annoyance, the young lord came thrice to lunch before the monetary matters were arranged, and on each occasion the lawyer watched him closely.

Pleased, if not charmed, with the fresh young girl's beauty and artlessness, Campsie paid her considerable attention. Flora Stuart, who was present once, declared it to be marked attention; but Dove, as she wished it not, certainly never thought so. When addressing all women, Campsie's manner was naturally chivalrous, gentle, and winning, though there were times, when at the stables and elsewhere, he could be slangy enough; but Dove, though all unused to "Lords and Knights of the Garter," was too intelligent a girl not to distinguish the petty nothings, which, added to a very suave manner, might pass for incipient love-making, and the real bearing of a lover.

Mr. Gainswood had not this delicate perception; but Dove knew her father's heart, and could read his eyes like a printed book. She began to have forebodings of what might yet develop itself, and took care never to be left alone with Lord Campsie even for a single moment.

From that first visit her trials began—trials which she shrunk from confiding even to Gillian Lamond, lest she might wound the honest fellow's loving heart.

CHAPTER V

THE PKINCE'S HUSSARS.

Like everything else she undertook, Dove's little dinner party was a success, from, the soup and fish to the maraschino or charteuse and the coffee. With the pairing of the couples we have little to do, save to mention that, of course, she was led to the dining-room by Lord Campsie, the guest of the evening, while Stafford Martingale, one of the fastest men of the regiment—a prime favourite with fast women, and who always boasted himself a non-marrying man—to his disgust and bewilderment, had the duty of escorting old Mrs. Elspat McBriar, while fair Flora Stuart was happy in having Sir Hayward Carrington, a good-looking baronet, rather "horsey" and blasé, a man about forty years of age, who had learned as much of life in half those years as another man might in a hundred—but with the entertainment in all its petty details we have leas to do, than what it led to.

A little excited by the novelty of the affair, the flush in Dove's soft cheek made her look more beautiful than ever, as it mantled under the transparent texture of her fair white skin. She was dressed in blue, which she knew was most becoming to her complexion and bright auburn hair with its golden sheen. She wore with it the richest lace, and her jewels few, as became a young girl, were good and in excellent taste, and her cable-bracelets of Italian workmanship set off the whiteness of her beautiful hands, which Campsie, a true connoisseur in such features, could perceive were as handsome as her eyes and the contour of her dazzling throat. How proud of her Gillian felt as he gazed at her from time to time during the protracted repast.

Not quite at his ease, the lawyer rather overdid his part of host; but that which was restlessness passed for hospitality; while old Mrs. McBriar, in honour of the guests, appeared in an amplitude of black skirt, moire antique, of a fashion unknown in this world now, twisting nervously her grandmother's square gold eyeglass, but nodding and smiling graciously to all, and whispering her disappointment to Martingale that they had not come in uniform as she fully expected them to do, with busbies and accoutrements, for in Quarter-master McBriar's time—and so forth—she gave some prosy anecdote to which the Hussar listened with well-bred indifference.

At first she was rather put about by the presence of a real lord at the table. The paper-lord, or "Parliament House" article, she was used to; they were plain, half-bred, toddy-drinking and often coarse-speaking old Scotsmen, but Campsie and his friends of "the Prince's," with their general style, bearing, and easy insouciance—for such it was—impressed her deeply.

Among these Hussars, with their man-about-town bearing and soldierly aspect, their broad views of politics, their references to a fashionable world which he was as unable to comprehend as he was their occasional "horsey" talk, poor Gideon Gainswood was like a fish out of the water. Perhaps, in his heart he hated them for possessing a tone, rank, and bearing so immeasurably above his own; but he was proud of his guests—a real lord and baronet—and liked immensely that his little barrister friends should see them at his table, but he felt more at ease when it was quitted for the drawing-room.

On the other hand, such is the gratitude of "society," that Campsie, Carrington, Martingale, and two other Hussars who were there, liked his wines, his rooms, and the girls they met, better than his own company, and when the piano was opened he was forthwith ignored; yet he heeded it not—or, perhaps, felt it not.

The three Stuart girls, old Torduff's daughters, and two or three more, who, like their countrywomen in general, were accomplished musicians and sang well, now that the Hussars had been introduced to them, looked fondly forward to the periodical balls and assemblies of the coming season, which there begin in the February of each year; thus they were full of gratitude to Dove, and certainly did their best to excel; while Gillian, in spite of himself, looked rather moodily on the progress of the whole affair.

Dove's beauty, and, more than all, her alleged expectations, had found her many admirers among the men who frequented her father's house; but these were chiefly sprouts of the provincial Bar—"young reekies," as Campsie was wont to call them, whose inordinate self-esteem only provoked the girl's sense of amusement.

Like Gainswood, they were only accustomed to those "Lords" who sprang from their own society; but now, those who were present, when they saw the son of a peer and an English baronet reputed to have £70,000 per annum, talking and looking very much like other people, were perhaps surprised, and thus Campsie and Carrington actually began to lose caste in their eyes.

As Stafford Martingale did not affect to be a musical man, Mrs. McBriar fastened upon him for the infliction of her reminiscences of the Scots Greys, which she interpolated with some choice morceaux from "Elijah the Tishbite," "The Shove Heavenward," and similar works, all uttered in a sharp West Highland accent.

"By Jove, the rum old girl is off her nut!" sighed Martingale, as he eyed her through his glass as he might a species of Ourang-outang.

As Martingale had his left arm in a slight sling—little more than a broad black riband—the ladies thought he must have been wounded somewhere, and on Mrs. McBriar venturing to inquire where, he, replied,

"In the hunting field, madam."

"In the field—dear me!" she added, full of interest, taking in only the last word.

"It was in Leicestershire, when riding to hounds. I had rasped a bullfinch, but the second fence was an oxer—a ferocious one—a ditch deep and broad, a thick laid fence, and stiff posts four or five feet beyond. I never craned a bit, but rushed my horse at it, Mrs. McBriar, holding him thoroughly by the head, gave him a squeeze with the knees, a touch with the spur, and he rose like a bird!" continued Martingale, who could be fluent enough on such a subject as this. "I went crash into the rails and came a terrible cropper—you understand me, Mrs. McBriar; but, though my arm was out, I clambered into my saddle, and was in at the death, for the country after that was as easy as the passage of the Red Sea, don't you know."

Mrs. McBriar was as shocked at the comparison as she was mystified by the anecdote, and still more was she bewildered when she overheard Lord Campsie say to Sir Hayward,

"Yes—of course—the Queen runs at Goodwood—she has more than once done a good thing with Spinning Jenny with even weights—I have put a pot of money on her."

"A pot on the Queen!" thought Mrs. McBriar, breathlessly.

"A pot," repeated the Baronet; "by Jove, I would not have put more than a monkey—it is a sell, I fear."

"My book's made, don't you know, and I am safe to win, old boy," replied Campsie, confidently.

"Gad, I hope so—but I gave the straight tip—the Q. T. for light. If you fail——"

"Don't talk of it—my resource, then, would inexorably be the children of Israel."

"The Red Sea and the Children of Israel?" pondered the old lady; "perhaps they were religious and God-fearing young men," but their language sounded incomprehensible.

Lord Campsie was just the kind of man to feel himself at home anywhere, and as this was his fourth or fifth visit to the house of Gainswood, whom he patronised, and by whom he was treated with servile deference, he felt himself quite l'ami du maison, and now he was bending over Dove, as she sat at the piano, stroking his moustache from time to time with all the air of a handsome fellow who is perfectly pleased with himself, with his own "get-up," and with the impression he hoped he was making, while turning over the leaves of the music-book, the pleasant duty heretofore of Gillian Lamond generally.

Sensible of this; when a cluster was about her, after much bad French, indifferent German, and singularly weak English singing—weak as far as composition went—had been performed, when Campsie, with all the empressement of which he was master, whisperingly urged her to favour him with something—so closely that his moustache touched her ear,—Dove coloured with annoyance, and motioning Gillian to her side to turn over the leaves, said,

"You know all my songs, Gillian—what shall I sing?"

"Sing 'Wild Joanna,'" said he, with his eyes full of pleasure, while Campsie fell back a pace.

"I know it is your favourite—place it before me—thanks, dear Gillian," she whispered.

Her taste in music was cultivated and refined, and her selection of songs was remarkable for sweetness and quaintness, and she knew that Gillian was never weary of hearing her sing one, of a ballad kind—the one named—which was mournful in cadence; the tender memory of which was fated often to come back to him, when they were far apart.

The song of some unknown writer, it told of a girl who vowed, in her faith, to visit her lover even after death had parted them, and we may be pardoned giving the opening lines here from memory—

"Thou hast sworn, oh wild Joanna!
    When death shall come to thee,
That if ever soul come back,
    Thy soul will come to me.

"But think impetuous maiden!
    Though dear that radiant head,
The mortal heart is weak,
    And hath terror of the dead.

"Oh let there be no change!
    Come bright and sweet as now;
With the same dusk on thy cheek,
    And dark hair on thy brow.

"But come not, come not maiden!
    To my bedside in the night
When my eyes with sleep are laden,
    Lest my heart may fail with fright."

The most tender verses were the last; and long, long was the expression of Dove's soft violet eyes, as they looked upward for a moment into Gillian's, doomed to haunt him in connection with the story they told.

He withdrew, and once more Campsie assumed his post, with the slightest soupçon of supercilious annoyance in his face; while Gillian, whom the other's rank alarmed, and his attention annoyed, was not in the least degree jealous, for simply, the honest fellow could not understand that anyone could know Dove Gainswood without admiring and loving her.

But the evening came to an end at last, and Sir Hayward's carriage took the Hussar party home to their barracks at Piershill, leaving pressing invitations with Mr. Gainswood and Gillian to dine with them at mess, on the next "stranger day."

Some of the ladies present—not Torduff's daughters, who were country people—but of the legal circle, had enjoyed themselves immensely, for one particular reason. They could now, when asked if they knew Viscount Kilsythe's son and heir, or Sir Hayward Carrington, or Captain Stafford Martingale—the rich Hussar—say, and say with truth, that they had met him at the Gainswood dinner party, and so forth.

Flora Stuart's comments on Lord Campsie to Dove made the cheeks of the latter colour.

"Isn't he charming, Dove?"

"Very pleasant."

"Pleasant! he is delightful—so handsome—so rich, and such fun, dear!"

"They say he has spent all his money," croaked Mrs. McBriar.

"Not at all—who dares to say so?" asked Mr. Gainswood, with some asperity.

"Never mind—money or no money," said Flora to Dove, as she shawled herself and the carriage was announced, "he'll be a peer one day, and you have made quite a conquest. Don't you think she has, Mr. Lamond?"

"The 'young reekies' were certainly nowhere to-night," replied Gillian, with a smile to conceal some of the real annoyance which the heedless girl's rattle caused him.

But he forgot that his engagement with Dove had been formally denied to her, as to others.