CHAPTER V.

HEW MAKES A VOW.

For the next few days Cecil Falconer continued to give Hew a 'gey wide berth,' as the old keeper phrased it, at the covers, where each day's shooting was precisely like that which preceded it. If Hew, thought Falconer, were capable of such mad jealousy and dastardly cruelty after a few hours' acquaintance, of what might he not be capable and guilty in the time to come?

Was it his blundering stupidity which, as the gamekeeper said, had nearly cost Sir Piers his life once before, or a spirit of infernal malevolence to revenge the petty dispute about the cock-pheasant, that made him fire his gun in the way he had done?

At times Cecil was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt, and as he was not of a resentful temperament, he gradually either forgot the event, or remembered it only as a mistake, that might have proved more serious than it did. So each day's shooting passed pleasantly over, and the evenings were devoted to music in the drawing-room, where Mrs. Garth dispensed tea at a pretty little oval table—fragrant orange Pekoe, out of tiny eggshell cups, without handles—and where Sir Piers fell fast asleep over his Scotsman; and the night wound up by Hew luring Falconer into what he termed 'a little mild play' in the smoking-room—play from which the latter always rose a loser, without being able precisely to know how.

Save for this kind of thing, which he could ill afford, Falconer thought the brief term of his leave would be delightfully spent at Eaglescraig. A 'green yule' had come and gone, without skating or curling, and the owl whooped nightly on the old tower-head, where the winter wind shook the masses of ivy on the time-worn walls; and the New Year was ushered in with well-bred joviality, rather than the hearty old-fashioned uproariousness of the olden time, though in the drawing-room the chorus could be heard from the servant's hall, where Mr. Tunley led it with joyous vociferation, singing,

'Here's a health to the year that's awa'!'

And precisely as the house-clocks struck twelve—midnight—the house-door was unbarred with great formality, and thrown open to let the Old Year out, and the New Year in; and rising from his elbow-chair, Sir Piers kissed his niece Mary, and then old Mrs. Garth in a courtly fashion, an example Hew Montgomerie was not slow to follow on the soft cheek of the former, while Falconer looked laughingly, yet perhaps enviously, on, and dared only press her hand as he did that of Miss Erroll; and then there was a general handshaking with Mr. Balderstone and other old friends who had been invited to join the social circle.

The rubicund Mr. Tunley offered, in the name of all the servants, to drink their old master's good health, and the health of all the family; and Sir Piers, natheless all his pride, cordially shook the old butler's hand, and each wished the other many happy years to come; and he went through the same ceremony with all in the servants' hall.

In all this homely warmth, mutual kindness and goodwill, there was much that charmed Falconer; for though belonging to a Scottish regiment, and one famous in history, educated as he had been far away from his native country, and under peculiar circumstances, he knew little or nothing of the ways and customs of the latter.

He had been much a wanderer, and never knew a home, save such as he had found with his regiment; so there was much in the little circle at Eaglescraig to delight him. Save with Hew, he won golden opinions from all there; his genial manner, spirited good-humour, handsome bearing, and facile mode of adapting himself to those among whom chance threw him—a mode that came, perhaps, of his having been educated abroad—all seemed to make him a prime favourite.

He could speak much, and pleasantly, of what he had seen and where he had been; he was a reader, too, and the fruit of his reading cropped up pleasantly from time to time in the course of conversations that Hew could take little or no part in, greatly to his own wrath.

'What a place this is for gammon and spinach!' thought Hew, who viewed all this with extreme distaste, and still more the intimacy that progressed between this 'interloper,' as he deemed him, and Mary Montgomerie; for they nightly played together the mazurkas of Chopin and selections from the songs of Mendelssohn and the operas of Verdi, while Hew looked darkly and dubiously on, thinking there was in all this far more than met the eye; and Sir Piers thought, with a smile, that a Cameronian of his time would certainly not have shone much as a pianist.

Mary was always so happy in herself, that she usually made all others equally so; thus, in her society, the hours, with Falconer, seemed to fly like minutes.

Hew had—unknown to Sir Piers—become so seriously involved in monetary matters during his sojourn in India, that it was next to impossible for him to return there; and his chief hope for retrieving himself and doing well for the future lay in a marriage with Mary Montgomerie, rather than the prospective succession to the baronetcy and to the acres of Eaglescraig, for Sir Piers was a hale old fellow and might live for twenty years yet. Indeed, everyone said so.

Thus he viewed with extreme bitterness and jealousy the visit of Falconer and some of the details attendant on that visit, and his closely-set and parti-coloured eyes twinkled dangerously as he muttered:

'Devil take me if I don't bowl that fellow out yet!'

If Hew had been tender and true, less brusque and coarse—had really loved Mary with a loving heart—she might have felt some compunction for her laughing indifference to his suit; but she knew well his avarice, his monetary hopes, and suspected some of his vices; and, more than all, her proud spirit revolted at the idea of being made by her father's will the mere puppet of a family compact, and compelled to marry any man.

'I heard you arranging a riding-party to-morrow, Mary,' said he, during a pause (or while Falconer was being accompanied in an Italian song by Miss Erroll), and bending over Mary till his moustache nearly touched the white and close division in her rich dark-brown hair, while she idled over an album of Indian photographs.

'Yes—you will go, of course, Hew?' said she, looking up at him with her sunny hazel eyes bright with a smile.

'I would rather be excused,' he replied, sulkily.

'Why?'

'Why? because I should be only in the way.'

'Please yourself, Hew; but I do not understand you,' said Mary, colouring with annoyance; 'what do you mean?'

'I mean,' said he bluntly, and in a low, concentrated voice, 'that before this Cameronian fellow came, you and I were—were——'

'Were what?' asked Mary, sharply.

'Well, friends, at least.'

'And are we not friends now?' she said, laying her hand on his arm. He looked lingeringly at it—a lovely hand it was, round and white, with a golden bangle clasping the dimpled wrist—and he said in a low voice:

'I had hoped we should in time be something dearer——'

'Oh, stuff! Dear Hew, don't begin that sort of thing here,' replied Mary, laughing to conceal her annoyance; 'you will forget all about it when you go back to India again.'

Hew's face darkened ominously.

'But you don't like India?' added Mary, somewhat teasingly, while a roguish smile dimpled her cheeks.

'I hate it, as you know well; yet I may have to return there, for all that you care about it, or me.'

'There are tigers there, and snakes, and all those sort of things, Hew?'

'Yes, and perhaps you would like them to eat me?' he asked, viciously.

'Oh, Hew! how can you speak thus!' she exclaimed, laughing. 'I never said so.'

'But you thought it, all the same.'

She laughed louder at this, for Hew's peculiar love-making, if it annoyed, always excessively amused her at the same time—a fatal element for him.

The morning of the proposed ride proved a beautiful one, clear, bracing, and sunny, and the horses were betimes brought round from the stables to the stately perron in front of the house, where Hew was smoking a cigar, when the girls came forth in their riding-habits, attended by Cecil Falconer.

'And you are resolved not to accompany us, Hew?' asked Mary, coaxingly, desirous to please him.

'Yes,' he replied, bluntly.

'What a pity the season is not summer,' she said to Falconer, 'we could have such pleasant sketching expeditions, picnics, afternoon tea on the lawn, croquet-matches and lawn-tennis; but our picnics are so jolly, and we always use the big omnibus, in which the servants drive on Sundays to the kirk of Eaglescraig.'

'Croquet is only good for one thing,' muttered Hew; 'it enables a fellow to loaf with some girl he is soft upon; otherwise I never could see anything in it,' he added in his growling tone.

Slender and willowy looked the figure of Mary in her tight, well-fitted habit, even more so than that of Miss Erroll, who was undoubtedly a very handsome girl.

Hew, having been in India, had been compelled to learn riding; but he was a timid and indifferent cavalier, afraid of a horse, indeed, and he could never have done what he saw Mary doing, tickling, patting, and kissing the nose of her favourite pad, ere she was swung into her saddle so deftly by Cecil, to whose care and companionship, together with those of Annabelle Erroll, he was now compelled to relinquish her, as the three departed, merrily and laughingly, to visit the ruined castle of Kilbirnie, amid its stately parks and beautiful gardens.

Down the long avenue they went under oaks and elms that had been growing since the field of Pinkecleugh was fought and lost; and between a pair of grand old carved iron gates, surmounted by a coat-of-arms and supported by massive stone pillars covered with grey lichen and green moss, and past the lodge, the occupant of which, an old wooden-legged Cameronian, stood at 'attention' as they issued out upon the roadway, watched by the evil eyes of Hew, to begin a two hours' 'spin' through a rich and pastoral country.

Conversation of the stereotyped kind, concerning the weather and so forth, had been long ignored by Falconer and Miss Montgomerie.

'I shall show you some beautiful scenery,' said she, as they shortened their horses' pace to a walk; 'it is of the pastoral kind, of course—for this is the land of dairy-farms and Dunlop cheeses—all hill and dale; and though there are no mountains, we are very proud of Cunninghame,' she added, laughing. 'Do you draw?'

'Yes.'

'And paint?'

'A little, in water-colours.'

'What a pity it is winter-time! Were the season open, we might sketch together, and how delightful that would be!'

Cecil Falconer cordially agreed with her.

'You must know that I love all this place dearly, wood, wold, and water,' exclaimed the girl, with a bright smile, as she looked around her with eyes the greatest beauty of which was their happy expression, girlish truthfulness, and the innocence of a nature that had never sought either to simulate or conceal an emotion; 'but I fear you will deem me very provincial.'

'Why—for loving your native place?'

'Ah! but this is not my native place. I was born far away from here; but since poor papa followed mamma to her grave, I have lived at Eaglescraig, and all the happiest memories of my childhood, and girlhood too, are connected with it; so I love the bold rocky scenery, the great bluffs that overhang the Firth of Clyde, and the green pastoral valleys of Cunninghame. I know every farm and cottage, every coppice and wimpling burn, in the bailiwick.'

'Is it long since your parents died, Miss Montgomerie?' asked Falconer, as their conversation began to take a personal turn.

'Yes; oh, so long ago that I can only remember them as if in a dream!'

'That is sad.'

'And yours—was your father in the Cameronians?'

'He died when I was in infancy; and where, I scarcely know.'

'But he, too, was a soldier, of course?'

'I think not,' said Falconer, evasively.

'I am too curious—pardon me; but I am a terrible talker,' she added, and changed the subject, which Annabelle Erroll perceived had brought an unwonted colour to the young man's cheeks.

Falconer had often thought that, had his father lived, there would have been a great difference in his own life somehow, though he could not distinctly define the nature of it.

'How I wish your friend had been here with you,' Mary Montgomerie said, after a pause.

'Leslie Fotheringhame?'

'Yes; but Sir Piers said it was impossible.'

'He, too, could not leave our detachment.'

'How lonely he must be, shut up in that dull castle of Dumbarton. His name is a scarce one; is he one of the old Fotheringhames of Angus?'

'I believe so,' said Miss Erroll, colouring after she spoke.

'We should have made quite a pleasant quartette!' said Miss Montgomerie. 'Does he sing?'

'Oh yes—so well!' replied Annabelle, ere Falconer could speak.

'How do you know?' asked her friend, laughing.

Annabelle, usually taciturn and silent, now changed colour more perceptibly, and replied:

'Surely Mr. Falconer must have said so! How should I know, otherwise?'

Cecil was perfectly aware that he had never done so, but was puzzled to think how Miss Erroll was aware of his friend's talent.

'You have met, perhaps?' he began.

'In society—yes; people meet each other everywhere nowadays,' she replied, and looked another way.

The three riders were still in view of the loftily-situated house and tall old tower of Eaglescraig, and Hew's eyes, from the terrace, were following them.

He seemed still to see the skill and grace with which—as if he caressed her—Cecil Falconer had swung Mary Montgomerie into her saddle, and the care and tenderness with which he adjusted her stirrup, her habit, and reins. He seemed to see, too, the light in the eyes of both as they scampered down the long avenue, ere he turned away to get a foaming beaker of soda-and-brandy, in Mr. Tunley's pantry, as a panacea for his bitter thoughts.

He watched the trio disappear over a slope, or braehead, where the road dipped downward, and he registered a vow of vengeance on Cecil Falconer if the latter crossed his purposes—a vow all the deeper for being unspoken—and he achieved it terribly when the time came, and it was ultimately to assume a form and force beyond even what he himself could have conceived!

Nature had cursed Hew with a suspicious and jealous disposition; inherent doubt of everyone was a part of that very disposition. Thus, his own total want of success with Mary Montgomerie, on one hand, led him, on the other, to conceive the most exaggerated ideas of the progress Cecil Falconer must already have made with her.

Hew Montgomerie, when he chose, could be 'a good hater,' and, as such, would have been decidedly after the heart of the 'great' English lexicographer, whose hateful addendum was, 'I never forgive an injury;' but Cecil had in no way injured Hew.

CHAPTER VI.

A REVELATION.

Of Cecil Falconer's mood of mind and views of the whole situation at this time, we can be best informed by a letter which he despatched to his friend and chum, Leslie Fotheringhame, on the day subsequent to the little riding expedition:

'Eaglescraig, Cunninghame.

'MY DEAR LESLIE,

'Hannibal has found his Capua! After our limited cuisine at Dumbarton, it seems to me that—so far as luxury is concerned—daily Lucullus dines with Apicius; by which preamble you will think, old fellow, that I have gone out of my mind, or betaken me to cramming again, as we did at Sandhurst. I am freely quartered in a magnificent house, with delightful society, and an old host, the general, who is hospitality's own self, and possesses a well-filled stable and a rare cellar—not that I care for it much—but any way, in its binns are some curious old Madeira that has been thrice round the Cape, white and red Constantia, Tokay with tints of gold, Chateau-Yquem, and Malmsey in which maudlin Clarence might have been drowned.

'We have had some excellent cover shooting, and, though the birds were a little wild, a good many brace fell to my bag. Nothing is stiff or formal here, though the old gentleman has some stately, eccentric, and rather extravagant notions about family, pedigree, blood, and all that sort of thing, and laments much the loss of a son who was once one of "Ours." There are two charming girls here, and after one's bachelor and barrack experiences, it is delightful to meet them each day at breakfast, with their fresh morning costumes and complexions; and charming, too, is the morning-room—quite like that described in "Coningsby": "Such a profusion of flowers; such a multitude of books; such a prodigality of writing materials; so many easychairs too, of so many shapes, each in itself a comfortable home; yet nothing crowded." And then the girls! Don't you envy me, old fellow! But I have no doubt they will have you over here when I—alas!—leave, for the old double Dun in the Clyde.

'There is one blot in my picture—a member of the family circle, named Hew Caddish Montgomerie, to whom I am obliged to do the civil, the general's heir—whom I simply detest and view in the light of a noxious reptile, why or how I cannot precisely say; but we have our likings and dislikings in this world, our attractions and repulsions, and certes, this fellow repels me!

'He is jowly in face, with full, red lips, heavy, stealthy, and shifty eyes, set close to his nose, and he inherits rather reddish hair and freckles from the family who gave him his middle name, which, curiously enough, is Caddish; and in spite, jealousy, or by a blunder, he nearly potted me one day in the covers!

'I think he already views me as a species of rival; he is a sort of cousin of Miss Montgomerie (would that I were so! but I am only one of those poor devils who exist in the world on sufferance), and whether they are engaged or not I cannot tell. He has half led me to infer as much, and assumes a disgusting air of proprietary and so forth, which certainly is not endorsed by Miss Montgomerie.'

(Falconer had written 'by Mary,' but had dashed through the Christian name, which had escaped his pen, and Fotheringhame remarked this.)

'Anyhow, I was cognisant of a rather tender scene between them in the avenue on the day I arrived here. He is deuced sharp at cards, and I have already lost to him much more than I can afford to lose.

'The general is an enthusiast on all that pertains to the regiment, and quite a detachment of it, in the shape of old pensioners, is quartered on his property. His Indian anecdotes are a little prosy, as he lugs them in on every conceivable occasion; but he is such a dear old fellow, that one can't help listening to his yarns about curry and rice; and a curious one he told me, last night, may interest you, as it referred to his son and a detachment of "Ours."

'When they were in Central India, Piers Montgomerie, with forty Cameronians and some natives, invested a fort named the Ghurry of Kittoor, a square edifice with towers at the corners, armed with heavy gingals and a few small cannon. The Potail commanding it was a resolute fellow, believing himself shot-proof, by an amulet he wore, and he was custodian of a great amount of treasure in gold mohurs, of which Piers had orders to deprive him. The fort was stormed, the Potail slain, and the treasure-chest was found, but totally empty—verifying the last words of the Potail, who, when dying, swore upon the Koran that there was not even an anna in the place, and that all the slaughter had been for nothing.

'Before the gate of the Ghurry there grew a tree of vast size and age, which Captain Montgomerie ordered his men to cut down for fuel. The soldier who hewed down the first branch brought away with it a literal shower of gold—gold that flashed in the sunshine and studded all the green sward like yellow buttercups; and there, sure enough, in the hollow trunk of the tree, was found treasure to the value of fifty thousand golden mohurs, to the bewilderment and joy of the Cameronians, who had been on such short rations for some time past, that they were ready to share the repast of Count Ugolino.

'I listen patiently to such yarns, because I am anxious to remain in his good graces; would that I could also be in those of his ward and niece!

'I believe, Leslie, that you are nearer to my heart than any other friend I ever had, so I don't mind owning to you that I am in for it—about to fall in love! I have always been at the same old game, you will say; but this time I fear that I am in terrible earnest, and have met my fate! But the deuce is, that she is a great heiress, while I have only my pay, or little more, and dare not lift my eyes so high; besides, what would be the use, as I strongly suspect that, with the general's wish and consent, she is the fiancée of his heir—the most unamiable, yet enviable, Cousin Hew!

'She is more than handsome—she is downright beautiful! Somewhat of a brunette, only a very pale and colourless one, with a small straight nose, dark hazel eyes, and dark brown hair, and her mouth is the sweetest in expression I ever saw; but I think I see you laughing at all this, you unbelieving villain!

'Even now, as I write in the library, she makes a delicious picture, with her beautiful slender throat and shapely head, as she stands in an oriel, whispering to a canary which flutters its golden wings against the bars of its cage, and takes from her rosy lips a crumb of sugar in its bill.

'She is frank and open-hearted, and somehow seems to sympathise with all my thoughts and fancies, and we have already gone some length in a mixture of confidential jest and earnest, which, though it may only amuse her, is perilous work to me. She is, perhaps, a little proud of her beauty; but what pretty girl is not? She seems a creature that draws brightness from all around her, while dispensing it in return, and to have been made only to be petted, admired, and caressed.

'You will think that I am hit hard. Well, old fellow, I grant to you that I am, and already a remoteness seems to have come over my past—our old barrack-room life at Dumbarton and elsewhere.

'To be hourly in the society of such a girl—to have her daily to walk, to ride, to sing with—is sure to have but one end. Her voice, by the way, is a clear and thrilling soprano—her touch upon the keys is full of tenderness; but a distrust of myself besets me sorely, and leaves unspoken the words that—despite the existence of Cousin Hew—hover on my lips.

'Why? you will ask.

'Because it is difficult for a man that is poor, and has not even high family to recommend him, to be deemed other than a fortune-hunter, when he aspires to an undoubted heiress; but I shall tell you all about this when I rejoin, and Fate has dropped its pall between her and me.

'I have lost at écarté to Hew Montgomerie, and have given him my I.O.U. for a hundred and eighty pounds. Please lend me the money, like a dear old fellow, and I shall square it up somehow, ere we go back to head-quarters, as we are sure to do when the spring drills commence, as I loathe to be in this fellow's debt, and the sum is rather a crusher to me.

'I hope all is right with our detachment, and that you grant no passes for more than twenty-four hours, and look sharp after our fellows. I must close now, as we are about to have a spin through the country, as far as Kilwinning, to see the company of archers practise, for old Sir Piers has more than once been captain of the popinjay in June, and a winner of the silver arrow.'

He had closed and despatched his letter ere he remembered that he had omitted all mention, even by name, of Annabelle Erroll.

CHAPTER VII.

HEW'S 'MILD PLAY.'

Fotheringhame wrote promptly back to Falconer; his letter contained the 'needful,' and some bantering advice with reference to his love affair.

'For a man in full possession of his senses,' he wrote, 'you are evidently far gone indeed; and if matrimony alone will cure you, and cause thereby the loss of a thorough good fellow to the corps and the service, why the deuce don't you propose, and turn the flank of the cub named Hew, of whose "mild play" I would advise you to beware, especially as écarté is a very rooking kind of game. Cut in for the girl, if you are determined to chuck yourself away; and, if you play your cards in love as well as the cousin does at écarté, she will soon be nestling her blushing cheek on your waistcoat, and scratching her dainty nose on your diamond studs.'

'How can he write thus of such a creature as Mary Montgomerie!' muttered Falconer, indignantly.

'If she has wealth, it is all the better, as you have none,' continued the epistle. 'And as far as name is required, a Falconer is just as good as a Montgomerie, I suppose.'

'I am doubtful if Sir Piers shares this opinion,' thought Falconer; but, for the future, he resolved to write no more to Fotheringhame on the subject now growing daily nearer his heart.

'When I put on my first red coat,' continued Fotheringhame, 'I resolved, if I married at all, to condescend to nothing less than a young dowager duchess, a peeress in her own right, or an heiress, beautiful as a houri; but none of these have, as yet, come in my way.'

Falconer lost no time in paying Hew, who gave back the I.O.U., and invited him to have his revenge in a little 'mild play' that night in his own room; and the former promised to take it if he could, resolving the while to keep a sharp watch upon his adversary's play.

Falconer had not been without a hint concerning it from Mrs. Garth, who took a motherly interest in him, as a young officer—more than all, as one of her 'own Cameronians,' as she was wont to call the corps.

'You and Hew sit up very late at night, I fear,' she remarked incidentally; 'smoking, I suppose?'

'Yes.'

'Any play?'

'A little.'

'Take care,' she resumed softly; 'those who play with Hew often lose and seldom win. He is such a—such a very good player; and young men, I know, are so foolish at times.'

Had she hinted aught of this to the general?

Falconer was almost inclined to think so, as before Fotheringhame's inclosure came, his somewhat disturbed and preoccupied air was noted by his host, who, drawing him aside, said kindly:

'Look here, Falconer, you seem rather distrait this morning. I was once a sub myself, and not always a jolly one; are you in want of ammunition? If so, say the word and my purse is at your service to any amount; and as for repayment, take your time; "it may be for years, and it may be for ever," so far as I care, when obliging a brother officer of my own corps.'

Thanking the kind old man from his heart, Falconer waived the subject; and ere the small hours of the night came, he found himself in Hew Montgomerie's room seated at a table on which were several packs of new cards.

The guest of Sir Piers, and the secret admirer of Mary, poor Falconer felt himself constrained to be victimised nightly in his desire to 'stand well,' as the phrase is, even with Hew: thus he veiled his growing suspicions and dislike of the latter, who, when quite sober, for his own purpose, and to win as much as he could from the luckless sub—a fact and system that would have roused the wrath of Sir Piers—also veiled, so far as he could, his dislike and jealousy of Cecil; and thus held over, pro tem., his intended vengeance, if his path or purpose were crossed, though he never forgot the wicked oath by which he had bound himself.

To lose again, as he had lost before, Falconer knew might prove his ruin now; but he resolved to be wary, and to watch well, and though Hew was a player accustomed to deep and sharp play for years, in whiling away the lonely hours in an Indian bungalow far up-country, he was destined to have his modus operandi thoroughly laid bare on this occasion.

Personally, Hew was disposed to be offensive to Falconer; but dissembled, as he was anxious to 'rook' him a little further, and also to mislead him with reference to his own views concerning Sir Piers' ward. Cunning hints did much to achieve this with Cecil, and to curb and perplex the latter, who never forgot the scene in the avenue on the day of his arrival.

Hew began by pressing Falconer to partake of a tall and foaming glass of brandy and soda, of which Tunley had left a supply for them on a side-table, together with a box of havanas.

Hew's room was hung with coloured prints of the hunting field, the paddock, and other horsey subjects, for though no horseman, as we have said, he made up his book upon coming events and betted freely, while his knowledge of whist and écarté was only excelled by that which he possessed of zoology, so far as referred to rats and badgers. But he loved to affect a 'horsey' style; thus his mantelpiece was littered by spurs, whips, riding-gloves, and rusty bits, and pipes, long, short, clay and briar-root; and in one corner stood a row of boots, the leather tops of which obtained 'their creamy tint,' as he said, 'from being rubbed with champagne and apricot juice—a hint given him by a gentleman-jock of the Royal Hussars.'

'As usual?' said Hew; 'écarté, I suppose?'

'Yes,' replied Falconer, as they lit their cigars; 'écarté be it.'

'By Jove! one would require four eyes to play that game.'

Falconer thought that in the present instance eight might be advantageous.

'Five points, and two packs to facilitate the deal,' said Hew, as he quickly shuffled the cards; Falconer cut them, and the play began.

Falconer affected what he did not feel—but very far from it—an unusually free, easy, and careless manner; looked at the hunting pictures hung round the room, chatted on indifferent subjects, to lull the suspicions of Hew, and intent on verifying his own, in which he found a very unexpected assistant in the form of Mary Montgomerie's pet terrier Snarley, which had already become reconciled to him—had taken even a capricious fancy for him (for which it had been privately kicked more than once by the amiable Hew); and now it lay coiled up at his feet, and it was while stooping from time to time to pat the dog, that he perceived the latter come from under the table with a card in his teeth.

All this while, Hew had been deeply intent on the points and counters. He had, however, allowed Falconer, as a lure, no doubt, to win four games successively, and as many sovereigns, when he suddenly proposed to increase the stakes to five pounds.

'Agreed,' said Falconer, almost to the other's surprise, he did it so readily; and the play went briskly on, while he continued to chat on irrelevant subjects.

'Who was that good-looking young fellow who took Miss Montgomerie in to dinner this evening?' he asked.

'Good looking? I don't think so, but tastes differ. As to who he is, I may say that he comes of a good old county stock—nay, is the stock himself—Bickerton of that ilk. You don't set much store on that sort of thing, as I remember,' added Hew, who could never resist saying a disagreeable thing, 'as you didn't seem to care what Falconers you came of, when Sir Piers—a great man for pedigree—spoke about it.'

Cecil Falconer coloured perceptibly at this remark. Hew saw that it was a sore subject, and thought to himself:

'Hit him on the raw there, somehow!'

Meanwhile, Falconer looked curiously at him from time to time. Was it the growing regard for Mary Montgomerie that induced him, Cecil Falconer, to dissemble in his bearing towards this fellow, and affect to forget that, but for a chance next to a miracle, by his hands, on that day at the covers, he might now have been a mutilated, hideous, and blind creature—blighted in existence and profession for ever?

Yes, the influence of Mary alone could make him act the double part he felt himself to be acting now.

Hew was dealing, and while Falconer was stooping to pat Snarley, gave himself—as he had done before—eight cards instead of five, some of which he seemed to drop as if by a blunder, and in mistake only took up one, leaving the remainder on the carpet till the hand was played out, when he skilfully, but not unnoticed, contrived to replace them in the pack.

'When we are married,' said he, with a nervous chuckle, 'I'll have to drop all this sort of thing, I suppose.'

'Well, don't drop your cards as yet,' replied Falconer, coldly. 'Married—you, and who?'

'Mary and I; it's all arranged, don't you know? Oh, by Jove, here is luck!' he added, looking for a king, and of course getting one, while the score was growing heavy against his adversary, and was close on a hundred now.

'Hallo, Mr. Montgomerie!' exclaimed Falconer angrily, as Hew stooped to fish for a dropped card, 'what's the matter?'

'I have dropped a card, by Jove! and that d——d terrier has collared it. Here, Snarley, you brute!'

'You have dropped half-a-dozen, sir!' said Falconer sternly, as he rose from his chair with menace in his eyes.

'I have not!'

'Look for yourself, then.'

'Where?'

'Under the table.'

'By Jove, there are cards there!' said Hew, with well simulated surprise, as he hastily picked them up; 'but they were never dropped by me.'

'By who, then?'

To gain time, or avoid reply, Hew addressed himself to his brandy and soda, of which he had imbibed more than enough already.

'Never again shall I play with you' ('you scoundrel,' Cecil was on the point of adding); 'and if I do not expose your play to Sir Piers and the public, it is only because I have a sincere respect for your family. This is my score,' he continued, taking up a memorandum, 'more than one hundred pounds, which I must have paid you, but for this most fortunate discovery, which cancels everything!'

With these words, Falconer tore up the paper and scattered the fragments, while Hew, unsteady in his movements now, clutched the back of his chair with both hands, grew very pale in the face, and literally glared at him with his shifty green eyes.

'You are mistaken, Mr. Falconer,' he said thickly.

'I am not mistaken, sir!'

'Come, come; don't make a d——d row about nothing,' said Hew, coarsely and bluntly; but as he had no wish, as yet, to push matters to an extremity with Falconer, or drive him to report the occurrence to Sir Piers, he alternately sought to explain, temporise with, and even to bully him, seeking at the same time to retain him in the room for a little space, and unwired another bottle for his benefit; and Cecil at first thought he was acting intoxication as a cover, or excuse, for his recent trickery.

'We mustn't appear to quarrel, you know,' said he, inarticulately, while glaring viciously at Falconer. 'Won't do—bad style of thing—bad form. Keep it dark with Sir Piers,' he added, swaying about as if his heels were on a pivot; 'a bloated old aristocrat—man likely to hop his twig! Ah! you thought to draw me like a badger about Mary, but won't be drawn by you or any man.'

'Good-night!' cried Cecil, making his escape.

'Goor-right—goor-right!' said Hew, lunging right and left, and nearly knocking over the card-table, while sending after his guest a savage malediction, with an unlit havana in his mouth.

Thus, at first, through the appearance of Mary's terrier Snarley with a card in his mouth, Falconer had obtained an insight into the cause of his own continued losses, and the steady success of Hew Montgomerie, with whom, of course, he could never play again; and the knowledge of this, together with the disgrace of being unmasked as a gambler and cheat, added to the growing hatred that possessed the other, who did not appear next morning at breakfast, but left a message with Tunley for Sir Piers, to the effect, that he had gone to fulfil an engagement, for a few days' shooting at Bickerton's place, in the adjacent bailiwick of Kyle, and there, doubtless, he would plot mischief for the time to come.

'A jolly good riddance!' thought Falconer, as he recalled with disgust the episode of the last night.

CHAPTER VIII.

'THE LOVE THAT TOOK AN EARLY ROOT.'

Several days had passed now since Cecil Falconer found himself fairly installed as a guest at Eaglescraig.

Hew was still absent, and Falconer thought it strange, if he and Mary were engaged, or lovers in fact, as many a casual remark from Hew had led him to infer, to the great repression of his own secret hopes, that the handsome Russia leather despatch-box, which was stamped with the three fleurs-de-lis, and the three annulets of Montgomerie, and which, with the regularity of clockwork, was brought in at breakfast-time by Mr. Tunley, never contained an epistle from him to her.

Cecil naturally supposed that lovers wrote each other daily; but here was a pair who never wrote to each other at all! Cecil gathered a little hope and confidence from the circumstance, till a tormenting doubt suggested that they might have had a lovers' temporary quarrel.

The days passed, we say, and in all that time, while almost hourly enjoying the society of Mary Montgomerie, Falconer had in no way betrayed the growing emotions of his heart; and though markedly attentive, there was nothing approaching loverhood in his conduct or bearing; but it would have been very difficult to convince the absent and vindictive Hew of that fact, as it was a fixed conviction of his, that there was more in everything in this world than met the eye, and that all still waters run deep.

Cecil's face brightened, and his tone softened more, when addressing Mary Montgomerie than they did when he was with Miss Erroll, or other ladies. There were no other signs; but her keener perception and more subtle instinct told her intuitively that he felt a deeper interest in her than he had yet avowed; and, though she had many admirers, the consciousness of this made her heart beat happily, and gave a little coquetry to her manner, that, when other men were present, scarcely pleased Falconer, who thought that perhaps she was only amusing herself with him in the absence of her ungracious fiancé.

She was quite a sister of charity, Mary Montgomerie, in that part of the country, and sometimes Cecil drove her pony-carriage on her missions—a tiny basket carriage, full of gifts for the poor, all of which were bestowed upon them in a friendly rather than a charitable way by the softly-eyed chatelaine of Eaglescraig, who loved to cultivate thus a link, a bond, between the cottage and the great house; and Falconer, no doubt to please her, never forgot the various relationships and names of the recipients of her bounty, and contrived to have always for each man or woman a packet of that peculiar tobacco which they specially affected; thus he too became a favourite with them all. He never forgot the joy of these little drives, in the deep old lanes of Cunninghame, with such a companion as Mary Montgomerie, nestled together in the tiny pony-carriage, covered by the ample skin of a dreadful man-eater, whom the general's gun had brought down in the swampy Terrai of Nepaul, and the inevitable Snarley coiled up at her pretty feet; drives in the clear, frosty winter afternoons, when the skies were blue and bright, or flecked by golden cloud, when the distant hills were capped with snow, and the smoke of the steamers in the Firth of Clyde towered straight upward till lost in the pure and ambient air.

Already they felt quite like old friends, these two; they had a thousand topics and views in common, and they became perfectly unconstrained, familiar, and easy with each other—familiar with a rapidity that surprised themselves.

Little by little Mary wound her way quickly round the heart of Cecil Falconer; but dread of her relations with Hew Montgomerie tied up the tongue of the former more than even the crushing knowledge of his own meagre exchequer did.

She soon discovered that sentiment which every young officer possesses—a pride in his regiment, and drew him out to talk enthusiastically of its achievements and ancient history, and watched with pleasure his animated face while he expatiated on a topic so congenial; though, to her, in reality, the glories of Her Majesty's Cameronians had been rendered long ago a worn-out household theme by Sir Piers.

When Cecil touched her hand, ever so gently, she felt every nerve in her body thrill with that exquisite sensibility which was a part of her nature. She saw how his colour changed at times, and he saw how hers did so too; she felt in her own heart the hesitation that was in his voice, and, with the quick perception of a young girl, thought to herself:

'Can it be that—that he loves me—loves me, and yet dare not say so?' and then she would think of the sweet love song of Montrose, about one who 'feared his fate too much.'

'I know that Cecil Falconer loves me!' she would whisper to Annabelle Erroll, in the seclusion of their own particular sanctum; 'his eyes, his voice, and his manner all begin to tell me so. Why does he not speak out? I wish he had half the fluency and confidence of that oaf Hew.'

'But Hew knows the wishes, and is backed by the authority of your kinsman and guardian, Sir Piers,' replied Annabelle; 'and if any contretemps occurs—you know——'

'Well—what then?'

'It will only be a thousand pities that young Falconer ever found his way to Eaglescraig at all!'

There were more of this opinion than the soft, pretty blonde Annabelle. A curious and subtle change had come over Mary—a change detected only by Mrs. Garth; as for Hew, he had been too obtuse to notice it; and over her fair, soft face, when she was alone, or sunk in reverie, there shone a brighter light than of yore—a happier and yet more thoughtful expression.

Whence was this? thought Mrs. Garth.

'Take care, Mary,' said the old lady one day, when caressingly folding her to her motherly heart, as she was often wont to do; 'my little pet-bird, be wary, for your own sake, and all our sakes.'

'Wary of what?' asked Mary, growing pale as she knew intuitively what was coming.

'Need I tell you—of this young Cameronian.'

'Why, how? fiddlestick! dearest Mrs. Garth; what do you fear?'

'Only this, you seem to forget the intentions of your grand-uncle, and the hope that your cousin Hew—for so we may call him—has for the future.'

These injunctions and remarks alarmed and irritated Mary; but they had the effect of rendering her somewhat shy or constrained when with Falconer. The duets at the piano nearly ceased, then a cold, or a headache, or some such reason was urged why the drives in the pony-carriage should also cease, and they were abruptly relinquished. There was a little change; Falconer felt it and was a little piqued; he remembered her wealth, and the scene in the avenue, and strove to crush out of his heart the thoughts he had been cherishing there. His short term of leave would soon be at an end; but could he go back to the dull routine of duty with this new secret of his soul untold?

Even if he won her love, his immediate idea of the future was vague and shadowy. It seemed to be chiefly the desire to know that she was his own, and would be so irrevocably; to have the sole right of caressing, doting upon, and worshipping her; but when marriage and fortune came to be considered, the deep gulf yawned again between them, and the cold hardness of practical everyday life jarred terribly with the soft suggestions of love, tenderness, and romance.

Should he consult Mrs. Garth, who seemed so kindly disposed towards him, or should he first seek the consent of Sir Piers? No; he felt very timid somehow, and shrunk from the too probable crushing refusal, or biting inquiry as to the settlements he could make, his family, and so forth; he thought that he would rather try his fate with Mary herself, and 'put it to the touch to win or lose it all!'

He was already 'so far gone,' as Fotheringhame would have phrased it, that his happiness or misery was now simply the question. He made up his mind, or thought he did so, to declare his love to Mary, and he passed several hours in flattering, and anon in torturing himself by putting every imaginable construction on all that had ever passed between him and her, and between her and Hew, and all that the latter had said to him, suggested to him, and artfully led him to infer.

Luncheon—or 'tiffin' as the general always named it—was over, when one day Cecil, his soul fraught with a declaration, rose to follow Mary, who had gone into the library to look after the last parcel of books from Edinburgh; but ere he could join her he was button-holed by the inevitable general, and the opportunity was lost—perhaps luckily so—who knows?

'One glass more of Lafitte ere you leave me, Falconer,' said Sir Piers; 'are you going to take your gun?'

'No; I walked too far after the birds yesterday, and have rather knocked myself up.'

'You are too young a soldier to say this, Falconer. Knocked up—by Jove, sir!' exclaimed Sir Piers. 'Precisely this day twenty years ago I too was knocked up, but it was not by tramping through covers. It happened thus, you see. We were on the march from the banks of the Chumbul in Malwah, and the rain was incessant—yes, as if the windows of heaven were opened again. I was escorting prisoners, with some native infantry, and had to push on without food or natural rest, and exposed the while to incessant attacks from the Bheels, a savage mountain banditti, who practise human sacrifices in secret, and who were artfully incited to mischief by Holkar; and there was the very devil to pay when we came to the Chumbul Nullah, a terrible torrent, swollen by the rains—no rice for the men, no grain for the horses, which left their shoes, when the nails declined to remain, in the mud. Heavy firing on all hands, the infernal Bheels with their matchlocks and jingals, and the elephants, under it all, trying to carry over the troops; when wounded the brutes became furious, shook prisoners and escort, soldiers' wives and soldiers' children, baggage, treasure, and everything out of the howdahs into the foaming torrent, and a horrible scene ensued—all who got ashore were massacred, save myself, and I only escaped by a perfect miracle. It happened this way, you see——'

How Sir Piers was saved Falconer never learned, for just then he contrived to make his escape, as Mr. John Balderstone, with a bundle of legal-looking documents, was announced on important business, and arrested the attention of the narrator.

Partly worried by the general's prosy interruption, and thus partly thwarted in his purpose, Cecil entered the library, unheard by its occupant; its floor was covered by rare tiger skins, sent home from India by the general, who had been a mighty hunter there, and had transmitted home enough of them to stock a bazaar, with their claws set in gold, as necklaces, ear-rings, and brooches to all the ladies of his acquaintance.

After one brief glance at the stately room, with its curtained bay windows, its walls covered by glittering volumes in splendid oak cases, its marble busts, easy chairs, and reading tables littered with papers, periodicals, prints, and drawing materials, Falconer's eye rested upon Mary Montgomerie, and his heart, full of love though it was, sank as he gazed—gazed on her in all her rare beauty.

She stood before the stately fireplace, looking intently into the bright flame, seeing castles in the embers perhaps, and a sense, momentarily akin to despair, stole over him; her graceful figure was so elegantly and richly attired in a costume so perfect in all its details and ornaments, from the tiny pearl comb that held up the close silky coils of her dark-brown hair, to the beautifully embroidered little slipper that rested on the fender—all indicated the gulf, that, though love might span it, too surely lay between them—a gulf formed by great wealth, by family and high position on her side, and by the utter lack of these three important elements on his own.

He had followed her here, fraught with a proposal, and now he could but ask himself, Why had Fate brought him to Eaglescraig?

She turned suddenly, and welcomed him by a smile, a book in one white hand, the other resting on the mantelpiece, and he was half relieved—so unstable was he of purpose—when Annabelle Erroll issued from the recess of a window, saying:

'Oh, Mr. Falconer, you are just come here when I wanted you—so particularly, too.'

'I am glad of that—in what can I serve you?'

'By writing your autograph in my "Birthday Book,"' she replied, producing one of the records with which young ladies are wont to bore their friends—a handsomely bound little volume—a bijou freak of the time, wherein a motto from a poet, or a text from Scripture, was appended to each day of the twelve months. 'What is your birthday?'

'The fifth of November.'

'Gunpowder-plot day!' she exclaimed, laughing, as her quick little hand selected the page. 'Here it is—November 5—St. Bertille's day; and the motto is, "Man that is born of woman is of few days, and full of trouble."'

'Scriptural—but rather uncomfortable,' said Falconer, smiling, as he assumed a pen.

'Your days have not been days of trouble surely?' said Miss Montgomerie to him softly.

'My past days have not been without it,' replied Falconer, as a shade crossed his handsome face.

'And your future?'

'Heaven alone knows that—it depends upon another—not myself,' said he, with a brief soft glance that made her colour deepen and her eyelids droop, while he wrote his autograph immediately under that of Sir Piers, whose natal day was also the 5th—dedicated to the memory of Guy Fawkes and Inkermann.

'Cecil!' said Annabelle; 'such a pretty name it is—was it your father's name too?'

'No—I am named from my mother, in a way; her name was Cecilia.'

'How strange?'

'There is nothing strange in it at all,' rejoined Falconer gravely, and Mary could perceive that he coloured almost painfully, and the subject was instantly changed by her; yet it impressed her so much, that she mentioned the incident to her confidante and constant guide, old Mrs. Garth.

'Named from his mother, and he has never been known to mention his father,' thought Mrs. Garth; 'there is some painful mystery here—and all mysteries are decidedly unpleasant! I must endeavour to arrest the progress of this affair, for the sake of both, ere it is too late! But how to do it, with sufficient tact and delicacy?'

And in this intention she had been further armed by the advice and opinion of Mr. John Balderstone, an old and valued friend and adherent of the Eaglescraig family, who had not been unobservant of the matter in question.

CHAPTER IX.

MRS. GARTH ACTS A FRIENDLY PART.

Nor was the opportunity she wished for long in coming, in the many chances afforded by propinquity, and a residence in the same house; though, in one full of guests, it was difficult to get the object of her solicitude alone.

That afternoon, in the drawing-room, Cecil Falconer and Mary were at the piano; the general preparing for a visit to his stables, as it was rainy, and none could go far abroad; Annabelle Erroll and a few other visitors were idling over books of prints, albums, and other trifles; and Mrs. Garth, observant of the two first-named, with something of sadness and impatience in her heart, was in her usual seat near the fireplace, sheltered from the heat by a plate-glass screen, and knitting busily, for she was always knitting as if her livelihood depended upon it—but her industry was all devoted to the comforts of the poor, for she had a kind heart, having known much suffering 'in her time,' as she was wont to say, and thus was ever ready, so far as her slender means went, to aid those who were necessitous, or troubled in any way.

She was tall and thin in figure, and not without dignity in her bearing, with a look of calm and patient waiting in her soft and gentle eyes, which were clear and bright as those of a young girl, albeit her face was wrinkled and her silky hair was grey. Sometimes their expression seemed cold and sad, when her thoughts travelled backward into the past; yet no eyes could laugh in expression more merrily than hers, at times.

Like Sir Piers, and most old people, she lived more in the past than the present, and he, just then, with his feet planted on the hearthrug, while listening with a pleasant smile to an Italian duet, of which he did not understand one word, was busy with that most tantalising of all mental exercises, groping amid vanished years for some fugitive reminiscence that the face and voice of Cecil Falconer had summoned up.

Was it his old comrade Garth he resembled, or who? But Sir Piers had seen and known so many men in his time, that day-dreams of them were no cause for marvel.

'How the time passes!' said he, looking smilingly down on the old lady; 'yet I can remember you a charming girl, when you joined the Cameronians, Mrs. Garth; and that was not yesterday!'

'Well, general,' replied the widow, with a gratified smile on her old face, 'there were worse-looking girls, I dare say, and I had more than one offer before I was twenty; but I preferred poor John Garth to all the world.'

'And right you were—right you were!' said Sir Piers, emphatically. 'Poor John Garth! I shall never forget his fine conduct on the morning we stormed the hill-fort of the Nabob All Nazir-jung (or the victorious in war), as he boasted himself, in the Doab between the Jhelum and the Chenab. It was a strange affair,' he continued, relating an anecdote as well known to Mrs. Garth as to himself, yet to which she listened with a kindling eye, 'we sunk our half-sap by degrees and pushed it close to the outworks, covering our men by gabions, sand-bags, and mantelets, and the assault was to take place an hour before gunfire, or daybreak. I remember how lovely the night was! A breeze stole up the hillside and stirred the golden bells of the scented baubul-trees; the moon in her silver glory, like a round shield, was mirrored in the bosom of the Jhelum, and the stormers were beginning to creep into the advanced trench, where we could see their bayonets glittering and their white puggarees behind the shade of the gabions. Just as Jack Garth and I were having a farewell cheroot and drain of brandy-pawnee, Drake, of the Bengal Infantry, who had been detailed to lead the assault, came into our tent looking pale as a sheeted ghost.

'Now Drake was no coward, he had been under fire many times in open ground; but somehow he felt that to lead a forlorn hope was a very different thing; in short, almost certain death; and having led a wild, terrible, irregular, and most irreligious life, his whole soul had suddenly become filled with an uncontrollable dread and dismay of the impending future.

'He told us of the strange emotion that possessed him—he seemed somehow not to care of making a secret of it, to us at least—and Garth instantly and cheerfully offered to take his place, and Drake was to join the covering force. The brigadier commanding permitted the exchange; the place was carried by storm at a wild and headlong rush; Jack Garth, leading the escalade like a hero, reached the heart of the fort untouched, while poor Drake, after the affair was deemed entirely over, and the firing had ceased, was killed by a random shot that came no one knew precisely from where.'

By the time the general had ended his anecdote, and betaken him to the stables to inspect the hock sinews of Mary's favourite pad, of which Pastern, the groom, had made some evil report, the duet was over.

Mrs. Garth had detected the mutual tenderness in tone and expression of eye as it ended, and when the singers left the piano, she resolved to lose no time in seeking to avert, if she could, the trouble which she feared was impending. Not that she loved Hew Montgomerie, but she thought alone of Mary's interests and the wishes of Sir Piers, her oldest, kindest, and best of friends.

But now, when Cecil Falconer approached her, she thought, as Sir Piers had done more than once:

'What is there in this young fellow's face that touches, that interests me? Where have I seen that look before? In India, I doubt not.'

'I heard the general's anecdote of your husband, Mrs. Garth, even while we were singing,' said he, bending over the old lady's chair; 'he must have been a fine old officer, and I can assure you that his memory is still fresh in the regiment.'

Her face brightened with genuine pleasure as he said this, and her eyes filled with tears.

'You see the relic I wear of him,' said the widow, placing her hand affectionately upon a brooch she wore on her heart, a silver sphinx, which had whilom been a regimental ornament, but which she would not have exchanged for the regal brooch of Lorne; 'and now, if you will come with me, I shall show you his portrait.'

'Thanks,' replied Cecil, and a parting glance was exchanged between him and Mary as he left the room and followed Mrs. Garth across a corridor, hung, like many other parts of the house, with Indian trophies of war and the chase.

Falconer thought he was only to hear about her past and pet memories of the corps; but he did not foresee that he must hear much more that he would rather not have heard at all. Nor could he suspect that her primary object was to get him alone for her own well-meant purpose, or, as she deemed it, his future peace of mind and the welfare of Mary Montgomerie.

'This is my peculiar sanctum, Mr. Falconer,' said she, when ushering him into a cosily and handsomely-furnished parlour, 'and here I keep all my relics of the dead and of other times, and have done so since I found a happy and contented home in Eaglescraig,' she added, glancing at an old iron-bound baggage-trunk that had been at Bengal, China, Bermuda, and all round the world with the Cameronians, and at two regimental swords crossed upon the wall: one the weapon of her husband, the other that of her son, a joyous boyish ensign, who had fallen in a vile skirmish with a hill-tribe; shot under the colours, on a day when match-lock balls were flying thick, and 'human lives were lavished everywhere.'

And there now hung the sword that had failed him in the hot hour of trial.

Over the old but handsome face of Mrs. Garth, there spread an expression of sweetness and sadness mingled, as she showed Falconer the miniatures of her husband and their dead soldier-son; the latter as an infant, with a lock of his golden hair, which she had worn at her heart for twenty years and more, treasured, like all his school-boy letters, in the sad but loving superstition of the heart, in memory of him and of that day when the troops fell in and he went with the Cameronians 'to the front,' to be brought back to her across six muskets, mortally wounded, to die, while calling on her name, thanking her for her love, and dying with his head upon her breast, as calmly as he had fallen asleep there when an infant. And so he died thus, as his father had died but a few weeks before him.

'The will of God be done!' said Mrs. Garth, in a sorely broken voice; 'for it was His will that I was to lose them, and that they were to precede me. But Heaven is just, and teaches us that there is a brighter and a better world than this!'

Borne away by her own private or personal sympathies, she almost forgot the purpose for which she had invited Falconer to visit her little sanctum, till he unwillingly recalled it to her memory; as, with all his commiseration for her loneliness, he began to tire of the great many stories she told him of the excellencies of her only daughter—a girl so amiable and so handsome—who had married a curate in the West Indies, a good young fellow, who was so and so, and so and so; of the noble qualities of her son, the poor ensign, and those of the defunct Captain John Garth, who, 'poor dear soul, had been dead and gone—dead and gone—deary me, however so many years ago.' Thus Cecil—though there was certainly a cheerful gossipy quality in Mrs. Garth, that rendered her a very attractive old lady—ventured to say:

'And now, Mrs. Garth, you must excuse me. Miss Montgomerie is expecting me to attempt that duet over once more with her, ere we duly perform it for some guests that come this evening. How sweetly she sings, and with exquisite taste! But, indeed, how perfect she is in all things!'

'A dear child! I think you admire her?' began the widow, now remembering her task, and suddenly making a leading remark.

'Admire! ah, who could fail to admire her?' exclaimed Falconer warmly, and with kindling eye.

'She is a charming girl—ever was a sweet child—and I am so happy about her future, Mr. Falconer,' said Mrs. Garth, resuming her knitting, without however raising her eyes to him she addressed.

'Her future?'

'With Hew—I mean—you understand me, of course?'

'Hew?'

'Yes,' she continued softly and gently, reluctantly, too, for she was loth to give him pain, 'Hew Montgomerie. In her circumstances, and with her wealth and its consequent and contingent responsibilities, it has been with us all an anxious matter, that she should choose well and wisely in the world of marriage; and thus, with Sir Piers' heir of entail, she will be the tenth Lady Montgomerie, without changing her name! Curious that, is it not? It cannot fail to be a most fortunate alliance; but I shall not intrude upon you, whom we have only had the pleasure of knowing so recently, these private family matters.'

Cecil's heart grew cold as a stone, while he listened and heard Hew's remarks thus corroborated, by what, Mrs. Garth felt with regret, must pain him, but deemed it for his future good to hear.

In reply to some half-muttered inquiry (he could not fashion it as a congratulation) she, by way of explanation and intended advice, said distinctly much more than even Hew had done. She told him, in detail, of Mary's large fortune; and how entirely Mary and it were—by the tenor of her father's will—at the behest of Sir Piers Montgomerie, whose great and sole object was to consolidate the wealth of the family in the person of Hew Caddish Montgomerie, his heir of entail, who, even with ancient Eaglescraig alone, would not be rich, and who would be the tenth baronet in succession from Sir Hew, who had been made one for his loyalty and valour in the battles of Montrose, particularly at Tippermuir, in 1644; and thus, that even a duke might lay, in vain, his coronet at the feet of Mary Montgomerie!

Pride of birth, and in his own family, of the old line of Eaglescraig, almost a collateral one with the House of Eglinton, had been, from youth, a passion with Sir Piers—a passion that had caused the ruin of his only son—and so on, with an earnest tone, a sad, yet gentle smile, she continued, for his own good as she supposed, to plant (warningly) certain daggers in the heart of her hearer.

'They do not seem much suited to each other, Miss Montgomerie and her intended,' suggested Falconer in a low voice, after a pause.

'Ah, so you think—so you think; but when "Love's young dream" and the honeymoon are over, they will settle down, I have no doubt, into a very happy, loving, and jog-trot couple.'

'It is well that you have told me all this in time,' said Falconer, preserving his calmness of voice and feature by an incredible effort, for if he had mistrusted Hew he could not mistrust Mrs. Garth, who could have no selfish or sinister object in view; 'and I am—most grateful to you.'

'To me—for what?' asked Mrs. Garth, as if she knew not his meaning, though she never looked up, but continued to knit nervously and fast, with tremulous fingers.

'I was, in fact, beginning to admire the general's ward perhaps too much,' he replied, with a sickly attempt at a laugh; 'but now I must think of her only as the intended bride of another.'

'And learn to laugh over the country-house flirtation.'

'Does she love Mr. Hew Montgomerie?'

'I cannot doubt it; though her ways of showing it are certainly shy and peculiar; but then I see, and have seen, more of him and her than you have done, Mr. Falconer.'

'You are sure she will consent to this marriage?' said Cecil, scarcely knowing what he said.

'Yes, most assuredly; if not now, at a later period, for there is no precise reason for haste, unless it be Hew's Indian appointment.'

A silence ensued for a minute or so, during which Cecil heard only the click of the knitting-needles and the beating of his heart.

'Of what are you thinking?' asked Mrs. Garth, looking up with a smile, and then lowering her eyes again, as the pain she read in his face distressed her.

'I am thinking how to collect my ideas,' said he, in a broken voice; 'to reflect on my position, and the information you have given me, with the useful warning contained in it. In two or three days more my leave will be up, and I shall have, inexorably, to depart from a house in which the happiest moments of my life have been spent; yet, which I would to Heaven I had never entered!'

Then, as he left her, Mrs. Garth felt that all her suspicions had been justified; yet, with him, she approached the subject no more.

'I have done the deed! as Macbeth says,' thought she, looking after him; 'poor fellow—poor dear fellow! He seems sorely cut up; but it is all for the best—all for the best! How sad his handsome face looked: and of whom does that face remind me? My own dear boy's surely!'

Cecil Falconer was full of jealous anger and deep mortification. He could not, in his present mood of mind, rejoin Mary Montgomerie, and so he took himself to the loneliest part of the garden to smoke and think—to have that universal panacea to all men in trouble, doubt, or difficulties—a mild 'weed.' Moreover, there is a solitude we are prone to seek at times, even amid our fondest affections.

A tender love for Mary had grown in his heart; but—apart from a meagre exchequer—his lack of family rank was painfully thrust upon him now by every word Mrs. Garth had, he thought, unconsciously uttered.

In his lonely hours, like most young men of imagination and of those given to day-dreaming, he had been wont—though well-nigh nameless—to identify himself with the 'Ivanhoes' of romance and history—the disinherited and disguised princes of boyish tales, and so forth, weaving out a brilliant future for himself! But now!

Now, like Alnaschar in the Arabian tale, his basket of crystal was smashed; and yet he could have no future in which Mary Montgomerie was not to bear an imaginary part.