Laurence Wynne stood upon the platform and watched the Irish mail—“The Wild Irishman”—wind its great long body slowly out of the station—watched till the red light, like a fiery eye, became smaller and smaller, and disappeared from view. Then he hurried off to Waterloo to catch his own train—which he missed—and, going by the next, walked from Guildford, a distance of twelve miles, arriving home at one o’clock in the morning, to the intense relief of Mrs. Holt, who had been sitting up for him in a nightcap of portentous dimensions, and who, seeing that he looked tired and dusty, and what she mentally termed “down,” was disposed to be a very mother to him, even to setting a cold supper before him at that unparalleled and improper hour, and staying him with a flagon of her own home-brewed ale—a sure token of favour.

“And so she’s gone!” she exclaimed at last, when she could absolutely contain herself no longer. “Actually gone to Ireland.”

“Yes, Mrs. Holt, she is gone,” acquiesced her lodger, coolly.

“And goodness knows when she will come back,” she continued indignantly. “Dear, dear, dear! I wonder what my master would say if I’d a done the like—just walking off and leaving him and an infant to fend for themselves; but I suppose fine folk is different, and don’t mind?” giving her cap-frills a mighty toss.

Laurence said nothing. He was not going to tell this worthy and virtuously irate matron, that he did mind very much. No matter how he felt himself, he would have every one else think well of Maddie. He would hardly admit to his own heart that she was not quite perfect, that he was beginning to feel sorely jealous of her father, her fine surroundings, and her fashionable friends. However, there was no use in thinking; what he had to do was to work, and endeavour to win for himself name, fame, and fortune.

The next morning he set himself to make a real beginning. He packed up his slender belongings, he took his last walk round the fields and garden with farmer Holt, he consigned his son to the care of his kind hostess for the present, and, promising to run down often and look them up, he, in his turn, was taken to the station by the chestnut colt, and departed to make a fresh start in life, whilst the burly farmer stood on the platform and flourished his adieux with a red-spotted handkerchief. Then, returning slowly home, agreed with the missus in finding the place “summat lonely-like now,” in missing their late inmate, and in praising him up to the skies. Mrs. Holt was inclined to improve the occasion by drawing invidious comparisons between Mr. Wynne and his wife. “She was not like him—he had more true worth in his little finger than she had in the whole of her body,” etc.

But the worthy master, who had not been blind to Madeline’s pretty face and fascinating smiles, would not listen for a moment to such treason, and told his better half, rather sharply, to “hold her tongue!”

Laurence Wynne took up his quarters in the Temple temporarily—in a set of gloomy old chambers, with small, narrow windows and small panes, looking out on nothing in particular—at any rate he had no view to distract his attention from his work, and of work he had plenty.

His friend Jessop (unlike some so-called friends), having got a good start up the ladder of law, reached back a hand to his struggling schoolfellow; and an opening—a good opening—was all that his struggling schoolfellow required. His brains, his ceaseless industry, his good address, and his handsome appearance did the rest. He was far cleverer than his friend Jessop, and had twice his perseverance and talent for steady application. Jessop could keep a bar dinner in a roar of laughter, but Wynne could hold, as it were, in his hand, the eyes and ears of a jury. He had a natural gift for oratory; he had a clear, sonorous voice; he was never at a loss for a word—the right word; never said too much, or too little; never lost an opportunity of making a point, or of driving home an argument. In short, among the juniors he was a pearl of price. His brilliant articles of biting satire, which were read by every one, had brought his name up, and his name had been speedily followed by his appearance in person—his appearance in a successful case. In short, a tide in his affairs had come, and he had taken it at the flood, and the little skiff “success” was sailing over the waves in gallant style.

He had been most fortunate in one or two minor cases; he could not afford to be careless, like great men who had made their reputations. He began to be spoken of as a very rising junior, and to be consulted on crotchety points of law, to be listened to whenever he opened his lips, to be asked out to many professional dinners, and to receive—oh, joy!—not a few briefs on which the name of Laurence Wynne was inscribed in a round legal hand.

Yes, he was getting on rapidly. He could now afford to pay well for the maintenance of Master Wynne, to make handsome presents to the Holts, to allow himself new clothes and books, and the luxury of belonging to a good club.

And what about Mrs. Wynne all this time?

Madeline was rather agitated by so unexpectedly beholding her husband on the platform, the night they left for Ireland. Her heart beat fast, and her eyes were rather dim as they lost sight of his figure in the crowd.

“Poor Laurence! How fond he was of her,” she said to herself, with a sharp pang of compunction. “Fancy his coming up all that way, for just one glimpse, one little look across the crowd!” But, latterly, Madeline West had been so overwhelmed with attention, that she now took many things as a matter of course, and but a proper tribute to her own importance.

She and Lady Rachel occupied the same sleeping compartment, and her ladyship, who was an old and experienced traveller, wasted no time in gazing dreamily out of the window like Madeline, but took off her hat and dress and lay down in her berth, and was soon asleep, whilst the other sat with her eyes fixed on the dusky country through which they were passing, asking herself many disturbing questions, and fighting out a battle in her own breast between Laurence and luxury. At times she had almost resolved to tell her father all within the next twelve hours, and to accept the consequences, whatever they might be. She was wrong to deceive him; she was wrong to leave Laurence and the child. Yes; she would do the right thing at last—confess and go back.

With this decision laboriously arrived at, her mind was more at ease—a load seemed lifted from her brain; and she laid her head on her pillow at last and fell asleep.

But morning brings counsel—we do not say that it always brings wisdom. In the cool, very cool dawn, as she sat on the deck of the Ireland and watched the sun rise and the shores of Erin rise into view, her courage ebbed away; and as she partook of a cup of hot coffee at Kingsbridge Station, and encountered her father, who was exceedingly short in his temper, owing to a bad night’s rest, her good intentions melted as snow before the sun. No, no, she told herself; she must wait until her parent was in a more genial, indulgent mood. To speak now would be fatal, even supposing there was an opportunity for a few moments’ tête-à-tête.

The party travelled down at express speed to Mallow Junction, and from there a short rail journey brought them near their destination. It was four o’clock on a superb August afternoon as they drove up to Clane Castle. The owner and agent had not misled the new tenants; it was a castle, a fine commanding structure tucked under the wing of a great purple mountain, and was approached by an avenue that wound for a full Irish mile through a delightful demesne. What oaks! what beeches! what green glades and scuttling rabbits! what cover for woodcock! and, outlined against the sky-line on the mountain, was that a deer?

The exclamations of pleasure and astonishment from his daughter and his guests made Mr. West’s tongue wag freely.

“Yes; it’s a fine place. I said, ‘None of your picnic shanties for me.’ I said, ‘I must have a decent house and a fair head of game—money no object,’” he explained volubly, as he strutted before the party into a noble dining-room, where a very recherché meal awaited them.

The travellers, fortified by an excellent repast, and filled with an agreeable sense of well-being, repaired to their several chambers to get rid of their dusty garments, and met once more in the library, and sallied forth to see the place, Mr. West acting as guide and cicerone, and conducting his followers as if he had been born on the premises. The eyes of appreciative sportsmen sparkled as they took in the miles of mountain, the forests, the extent of heather, stretching widely to the horizon, and felt more than ever, that little West, by Jove! knew what he was about when he asked a fellow to shoot, and did you right well.

Besides the far-reaching mountains, there were other attractions—a lake and boathouse, a fine garden and pleasure-ground, a tennis-court, and—oh, joy!—a capital billiard-table. Every one expressed their delight with the castle, the scenery, the weather, and soon settled down to enjoy themselves in their several ways.

The twelfth of August produced a splendid bag of grouse, surpassing even the head-keeper’s fondest prediction. Every one of the neighbouring “quality” called of their own free will. There were celebrated tennis-parties, and dinners at the Castle (Mr. West had brought his own cook), and the fame of the excellent shooting went far and near. Mr. West was jubilant; he felt a grand seigneur. Never had he been a personage of such importance, and he actually began to look down on his London acquaintances.

“The shooting is A1—every one knows that,” he said. “Courtenay wants to know how I like the place?—a deuce deal better than I like him; and Dafford writes to ask if I can give him a day or two? I’m not very hot on Dafford. He wasn’t over and above civil, and he never got his sister, Lady Dovetail, to call; but he’d like to make use of me now. If I’m not good enough for him in London, he isn’t good enough for me here. Oh no, Mr. Dafford; you don’t come to Clane Castle!” And putting his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, Mr. West trotted up and down his daughter’s morning-room exuberantly happy.

Madeline was happy, too, but from other causes. The lovely scenery, the free yet luxurious life, the entire novelty of her surroundings, the impulsive gay-spirited gentry, the finest peasantry in the world, with their soft brogue, wit, blarney, and dark eyes, all enchanted her. The only little clouds upon her sky were a spirit of discontent among her English retinue, and a certain indefinable coolness and constraint in Laurence’s weekly letter.