shall never write up my name in the church—never hear more of me. Far away where I drop down there let them bury me—a stranger. Don't fear that I will bring further shame upon the name; for, indeed, I will cease to bear it any longer. Let it go with the estates. Why should I rob you and your children? What right have I to plunder them of their portions—honestly and lawfully theirs. It must not be. I will go from here very shortly, a stranger, never to return. Your children need never know that such a person has ever lived. They will soon forget me, and more need never be told them. Indeed, there will be nothing more to tell. I shall have gone away like that old ancestor of ours,—never to come back—never to be heard of more."
"But how will you live?"
"For that matter there will be money enough under our mother's will, Steenie, to keep body and soul together, and perhaps the sooner they part company the better. I shall not starve. How cold I am. Put another log on, Steenie. This dreadful thirst! Let them bring me something to drink—water—anything."
"What has he been saying?" asked Gertrude, anxiously, as she encountered her husband on his quitting Wilford.
"He talks in a strange way; insists upon leaving the Grange at once—for ever, he says."
Gertrude could hardly suppress an exclamation of the relief she felt. Indeed, she was fairly frightened at Wilford's gloomy manner and wild looks, both on the children's account and her own.
"Is he sane, Ste, do you think?" she inquired.
Stephen mused over this question.
"I have sometimes thought," he said, after a pause, "that his mind was rather affected with all that has passed. Certainly he has a strange look now and then. Yet there was nothing like insanity in what he said. It must be owned though," in a lower tone, "that he drinks much more than he should. He will kill himself if he goes on in this way, and I'm afraid the servants will get talking about him down in the village. Give orders for my horse to be brought round."
"Where are you going, Ste?"
"I'll have a talk with old Fuller about him."
"Take care how you go. The road is very slippery."
"I'll ride the bay; he's very sure-footed. Never fear, Gertrude."
And Stephen set off. His wife determining that, during his absence, she would be careful to prevent the children going too near their Uncle Wilford. For she had made up her mind that he was clearly out of his mind, and perhaps dangerous—people out of their minds often were.
Vi and Madge, at work in the snug front parlour of Mr. Fuller's pretty white cottage, perceived a horseman advancing along the road which led from the Grange. Of course they began to speculate, after the manner of dwellers in the country, as to who this could be coming along, and what he could possibly want.
"A man all in black on a bay horse; why, it must be one of the Hadfield people," said Madge. "How slowly he comes along. The road is like glass just there. Do you see, the poor horse can hardly keep his feet."
"It's Stephen Hadfield. Why, he's coming here."
"Don't you think he's very handsome, Vi?"
"Pretty well. They're a handsome family, the Hadfields, and Stephen is good and gentlemanly-looking; but yet, somehow, a little tame, I think. He has not the marked features of the others. I don't think he's so handsome as his father was; or, indeed, as his brother is."
"His brother? What, Vi, do you admire that strange, wild creature, with the long, straggling beard? What taste! What taste! Why, he quite frightens me. He looks like a Vampire, or something odd out of the Arabian Nights."
"Ah, Madge, you like smug people, don't you? with smoothly brushed hair and ribston pippin cheeks; let us say, like Tommy Eastwood."
"Be quiet Vi. You know I don't care a bit about Tommy Eastwood, but I do prefer apple cheeks to lanthorn jaws and hollow eyes. There now. You may make the most of that, and tease me about it, as papa does. I see what it is though. You're one of those sly, quiet girls, who love a bit of romance all the same. I do believe you'd like that awful creature, Wilford Hadfield, to come down to the cottage in chain mail, armed to the teeth, brandishing a battle axe, and carry you off on a coal black steed. Wouldn't you like it, Vi? I'm sure you would; nothing would please you better, for all you're sitting there so demure and mum, mending your stockings, than to be Mrs. Brian de Bois Gilbert, or some awful person of that sort. I know you, Miss Vi, better than you think."
"Be quiet, Madge," Vi interposes, laughing.
"Yes, you're romantic. I'm practical. You like novels with lots of sentiment in them, and that sort of stuff. I like funny stories that make one die of laughing. Hallo! Vi. Stephen Hadfield's coming here. Will he come into this room, do you think? Isn't my dress awfully untidy—and isn't this collar crumpled? And my hair feels as though it had all tumbled down at the back. Has it, Vi? I wish I could look so neat and trim as you always do; but I never shall, I know. Oh, it's all right. He's gone into the surgery."
"I hope there's no one ill at the Grange."
Stephen Hadfield consulted for some time with Mr. Fuller in his surgery. The doctor was informed of Wilford's plans for the future, so far as they had been unfolded. Something also was said of the symptoms of ill-health that Wilford had manifested.
"I didn't at all like his looks at the funeral," said Mr. Fuller, reflectively.
"Come up to the Grange, and see him and talk to him. He is very fond of you. I know no one who has more influence over him. Try and persuade him to abandon this project of quitting us. Doubtless he is much hurt and grieved at my father's will, which is unquestionably very cruel to him in its provisions; but it shall be my care to soften these so far as he is concerned. He shall never feel that any real difference has been made between us. He shall be master of the Grange if he will."
