air of candour, of noble truth. A somewhat impassive face in repose, somewhat cold; but, in speaking, it grew expressive to animation, and the frank smile that would light it up made its greatest charm. The smile stole over it now, as he checked his horse and bent towards Rachel.
“Have they thought me lost—I suppose dinner is begun?”
“Dinner has been in this half-hour, sir.”
“All right. I feared they might wait. What’s the matter, Rachel? You have been making your eyes red.”
“The matter! There’s nothing the matter with me, Mr. Lionel,” was Rachel’s reply, her tone betraying a touch of annoyance. And she turned and walked swiftly along the terrace, beyond reach of the glare of the gas-lamp.
Up stole a man at this moment, who must have been hidden amid the pillars of the portico, watching the transient meeting, watching for an opportunity to speak. It was Roy, the bailiff: and he accosted the gentleman with the same complaint, touching the ill-doings of the Dawsons and the village in general, that had previously been carried to Mr. Verner by Frederick Massingbird.
“I was told to wait and take my orders from you, sir,” he wound up with. “The master don’t like to be troubled, and he wouldn’t give none.”
“Neither shall I give any,” was the answer, “until I know more about it.”
“They ought to be got out to-night, Mr. Lionel!” exclaimed the man, striking his hand fiercely against the air. “They sow all manner of incendiarisms in the place, with their bad example.”
“Roy,” said Lionel Verner, in a quiet tone, “I have not, as you know, interfered actively in the management of things. I have not opposed my opinion against my uncle’s, or against yours, or come between you and him in any way. When I have given orders, they have been his orders, not mine. But many things go on that I disapprove of: and I tell you very candidly, that were I to become master to-morrow, my first act would be to displace you, unless you could undertake to give up these nasty acts of petty oppression.”
“Unless some of ’em was oppressed and kept under, they’d be for riding roughshod over the whole of us,” retorted Roy.
“Nonsense!” said Lionel. “Nothing breeds rebellion like oppression. You are too fond of oppression, Roy, and Mr. Verner knows it.”
“They be a idle, poaching, good-for-nothing lot, them Dawsons,” pursued Roy. “And now that they be behind-hand with their rent, it is a glorious opportunity to get rid of ’em. I’d turn ’em into the road without a bed to lie on, this very night!”
“How would you like to be turned into the road, without a bed to lie on?” demanded Lionel.
“Me!” returned Roy, in deep dudgeon. “Do you compare me to that Dawson lot? When I give cause to be turned out, then I hope I may be turned out, sir, that’s all. Mr. Lionel,” he added, in a more conciliating tone, “I know better about out-door things than you, and I say it’s necessary to be shut of the Dawsons. Give me power to act in this.”
“I will not,” said Lionel; “I forbid you to act in it at all, until the circumstances shall have been inquired into.”
He sprung from his horse, flung the bridle to the groom, who was at that moment hastening forward, and strode into the house with the air of a young chieftain. Certainly Lionel Verner appeared fitted by nature to be the heir of Verner’s Pride.
Rachel Frost, meanwhile, gained the road, and took the path to the left hand, which would lead her to the village. Her thoughts were bent on many sources, not altogether pleasant, one of which was the annoyance she had experienced at finding her name coupled with that of the bailiff’s son, Luke Roy. There was no foundation for it. She had disliked Luke, rather than liked him, her repugnance to him no doubt arising from the very favour he felt disposed to show to her: and her account of past matters to the bailiff was in accordance with the facts. As she walked along, pondering, she became aware that two people were advancing towards her in the dark twilight. She knew them instantly, almost by intuition, but they were too much occupied with each other yet to have noticed her. One was Frederick Massingbird; and the young lady on his arm was his cousin, Sibylla West, a girl young and fascinating as was Rachel. Mr. Frederick Massingbird had been suspected of a liking, more than ordinary, for this young lady; but he had protested, in Rachel’s hearing, as in that of others, that his was only cousin’s love. Some impulse prompted Rachel to glide in at a field-gate which she was then passing, and stand behind the hedge until they should have gone by. Possibly she did not care to be seen.
It was a still night, and their voices were borne distinctly to Rachel as they slowly advanced. The first words to reach her came from Miss West.
“You will be going out after him, Frederick. That will be the next thing, I expect.”
“Sibylla,” was the answer, and his accents bore that earnest, tender, confidential tone, which of itself alone betrays love, “be you very sure of one thing: that I go neither there nor elsewhere without taking you.”
“Oh, Frederick, is not John enough to go?”
“If I saw a better prospect there than here, I should follow him. He will write and report after he shall arrive, and be settled. My darling! I am ever thinking of the future for your sake.”
“But is it not a dreadful country? There are wolves and bears in it that eat people up.”
Frederick Massingbird slightly laughed at the remark.
“Do you think I would take my wife into the claws of wolves and bears?” he asked, in a tone of the deepest tenderness. “She will be too precious to me for that, Sibylla.”
The voices and the footsteps died away in the distance, and Rachel came out of her hiding-place, and went quickly on towards the village. Her father’s cottage was soon gained. He did not live alone. His only son, Robert,—who had a wife and family,—lived with him. Robert was