IN happier times—before the apple of discord had been thrown down—a shady lime-walk had connected Reuben Vivid's orchard with the Barton Hall shrubberies. The avenue in question still existed, though it was no longer used as a means of communication between the rival houses. A public footway, leading to Lea Bailey, adjoined the private road, terminating in a rising track across the meadows, and skirting some of Mr. Dangerfield's pet preserves.

Along this shady retreat St. Clair toiled painfully. He had abandoned the turnpike at the suggestion of a passing waggoner he had accosted after leaving "The Grapes," with the hope of discovering a shorter and pleasanter cut to Weston Hall.

The crisp, clear air fanned his bloated face, a purple sheen crowned the blazing woods, where the lace-like ashes burnt in saffron fires, a beautiful and peaceful scene filled with silent grace and loveliness; though, sooth to say, nature in her sweetest mood appealed not to the blighted tragedian, whose hungry soul yearned for more material comforts—such, for instance, as tobacco—to say nothing of its twin-sister, beer.

The jaunty swagger was still in evidence, the self-satisfied roll survived the weariness of travel and the faintness produced by long fasting.

Hope, blessed stimulant of suffering genius, lighted up his breast, for your adventurer is ever of a sanguine temperament. He cocked the battered white hat to a knowing angle as he brushed through the dewy lawn.

Back in the thick hazel hedge was a dry mass of barley straw, which had been, some days before, filled with grain as food for the pheasants, and there Algernon St. Clair sat down to refresh exhausted nature upon some scraps of bread and broken meats gathered earlier in the day's wanderings.

Talent suffering from fortune's frowns is ever entitled to the respect of a sympathetic heart, for be it remembered that many famous members of the profession have frequently been reduced to sorer straits.

He ate the sumptuous banquet with the theatrical air which suited him so well, and as he did so, there came a sound of voices from the adjacent path.

Rising from the friendly shelter of a clump of ferns, the adventurer peeped and listened. This he did, not from any pardonable curiosity, but rather that his natural disposition prompted him towards any meanness, great or small, which presented itself for the moment.

Warped by adversity, the originally pure mind of Algernon St. Clair naturally inclined, like the Heathen Chinee, to "ways that are dark, and tricks that are vain," being, also like Ah Lin, in his dealings "peculiar."

He saw a tall, fair youth, gun in hand, brushing his way through the clover. He was clad in homespun shooting-coat and knickerbockers, a cap of the like material rested upon his crisp brown hair. Handsome and stalwart, with a blithe whistle on his lips, he approached the wayfarer's hiding-place, near to which was a stile, overhung by a veritable arbour of hazel and dog-rose, blushing under a perfect glory of scarlet berries.

There was upon his lips a peculiar smile, partly welcome, partly masterful superiority, the reason of which expression the watcher was unable to determine. Had he been in a position to see beyond the stile, he would have noticed another intruder—a beautiful girl, who regarded the sportsman with shy embarrassment.

She was clad from head to foot in pale gray, a large Rubens' hat shaded her delicate features and dreamy gray eyes. The clear pearly complexion flushed like the petals of a damask rose as she looked half boldly, half shyly into the admiring dark eyes bent on her own.

But if the listener was unconscious of this bewildering woodland vision, he had at least the advantage of oral demonstration. He was doing an underhanded action, and his spirits rose accordingly.

"You have not been to see us for months," said the sportsman, with a dangerous smile. Cyril Dangerfield marked the sheeny wreath of briars and autumn leaves she carried; he marked the sun behind her making a golden mesh of her shining hair. It was a fair picture, as the listening tragedian would have allowed. "Miss Ethel Carr, have you any excuse to urge for this nefarious conduct?"'

Her eyes fell with the consciousness of slight confusion. A little stain of scarlet crept into the wind-swept cheeks.

"Is it so long?" she asked. "I did not know."

"So like a woman, to answer one question with another," Cyril Dangerfield laughed, laying his gun aside, and barring the way. "Come—shall I give you absolution, or do you wish to pass, you maid of ice?"

A new zest and brightness seemed to have flooded the afternoon; the orange fires in the woods gleamed with new radiance; above all, there was a delightful sense of freedom from care, an indifference to the flight of time. The scarlet berries of the nightshade, the shining bouquet of leaves were forgotten.

"What excuse shall I offer?" Ethel Carr replied. "Or do I need one?"

"Of course you do! Think of my disconsolate relations watching for your coming from the turret like so many Sisters Anne. To say nothing of myself."

"And your mother; she has been very anxious, doubtless?"

"The pride of some people!" Cyril laughed, a little awkwardly. "Still," he continued, more gravely, "there must be some reason why you avoid us! I—I am treading on dangerous ground, but I cannot allow any estrangement to come between us when a word may be sufficient to dispel——"

Across the stile Ethel laid a hand upon his arm—a hand trembling, in spite of her attempt at firmness. The shadowy trouble in her eyes checked the ready flow of words on Cyril's lips.

"I had better be candid with you," she said, quietly. "I—I think it will be better for me not to come to Barton any more. You see, when we were younger, and, in fact, more innocent of——"

"The feelings we entertain to one another," Cyril interposed. "My mother, with the best intentions, has been wounding you, Ethel. We are not rich, as you know, but there is enough, and to spare. Come, confess! Has not the dear old mater confided to you her plans for my future welfare? Has she not hinted at some impossible heiress whom I am to espouse, and thus restore the fallen greatness of a once proud house? And you, knowing the feelings I have not troubled to disguise——"

"I did not intend to convey that. But, with all the kindness extended to me by your people, I cannot forget the gulf between us."

"Be as little of the 'Housemaid's Companion' heroine as possible," Cyril implored. "Ignore my sentiments, if you will, but spare me that!"

"Don't make it any harder for me, Cyril," Ethel asked, appealingly, two round tears trembling on her eyelids. "You know I am right. Perhaps I ought not to complain, though it seems as if fate had dealt hardly with me. It is a mistake to educate people, women especially, above their station."

"Your station," said Cyril, "is as it finds you."

"You think so? But consider my birth and surroundings. My mother of respectable birth, but reduced to earn her own living by playing minor characters in a travelling theatre; my father, a clever, self-educated man, who had to fly the country with a criminal charge hanging over him. He is dead. And my mother, where is she? Whether dead or alive is a mystery. Since she sent me, a little child, to my dear friends here, we have never heard a word. And I should have grown up a simple country girl, have become a servant, probably, had it not been for this mysterious benefactor of mine, of whose very name I am ignorant. Think of that Mr. Dangerfield. Oh, your mother was kind and considerate. And she was right."

"From your point of view," Cyril returned. "We are all fond of you."

"I am afraid that latterly it is the absence which makes the heart grow fonder."

Ethel smiled tearfully.

"I should be blind to ignore the hints thrown out touching your future, for, humble as I am, I have my share of pride."

"They told you I was going to marry money, and free the family estates."

"Not in so many words. Still, I concluded that was so."

There was barely room for two against the stile, and as the impetuous young man stretched out his arm, it was not strange that it should rest at length upon Ethel's slender waist.

"They told you wrong," he said, his voice perilously low and sweet. "They told you wrong, sweetheart. I am going to marry someone, and that someone is yourself. Don't you know I have always loved you!"

"Always!" Ethel murmured. "And you have known me a bare twelve months."

She said no more. Sooth to say, there was no more to be said. In the golden age, before the generous teens give place to more sordid and earthly tens, heart is apt to go out to heart, and no sordid consideration lies like a bar sinister across the glowing shield of love's young dream.

In that blissful moment there was no thought for the future of Barton Hall and its fair but encumbered acres.

The sun had dropped lower in the saffron west, a deeper haze had fallen upon the silent woods, before the lovers passed onward.

Like a snake in the grass, St. Clair rose from his cramped position, and looked around with a smile of gratified self-satisfaction. It was cold, his teeth chattered a little, but there was a warmth keen, if not generous, within.

"Algernon, my beauty!"—he thus apostrophized his pleasing charms—"my fairest daisy, you are in luck! Time was when such a little comedy as I have just witnessed would have touched my sensitive nature. But misfortune renders one sordid; trouble blunts the edge of the finest sensibilities."

He strode on upon the grateful turf, infinitely soft and yielding to his tired feet; the aggressive hat—tilted back before this flow of generous sentiment—fixed over one eye as he continued, in a more worldly strain, "This is a rum universe—a conglomeration of paradoxes! This morning I was penniless, wanting even the price of a meal—me, who has delighted thousands by my matchless impersonation of Shaksperian character! To-night I shall sleep in clover. Fancy that girl being the daughter of my erstwhile first singing chambermaid!—fancy finding that old crank, Vivid, living in the same parish!—and, best of all, fancy finding Maitland—ah, ah!—within a stone's throw of them all! He won't care about seeing me—not that that matters much. He shall give me a dinner—some soup and sherry, followed by a pheasant and a bottle of champagne. Ah, if I hurry up, I shall be just in time to order it for six-thirty—the hour for a gentleman to dine!"

His cunning, bloodshot eyes lighted with an evil glow; a noiseless laugh shook his whole frame, rendering the red, pendulous cheeks a deeper crimson. The swagger became more obtrusive; the neutral-tinted legs moved with a poor imitation of a military strut.

At this point the path trended suddenly down to the main road, on the other side of which was a high, laurel-crowned stone wall, flanked at either end by a pair of handsome gates.

A cowherd, passing by with his white-faced, milky herd, paused to contemplate the extraordinary spectacle before him, wondering in his simple way what manner of man this stranger might be.

"I am seeking for information," St. Clair began, volubly. "Perhaps you can assist me, my good friend. Whereabouts here shall I find the residence of Mr. Maitland, who lives, I think, at Weston Hall?"

The rustic turned slowly to the gates, and indicated the drive beyond with a jerk of his forefinger. Verbal reply he made none; the astounding specimen of the genus man before him was, so far as he was concerned, a distinct and novel variety.

He gazed wonderingly at the white hat, jerked his thumb towards the gates again, and passed mechanically along the road.

No peri at the gates of Paradise ever looked more longingly through the glowing barrier than Algernon St. Clair down the drive at Weston Hall.

Behind one barred entrance he saw a long, neatly-gravelled sweep, shaded by hanging foliage, myrtle, and acacia, and drooping cedar, with the glimpse of a pleasant white house beyond.

Behind the other an arched walk, terminating in an old stone wall, golden and ruddy with dappled fruit, ripening ribstone and luscious pears.

It was a fair and stately domain, so severely immaculate that for a moment the wanderer hesitated to make known his presence, even when stimulated by rapt contemplation of the hearty welcome awaiting him within.

He strode down the drive with all the self-assurance he could muster, and rang the bell, which gave out a lordly and sonorous clang, startling contrast to the severe silence of the place.

A trim maid-servant, with a cool contempt she took no pains to conceal, received his name, bidding him wait in the hall till she knew her master's pleasure.

After a long delay, during which the unwelcome guest had ample time to contemplate his own grim contrast with oak and armour, and such elegant surroundings, the maid returned with a message that Mr. Maitland would see the gentleman if he would be good enough to step into the library.

A small and somewhat sombre apartment, lined with books from floor to ceiling, met the adventurer's gaze. Its solitary occupant rose as the door closed behind, and regarded the new-comer with blank politeness. With a silent gesture he motioned the other to a chair, and waited for him to speak.

"This," said St. Clair, in an injured tone, "is not the welcome I anticipated. Time was, ere misfortune, unsought and undeserved, overtook me, when my presence was hailed with a flattering fervour. Mr. Maitland—or, to come to the point, Mr. Thornycroft—is it peace or war?"

No muscle moved in the listener's face as he continued to contemplate the speaker with the air of a man who studies the habits of some eccentric and not particularly desirable animal.

Thornycroft—for he it was—had changed but little in fifteen years, save that his hair was thinner on the temples, and the furtive, hunted look had disappeared from his keen, glittering eyes.

"Really, I am at a loss to understand you, sir," he replied. "There is some mistake here, apparently. Unfortunately, I have not the honour of your acquaintance; and as I happen to be particularly engaged just now——"

"Don't put yourself out on my account, pray," St. Clair returned, lightly. "Hurry, my dear friend, there is none. You novelists, living in a world of your own, are apt to soar above mundane matters, a temporary abberation of memory natural under the circumstances. You do not remember me; I had almost forgotten you, when by chance one of your popular romances fell into my hands. There I recognised the master-hand of Thornycroft—there, which is more to the point, I recognised, in the lurid description of a rascally scene, an incident in the joint lives of two gentlemen who shall be nameless. It did not take me long to discover that the gentleman who wrote those popular romances under the name of Maitland was some time editor of the Westbury Mercury. Drop the mask, friend Thornycroft, the farce is played out."

"This is an extraordinary hallucination," the novelist returned, gently; "a mistake on your part. I do not know you, my good fellow."

The cowardly, truculent spirit within the rascally intruder began to fail him. He had anticipated disgust, surprise, contempt even, but this icy coldness fell like a cold veil upon the glowing coals of expectation. Certain as he was, he almost began to doubt the evidence of his senses.

"It's no use!" he retorted, doggedly. "Pretty, dramatic, and all that kind of thing, only it won't wash, Roland Thornycroft! Shall I play another card?"

"Play the whole pack," Thornycroft smiled; "if you feel disposed that way."

"Ah, ah! so, then, you defy me? This morning, not four miles from here, I encountered Reuben Vivid. So that does not stir you? Fortune also threw in my way a certain Ethel Carr, the daughter of Richard Carr, who, with your assistance, fled the country rather than face a charge of murder. You laugh. Do you imagine for a moment that I am ignorant as to the relationship subsisting between that innocent, defrauded girl and yourself:"

With true histrionic fervour, with clenched teeth, significant gestures, and marked pauses, the actor hurled this tremendous charge at the head of his whilom friend and boon companion.

"Many years ago I was acquainted with a dissolute, idle scoundrel, who had the honour of bearing your name," Thornycroft responded slowly, but with no change from his icy calm. "I owed that rascal money, and I paid him. On that occasion I told him that if he ever dared speak to me again I would break every bone in his body. I meant it then, and I mean it now. If you have any connection with that desirable individual don't hesitate to mention it."

"Not mention it!" St. Clair laughed uneasily. "Not mention it to you? And this to me, who hold your fortunes in my right hand!"

"What, dirt and all!" Thornycroft laughed. "Surely, it is a large handful. And now, you truculent, bullying, blackmailing rascal, follow me. See, this window is open; it will be better to depart this way than troubling my servants. After you, sir, and remember my time is limited."

"I don't leave these premises till I get something!" cried St. Clair, in the desperation of defeated hope. "A hundred pounds—fifty—well, twenty-five? And not much either, for a man who can work your social ruin?"

With a menacing gesture Thornycroft passed on to the garden, the now thoroughly cowed vapourer following till at length the gate was reached. Pausing to see that no curious passer-by was observing them, the owner of Weston Hall took his antagonist by the collar and waistband, and without further ceremony, pitched him over the gate into a damp and not to cleanly ditch.

"There, you rascal!" he cried, with flashing eyes and heaving chest. "Dare to put your foot on my premises again, and I will thrash you like a dog. Go your own way, and leave me to follow mine. And take that!"

Contemptuously enough, he pitched a sovereign to the frightened rascal, and without another word, turned on his heel and disappeared.

St. Clair, trembling in every limb, cowed, tattered, and mud-stained, crept from his foul bath, and shook his fist at the retreating figure with a frightful imprecation.

"You think you have done with me," he said, crying with mingled rage, and hate, and bitter disappointment, hurt in mind and body. "You might have waited, Roland Thornycroft, till I told you all I know."

His eyes fell upon the glittering coin; he spurned it scornfully with his foot—hollow, false, and theatrical to the last.

"Take your paltry gold!" he cried, wiping the tears from his eyes with the dirty pocket-handkerchief. "I would die rather than touch your money!" Here he sighed dolefully. "I would rot in a ditch, first! And yet it seems a pity to leave it there, and so—— I wonder if there is a decent pub in the neighbourhood where one could get a drink and a bit of bread and cheese?"

He placed the coin in his pocket, and shuffled on, sobbing half-hysterically. The disappointment was too deep for aught but tears.