Dorrien of Cranston. Mitford Bertram

feared as a quarrelsome and dangerous man. One thing was certain, whatever occupation Lizzie had been pursuing, she had returned home with empty pockets, and this ought to have told in her favour, for the ways of evil are lucrative.

      She stands in the doorway looking out over the sunlit fields, and her thoughts are chaotic. At first she wearily wonders whether her father will be discharged with a reprimand, and if not what she can pawn in order to pay his fine. Then her reflections fly off at a tangent. Away in the distance, the chimneys of Cranston Hall appear above the trees, and on these the girl’s clear blue eyes are fixed, while she indulges in a day-dream. Yet she is a hard, practical young party enough, for she is twenty-four, and has seen a very considerable slice of this habitable globe.

      Suddenly her frame becomes rigid, and the blood surges to her face, then falls back, leaving it ashy pale. What has she spied to bring about this convulsion? Only a man, of course.

      He is advancing along the field path with an easy swinging stride. As she gazes, a large red and white dog comes tearing over the further stile and scampers joyously past his master. The girl stands in a state of strange irresolution, her heart beating like a hammer. He has not seen her – one step inside and he will have passed by. But her chance of retreat is gone. While she is doubting, the man passes the gate, and as he does so looks carelessly up.

      Roland Dorrien is not wont to exhibit wild surprise over anything, but the start which he gives as his eyes meet those of the girl before him, proves that his astonishment is genuine.

      “Lizzie!”

      “You don’t seem overmuch glad to see me anyhow,” says the girl in a hard tone, her self-possession now quite in hand again.

      “I don’t know about ‘glad.’ But what on earth are you doing here, and where have you dropped from?” And his eye ran over her from head to foot, taking in her rough, though scrupulously clean, attire.

      “Ha! ha! You may well look astonished. Rather different to when we last met,” she said bitterly. “But come inside and we can talk. Don’t be afraid,” seeing him hesitate; “I’m quite alone.”

      “Oh, that alters the case materially. You see, I never was one to mince matters. Therefore I don’t mind telling you that this isn’t New York, but a confoundedly gossipy little English provincial place. Moral – One must be circumspect. And now, Lizzie,” he went on, sliding into a big wooden chair, “tell me all about yourself – and – and how it is you’re trying the rôle of cottage maiden – and here above all places in the world.”

      “That’s soon said. I’m keeping house for father.”

      “‘For father’? I don’t quite see. If it’s a fair question, who the deuce is he?”

      “Stephen Devine – and he’s now up before the magistrates for catching some of your hares. Yours, mind.”

      Roland whistled. Surprise followed upon surprise. Surprise one – to find this girl here at all. Surprise two – that she should turn out to be the daughter of Stephen Devine, the greatest rascal on the whole countryside. He had known her under another name.

      “Lizzie, I’ll be quite candid with you. The fact is, this unexpected parent of yours enjoys the reputation of being – well, a ‘bad lot.’ Do you intend to take up your quarters here with him altogether?”

      “That’s as may be. Didn’t you know I was here?”

      “Know it? How should I?”

      “I don’t believe you did. I’m pretty sharp, you see, and the jump you gave when you saw me was no make-believe. I’ve only been here a fortnight, no longer than you have. I came over in the ‘Balearic,’ the steamer before yours. It was queer that we should both have returned home at the same time, wasn’t it? And how do you think I’m looking?”

      There was a world of mingled emotions in her tones. Distrust, resentment, bitterness, and a strong undercurrent of passion. A stranger would have been puzzled by this daughter of the people, who talked and looked so far above her station. Her auditor, for his part, was not a little discomfited. The first surprise over, the situation held out endless complications. It was one thing for the prodigal in a far country to pick up a beautiful nobody for his amusement – quite another for the future Squire of Cranston to return home and find that inconvenient young person domiciled at his very door, and owning parentage with a skulking, drunken and poaching rascal, at whom even his own squalid class looked askew. A unit in the crowd at American pleasure resorts was one thing; Dorrien of Cranston at home, quite another. He foresaw grave difficulties.

      “How do I think you are looking? Why, first-rate, of course,” he answered. “Improved, if anything.”

      “Thanks. I can’t say the same of you. I liked you better yonder in the States. I’m candid, too, you see. But you’re a very great person here, while I – well never mind. And now I had better tell you. I hadn’t the smallest idea that you belonged here when I came – so don’t think I came on purpose. I don’t want to trouble you or get in your way – no – not I. But I can’t quite forget old times.”

      The summer air was soft and slumbrous, the place was isolated, and the stillness of the dreamy forenoon unbroken by the sound of voice or footstep to tell of the outer world. Roland’s strong pulses shook his frame with overmastering violence, and his temples throbbed as he gazed on the splendid, sensuous beauty and magnificent outlines of the girl, standing there talking to him in tones and words that contained three parts reproach. And she was gifted with an extraordinarily soft and attractive voice. In a second she was beside him.

      “Darling!” she whispered, winding her arms round him, her words coming in passionate torrent. “Darling – I could call you that in the old times, you know. Do you remember those nights at the Adirondacks – the beautiful lake and the moonlight – and ourselves? I see you remember. Why not again – here? The cottage is out of the way – scarcely anyone ever passes even – at night, no one. Father is in trouble. I shall be alone here – perhaps for weeks. You are your own master, are you not – you can come – often, always? It was not so long ago – only a few months. You can’t have grown weary. No one need know – and when it is dark this way is quite deserted – I don’t want to keep you altogether – I don’t want to injure you with anybody. But only one week – one short week if you wish it. Then I’ll go away – right away.”

      Her words came in fitful, incoherent gasps, and there was something of the fierce grip of a wild beast in her tight embrace. Like lightning, a consciousness of this flashed through the other’s fired brain, a consciousness of his very senses slipping from him. Would he still yield to the terrible fascination?

      “Two’s company, three’s a crowd,” is a sound proverb, even when the third is a dog. Roy, who had been lying in the doorway, suddenly sprang up with a threatening growl, and darted in pursuit of a passer-by, barking loudly. The incident was sufficient. It was a rude interruption, but salutary, so thought at least one of the two.

      “This won’t do, Lizzie. As I said before, this isn’t New York, and one can’t be too careful. Now I had better go, at any rate. Good-bye.”

      He spoke hurriedly, and acted on his words before she had time to remonstrate. It was a lame conclusion to a stirring interview. All the better – for him, at any rate.

      Left alone, the girl stood rigid as stone. Here was the loadstar of her vehemently passionate nature. She had spoken truth in disclaiming all knowledge of Roland Dorrien’s whereabouts when she came to Wandsborough. Pure chance had brought her there. Once there, however, she was not long in ignorance as to who dwelt at Cranston – and day by day she had watched that field path as we saw her watching it to-day. Now she was rewarded. Well, was she?

      Roland, hurrying down the lane to recall Roy, who was attacking the pedestrian with unwonted savagery, discovered with no little surprise that the latter was Turner, the curate; and it struck him that his apologies for Roy’s ill-behaviour were received very stiffly. Then it flashed across him – Roy had rushed out of Devine’s cottage – that domicile contained an exceptionally handsome girl, and Turner was a parson and presumably knew everybody. Moreover, parsons