Chetwynd Calverley. Ainsworth William Harrison

you, since I have never done you a favour. Indeed, if my recollection serves me right, you have more reason to dislike than to befriend me.”

      “Your sister will tell you that the past is forgotten.”

      “Sir Bridgnorth has a noble heart,” said Mildred. “You may speak freely before him. He knows all that has occurred, and is aware that you have refused to accept any allowance from Mrs. Calverley.”

      “And I may add that I sympathise with you,” said Sir Bridgnorth.

      “What has brought you back so suddenly?” said Mildred. “Are you in any difficulty?”

      “In a most desperate difficulty,” he replied. “I want two hundred pounds, and must have the money by to-morrow morning. I could procure it at once from Carteret; but I would rather shoot myself than accept a farthing from Mrs. Calveriey. Can you help me?”

      “I can,” interposed Sir Bridgnorth, quickly. “Luckily, I have the amount about me. In this pocket-book,” he added, producing one as he spoke, “you will find the sum you require. Repay me at your convenience.”

      “A thousand thanks, Sir Bridgnorth?” cried Chetwynd. “You have, indeed, conferred a very great obligation upon me, and I shall not speedily forget it. Ere long, I hope to be able to return you the money.”

      “Don’t trouble yourself on that score; but let me see you soon. Come to me at Charlton.”

      “I cannot promise to visit you immediately, Sir Bridgnorth,” replied the young man.

      “Why not?” inquired Mildred.

      “Do not ask me to explain,” he rejoined. “I am scarcely my own master, and where I to make a promise, I might not be able to fulfil it. I must now begone.”

      “Stay!” cried Sir Bridgnorth; “can I not bring about a reconciliation between you and Mrs. Calveriey? I think I could accomplish it, if you will consent to some arrangement.”

      “Never,” replied Chetwynd. “And I beg that my visit and its object may not be mentioned to her.”

      “How did you discover I was in this room?” asked Mildred.

      “Old Norris, whom I saw on my arrival, told me I should find you in the library, and I concluded you were alone; but I have found a friend as well. And now I can answer no more questions.”

      “Ever mysterious and incomprehensible!” cried Mildred. “I do not like to part with you thus.”

      “You must!” he rejoined. “It is necessary that I should be in London to-night.”

      He then bade them both farewell, tenderly embracing his sister, and renewing his thanks to Sir Bridgnorth.

      Just as he was about to depart, the door was opened by old Norris, who called out, “Mrs. Calverley is coming to the library!”

      “I won’t see her!” cried Chetwynd, fiercely.

      But there was no retreat, and he was compelled to remain.

      In another moment, Mrs. Calverley appeared. Her astonishment at beholding Chetwynd may be imagined; nor, though she strove to veil it, could she altogether conceal her annoyance.

      “I did not expect to find you here, Chetwynd,” she said.

      “I came to see my sister, madam,” he replied, haughtily; “and, having had a brief interview with her, I am now about to depart.”

      And, with a stiff bow, he quitted the room.

      As soon as she could recover her speech, Mrs. Calverley observed to Sir Bridgnorth, “You see with what impracticable material I have to deal. Any friendly overture on my part is always scornfully rejected. Well, Chetwynd must take his own course; and if he suffers for his wilfulness, he has only himself to blame. Do you feel at liberty to tell me what he came about, Mildred?”

      “I do not,” she replied.

      “You were present at the interview, I suppose, Sir Bridgnorth?”

      “Quite unintentionally, madam,” he answered. “And my lips are sealed.”

      This incident rather threw a damp upon the pleasure of the day.

      Mrs. Calverley looked displeased, and Mildred appeared anxious and thoughtful, so Sir Bridgnorth ordered his carriage.

      But before taking his departure, he had a little private conversation with Mildred, and promised to come over again to Ouselcroft on an early day.

      VI. BRACKLEY HEATH

      Mrs. Calveriey had a very pretty pony phaeton, which she was accustomed to drive herself. Easy as a lounging-chair, and with the two long-tailed bay ponies attached to it, the luxurious little vehicle formed a very nice turn-out.

      One fine morning, about a week after Sir Bridgnorth’s visit, Mrs. Calverley and Mildred set out in the pony phaeton with the intention of calling on Lady Barfleur and her daughter, at Brackley Hall, which was about six or seven miles from Ouselcroft.

      Usually, they were attended by a groom, but on this particular occasion he was left at home.

      The ponies were full of spirit, and eager to get on, but the ladies would not indulge them, and proceeded quietly along the pleasant lanes, through a rich and fertile district, abounding in farms, where some of the best cheeses in the county are made.

      To reach Brackley Hall, however, they had to cross an extensive heath, a great part of which was very wild and marshy.

      But this brown and uncultivated tract, where turf alone was cut, and where there were two or three dangerous swamps, offered the charm of contrast to the rich meadows they had just quitted. Here there were no farm-houses, no cow-sheds, no large bams, no orchards; but the air was fresh and pleasant, and lighted up by the brilliant sunshine, even Brackley Heath looked well. At least, our fair friends thought so, and the ponies were compelled to walk in consequence. Yet there was nothing remarkable in the prospect, as the reader shall judge. The whole scene owed its charm to the fine weather.

      On the left the heath was bordered by the woods belonging to Brackley Hall, and, through a break in them, the upper part of the fine old timber and plaster mansion could be descried.

      On the right the country was flat and uninteresting, planted in places by rows of tall poplars, and a canal ran through it, communicating with the River Mersey.

      In front, but at some distance, rose a hill crowned by the ruins of an old castle, and having a small village and grey old church in the immediate neighbourhood.

      In bad weather the heath had a dreary and desolate aspect. Here and there a hut could be perceived, but these miserable habitations were far removed from the road, and might have been deserted, since no smoke issued from them, and nothing could be seen of their occupants. A few sheep were scattered about in spots where the turf was covered with herbage; but they seemed wholly untended. Rooks there were in flocks from Brackley Park, plovers, and starlings. Even seagulls found their way to the morass.

      While the ladies were contemplating this scene, which they thought highly picturesque, and commenting upon its beauties, they were startled, and indeed terrified, by the sudden appearance of two formidable-looking fellows, who had been watching their approach from behind an aged and almost branchless oak that grew near the road.

      Evidently, from their peculiar garb, tawny skin, black eyes, and raven locks, these individuals were gipsies. They did not leave their purpose in doubt for a moment, but rushing towards the ladies with threatening gestures, shouted to them to stop.

      Mrs. Calverley tried to whip on the ponies, but before they could start off they were checked by one of the gipsies, who seized the reins, while his comrade, addressing Mrs. Calverley, demanded her whip, and, as she hesitated to give it up, he snatched it from her, and threw it on the ground.

      “Excuse my freedom, my lady,” he said, in accents meant to be polite, but that sounded gruff and menacing. “We can’t allow you to go till we’ve had some talk with you; but we won’t detain you longer nor we can help. We wants any money you may have about you, together