Once he seemed to flag in the course of the morning.

‘It is not worth while to bother myself for that Caroline,’ he remarked.

But a quarter of an hour afterwards he was again in the dining-room, looking at the head with dishevelled tresses and eyes turbid with despair.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I made her sob, shudder, almost faint. I’ll see her smile before I’ve done with her; besides, I want to outwit all these womenites.’

Directly after dinner Mrs. Yorke fulfilled her son’s calculation by withdrawing to her chamber. Now for Hortense.

That lady was just comfortably settled to stocking-mending in the back-parlour, when Martin, laying down a book which, stretched on the sofa (he was still indisposed, according to his own account), he had been perusing in all the voluptuous ease of a yet callow pacha, lazily introduced some discourse about Sarah, the maid at the Hollow. In the course of much verbal meandering, he insinuated information that this damsel was said to have three suitors—Frederic Murgatroyd, Jeremiah Pighills, and John-of-Mally’s- of-Hannah’s-of-Deb’s—and that Miss Mann had affirmed she knew for a fact that, now the girl was left in sole charge of the cottage, she often had her swains to meals, and entertained them with the best the house afforded.

It needed no more. Hortense could not have lived another hour without betaking herself to the scene of these nefarious transactions, and inspecting the state of matters in person. Mrs. Horsfall remained.

Martin, master of the field now, extracted from his mother’s work-basket a bunch of keys. With these he opened the sideboard cupboard, produced thence a black bottle and a small glass, placed them on the table, nimbly mounted the stairs, made for Mr. Moore’s door, tapped—the nurse opened.

‘If you please, ma’am, you are invited to step into the back-parlour and take some refreshment. You will not be disturbed—the family are out.’

He watched her down; he watched her in; himself shut the door. He knew she was safe.

The hard work was done—now for the pleasure. He snatched his cap, and away for the wood.

It was yet but half-past three. It had been a fine morning, but the sky looked dark now. It was beginning to snow; the wind blew cold; the wood looked dismal, the old tree grim. Yet Martin approved the shadow on his path; he found a charm in the spectral aspect of the doddered oak.

He had to wait. To and fro he walked, while the flakes fell faster, and the wind, which at first had but moaned, pitifully howled.

‘She is long in coming,’ he muttered, as he glanced along the narrow track. ‘I wonder,’ he subjoined, ‘what I wish to see her so much for? She is not coming for me. But I have power over her, and I want her to come that I may use that power’

He continued his walk.

‘Now,’ he resumed, when a further period had elapsed, ‘if she fails to come, I shall hate and scorn her.’

It struck four—he heard the church clock far away. A step so quick, so light, that, but for the rustling of leaves, it would scarcely have sounded on the wood-walk, checked his impatience. The wind blew fiercely now, and the thickened white storm waxed bewildering; but on she came, and not dismayed.

‘Well, Martin,’ she said eagerly, ‘how is he?’