"About ten miles, I think, are there not, Dora?" said Lady Ripley.
"A mere canter for a gentleman before breakfast," observed Sylvia, before the other could reply. Several looked embarrassed, for various reasons. Lady Dora was deeply confused, and evidently still more annoyed and amazed. Juvenal alone seemed a stranger to all conversation, only busy with his own thoughts. Now and then he looked at his watch, then at the door. At last, a horse's hoof sounded on the gravelled drive, outside the window; the bell rung, and, a few moments afterwards, Marmaduke Burton was ushered in. He looked paler than usual, and his hand trembled as he shook hands with all, but Minnie, who merely bowed; as she did so, he bit his lip, and a cold smile of triumph passed over his face. At that moment, the servant opened the door.
"If you please, sir," he said, addressing Burton, "the groom bade me say 'Viper' is not with your horse; and, as he always accompanies you, he thought you must have lost him."
"I have," answered the other, scowling malignantly; "he's dead!"
"Dead!" exclaimed Juvenal. "Why, you had him to-day!"
"True, Formby; never mind now—he's dead;" and he turned to Lady Dora, and made some commonplace remark.
Before we proceed further, we will step back to where Marmaduke Burton quitted the manor-house that evening, followed by his dog, in the good guardianship of which he had much faith. Juvenal had consulted with him on the best plan to be pursued as regarded Minnie; and it had been decided upon, that Marmaduke should drop in, as if accidentally, in the evening, and that then her uncle should, thus fortified, lecture her before "a friend of the family," on her great imprudence. This was the very worst plan which could have been adopted with a girl of her spirit. Any thing just, might have been accomplished by kindness; but bad management, and too many to order and control, had deteriorated the character of an else perfect creature. Minnie was a little headstrong and wilful, having too much good sense blindly to submit to injustice. Burton anticipated the results: he really loved her as much as he could love; he thought, by judiciously taking her part, to win her gratitude—a great step, when he saw her every feeling went against him; and, should she be resolute in her rejection, from want of affection, or even toleration of him, perhaps a feeling of shame to know, that he might blight her good name elsewhere, by speaking of her secret meetings with Miles, might weigh with her prudence. Any thing, so he gained her, now more than ever, for he no longer could doubt a mutual attachment, though, perhaps, not very firmly knit, between her and his cousin. Thus ruminating, he quitted home on a bright summer's evening. The manor-house was about three miles, by the road, from Gatestone. His horse's rein was on its neck, his dog at the animal's heels, when suddenly a man, in a turning in the road, stood before him. One glance was sufficient for Marmaduke. Had he dared, he would have turned hastily homewards again; something like shame withheld him.
"Stop!" cried Miles, calmly standing before his horse's head, and grasping the rein. "One word, cousin Marmaduke!"
"Unhand the rein!" exclaimed the other, "or I will spur the animal over you, fellow!"
"Pshaw!" said Miles, contemptuously, "you'll but unhorse yourself; I wish not to detain you long—a few brief words will suffice; do not be alarmed, I have come without a cudgel to-night, so hear me quietly."