“Upon my soul, I can’t guess; but ’twouldn’t hurt you, I think, if you kept fifty pounds or so in your pocket to give her the slip, if she should begin manœuvring with any sort o’ dodges that looked serious; and if I hear any more I’ll let you know; and I’ve stayed here longer than I meant; and I ha’n’t seen Ally; but you’ll make my compliments, and tell her I was too hurried; and my nag’s had his feed by this time; and I’ve stayed too long.”
“Well, Harry, thank you very much. It’s a mere form asking you to remain longer; there’s nothing to offer you worth staying for; and this is such a place, and I so heartbroken—and—we part good friends—don’t we?”
“The best,” said Harry, carelessly. “Have you a cigar or two? Thanks; you may as well make it three—thank ye—jolly good ’uns. I’ve a smart ride before me; but I think I’ll make something of it, rayther. My hands are pretty full always. I’d give ye more time if they wasn’t; but keep your powder dry, and a sharp look out, and so will I, and gi’ my love to Ally, and tell her to keep up her heart, and all will go right, I dare say.”
By this time they had threaded the passage, and were in the stable-yard again; and mounting his horse, Harry turned, and with a wag of his head and a farewell grin, rode slowly over the pavement, and disappeared through the gate.
Charles was glad that he had gone without seeing Alice. She would certainly have perceived that something was wrong. He thought for a moment of going to the garden to look for her, but the same consideration prevented his doing so, and he took his fishing-rod instead, and went off the other way, to look for a trout in the brook that flows through Carwell Glen.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE TROUT.
Down the glen, all the way to the ruined windmill, sauntered Charles Fairfield, before he put his rod together and adjusted his casting line. Very nervous he was, almost miserable. But he was not a man instinctively to strike out a course on an emergency, or to reduce his resolves promptly to action; neither was he able yet to think very clearly on his situation. Somehow his brother Harry was constantly before him in a new and dismal light. Had there not peeped out to-day, instead of the boot of that horsey, jolly fellow, the tip of a cloven hoof that cannot be mistaken? Oh, Harry, brother! Was he meditating treason and going to take arms in the cause of the murderer of his peace? He was so cunning and so energetic, that Charles stood in awe of him, and thought if his sword were pointed at his breast, that he might as well surrender and think no more of safety. Harry had been too much in his confidence, and had been too often in conference with that evil person whom he called “the old soger,” to be otherwise than formidable as an enemy. An enemy he trusted he never would see him. An unscrupulous one in his position could work fearful mischief to him by a little colouring and perversion of things that had occurred. He would not assume such a transformation possible.
But always stood before him Harry in his altered mien and estranged looks, as he had seen him, sullen and threatening, that day.
What would he not have given to be sure that the wicked person whom he now dreaded more than he feared all other powers, had formed no actual design against him? If she had, what was the agency that had kindled her evil passions and excited her activity? He could not fancy Harry such a monster.
What were her plans? Did she mean legal proceedings? He would have given a good deal for light, no matter what it may disclose, anything but suspense, and the phantasmal horrors with which imagination peoples darkness.