his hold, John was rising to his feet, when the other drew a pistol, but before he could fire his adversary had turned it aside; it went off, wounding the unhappy young man who held it. Randolph drew back in dismay, hearing the injured man’s involuntary groan, but in another instant Mark had drawn a second pistol and fired. The ball grazed the other’s forehead, and he staggered back stupefied. When he recovered himself Mark had disappeared, and never from that night was heard of or seen in Hopeworth or its neighbourhood. Near the part of the fence where the scuffle took place were afterwards found marks of a horse’s hoofs, and traces of blood. The miserable young man contrived to get clear away: the rest of the gang were all captured by the police.
The day after this adventure old Mr Tankardew and John Randolph paid a visit together to “The Shrubbery.” Of course the wildest tales were in circulation, the central point in most being the murder of Mrs Franklin and her daughter. “I trust,” said the old man to Mary and her mother, “that you have suffered nothing but a little fright. All’s well that ends well, and I’m thankful that my young friend here was able to be of some service; you see, God can take care of His own.”
“It has been so, indeed,” replied Mrs Franklin; “Mary could not sleep, she cannot tell why; she felt restless and uneasy, and just about two o’clock she was crossing to my room, when she thought she heard some unusual sounds in the yard. She looked out of the passage window, but could see nothing; then she heard a sort of scuffle, and, after that, all was still; and, though we were rather alarmed, we heard nothing more. But this morning has brought us strange tidings, and I find that we are again indebted to our kind young friend here for help in time of need, and that, too, I fear, at his own imminent risk.”
“Don’t mention this,” said the young man; “it has been a privilege to me to have been able to render this assistance. I am only too thankful that I was put in the way of discovering what might have otherwise been a very serious business. But we must see that you are better protected for the future.”
“True, true, John,” interrupted Mr Tankardew, smiling; “I see I must put in a word. My dear child, Miss Franklin seems more willing than able to speak just now. Yes; let me make a clean breast of it. Let me introduce our young friend in a new character, John Randolph Tankardew, my only son, my only surviving child.” His voice trembled, and then he added, “He has twice been the protector of my dear adopted daughter, let me join their hands together as a pledge that he may shortly obtain a better title to be her protector while life shall last.”
And so, placing the half-shrinking hand of Mary in the young man’s stronger grasp, he held them together with a fervent blessing.
“And now,” he added, as they sat in a loving group, too full of tearful peace to wish to break the charmed silence by hasty words, “now let me tell my story, and unravel the little tangle which has made me a mystery to my neighbours, and a burden to my friends. But all that is past; there are brighter days before us now.”