‘This afternoon!’ echoed Amy. ‘Why so soon, Reginald? You have been here no time at all. When did you arrive?’
‘The day before yesterday,’ replied Ainslie. ‘But do not blame me, dearest, for not seeing you before. I repaired to Coombe Hall almost directly after I got here, hoping to see both you and your father, and having no thought that admittance would be refused.’
‘O Reginald, I am so sorry!’ faltered the girl. ‘What could I do? Did they really refuse to admit you?’
‘They did,’ answered the young officer. ‘But I am perfectly aware it was no fault of yours. I then wrote to your father, asking permission to see you, telling him that I had some expectation of recovering what my parent so unfortunately lost, when I hoped to be able to maintain you in a manner worthy of our ancient house. But two hours afterwards, my letter was returned!—yes, returned, Amy, and with it was inclosed a note from your father forbidding me to enter the house or seek an interview with his daughter. I disobeyed the latter part of his injunction, and have succeeded, darling, in meeting you once more.’
As we intend to follow Reginald in his quest, it is needless to repeat here the story of his hopes as he hastily unfolded them in the ears of Amy Thorpe; enough that, after remaining together as long as, or perhaps longer than prudence enjoined, the two tore themselves asunder, with thrice-repeated vows of fidelity and affection. The remembrance of their tender parting was to Reginald in after-years like a strain of sweet, bygone music passing through his memory.
That very evening the young lieutenant quitted Fridswold. His way lay in a different direction from that leading to Coombe Hall, and the farewell glance he gave back only showed him the black bulk of the minster towering above a mass of smoky chimneys. The suburbs of the town were speedily left behind, and soon a prospect lay before Reginald’s eyes which for savage desolation he had never seen surpassed. Extending as far as the eye could reach, stretched a dreary waste of flooded fields, black peat, broken ice, and frozen sedge, dotted at remote intervals with a few scanty willows. The wind was rising again, bringing up with it heavy clouds, and its moaning voice rustled among the patches of alder and withered rushes like a low, dying murmur. Taking warning by these signs, Reginald urged his horse forward to a quicker pace than hitherto, riding swiftly and eagerly into the gathering darkness of the night.
THE RING-TRICK.
A CURIOUS COINCIDENCE.
Some four years ago I was one of the many hundreds of somewhat aspiring youths who were seeking positions as Civil servants under our government. In order better to work up for the very difficult examinations which it is necessary to pass in order to gain these positions, I had joined the evening classes of a well-known London college. These classes were held twice in every week, and it was on my way to one of them from my home—I live in a northern suburb of the metropolis—that the events I am about to relate took place.
I had alighted, at about five o’clock on an autumn evening, from a train at the King’s Cross terminus of the Great Northern Railway, and was proceeding along the Euston Road, when, having half an hour to spare, I turned off to the right to enter Euston Station. As I passed under the heavy stone portico just to the south of this immense depôt, I observed a man about two yards in front of me, who, just as I noticed him, came to an abrupt halt and stooped down. So suddenly, indeed, did he do this, that I stumbled over him, and tendered an apology for what was not my error. As he regained his vertical position, he spoke to me, and said in a confidential tone: ‘Did you see that?’