Chapter IX: New Prospects

The little world of Deepdale was really shocked when Paula appeared amongst them again, so changed was she from the bright, happy bride that Hal Rushton had brought home to Highbridge Hall, and even from the pensive, girlish school teacher who had only seemed to drag her weary life away. Her clear complexion had turned to sodden white, her eyes were dull and languid, her form seemed shrunk beneath her clinging black garments. Even Lady Bristowe, encountering her grave salutation one day, as the little pony carriage passed her ladyship’s cumbersome chariot, turned round with horrified amazement to Sarah Brennan and said,--

‘Is that _really_ Mrs Hal Rushton? If she hadn’t bowed to me, I don’t believe I should ever have known her again. I never saw anybody so changed in all my life.’

‘Yes, my lady, she is terribly white and thin. I am sure that anybody, to look at her, would say she’d got something on her mind. Quite the ghost of her former self. And her mother-in-law says she’s so weak she can hardly get up and down stairs without assistance.’

‘_Her mother-in-law!_’ repeated Lady Bristowe; ‘you don’t mean to tell me, Sarah Brennan, that you have any acquaintanceship with that low person the Widow Rushton?’

Miss Brennan coughed dubiously.

‘I have met her once or twice, my lady, when I have been out walking. It’s not always possible to avoid it, you see, nor to help passing a few words when you are spoken to.’

‘Well, I beg you _will_ avoid it for the future, Sarah Brennan, or you will leave my service,’ rejoined Lady Bristowe. ‘I will not have a person who is constantly in my company associate with people of that class. You had better go down into the servants’ hall at once.’

‘But I hear that Mrs Rushton is always with her daughter-in-law Mrs Hal,’ said Miss Brennan. ‘She’s head housekeeper and nurse and everything at Highbridge Hall now.’

‘That’s nothing to me. Mrs Hal Rushton can do as she likes. My orders to you are imperative.’

‘Of course, my lady. But I thought as young Mrs Rushton is such a favourite at the Abbey--’

‘She is _not_ a favourite there any longer. I don’t wish to hear you even mention her name. I consider that she entered my house under false pretences, and her visit will never be repeated. And I desire that _you_ drop all intimacy with the family also. Do you understand me, Sarah Brennan?’

‘Oh, yes, my lady, perfectly,’ returned the companion, who was only too pleased to think that her rival was out of favour.

It was true that Lady Bristowe’s visit to the vicarage had decided her to have no more to do with Paula Rushton. Mrs Measures’ warm advocacy had had no effect against the vicar’s half-hearted condemnation, and Lady Bristowe was not a great enough nor a noble enough woman to cling to anyone against the opinion of the majority. So she thought it more prudent to go with the stream, and discontinue her visits to Highbridge Hall.

Paula scarcely noticed her defalcation, and if she did it was to rejoice that the nuisance of refusing to see her had ceased. Although she looked so thin and pale, her health was certainly improved, and her mental equilibrium was restored. Some months had passed now since her mother’s death, and she could speak of her loss with calmness and a certain degree of hope. Her kind friend Mary Measures had gently approached the subject with her, and dwelt so much on the happy side of it--on the thought of her mother at rest from the cares which had worried her in this life, and reunited to the husband she had loved so much and mourned so deeply--that Paula had been able at last to ease her labouring mind by telling of her mother’s virtues and affection for herself, and repeating many a little anecdote of her goodness and patience and long-suffering. So far her grief was somewhat mitigated, and had her cause for trouble ended here it would (like all such bereavements) have had its bitterness assuaged by time. But there was that other unnatural grief to fight against--the grief she dared not speak of, and which ate into her very soul--the mysterious loss of Paulie. Mrs Measures wondered why the girl continued so hopelessly despairing. It was so unlike the usual effect of trouble on a gentle and unexcitable nature like hers. She consulted her own husband and Paula’s husband on the subject, but neither of them could suggest a solution. At last she thought she had solved the mystery. As Christmas approached Paula confided to her that she was about to become a mother. That fact seemed to explain everything. Physical weakness had prevented the poor girl getting the better of her mental despondency. And now, thought Mrs Measures, everything must be right. Paula would have a grand vehicle of distraction. Mary Measures had never been a mother herself, to her great disappointment, but like many childless women she took a vivid interest in little babies and all that pertained to them. She kissed Paula a dozen times when the news was made known to her, and told her that God was mercifully sending this great blessing in order to compensate her for her loss.

‘You will have your hands full now, dear,’ she exclaimed, ‘and no time to give to unavailing regret. You must begin to fight against it from this very moment, Paula, for the sake of the dear baby that is coming. You would not like to harm it, I am sure. Suppose it were born weakly, or crippled, or with any other affliction because of your want of self-control--’

‘No, no, not _that_. Don’t speak of that,’ said Paula feverishly.

She was lying on the sofa at the time, and Mary Measures, who sat beside her, was alarmed to see how she became crimson and livid by turn.

‘My dear, don’t imagine I suppose it for a moment--why, Paula, what chance is there of such a thing?--only, I have always heard that expectant mothers should be careful above all else to keep their minds at rest. Oh, Paula, dear, don’t look like that. You will make me so sorry that I spoke. Think only, dear, of the great joy that is coming to you.’

‘It is not certain it will be a joy,’ replied Paula sadly; ‘sometimes children are sent to be a curse instead of a blessing.’

‘Oh, surely not. Think of having a dear baby of your own to love and cherish, and to bring up to be a comfort to you.’

‘I don’t _want_ to think of it,’ said Paula fretfully. ‘I am not even sure that I want _it_. Children are certain cares and very uncertain blessings.’

Mrs Measures did not know what to make of her friend’s state of mind. A young woman married to the man she loved, and expecting her first baby, to speak of it in such a melancholy and disparaging manner was an anomaly to her, and made her think how differently _she_ would have felt under similar circumstances. As she was leaving the Hall that day she met Mrs Rushton, senior, walking about the drive and picking off the blackened leaves which had been killed by the first frost. The vicar’s wife disliked the widow exceedingly, and could not understand Paula delegating the whole of her household duties to her hands. Still, as she was there, and evidently a comfort or assistance to her friend, she saluted her courteously.

‘I ’ope you find Mrs ’Al better and more resigned like to-day, ma’am?’ said Mrs Rushton.

‘I think she is better, but there is still great room for improvement,’ replied Mrs Measures. ‘It is a bad sign, I am afraid, her showing such indifference about her condition.’

‘Yes; quite unnateral, ain’t it. However, I’ve sick and monthlied for thirty years and seen many sich. It hall depends upon their ’ealth. Mrs ’Al ain’t strong, and sees heverythink in a gloomy light. She’ll be well enough by-and-by, though I don’t think she ’as a strong constitootion, and will take a lot of care and attention.’

‘Are you going to nurse her in her confinement?’ inquired Mrs Measures, rather anxiously.

‘Oh, lor’, ma’am, I ’opes not. I’ve done a deal of nussing in my time, and I wants a little rest. I ain’t as young as I was--fifty-eight on my last birthday--and I’m not strong enough for racket. I’ve recommended Mrs ’Al a hexcellent nuss, Mrs Cornes of ’Altham, a good, honest, sober, kind-hearted creature as will do ’er and the baby justice in hevery way. I shouldn’t care for the job myself at all, ma’am.’

‘I only thought,’ said the vicar’s wife, ‘that as you seem so friendly--’

‘Oh, we’re friendly enough,’ interrupted Mrs Rushton. ‘Mrs ’Al, she ’ave turned me and my boy out of the ’All as you may say, but I don’t bear ’er no malice. And when I see ’er so unnaterally cast down by ’er ma’s death, and giving way so terrible, I thought it only right for Al’s sake to offer to ’elp ’er. I can’t forget as ’Al is my poor dear ’usband’s son, nor that ’e asked me with ’is last breath for to look arter ’im and ’is in every way.’

‘Really,’ said Mary Measures to her husband, some hours later, ‘I begin to blame myself for having thought and spoken so harshly of old Mrs Rushton. Of course she is an ignorant and low-born woman (she can’t help that), but I think there’s a lot of good in her. She speaks so kindly now of Hal and Paula. She seems quite to have forgotten her old grudge against her stepson’s marriage.’

‘All my wife’s geese are swans,’ replied the vicar affectionately.

‘You don’t believe in her having turned over a new leaf then, Edward?’

‘I haven’t observed it yet, my dear. I think the woman is a detestable hypocrite, and I would not trust her further than I could see her. I shall never forget her conduct at Farmer Rushton’s death. If she had had her way then, Hal would have been left a dependant on her bounty.’

‘Then isn’t it all the more to her credit that she has forgiven you for outwitting her, and Hal for benefiting by your sense of justice?’

‘It would be--if she _had_. But I don’t believe she has forgiven either Hal or me.’

‘Do you think she is playing a part, then?’

‘I shouldn’t like to express an opinion on the subject. But I should be very wary of the old woman myself.’

‘Oh, Edward, you make me feel so miserable. Is nothing in this world what it seems?’

‘Very little, Mary, very little,’ was the vicar’s reply.

In this instance Mr Measures was decidedly right. Mrs Rushton played her cards so well that for a while Hal and Paula were completely taken in by her. She fully intended to nurse Paula herself, but she knew her stepson so much disliked her presence that the very mention of such a thing would rouse his opposition. So she pretended that she would not undertake it upon any account, and highly recommended the services of Mrs Cornes, who had nursed Lady Warden with her son and heir, and bore the highest testimonials from her ladyship. Under ordinary circumstances Hal Rushton would not have cared _who_ nursed his wife through her expected trial, but as it was his deepest fears were excited by her condition. He could not feel any pride or pleasure in the anticipation of the birth of his child, so fully was his mind occupied by Paula’s extreme weakness of body and depression of mind. He was ready to cavil at the capabilities, even, of Mrs Cornes, until he had seen the very flattering letter of recommendation with which the Countess of Warden had sent her on her way. And then he told his wife to write and engage her at any cost, to keep the month of June open, in order that she might spend it at Highbridge Hall. But Paula was indolent and apathetic as usual, and Mrs Rushton offered to step into the breach and interview Mrs Cornes on her account.

‘Don’t you worrit yourself about it, my dear,’ she said. ‘No one expects ladies in your sitivation to go running after their nusses. You’ve seen ’ow ’igh ’er recommendations is, and I’ll go into ’Altham for you and settle with ’er about the time and so forth. Or, you can write ’er a letter, and I’ll bring you the hanswer. I must go into ’Altham after some more cambric and flannel or we sha’n’t never be ready in time.’

‘But it will be such a trouble to you, Mrs Rushton,’ replied Paula languidly.

‘Lor’, no, my dear. Not if ’Al will let Ted ’ave the tax-cart or the shay to drive me into ’Altham. You can’t be expected to know what’s necessary, as I do--_you_, who ’ave never ’ad a baby to ’andle before.’

At this Paula coloured slightly and turned uneasily away, and the widow noted both actions.

‘Mother,’ said Ted Snaley, as he drove her into Haltham the following day, ‘are you a-going to let Mrs Cornes nuss Mrs ’Al?’

‘Not if I can ’elp it, Ted. It’s all chance, though, and I don’t see my way clearly yet; but if it’s a boy, it’ll ruin your prospects of getting hany of the property as was left to you and me by my ’usband, and we was defrauded out of it. And if it’s heither boy or gal, and lives and thrives, there won’t be no ’ope for us, for if we found out Mrs ’Al’s secret to-morrow (and that she _’as_ a secret I’d lay my right ’and) and ’e turned ’er out of the ’ouse, why there’d be the child for ’im to live and work for, and we might go to the wall. No, Ted, if this ’ere child lives, we’d better give hup the game haltogether.’

‘Well, then, it _mustn’t_ live. Nothing heasier.’

‘’Ush, ’ush, my boy; don’t ’oller like that. ’Ow can you tell ’oo’s be’ind the ’edge? If you must speak of it, speak as soft as you can.’

With this the widow turned her head round and whispered in his ear.

‘It _won’t_ live,’ she said, ‘it’ll be too weakly.’

‘But if Mrs Cornes gets ’old of it, mother, ’ow then?’

‘She sha’n’t get ’old of it, then, Ted, not if _I_ knows it.’

‘’Ow will you manage it?’

‘Give ’er a wrong date. Nothing heasier than to make a mistake of that sort. I shall tell ’er to keep ’erself ready for the hend of June, and we shall ’ave it ’ere by the first, when she’ll be busy with someone helse. Then they’ll be all in an ’urry and flummux, and glad of me or hanybody to take ’er place.’

‘’Urra, mother, you’ve ’it it,’ cried Mr Snaley. ‘And what about _her_?’

‘Oh, we mustn’t think of nothink more, Ted. We’ve said too much about it already. But Mrs ’Al ain’t in a good state of health, to my mind, and I should feel very nervous about ’er, if she was hanything to me. I’ve seen many a poor creature go off at sich times as ’ad double ’er strength.’

Mrs Rushton found Mrs Cornes at home, and had soon put her into the possession of the fact that her services would be required at Highbridge Hall about the end of June.

‘The hend of June,’ said that worthy, as she examined a much bescribbled almanac of the current year; ‘what day should you take it to be doo, now? Before the twentieth, say, or hafter?’

‘Oh, lor’, Mrs Cornes, ma’am, it’s quite himpossible to fix it for certain. You know what these young creetures with their first hare--with no more hidea of the when nor the wherefore than the babies themselves. But _h’I_ should say _hafter_ the twentieth, hif it was put to me.’

‘I couldn’t take the case afore, ma’am. I’m doo at Mrs Nelson’s, which I’ve nussed with six a’ready, on heighteenth of May, and she generally come to ’er day, and wouldn’t part with me hunder the month for untold gold. So there it lay, you see. On the heighteenth hor twentieth of June I shall be free to take your lady if she go to ’er time. But I had better see ’er about it myself. When shall I find her at ’ome?’

‘That I can’t say, Mrs Cornes, nor hif she’d see you if you called. She’s ’ad a terrible loss in her ma, poor thing, who died in her chair suddent-like, and it’s hupset her mind a bit, so that she’s very queer in ’er ’ead at times and won’t see a soul.’

‘Oh, my!’ exclaimed the nurse, with a shiver, ‘I don’t like them sort of cases at all. It’s to be ’oped she won’t go hoff ’er ’ead when her time comes. I’ve ’ad terrible work sometimes even to keep ’em in bed. One of my ladies got up at night, when we was hall asleep, and flung ’erself and ’er baby right out of the winder.’

‘Lor’, how ’orrible. I ’opes there’ll be nothink of the sort ’ere. But if you’ll write a line, ma’am, for to say as you’ll hold yourself engaged to Mrs ’Al Rushton for June, I’ll take it back to ’er, hand if she wants to see you before’and she can write and let you know.’

Upon which the nurse wrote a few words as desired, which the widow took back to Paula. But Hal was not satisfied with the transaction.

‘This is nonsense,’ he said. ‘I am not going to let you engage a nurse without seeing her. She might turn out to be some gin-drinking, snuffy old woman whom we couldn’t endure in the house. You must write and tell her to come over here, Paula.’

‘Oh, Hal, not yet. It is not necessary There is heaps of time. I do hate strangers so I don’t want to see anybody.’

‘Perhaps, my darling; but if you leave it till too late you may not get a nurse at all. Only see if you like this Mrs Cornes. If not, I will send to London sooner than you should not be properly attended to.’

So Paula sent a note to Mrs Cornes, desiring her to come over to Highbridge Hall, and confided it to the care of her factotum, Mrs Rushton, who brought back a message to the effect that Mrs Cornes had been called out unexpectedly to nurse a gentleman who had sustained a serious accident, and it was impossible she could leave him, but the first moment she was at liberty she would come to Deepdale to see her employer, and some weeks, she hoped, before her services would be required. With which assurance Paula appeared to be perfectly satisfied, as she lay back on her sofa by the open window and watched the blossoming of the coming summer.

‘Have you never seen your nurse yet, Paula?’ asked Mary Measures one evening, as she sat beside her friend and watched the somewhat tremulous and changeful expression on her face.

‘Not yet. She is too busily engaged, but she is coming over to see me the beginning of next month. I hear she is a very respectable woman, and I feel quite satisfied about her.’

‘Of course,’ answered the vicar’s wife cheerfully; ‘but I think she should be in the house beforehand. Suppose you were taken ill in the night? It is such a long way to drive into Haltham.’

‘Only seven miles,’ said Paula indifferently. ‘Hal’s little mare would do it under the hour.’

‘But that means another hour to come back again, and allowing for probable delays and Mrs Cornes’ preparations, perhaps three hours,’ replied her friend anxiously.

‘Well, what of that? It will be all right. And _you_ would come to me at any time, wouldn’t you, Mary?’

‘You know I would, dear, but I should not be of much use, and I can’t bear the idea of your being left alone so long. I wonder it doesn’t frighten you, Paula; but you seem quite indifferent on the matter. One would think, to hear you talk, that you had a nursery full upstairs.’

‘Oh, it will be all right. It is no use worrying,’ replied Paula listlessly, as she turned her face round to the window.

The starlings and blackbirds were hopping about the newly mown lawn, picking up the unfortunate worms and grubs. (How little one ever thinks, by-the-bye, when contemplating a peaceful scene of rural happiness, how many innocent creatures that contribute to it are feeling anything but peaceful or happy the while.) The gardener was potting out the beds of geraniums, verbenas and calceolarias, and Lady Bristowe’s Blenheim puppy, now full grown, was playing about with a noisy fox terrier, and getting much the worst of the fun. As Mrs Measures watched Paula gazing at their frolics, with a smile, she suddenly saw a deep flush rise to her forehead and fade away again, leaving her ashy pale.

‘Paula,’ she exclaimed quickly, ‘are you in any pain? You don’t seem well to me.’

‘I don’t feel quite the thing,’ replied the girl languidly. ‘It is so warm and close, and I get so tired of lying here.’

‘Why don’t you go for a drive? It would do you good this lovely evening. Cannot Mr Rushton take you? Is he too busy?’

‘_Too busy_,’ repeated Paula, with a faint smile, ‘why, Mary, you don’t half know yet what a darling my Hal is. No business, nor pleasure, nor anything, would keep him from waiting upon me, especially now. I am quite ashamed sometimes to trouble him so much. Oh, he is far too good, too kind. I am thankful when he will take a little leisure for himself.’

‘You are very happy with him, Paula.’

‘As far as _he_ is concerned,’ she answered without thinking, ‘very--_very_ happy. If I die within the next month, Mary, I shall have had more than my share of earthly happiness.’

‘Why should you talk of dying, dear?’ said Mrs Measures tenderly. ‘You mustn’t even think of such a thing. You are as strong as most women are at such a time.’

‘Do you think so?’ replied Paula, with her eyes raised to the sky. ‘But I have suffered so much lately, you know, and--and it makes me lose hope.’

When Mary Measures left her she went in search of Hal Rushton, and found him busy over his stable accounts, and smoking a pipe, which he laid down on her approach.

‘Now, Mr Rushton, don’t do that,’ she said, ‘or I shall run away. I only came to speak to you about Paula. I wish this Mrs Cornes was in the house. I don’t think she is quite well.’

Hal started from his seat, pipe and all else forgotten.

‘_Not well!_’ he echoed. ‘Do you mean--’

‘No, no; don’t alarm yourself, and remember I am very ignorant about such matters. Still, if Mrs Cornes could be communicated with, without alarming Paula, I think it would be desirable to do so in case of necessity.’

‘But the woman is not at home. She is nursing some man out in the country. And there is no other nurse in Haltham. What on earth can I do? We didn’t expect her services would be required for the next three weeks.’

‘Mr Rushton, don’t think anything more about it. _I_ daresay I am all wrong. But Paula looks feverish and uneasy. Will you go up to her, and if I can be of any use, you know where to find me.’

‘Thank you, yes. I will go at once,’ and he flew upstairs like a bird to the presence of his wife.

‘My darling, my own darling,’ he exclaimed anxiously, as he bent over her couch, ‘what is the matter? Are you not well?’

‘Quite as well as usual,’ she said, twining her arms round his neck, and drawing his face down to her own. ‘What has that silly Mary been saying to my love, to make him look so frightened. I have a headache from the heat, and I am tired, that is all--’

And she kissed him fondly, almost passionately, as she spoke.

‘My own wife,’ he murmured, ‘what should I do if you were taken ill without better help than we could give you?’

‘There is no fear of it,’ she answered stoutly, though she knew in her heart that there was every fear. But she lay there in the twilight, with her husband’s face pressed against her own, and did not let him guess a tittle of what she was suffering. But a few hours later it was impossible to disguise it. Hal rushed into the vicarage as white as a sheet with fear, to entreat Mrs Measures to come to his wife at once, as there was no doubt that her trial was near at hand.

‘What can I do?’ he exclaimed distractedly as they walked back together to the Hall. ‘I know it is of no use going for Mrs Cornes, and Dr Addison is so young, I am half afraid Paula will object to his attending her. Oh, Mrs Measures, if anything should go wrong with her.’

‘My dear friend, there is no chance of that. It is certainly very unfortunate, but we must do the best we can. Old Mrs Rushton is an excellent sick-nurse, and will doubtless attend to Paula just as well as Mrs Cornes. Is she at the Hall?’

‘Not at present. She has betaken herself home for the night. But can’t we manage without her. Mrs Measures, I can’t tell you how I distrust that woman. I hate to see her about the house, and have only endured her presence for Paula’s sake. But to instal her in the sick-room, to see her handling my wife and child, I don’t think I could stand it. I believe I should tell her outright all that I think and have thought of her from the commencement, and make a regular breach between us for ever more.’

‘But, my dear Mr Rushton, that is very foolish. I quite agree with you that she is odious, but if she can contribute to your dear wife’s safety or comfort at this crisis, you must put your personal dislike for her into your pocket. It is absolutely necessary that Paula should have a competent nurse on this occasion, for her own sake and that of the child.’

‘Couldn’t _you_ nurse her?’ asked Hal dubiously.

‘No, my dear friend, I could not, for several reasons. I am not strong enough for night work, besides, I know nothing about children, and I have my own house and husband to look after. I will be with dear Paula as much as possible during the day, but I cannot undertake any more.’

‘Louisa, then?’

‘Oh, nonsense. Louisa is only a girl. Such cases require an experienced woman. If you really cannot get Mrs Cornes to come, you _must_ have Mrs Rushton.’

But Hal still hesitated.

‘As soon as I have taken you to my darling’s side, Mrs Measures,’ he said, ‘I will drive as hard as I can into Haltham, and see if it is not possible to procure Mrs Cornes. And you will not leave her, I am sure, until I am back again.’

‘Of course, I will not leave her,’ replied the vicar’s wife.

But when she saw Paula she refused to stay at the Hall during Hal’s absence unless Mrs Rushton stayed there also. She had seen enough of such cases to know that a very short time might make a great change in the young wife’s condition, and she insisted upon Hal’s going first to Wavertree Cottage and summoning his stepmother. By this time she did not find him so hard to persuade. He was frightened to death by the sight of Paula’s white face and the sound of her stifled moans, and rushed like a lamplighter to the widow’s cottage, where he disturbed her frugal supper by his news.

‘Lor’, you don’t never mean to say so, ’Al,’ she cried, as she drew the back of her hand across her mouth. ‘Poor dear! Took already! She must ’ave tripped, or summat. I’ll go hup, in course, and do my best for ’er, but I do ’ope as you’ll catch Mrs Cornes, for I ain’t strong enough to sit up at nights.’

‘Yes, yes, I am going to drive into Haltham at once for her, Mrs Rushton. But will you come back with me to the Hall now? I shall not feel easy unless I leave you there. Mrs Measures is with her, but she has had no experience.’

‘_Mrs Measures_,’ repeated the widow, with ineffable scorn. ‘Much _she_ must know about sich things. I’ll walk back with you, ’Al, if you wish it. I ain’t finished my supper, but I daresay as I can get a bit and a sup up at the ’All. Ted, my lad, reach me down my shawl and bonnet hoff that ’ook, and don’t go to bed yet awhiles, has I’ll be a-coming back again if Mrs Cornes takes her proper place to-night.’

‘And what about Dr Addison?’ inquired Hal fearfully. ‘Should I send for him also?’

‘Lor’, ’Al, no. There’ll be no need to trouble ’im, I shouldn’t think, before the morning. But I’ll be the best judge of that, and Ted here can fetch ’im at any time. And when I comes to think of it, my lad, you’d better come hup to the ’All as well, and then you’ll be ready in case of need.’

And so Hal Rushton, too anxious now about his wife to care about any secondary consideration, had to walk back to his house between the unsavoury couple. When he arrived there he found his mare and dog-cart ready for him, and started with all speed for Haltham. His errand was eminently unsatisfactory. The proprietors of the house where Mrs Cornes lodged did not even know her present address, nor had any idea when she was expected to return. She made her own engagements, they said, and came and went as she thought proper, and they never troubled her with any questions. Neither could they tell him of any other nurse to be procured in Haltham. So, sick at heart and wild with anxiety, Hal Rushton turned the mare’s head towards Deepdale, and took her home as fast as she could lay her feet to the ground, in order to find out what had happened during his absence.

END OF VOL. II.

COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Apparent typographical errors in spelling and punctuation have been silently corrected.

Spellings representing dialect have been retained.

Italics have been represented by _underlines_.