dreams, had jerked him back to consciousness. The room was in dense darkness, the fire in the hearth having died quite away; and he could hear nothing but the rain beating against the windows, and the howl of the wind, more subdued now, round the corner of the building. Yet even as he wondered whether perhaps he had been awakened by the fall of a tile from the roof, or the slamming of a door left carelessly open, he received so decided an impression that he was not alone in the room, that he raised himself quickly on to one elbow, straining his eyes to see through the smothering darkness. He could hear nothing but the wind and the rain, but the impression that someone was in the room rather grew on him than abated, and he said sharply: 'Who is there?'
There was no answer, nor was there any sound within the room to betray the presence of another, but he could not be satisfied. Grasping the bed-clothes, he flung them aside in one swift movement, and leaped up. As his feet touched the floor, something creaked, and his quickened ears caught a sound which might have been made by a softly-closing door. He reached the windows, grazing his shin against the leg of the dressing-table, and dragged one of the curtains back. A faint, gray light was admitted into the room. He could perceive no one, and strode back to the bedside, groping on the table for his tinder-box. His candle lit, he held it up, keenly looking about him. He noticed that his wedge was still firm in the door leading to the gallery; he glanced towards the door to his dressing-room, and saw that that too was shut. He set the candle down, thrust his feet into a pair of gay Morocco slippers, and shrugged himself into his dressing-gown, aware, as he did so, of the unlikelihood of anyone's entering his room at such an advanced hour of the night, but still convinced that he had not imagined the whole.
A board cracked outside the room. He picked up the candlestick, and wrenched open his door, stepping out on to the gallery. He found himself staring at Martin, who, fully dressed, except for his shoes, and carrying a lantern, had halted in his tracks, just beyond his door, and was looking in a startled, defensive way over his shoulder. 'Martin!' he exclaimed. 'What the devil—?'
'Don't kick up such a dust!' Martin begged him, in a savage but a lowered voice. 'Do you want to wake my mother?'
'What are you doing?' Gervase demanded, more softly, but with a good deal of sternness in his tone. 'Where have you been?'
'What's that to you?' Martin retorted. 'I suppose I need not render
'Why shouldn't I go out? I'm not afraid of a paltry thunderstorm!'
'Be so good as to stop trying to humbug me!' Gervase said, with more acidity in his voice than his brother had ever heard. 'You had the head-ache! you went early to bed!'
'Oh, well!' Martin muttered, reddening a little. 'I—I recalled that—that I had an appointment in the village!'
'An appointment in the village! Pray, in which village?'
'Cheringham—but it's no concern of yours!' said Martin sulkily.
'It appears to me to be raining, but I observe that you are not at all wet!' said Gervase sardonically.
'Of course I am not! I had my driving-coat on, and I left it, with my boots, downstairs! There is no need for you to blab to my mother that I was out tonight—though I daresay that is just what you mean to do!' He cast his brother a look of dislike, and said: 'I suppose that curst door woke you! The wind blew it out of my hand.'
'Which door?'
'Oh, the one into the court, of course!' He jerked his head towards a door at the end of the gallery, which, as the Earl knew, led to a secondary flight of stairs. 'I came in by that way: I often do!'
Gervase looked at him under slightly knit brows. 'Very well, but what brought you to my room?'
'Well, I am bound to pass your room, if I come up by that stairway!'
'You are not bound to enter my room, however.'
'Enter your room! That's a loud one! As though I should wish to!'
'Did you not, in fact, do so?'
'Of course I did not! Why should I? I wish you will be a little less busy, St. Erth! If I choose to go to Cheringham on affairs of my own—'
'It is naturally no concern of mine,' interposed Gervase. 'You choose wild nights for your intrigues!'
'My—?' Martin gave a crack of laughter, hurriedly smothered. 'Ay, that's it! Old Scrooby's daughter, I daresay!'
'I beg pardon. You will allow that if I am to be expected to swallow this story some explanation should be vouch-safed to me.'
'Well, I ain't going to explain it to you,' said Martin, scowling at him.
A glimmer of light at the angle of the gallery in which they stood and that which ran along the north side of the court, caught the Earl's eye. He took a quick step towards it, and Miss Morville, who, shrouded, lamp in hand, had been peeping cautiously round the corner of the wall, came forward, blushing in some confusion, but whispering: 'Indeed, I beg your pardon, but I thought it must be housebreakers! I could not sleep for this horrid storm, and it seemed to me that I heard footsteps outside the house, and then a door slammed! I formed the intention of slipping upstairs to wake Abney, only then I heard voices, and thought I could recognize yours, my lord, so I crept along the gallery to see if it were indeed you.' She looked at Martin. 'Was it you who let the door slam into the court? Have you been out in this rain and wind?'
'Yes, I have!' said Martin, in a furious undervoice. 'I have been down to the village, and pray, what have either of you to say to that?'
'Only that I wish you will be more careful, and not give me such a fright!' said Miss Morville, drawing her shawl more securely about her. 'And, if I were you, Martin, I would not stand talking here, for if you do so much longer you will be bound to wake Lady St. Erth.'
This common-sense reminder had the effect of sending him off on tiptoe. Miss Morville, conscious of her bare toes, which her nightdress very imperfectly concealed, and of the neat cap tied under her chin, would have followed him had she not happened to look into the Earl's face. He was watching Martin's retreat, and, after considering him for a moment, Miss Morville asked softly: 'Pray, what has occurred, sir?'
He brought his eyes down to her face. 'Occurred?'
'You seem to be a good deal put-out. Is it because Martin stole away to the village? Boys will do so, you know!'
'That! No!—if it was true!'
'Oh, I expect it was!' she said. 'I thought, did not you? that he had been drinking what my brother Jack calls Old Tom.'
'I know of no reason why he must go to the village to do so.'
'Oh, no! I conjecture,' said Miss Morville, with the air of one versed in these matters, 'that it was to see some cocking that he went.'
'Cocking!'
'At the Red Lion. To own the truth, that was what I thought he meant to do when he said he had the headache and would go to bed.'
'But, in God's name, why could he not have told me so?'
'They never do,' she replied simply. 'My brothers were just the same. In general, you know, one's parents frown upon cocking, on account of the low company it takes a boy into. Depend upon it, that was why he would not tell you.'
'My dear ma'am, Martin can hardly regard me in the light of a parent!'
'No—at least, only in a disagreeable way,' she said. 'You are so much older than he, and have so much more experience besides, that I daresay the poor boy feels you are a great distance removed from him. Moreover, he resents you very much at present. If I were you, I would not mention his having gone out tonight.'
'I shall certainly not do so. How deep is his resentment, Miss Morville? You seem to know so much that perhaps you know that too!'
'Dear me, no! I daresay he will recover from it when he is better acquainted with you. I never heeded him very much, and I expect it will be better if you do not either.'
'You are full of excellent advice, ma'am!'
'Well, I am not clever, but I am thought to have a great deal of common-sense, though I can see that you mean to be satirical,' she replied calmly. 'Good-night!—I think the wind is less, and we may perhaps be able to
