In Brandon Park.

To me, from association, no doubt, that park has always had a melancholy character. The ground undulates beautifully, and noble timber studs it in all varieties of grouping; and now, as when I had seen the ill-omened form of Uncle Lorne among its solitudes, the descending sun shone across it with a saddened glory, tipping with gold the blades of grass and the brown antlers of the distant deer.

Still pursuing her solemn and melancholy discourse, the young lady followed the path, accompanied by the vicar.

‘True,’ said the vicar, ‘your mind is disturbed, but not by doubt. No; it is by truth.’ He glanced aside at the tarn where I had seen the phantom, and by which their path now led them —‘You remember Parnell’s pretty image?

‘So when a smooth expanse receives imprest

Calm nature’s image on its watery breast,

Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,

And skies beneath with answering colours glow;

But if a stone the gentle scene divide,

Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,

And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,

Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.’

‘But, as I said, it is not a doubt that agitates your mind — that is well represented by the “stone,” that subsides and leaves the pool clear, it maybe, but stagnant as before. Oh, no; it is an angel who comes down and troubles the water.’

‘What a heavenly evening!’ said a low, sweet voice, but with something insidious in it, close at his shoulder.

With a start, Rachel glanced back, and saw the pale, peculiar face of her brother. His yellow eyes for a moment gleamed into hers, and then on the vicar, and, with his accustomed smile, he extended his hand.

‘How do you do? — better, I hope, Radie? How are you, William?’

Rachel grew deadly pale, and then flushed, and then was pale again.

‘I thought, Stanley, you were in London.’

‘So I was; but I arrived here this morning; I’m staying for a few days at the Lodge — Larkin’s house; you’re going home, I suppose, Radie?’

‘Yes — oh, yes — but I don’t know that I’ll go this way. You say you must return to Gylingden now, Mr. Wylder; I think I’ll turn also, and go home that way.’

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ said the vicar, truly as well as kindly, for he had grown interested in their conversation; ‘but I fear you are tired’— he looked very kindly on her pale face —‘and you know it will cost you a walk of more than two miles.’

‘I forgot — yes — I believe I am a little tired; I’m afraid I have led you, too, farther than you intended.’ She fancied that her sudden change of plan on meeting her brother would appear odd.

‘I’ll see you a little bit on your way home, Radie,’ said Stanley.

It was just what she wished to escape. She was more nervous, though not less courageous than formerly. But the old, fierce, defiant spirit awoke. Why should she fear Stanley, or what could it be to her whether he was beside her in her homeward walk?

So the vicar made his adieux there, and began, at a brisker pace, to retrace his steps toward Gylingden; and she and Stanley, side by side, walked on toward Redman’s Dell.

‘What a charming park! and what delightful air, Radie; and the weather so very delicious. They talk of Italian evenings; but there is a pleasant sharpness in English evenings quite peculiar. Is not there just a little suspicion of frost — don’t you think so — not actually cold, but crisp and sharp — unspeakably exhilarating; now really, this evening is quite celestial.’

‘I’ve just been listening to a good man’s conversation, and I wish to reflect upon it,’ said Rachel, very coldly.

‘Quite so; that is, of course, when you are alone,’ answered Stanley, serenely. ‘William was always a very clever fellow to talk — very well read in theology — is not he? — yes, he does talk very sweetly and nobly on religion; it is a pity he is not quite straight, or at least more punctual, in his money affairs.’

‘He is distressed for money? William Wylder is distressed for money! Do you mean that?’ said Rachel, turning a tone of sudden surprise and energy, almost horror, turning full upon him, and stopping short.

‘Oh, dear! no — not the least distressed that I ever heard of,’ laughed Stanley coldly —‘only just a little bit roguish, maybe.’

‘That’s so like you, Stanley,’ said the young lady, with a quiet scorn, resuming her onward walk.

‘How very beautiful that clump of birch trees is, near the edge of the slope there; you really can’t imagine, who are always here, how very intensely a person who has just escaped from London enjoys all this.’

‘I don’t think, Stanley,’ said the young lady coldly, and looking straight before her as she walked, ‘you ever cared for natural scenery — or liked the country — and yet you are here. I don’t think you ever loved me, or cared whether I was alone or in company; and yet seeing — for you did see it — that I would now rather be alone, you persist in walking with me, and talking of trees and air and celestial evenings, and thinking of something quite different. Had not you better turn back to Gylingden, or the Lodge, or wherever you mean to pass the evening, and leave me to my quiet walk and my solitude?’

‘In a few minutes, dear Radie — you are so odd. I really believe you think no one can enjoy a ramble like this but yourself.’

‘Come, Stanley, what do you want?’ said his sister, stopping short, and speaking with the flush of irritation on her cheek —‘do you mean to walk to Redman’s Dell, or have you anything unpleasant to say?’

‘Neither, I hope,’ said the captain, with his sleepy smile, his yellow eyes resting on the innocent grass blades before him.

‘I don’t understand you, Stanley. I am always uncomfortable when you are near me. You stand there like an evil spirit, with some purpose which I cannot divine; but you shall not ensnare me. Go your own way, why can’t you? Pursue your own plots — your wicked plots; but let me rest. I will be released, Sir, from your presence.’

‘Really this is very fine, Radie, considering how we are related; I’m Mephistopheles, I suppose, and you Margaret, or some other simple heroine — rebuking the fiend in the majesty of your purity.’

And indeed in the reddish light, and in that lonely and solemn spot, the slim form of the captain, pale, sneering, with his wild eyes, confronting the beautiful light-haired girl, looked not quite unlike a type of the jaunty fiend he was pleased to suppose himself.

‘I tell you, Stanley, I feel that you design employing me in some of your crooked plans. I ha............