QkTF^. on THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. A NOVEL. BY M. 15. 13KA.DI30N, lOTHOn OF -'I.ADT AIDLKV'S 8KOAET,*' "JOHN Xi AUCHMOXT - .- •Ain.ouA n,ovD," "thr lady lisle," \:tc. K 1 C II MOi\D: ATRES &c WADE, -TltATEI) M I8(>:$. DARRELL MARKHAM; CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE A. NOVEL. BY M. E. BRADDON, AUTHOR OF (: LADY AUPr.HY's SECRET, - " "AURORA FLOYD," "JOHN MARC:iM,lM'o tSOACT," " TUB LADY L18LE," ETC. RICHMOND: ATTIRES <5c WADE, rU.V3THATEQ !f«W9 8TZ1M PUNH. 1363. DAERELL MARKHAM; > CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. CHAPTER I.— The Way to Marle* Waters. ■ No one by the Highflyer to-night?' asked the blacksmith of Compton-on-the- Moor of the weak-eyed landlord of the Black Bear, first and greatest hostelry iu that parish. • No ouc but Captain Duke.' 'What? the Captain's been up in Loudon, then, maybe?' • > 'Been there three weeks, and over,' replied the landlord, who seemed rather' of a despondent nature, and not conversationally inclined. . ' t ' Ah '. urn !' said the blacksmith ; ' three weeks and more up in London ; three weeks and more away from that pretty-spoken lady of his; three weeks gambling, and roystering, and fighting, and beating of the watch, and dancing at that fine roundabout place at Chelsea, and suppers in Covent Garden; three weeks spending of the King's money ;' three weeks ' ' Going to the devil ! three weeks going to the devil !' said. a voice behind him; •why not say it in plain English, John Homerton, while you're about it?' ' Bless us and save us, if it isn't Mr. Dflrrell Markham !' ' Himself, and nobody else,' said the speaker, a tall man in a riding-dress and high boots, wearing a three.-cornered hat, drawn very much over his eves; 'but keep it dark, Homerton, uobody in Compton knows I'm here; it's only a business visit, and a flying visit I'm off in a couple of hours. What was that you were Baying about Captain George Duke, of his Majesty's ship the Vultur*? ' Why, 1 was saying, Master Darrell, that if T had such a pretty wife as Mistr ss Duke, and could only he with her two months out of the twelve, 1 wouldn't be in London half of the time. I think your cousin rni^'ht have made a better match of it. Master Darrell Markham, with her pretty fact ' I think t-lie might, John Homerton.' They had been Btanding at the door of the inn during this little dialogue. The blacksmith had the bridle cf his sturdy little white pony — five-and-fo of age, if a day — in his hand, ready to mount him and r to his For the furthest end of the Btraggling country town; but he had been unable to resist • the fascination cf the weak-eyed landlord' 1 - conversational powers. Darrell Mark- IJltj DARRELL MAP.KHAM ; OR turned away from the two, and walking out into the dusty high road, looke (rinding track that crossed the bare black moorland, stretchin away fur miles before him. The Black Bear stood at the entrance to the towE|b and on the very edge of the bleak open c tuutry. « We shall have a dark night,' said Markham, ' and I shan't have a very pleasan ride to Marley Water ' 1 You'll never go to-night, sir!' said the landlord. *1 tell vim 1 n.M-i go to-night, Samuel Pecker. Foul or fair weather, I mm sleep at Marlej Water this night.' I ' You always was BUCh a daring one, Mr. Darrell,' said the blacksmith, admiringh loesn't take sii very much courage for a lonely rule over Coinpton Moor a all that (nines tn, John Homerton. rveapairof pistols that never missed fir yet; my horse is Bound, wind and limb; I've a full purse, and I know how t ■are of it ; I've met a highwayman before to-night, and I've been a match fc to-night ; and what's mure to the purpose than all, Honest Johu, I viu doit.' 1 Must be at Marley Water to-night. Mr. Markham?' 'Musi sleep at the Gulden Lion, in the village of Marley Water, this night, M : , . r.' replied the young man. ' Landlord, show ine the road from here to Marley Water,' said a stranger. The three men looked up, ami saw, looking down at them, a man on horseback who had ridden up to the inn so softly that* they had never heard the sound c I low long the horse might have been standing there, or whe : the horseman had Stopped, or where he had come from, neither of the three coul ; but there he was, with the last fading light of the autumn evening fu. Upon his face, the last rosy shadow of the low Bun gleaming on his auburn hair. This i'ace, lit op by the setting sun, was a very handsome one. Regular feature' 'ly cut; a ruddy color in the cheeks, something bronzed by a foreign sun; i eyes, with dark, clearly-defined eyebrows, and waving auburn hair, whicl 1 tober breeze caught up from the low broad forehead. The horseman was the average height, stalwart, well proportioned ; a model, in Bhort, of manly Ena • sauty. The horse was like its master, broad-chested and strong-limbed. *I want to know the nearest mad to Marl' y Water/ he said for the secom for there was something bo Budden in the manner pf his appearance, tha neither of the three men had answered his inquiry. The landlord, Mr. Samuel Pecker, wa> the nrst to recover from his surprise. ' STon winding road across the moor will take you straight as an arrow, Captain, he answered, civilly, hut paradoxically. The horseman no.hled. 'Thank you, and g l-night,' he said, and canterec the moorland bridlepath, for the road was little better. 'Captain! who -is he then? asked Darrell Markham, as soon as the strangei tie. ir cousin's husband, sir ; Captain George Duke.' c Duke? Why he Bpoke like a stranger.' ' That'.- hi- way. ,ir,' said the landlord ; •• that's the worst of the Captain; hail i veil met, and what would you like to drink? one day, and keep your dis- spOthet to have him; but, after all, he's a chap, the Captain.' THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 5 « He's a very handsome chap/ said Parrell Markham ; < I don't so much wonder tat Millicent Markham fell in love with him ' * There's 'some as says Miss Millicent had fell in love with some one else before ie saw him,' said the landlord, insinuatingly. «Thcy should find something better to do than to. talk of a young lady s love jffairs then/ answered Markham, gravely. < 1 tell you what bamucl 1 ecker, if I don't set out at once, I shan't find Marley Water to-night ; it will be as dark as itch in another hour. Tell them to bring out Balmcrino. 'Must you go to-night, Mr. Markham?' . < I tell vou I must, Samuel. Come, tell the ostler to bring the horse round. I halt be half way there before 'tis dark, if I start at once.' Cod-nmht, then, sir,' said the blacksmith; 'I only wish you was going to topinCompton: the place is dull enough now, with, the old squire dead, and & Bali sh'ut up, and 1 the young squire ruining himself at Won and you way Compton isn't what it was when you was a boy, Mr. Pan ell, and the to squire; your uncle, used to keep Christmas up at the Hall ; those were tnnes- ^FZrVe must all get old, John Homerton,' said Parrell, with a sigh. Hu tV hard to si|h, or to talk of growing old either sir,' said the black- smith inted derisively at Mr. Samuel Decker, whose despondeut , „■; n e r drew upoc him the contempt of his magnificent and energetic better ball. Z to the landlord of the Black Bear, it must be here set down that there was Botueh thin-. Waiters there were, chambermaids there were ostlers there were, „ la! 1 nf there was not. He was so entirely absorbed in the splendor ot Ins C^TS dominant spouse that he had much better not have b*n a aUj foj what there was of him was always in the, way. If he gave an order, it was, ot * il r„ s ne and utterly impracticable order ; and if by any evil chances,,,,,. Mi , U n US ed perhaps, to the ways of the place, attempted to execute that orTefwhVXe W P as the whole internal machinery of the Black Bear thrown into ILJ for an entire day. If he received a traveller he generally gave that livelier sue* a dismal impression of life n general, and Com^n^n4he_Moorin particular, that nine times out of ten the dispirited wanderer would depart as m , horse had had a mouthful of corn and a drink of water out ot the great hough und, r th, oak tree before the door There, never were so many highway- men on any mad n 00 the r ofj there never were going I t , DARRELL MARKHAMj OR storm..- M when he discoursed of the weather; there never were such calamities oomiog down upon poor old England as when he talked politics, or such bad harvests about to paralyse the country as when he conversed on agriculture. Bome people said he was gloomy by nature, and that (like that well-beloved king across the channel, who used to tell Madame de Pompadour to stop in the middle of a "funny story,) it was pain to him to smile. Others, on the contrary, affirmed that he had been a much livelier man before his marriage, and that the weight of his happiness was too much for' him; that he was sinking under the bliss of being allied to so magnificent a creature as Mrs. Samuel Pecker, and that his unlooked-for good fortune in the matrimonial line had undermined his health and spirits. Be it as it might, there he was, mildly despondent, and utterly pow- erless to combat with the contumely daily heaped upon his head by his lovely but gigantic partner, Sarah Pecker. The stranger, on first becoming a witness of the domestic felicity within the Black Bear, was apt to imagine that Mr. Samuel Pecker was in a manner an intruder there ; landlord on sufferance, and nominal proprietor; or, as one might say, host consort, only reigning by the right of the actual sovereign, his wife. But it was no such thing; the august line of Pecker, time out of mind, had been ant at the IMack Pear. The late Samuel Pecker, father of Samuel, husband of Sarah, was a burly, stalwart fellow, six feet high, if an inch, and as unlike his mild and on as it ia possible for one Englishman to be unlike another Englishman. From this lather Samuel had inherited all those premises, dwelling- hoose, out-buildings, gardens, farm-yard, stables, cowhouses, pig-sties, known as the Black Bear. But Samuel had nut long enjoyed his dominions. Six months after iding tin- throne, or rather installing himself in the great oaken arm-chair in the bar parlor of the Black Hear, he had taken to wife Sarah, housekeeper to Squire Bingwood Markham, of the Hall, and widow to Thomas Masterson, mariner. Thus it is that Sarah Pecker's two fat mottled arms are at this present moment clasped round Darrell Markham's neck. She had known Darrell from his child- 1; 1. and firmly believed that not amongst all the beaux who frequent Eauelagh and ili'' coffee-nouses, not in either of the king's services, not in Leicester-fields or Kensington, not at the 'Cocoa Tree,' ' White's,' nor 'Bellamy's;' in the Mall, or in Change Alley; at the Bath, or at Tonbridge Wells; not, in short, in any quart rilized and fashionable England, is there to be met with so hand- some, bo distinguished, so clever, so elegant, so brave, generous, fascinating, noble and honest a Bcapegrace as Darrell Markham, gentleman at large, and, what is worse, in difficulties. * 1 Sou wonl go to-night, Master Darrell/ she said. 'You wont, let it be said tha't you went away from the Black Bear to be murdered on Compton Moore. .Jenny'.- basting a oapOB for your supper at this very minute, and you sliall have a bottle of your pour uncle's own wine, that Pecker bought at the Hall sale.'. * It's Q0 ose, Mrs. Pecker; I tell you I musn't stay. I know how well Jenny cau roast a capon, and I know how comfortable you can make your guests, and there's nothing I should like better than to stop, but I musn't; I want to catch the coach that leaves Marley Water A at five o'clock to-morrow morning for York. 1 had no right to come to Compton at all, but I couldn't resist riding across to shake hands with, you, Mrs. Sarah, for the sake of the old times that are dead and gone, and to ask the news of Nat Halloway, the miller, and Lucas Jordan, THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. f the doetor, and Selgood, the lawyer, and a few more of my old companions, and — — , and ' . 'And of Miss Milliccut ? Eh, Master Darrell? Lor all London's such a wide city, and there's so many of these fine painted madams flaunting along the Mall, full sail, in their pannier-hoops and French furbelows, you haven't quite forgotten Miss Millicent, eh, Darrell Markham ?' She had nursed him on her ample knees when he was but a tiny, swaddled baby, and she sometimes called him Darrell Markham, tout court. * There was something wrong iu that, Master Darrell. There was a gay wed- ding a year ago at Compton church, and very grand and very handsome everything was ; and sure the bride looked very lovely, but one thing was wrong, aud that was the bridegroom.' . ■ If you don't want me to be benighted, or to have these very indifferent brains of mine blown out by some valiant knight of the road upon Compton Moor, you'd better let me be off, Mrs. Pecker ! Mistress Pecker ! oh, the good old days, the dear old days ! when I used to call you Mistress Sally Masterson, in the house- keeper's room at the Hall.' He turned away from her with a sigh, and began whistling a plaintive old English ditty, as he stood looking' out over the wide expanse of gloomy moorland. The ostler brought the horse round to the inn door — a stout brown hack, six- teen hands high, muscular and spirit-looking, with only ono speck of white about him, a long slender streak down the side of his head. The young man put his arm caressingly round the horse's neck, aud drawing his head down looked at him as he would have looked at a friend, of whose truth, in all a truthless world, he at least was certain. ' Brave Balmcriuo, good Balmerino,' he said, < you've to carijy me four-and- twenty miles across a rough Qountry to-night. You've to carry me on an errand, the end of which perhaps will be a bad one; you've to carry me away from a great man j bitter memories and a great many cruel thoughts; but you'll <1 > it, Balmerino, you'll do it, wont you, old hoy V The horse nestled his head against the young man's shoulder, and snuffed at hi.^ OOat slet ve. 'Brave boy; that means yes.' said Markham, as he sprang into the saddle. 'Good night, old friends; good-bye, old home: as Mr. (larrick says in Mr. Shakespi are'.- play, ' Richard's himself again !' Good-bye ' He waved his hand and rode slowly off towards the moorland bridle-path, but before he had crossed the wide high road, the usually phlegmatic Samuel Pecker intercepted him, by suddenly rising up, pale of countenance and dismal of mien, under Iris horse's bead. DarxeU pulled up with an abrupt jerk that threw Balmerino on his haunches, or he must inevitably liave ridden over the landlord of the Black Bear. ' Mr. Darrell Markham,' said the moody innkeeper, very slowly, ' don't you go to Marlcy Water this night! Don't go! Don't ask me why, sir, and don't, -ir, hcrefbre; for I don't know wherefore, and 1 can't tell why; bul don't one of those wh*t-you-may-ealI-Vms. I mean one of about me that .-ay-, as plain as words, 'don't do it.'' ' What, a presentiment, eh. Peck 'That's the dictionary word for it; I believe, sir. Don't g DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR ■ Samuel Pecker, I must. If I go to my death, through* going to Marley Water, so be it; I go !' H^p shook the bridle on the horse's neck, and the animal sped off at such a rate that by the time Mr. Samuel Pecker had recovered himself .sufficiently to look up, all he could see of Darrell Markham was a cloud of white dust hurrying, over the darkening moorland before the autumn wind. Mrs. Pecker stood under the wide thatched porch of the Black Bear, watching the receding horseman. ' Poor Master Darrell ! Brave, generous, noble Master Darrell ! I only wish, for pretty Miss Millieent's sake, that Captain George Duke was a little like him/ 4 But suppose Captain George Duke wishes nothing of the kind ? How then, Mistress Pecker?' The person who thus answered Mrs. Pecker's soliloquy was a man of average height, dressed in a naval coat and three-cornered hat, who had come up to the inn doorway as quietly as the horseman had done half an hour' before. For once the gigantic bosom of the unflinching Sarah Pecker quailed before one of the sterner sex : she almost stammered, that great woman, as she said, ' I beg your pardon, Captain Duke, I was only a thinking!' • Y'ou were only a thiuking aloud, Mistress Pecker. So you'd like to see George ihike, of His Majesty's ship the Vulture, a good-for-nothing, idling, reckless ne'er-do-well, like Darrell Markham, would you!" ' I tell you what it is, Captain ; you're Miss Millieent's husband, and if — if you was a puppy dog, and she was fond of you, there isn't a word I could bring my- self to say against you, for the sake of that sweet young lady. But don't you speak one bad word of Master Darrell Markham, for that's one of the things that Sarah Pecker will never put up with, jvhile she's got a tongue in her head, and sharp nails of her own at her fingers' ends.' The Captain burst into a long, ringing laugh; a laugh that had a silver music peculiar to itself There were people in the town of Compton-on-the-Moor, in the seaport of Marley Water, and on board His Majesty's frigate the Vulture, who said that there were times when that laugh had a cruel sound in its music, and was by no means good to hear. But what man in* authority ever escaped the breath of slander, and why should Captain Duke be more exempt than his fellows V ' I forgive you, Mrs. Pecker,' he said. ' I forgive you." I can afford to hear people speak well of Darrell Markham. Poor devil, I pity him !' With which friendly remark the Captain of the Vulture strode across the threshold of the inn, and on the door-step encountered Mr. Samuel Pecker, who had, after his solemn adjuration to Darrell Markham, re-entered the hostelry by a side door that led through the stable yard. If Captain George Duke, of His Majesty's navy, had been a ghost, his appear- anoe on the step of the inn door could scarcely have more astonished the mild Samuel Pecker. He started back, and stared at the naval officer with his weak hlue eyes opened to, their very widest extent. ' Then you didn't go, Captain V ' Then I didn't go t Didn't go where V * Didn't go to Marley Water V ' Go to Marley Water ! No ! Who said I was going?' The small remnant of manly courage left in Mr. Samuel Pecker after his sur- prise, was quite knocked out of him by the energetic tone of the Captain, and he murmured mildly, — THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 9 'Who said so ? Oh ! no one particular"; only, only yourself!' The Captain laughed his own ringing laugh once more. ' /said so, /said so, Samuel ? When V ' Half an" hour ago. When you asked me the way there.' ' When I asked you the way to Marley Water ! Why I know the road as well as I know my own quarter-deck.' ' That's what struck me at the time, CaptaiD, when you stopped your horse at this door and asked me the way. I must say I thought it was odd.' 'I stopped my horse ! When-?' ' Half an hour ago.' ' Samuel Pecker, I haven't been across a horse to-day. I'm not over-attached to the brutes at the best of times, but to-night I'm tired out with my journey from London, aud I've just come straight irom my wife's tea-table, where I've been drinking a dish of sloppy bohea and going to sleep over woman's talk.' ' And yet Parson Bendham says there's no such things as ghosts !' ' Samuel Pecker, you're drunk.' * 1 1 haven't tasted a mug of beer this day, Captain. Ask Sarah.' 'That he hasn't, Captain," responded his spouse to this appeal. ' I keep my eye upon him too sharp for that.' ' Then what's the fool wool-gathering about, Mistress Sally ?' said the Captain, rather angrily. , 4 Lord have mercy upon us ! I don't know,' replied Mrs. Pecker, scornfully ; ' he's as full of fancies as the oldest woman in all Cumberland ; he's always a secin' of ghosts, and hobgoblins, and windin'shects, and all sorts of dismals,' added the landlady, contemptuously, ' aud unsettlin' his mind for business and book-keepfn'. I haven't common patience with him, that I hain't.' Mrs. Pecker was very fond of informing people of this fact of her small stock of common patience in the matter of Samuel, her husband; and as all her ac- tions went to confirm her words, she was no doubt pretty generally believed. ' Oh ! never mind, it's no consequence, and it's no busiuess of mine,' said the landlord with abject meekness ; ' there was three of us that seen him, that's all !' ' Three of you as seen whom V asked the Captain. 'As sec him, as sec ' the landlord gave a peculiar dry gulp just here, BB if the ghost of something was choking him, and he was trying to exorcise it by swallowing hard, — 'three of us see — it." , 'It? What?' ' The Captain that stopped on horseback at this door half an hour?ago, and asked me the way to Marley Water.' Captain Duke looked very hard into the face of the speaker; looked thought- fully, gravely, earnestly at him, with bright, searching brown eyes; and then again burst out laughing louder than before. So much was he amused by the landlord's astonished ami awe-stricken face, that he laughed all the way across the low old hall, laughed as he opened the door of the oak room in which the gentealar visitors at the Pear were accustomed to sit, laughed as he threw himself bark into the great wooden chair hj the fire, and stretched his legs out upon the stone hearth, till the heels of his boots rest* d againtl the iron dogs, laughed as he called in Samuel Pecker, and could hardly order his favorite beverage — rum punch — for laughing. 10 DARRKLL MARKUAM; OR The room was empty, and it was to be observed that when the dour had closed upon the landlord, Captain Doike, though he still laughed, something contracted the muscles of his face, while the pleasant light died slowly out of his handsome brown eyes, aud gave place to a settled gloom. When the jmnch was brought him, he drank three glasses one after another. But neither the great wood fire blazing on the wide hearth, nor the steaming liquid, seemed to warm him, for he shivered as he drank. He shivered as he drank, and presently he drew his chair still closer to the fire, planted his feet upon the two iron dogs, and sat looking darkly into the red, spitting, hissing blaze. ' My ineubus, my shadow, my curse !' he said. Only six words, but they ex- pressed the hatred of a lifetime. By and bye a thought seemed suddenly to strike him ; he sprang to his feet so rapidly that he overset the heavy, high-backed oaken chair, and strode out of the room. On the other side of the hall was situated the common parlor of the inn — the room in which the tradesmen of the town met every evening, the oak-room being sacred to a superior class of travelers, and to such men as the doctor, the lawyer, and Captain Duke. The common parlor was full this evening, and a loud noise of talking and laughter proceeded from the open door. To this door the Captain went, and removing his hat from his clustering au- burn curls, which were tied behind with a ribbon, he bowed to the merry little assembly. They were on their feet in a moment; Captain George Duke, of His" Majesty's ship the Vulture, was a great man at Compton-ou-the^Moor ; his marriage with the only child of the late squire identifying him with the place, to which he was otherwise a stranger. • , . ' Sorry to disturb you, gentlemen,' he said, graciously ; ' is Pecker here Y Pecker was there, but so entirely crestfallen and subdued that, on. hearing him- self asked for, he emerged from the head of the table, like some melaucholy male Aphrodite-rising from the sea, and 'Uttered not a word. * Pecker, I want to know the exact time,' said the Captain. ' My watch is out of order, and Mistress Puke has been so much occupied with reading. Mr. Rich- ardson's romances and nursing her lap-dog, that all the clocks at the cottage are out of order too. ^Vhat is it by your infallible oaken clock on the stairs, Samuel ?' The landlord rubbed his two little podgy hands through his limp, sandy hair, and seeming to feel better after that slight refreshment, retired silently to execute the Captain's order. A dozen stout silver turnip-shaped chronometcis, aud great leather-encased Tompion watches, were out in a moment. 'Half-past seven by me;' 'a quarter to eight;' ' twenty minutes, Captain !' He might have had the choice of half a do/en different times had he liked, but he only said, quietly — 'Thank you, gentlemen, very much ; but I'll regulate my watch by Pecker's old clock, for 1 think it keeps truer time than the church, the market, or the jail.' 'The jail's pretty true to time at eight o'clock on a Monday morning some- times, though, Captain, isn't it?' said a little shoemaker, the wit of the village. ' Not half true enough sometimes, Mr. Tompkins,' said the Captain, winding up his watch, with a grave smile playing round his well-shaped mouth. ' If every THK CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE • IX body was hung that deserves to be hung, Mr. Tomkins, there'd be more room in the world for honest people. "Well, Samuel, what's the exact time V ' Ten minutes to eight, Captain Duke, and such a night ! I looked out of the staircase window, and the sky's so black that it seems as if it would fall down upon our heads, if it wasn't. for the wind a-stopping of it.' 'Teu minutes to eight; that's all right,' said the Captain, putting his watch into his pocket. He turned to leave the room, but stopped at the door and said, 'Oh, by-the-bye, worthy Samuel, at what time did you see my ghost?' He laughed as he asked the question, and looked round at the company with a smile and a malicious wink in the direction of the subdued landlord. ' Comptou church clock was striking seven as he rode away across the moor, Captain. But don't ask me anything, don't, please, talk to me, he said forlornly ; 1 it's no consequence, it's not any business of mine, it doesn't matter to anybody, but ' he paused aud repeated the swallowing process, ' I saio it!' The customers at the Black Bear were not generally apt to pay very serious at- tention to any remark emanating from the worthy landlord, but these three last words did seem to rather impress them, and they stared with scared faces from Samuel Pecker to the Captain, and from the Captain back to Samuel Pecker. ' Our jolly landlord has been a little too free with his own old ale, gentlemen/ said George Duke. ' Good-night.' lie left the room, and, returning to the oakparlor, flung himself once more into his old moody attitude over the blazing logs; staring gloomily into the red chasms in the burning wood ; craggy cliffs and deep abysses, down which ever and anon some dying ember fell like a suicide plunging from the summit of a cliff to the. fathomless gulf below. The great brown eyes -of the Captain looked straight and steadily into the changing pictures of the fire. He was so entirely different a creature to that man whose gay voice and light laugh had just resounded in the commou parlor of the inn, that it would have been difficult for anj r one having seen him in one place to recognize him in the other. fie was not long alone, for presently Nathaniel Halloway, the miller dropped in, and joined the Captain over his punch; and by-and-bye Attorney Sclgood, and Mr. Jordan,' the surgeon — Dr. Jordan, par excellence, throughout Compton — came in, arm in arm. The four men were very fricudly, and they sat drinking, smoking, and talking politics till midnight, when Captain George Duke'startvd from his Beat and was for breaking up the party. 'Twelve o'clock from the tower of Comptpn church,' he said, as ho rose from the table. 'Gentlemen, I've a pretty young wile waiting forme at home, and i've a mile to walk before 1 get home ; I shall leave you to finish your punch and onversation without me.' Nathaniel Halloway sprang to his feet. 'Captain Ihike, you're not going to leave us in this shabby fashion. You're not on your own quarter-deck, ninein- and you're not going to have it all your own way. As for the pn ttj little Admiral in petticoats at home, you can soon make it straight with her. Stop and finish the punch, man !' and the worthy miller, on whom the evening's potations had had some little effect, caught hold of the Captain's gold-laced cuff and tried to pr< rent his leaving the room. him lightly off, and opening the door that led into the hallj jo DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR •went out, followed by the miller and his boon companions, Dr. Jordan and Lawyer Si L'ood. The house, which had been so quiet five minutes before, was now all bustle and confusion. First and foremost there was worthy Mistress Sarah Pecker alternately bewailing, lamenting, and scolding at the very extremest altitude of her voice. Then there was Samuel, her husband, pale, aghast, and useless, getting feebly into everybody's way, and rapidly sinking beneath the combined effects of inward stupefaction and universal contumely. • Then there was the ostler and two rosy- faced, but frightened looking chambermaids clinging to each other and to the cook-maid and the waiter ; and in the centre of the hall the one cause of all this alarm and emotion lay stretched in the arms of two men, a letter-carrier and a farm laborer. Yes, with Mrs. Sarah Pecker kneeling by his side, adjuring him to speak, to move, to open his heavy eye-lids ; silent,, motionless, and rigid, lay that Darrell Markham, who, five hours before, had started in full health and strength, for the little seaport of Marley "Water. ' We kicked over him in the path/ said one of the men ; ' me and Jim Bowlder here of Squire Morris's at the Grange ; we come slap upon him in the dark, so dark that we couldn't see whether he was a man or a dead sheep ; but we got him np in our arms and felt that he wa's stiff with cold and damp — he might be mur- dered or he might be frozen ; there was some wet about his chest and his left arm, and I know by the feel of it, thick and slimy, that it was blood ; and me and Jim Bowlder, we raised him between us, heeis and head, and carried him straight here/ 1 Who is it, what is iti" asked Captain Duke, advancing into the very heart of the little crowd. ' Your wife's nearest kinsman and dearest friend, Captain ; Miss Millicent's first cousin, Darrell Markham ! Murdered ! murdered on the moorland road from here to Marley Water.' 'Not above a mile from here, missus,' interposed the laborer who had picked^up the wounded man. ' Darrell Markham ! my wife's cousin, Darrell Markham ! What did he come here for ? W^hat was he doing in Compton V The dark brown eyes looked straight down at the still face lying on the letter-carrier's shoulder, and dripping wet with the vinegar and water with which Mistress Pecker was bathing the suf- ferer's forehead. ' What did he come here for? He came here to be murdered ! He came here to have his precious life taken from him upon Compton Moor, poor dear lamb, poor dear lamb !' sobbed Mrs. Pecker. During all this, confusion, Lucas Jordan, the surgeon, slid quietly behind the little crowd, and taking Darrell Markham's aim in his hand, deliberately slashed open Lis coat sleeve from the cuff to the shoulder with the scissors hanging at Mrs. Pecker's waist. ' A basin, Molly,' he said quietly. The terrified chambermaid brought him one in her shaking hands and held it under Darrell's arm/ ' Steadily, my gixl/ said the doctor, as he drew out the lancet and inserted it in the cold and rigid arm. The blood trickled slowly and fitfully from the vein. Ms he dead, is he dead, Mr.. Jordan,' cried Sarah Pecker. 'No more than I £m, ma'am — no more than I am, Mrs. Pecker. A pistol bul- let through the right arm, shivering the bone above the olbow. He has fainted THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 10 from the loss of blood and the coldness of the night air. A few bruises and con- tusions from falling off his horse, and a wound iu the scalp from the sharp pebbles on the road ; nothing more !' Nothing more ! It seemed so little to these terrified people, who a minute before had thought him dead, that Mrs. Pecker, albeit unused to "the melting mood, caught the surgeon's hand between her two fat palms aud covered It with kisses and tears. ' So this is Darrell Markham,' said the Captain thoughtfully ; ' Darrell, the ir- resistible; Darrell that was to have married his cousin Millicent, now my wife. Hum, a fair young man with auburn ringlets aud a straight nose ! No fear of his life, you say, doctor V ' None, unless fever should supervene ; which heaven forbid.' 1 But if it should, how then ?' ' Every fear. With the excitable temperaments ' ' His temperament is excitable V 'Extremely excitable ! An accident such as this is very likely, to result iu fever; fever may produce delirium. Mrs. Pecker, he must be kept very quiet, he must sec no one — that is to say, no one whose presence can be in the least cal- culated to agitate him.' ' I'll keep watch at his door myself, doctor, and I should like to see,' said, the worthy matron, glaring vengefully at her small spouse, ' I should very much like * to see the person that'll dare to disturb him by so much as breathing.' The land- lord of tbe Black Pear left off breathing ou the instant, as if he imagined him- self called upon to exist in future without the aid of that useful exercise. ' "We must get him up stairs at once, Mrs. Pecker/ said the doctor. < We must get him into your quietest room aud your most comfortable bed, and we must lose no time about it.' At the doctor's direction, the letter carrier and the farm laborer resumed their station at tbe bead and feet of Darrell Markham, the ostler assisting them. The three men. had just raised him iu their arms, when he lifted his left hand to his damp forehead aud slowly opened his eyes. » The three meu stopped, and Mrs. Pecker screamed aloud, ' Oh, be joyful, he isn't dead ! Master Darrell, speak to. us, dear, and tell us you're not dead.' The blue eyes looked dimly into the seared faces crowding round. ' He shot ,me. He 'robbed me of the letter to the king and of my purse. "He shot me in my arm.' 1 Who shot you, my darling ? who shot you, Master Darrell, dear?' cried Mrs. Peckur. The young man looked at her with a vacant stare, evidently half unconscious of where he was, and of the identity of those around him. Presently he took lm blood-shot eyes from her face, aud his gaze wandered rouud amongst the other •spectators. From the landlord to the chambermaid, from the chambermaid to the letter-carrier, from the letter-carrier to the doctor, from the doctor to Captain, _-<: Duke, of his Majesty's ship the Vulture. The blue eyes opened to their wildest distension with a wild stare. ' That, that's the man:' ' What man, Master Darrell ?' ' The man who shot me.' j4 DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR ' I thought we should have him delirious,' said the doctor, under his breath. Captain Duke's dark eyebrows fell loweringly over his brown eyes, and a black shade spread itself about his handsome face. ' You're dreaming, darling,' said Mrs. Pecker, soothingly. < What man, dear, and where is he V Darrell Markham slowly lifted his unwounded arm and pointed with a white and slender hand full at the dark face of the Captain of the Vulture. i There!' he said, half raising himself in the arms of the men supporting him, and with the effort he sank back once more unconscious. ' I thought so," muttered Captain Duke. ' So did I, Captain," responded the doctor. ' We shall have him in a high fe- ver, and then he may go off like the snuff of a candle.' 1 And he must be kept quiet ?' asked the Captain, as they carried the wounded man up the wide oak staircase. 1 He must be kept quiet, Captain, or I'll not answer for his life. I've known him from a boy, and I know any strong excitement will throw him into a brain fever.' ' Poor fellow ! He's a kinsman of mine, by my marriage with his cousin ; though I'm afraid there's not much love lost between us on that score. And this is the first time we've met. Strange !' 1 There's a good deal in life that is strange, Captain Duke,' said the doctor, . sententiously. * There is, doctor,' answered the sailor. ' So Darrell Markham, travelling from Compton to Marley Water, has been shot by a person or persons unknown. Very strange '.' CHAPTER II.— Millicent. Millicent Duke sat alone in her little parlor on this autumn night, with the high wind howling and whistling round her windows, trying to read Mr. Rich- ardson's last novel ; a well thumbed little volume, embellished with small oval . engravings, which had been* lent to her by the wife of the curate of Compton-on- the.-Moor. But she couldn't read ; the book dropped out of her hands, and she fell a musing over the low fire and listening to the Wind disporting itself in the chimney. It is something to be able to look at Mrs. Millicent Duke, as she sits quietly by her lonely hearth, with one white hand supporting her small head, and with her elbow leaning on the stiff horsc-hair-cushioned arm of the chair in which she is seated. It is a very fair and girlish face upon which the fitful firelight trembles; now illumining one cheek with a soft red glow,- now leaving it in shadow as the flame shoots up or dies out of the scattered embers on the hearth. A very fair and girlish face, with delicate features and softly dark -blue eyes, that leave a sad sha- dow in their softness — a shadow as of tears long dried but not forgotten. There ' are pensive linos, too, about the mouth which do not tell of an entirely happy youth ; sorrow and Millicent Duke have met each other face to face, and have been companions and bedfellows before to-night. But in spite of this pensive sadness which shadows her beauty, or perhaps by every virtue of this sadness, which refines'the boauty it shadows, Millicent Duke is a very pretty girl. It is THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. J 5 difficult to think of her as a married woman ; there is such an air of extreme youth about her, such a girlish, almost childish timidity iu her manner, that, as her husband — not too loving or tender a husbaud at the best of times — is apt to Bay, ' it is as difficult to deal with Millicent as with a baby, for you never know when she may begin whimpering like a spoiled child as she is.' There are people in Compton-on-the-Moor who remember the time when the spoiled child never whimpered, and when a gleam of spring sunshine was scarcely a brighter or more welcome thing to fall across a man'? pathway than the radiant face of Millicent Markham; but this was in the good days long departed, when her father^ the squire, was living, and when she used to ride about the country roads on her pretty white pony, accompanied and protected by her cousin and dearest friend, Darrell Markham. She js peculiarly sad this night. The shrill wind whistling at the latticed casements makes her shiver to the heart ; she draws. the skirt of her grey silk pet- ticoat over her shoulders, and drags the heavy chair nearer to the low fire ; she has sent her one servant, a strapping country girl, to bed long ago, and she cannot get any more fuel to heap upon the wide hearth. The wax candles- have burnt low in the quaint old silver caudle-sticks ; ten, eleven, twelve have struck, with long dreary intervals between each time of striking, from the tower of Comptou church, and still no Captain Duke. ' He is happier with them than with me,' she said, mournfully. ' Who ean wonder? They make him smile; I can only weary and annoy him with my wretched pale face.' She looked up as she spoke at an oval mirror on the wain- scot opposite to her, and saw this sad pale face reflected by the faint light of the low fire and the expiring eandlce. ' And they once called me a pretty girl ! I think he would scarcely know me now !' she said, with a sigh. The long hour after midnight dragged itself out, and as one o'clock struck with a dismal sound vibrating drearily along the empty street, she heard the sharp stroke of her husband's footstep on the pavement. She sprang from her chair hurriedly, and ran out into the narrow passage; but just as she was about to with- draw the bolts, she paused suddeuly, and laid her hand upon her heart. 'What U the matter with me to-night — what is the matter, I wonder?' she murmured; 'I feel as if some great unhappiness were coming, yet what more unhappiness can come to me ?' Her husband knocked impatiently at the door with his sword-hilt, as she fum- bled nervously with the bolts. ' Were you listening at the door, Millicent, that you open it so quickly ?' he asked, as he entered. • ' T heard your footstep in the street, George, and hurried to let you in. You arc very late,' she added, as he strode into the parlor'and flung himself into the ' ohair she had been sitting in. ' Oh, a complaint, of course,' he said, with a sneer. ' I've a great deal to keep n>c at home, certainly,' he muttered, looking round — ' a crying wife and a bad • fire' He turned his back to her, and beut over the embers, trying to Warm his hands at the r« 'And they talk about a woman's curiosity !' he cried, with a mockih^ lau^h ; ! even now she doesn't ask me who the wounded man is.' ' I do, I do, George. Poor creature ! who is he ?' He paused for a few moments after her question. She had risen from her seat, and stood ft the table trying to revive the drooping wick of the last of the two caudles left burning. The Captain turned his chair full round, and watched her pale face as he said, slowly and distinctly — ' Your first cousin, Darrell Markham !' She uttered a cry; not a shrill scream, but a faint, pitiful cry; and lifted her two little hands wildly to her head. She remained in this attitude for some minutes, quite still, quite silent, and then sank quietly into her old position at tfae table. Her husband watched her all the time with a sneering -smile and -bright gutter in his eyes. ° ' Darrell ! my cousin Darrell dead ?' 'Not dead, Mistress Millicent;'not quite so bad as that, Your dear, fair- THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE J- haired, pretty-faced cousin is not dead, my sweet, loving wife; he is only — dying.' • '' Lying in the blue room at the Black Bear/ she repeated % the words he had said a few minutes before, in a distracted manner, very' painful to look upou. ' Lying in the blue room at the Bear. Yes, the blue room, number four, on the loug corridor. You know the chamber well enough ; have you not been there often to see your father's old housekeeper" the mariner's widow, at least the inn- keeper's wife V ' . 'Trembling betweeu life and death?' she said, in the same half-conscious, piti- ful toue. ' He was ! Heaven knows how lie may be now. That was half au hour ago ; the scale may be turued by tins time ; he may be dead !' As he said the last word, she sprang from her seat, and, without once looking at him, ran hurriedly to the outer door. She had her hand upon the bolts, when she cried out in a tone of dismal anguish, 'Oh! no, no, no!' and dropped down on her knees, with her head leaning against the lock of the door. The Captain of the Vidture followed her every movement with his eyes, and as she fell on her knees, he said — . 'You were goim? to run to him !' ' 1 was.' ' Then, why not go? You see I arn not cruel ; I do not slop you. You art- free ! Go ! Shall I open the door for you Y • She lifted herself with an effort upou her. feet, still leaning for support agaiusfe the street door. ' No/ she said, ' I will not go to him; I could do him no good ; I might agitate him ; I might kill him !' The Captain bit his under lip, and the smile faded in his brown eyes. ' But understand this, George l>uke ; it is no fear of you which keeps me here ; it is no dread of your cruel words or more cruel looks that holds me from goim; to his side ; for if I could save him by my presence from one throb of pain, if 1 could give him by my love and devotion one moment's peace and comfort, and the town of Comptou were one sea of raging fire, I would walk through that sea to do it.' 'That's a very pretty speech ouf of a novel/ said her husband, ' but I never very much believe in these pretty speeches — perhaps I've a #ood reason of my own for doubting them. I suppose if Darrell Markham asked for you with his dying breath you'd go to see him ; especially,' he added, with his old sneer, ' as Comptoo isn't a sea of fire.' He rose as he said this, and came out into the pas- sage, where she stood. She sprang towards him, and caught his arm convulsively between her two little hands. ' Bid he, did he, did he?' she cried, passionately; ' did Darrell ask to see me? Oh, George Duke, on your honor as a gentleman, Bailor, as a trusted servant of his gracious Majesty, by your hope iu Heaven, by your faith iu God, did Barrell Markham ask to see me ?' il«' kept her waiting for his answer as he slowly lit a was taper at the flickering flame in the high candlestick. ' I shan't say no, and I shan't say yes,' he said ; ' I'm not going to be go-be- tween for you and him. Q-ood night/ he added, passing her in the passage, ao 1 going slowly up the stairs ; 'if you've a miud to sit up all night, do so, by all means. Its on the stroke of two, and I'm tired. Good nijjht !' 2 jg DARRELL MARKHAM: OR He strode up stairs, and entered a little sleeping room over the parlor in which they had been seated. It was simply but handsomely burnished, and the most exquisite neatness prevailed in all its arrangements. A tiny fire burned on the hearth, but though the Captain shivered, it was to the window he directed his Bteps. He opened it very softly, and leaned out, as the clocks struck two. ' I thought so,' he said, as he heard the faint rattle of the bolts and the creaking of a door. ' By the heaven above me, 1 knew she would go to him !' The faint echoes of a light and rapid footstep broke the silence of the quiet street. ' And the least agitation might be fatal !' said the Captain of the Vul- ture, as he softly closed the casement window. Darrell Markham lay in a death-like stupor in the blue chamber at the Black Bear. Mr. Jordan, the doctor, had declared that his shattered arm, if it ever was set at all, could not be set for some days to come. In the meantime Mrs. Sarah Pecker had received directions to bathe it constantly with a cooling lotion, but on no account, should the young man again return to consciousness, was the worthy landlady of the Black Bear to disturb him with' either lamentations or inquiries ; neither was she, at hazard of his life, to admit any one into the room but the doctor himself. ,Mrs. Pecker devoted herself to her duties as nurse to the wounded man with a good will, merely remarking that she should very much like to see the individual, male or female, as would coine anigh him, to worrit or to vex him ; ' for if it was the parson of the parish,' she paid, with determination, ( he niusn't set much account on his eyesight if he tries to circumvent Sarah Pecker.' . ,'■.,.• 'No one must come anigh him, once for all, and once and forever,' added Mrs. Pecker, sharply, as she faced about on the great staircase, and confronted a little crowd of pale faces, for all the household thronged round her when she emerged from the sick room in their eagerness to get tidings of Darrell Markham ; ' and I won't have you,' she continued, with especial acerbity, to her lord and master, the worthy Samuel, 'I won't have you a comiu' and a worritin' with your " Aint he bet- ter, Sarah ?" and " Don't you think he'll get over it, Sarah V and such like '. When a poor dear young gentleman's arm is shivered to a jelly,' she said, address- ing herself generally, ' and when a poor dear young gentleman has been a lying left for dead on a lonely moor for ever so many cruel hours on a cold October night. he don't get over it in twenty minutes, no, nor yet in half an hour neither ! So what you've all got to do is just to go back to the kitchen, and sit there quiet till one or other of you is wanted, for whatever Master Darrell wants shall be got ! >"es, if he wanted the king's golden crown and sceptre one of you should walk to London and fetch 'eni !' Having thus declared her supreme pleasure, Mrs. Pecker re-ascended the stairs, and re-entered the sick room. ' If a person could be in two places at once, any way convenient,' muttered the landlord, as he withdrew into the offices of the inn, ' why I could account for it most easy; but seein' they can't, or seein' as how the parson says -they can't, it's too much for me,' upon which Mr. Samuel Pecker seated himself on a great settle before the kitchen fire, and began to scratch his head feebly. v ' I think as Mr. Markham's had himself shot in the arm, and she aint over likely to be a comin' downstairs, I might venture on a mug of the eightpenny/ the landlord by-and-bye remarked, thoughtfully. Half-past two by the eight-day clock on the stairs, and the landlord going to -'THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 10 letch himself this very mug of beer, was arrested in the hall by a feeble, knocking at the stout oaken doory closed and barred for the night; for the doctor had de- termined on remaining with his patient till the following morning. The candle nearly dropped from the hand of the nervous landlord. ' Ghosts, I daresay/ he muttered; ' Comptou's full of 'ein.' The knocking was repeated; this time a little louder. # • 'They knocks hard for spirits," said Samuel, 'and they're pretty persevering' The knocking was still continued, still growing louder. ' Oh, then, I suppos must,' murmured Mr. Pecker, with a groan ; ' but when I undoes the bolts what's the good ? Of course there's no one there.' There was some one there, however, for when Mr. Pecker had undone the bolts very slowly, and very cautiously, and with a great many half-suppressed but cap- tious groans, a woman slid iu at the narrow opening of the door, and before Mr. Pecker had recovered his surprise, crossed the hall, and made direct for the for- bidden room in which Darrell Markham lay. Terror of the vengeance of the ponderous Sarah seized upon the soul of the landlord, and with an unwonted activity he ran forward, and intercepted the woman at the bottom of the stairs. 'You musn't ma'am,' he said, ' you musn't ; excuse me, ma'am, but its as much as my life, or even the parson — yes, ma'am, Sarah !' thus vaguely the terrified Samuel. The woman let the large grey hood which muffled her face fall back and said, ' Don't you know me, Mr. Pecker? 'Tis I, Millicent, Millicent — Duke.' • You, Miss Millicent. • You, Mrs. ^uke. Oh, miss, oh, ma'am, your poor dear cousin !' • Mr. Pecker, for the love of mercy, don't keep me from him. , Stand out of the way, stand out of the way,' she said, passionately ; " he may die while your'e talking to me here.' 'But, ma'am, you musn't go to him; the doctor, ma'am, and Sarah, Miss Milli- cent. Sarah, she was quite awful about it, ma'am.' Stand aside,' she said ; ' 1 tell you a raging fire shouldn't stop me. Stand aside !' ' No, ma'am — but Sarah !' Millicent Duke stretched out two slender white hands, and pushed the landlord from her way with a strength that sent him sliding round the polished oak banis- ter of the -lowest stair. She flew up the flight of steps, which brought her to the door of the blue room, and on the threshold found herself face to face with Mrs. Sarah Pecker. The girl fell on her knees, her pale hair falling 'loose about her shoulders, aDd her long grey cloak trailing round her on "the polished oaken floor. ' Sarah, Sarah, darling Sarah, dear, let me see him.' ' Not you, not you, nor any one,' said the landlady, sternly — ' you the last of all persons, Mrs. George l>uke.' The name struck her like a blow, aud she shivered under the cruelty of the thrust. 'Let me sec him! — let me see him!' she said; ' his 'father's brother's only child — hi< first cousin — his playfellow — his friend — his dear and loving friend — his ' 'Wife that was to have been, Mrs. Duke,' interrupted the landlady. 20 DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR "? ' His wife that was to have been ; and never, never shield have been another's. His loving, true, and happy wife, that would have been. Let me see him !' she cried piteously, holding up her clasped hands to Mrs. Pecker. ' The doctor's in there, do you want him to hear you, Mrs. Duke ?' 'If all the world heard me I wouldn't stop from asking you : Sarah let me gee my cousin, Darrell Markham ! • . The landlady, holding a candle in her hand, and looking down at the piteous face and tearful eyes all blinded by the loose, pale golden hair — softened a little as she said — ' Miss Millicent, the doctor has forbidden a mortal creature to come anigh hrm ! the doctor has foi'bidden a mortal soul to say one word to him that could disturb or agitate him ! and do you think the sight "of your face wouldn't agitate him ?' ' But he asked to see me, Sarah ; he sj*)ke of me !' ' When, Miss Millicent V Softening towards this pitiful pale face looking up into hers, the landlady leaves off calling her dead master's daughter by this new name of Mrs. Duke. ' When, Miss Millicent ?' ' To-night — to-night, Sarah.' < Master Darrell asked to see you ! Who told you that ?' 1 Captain Duke.' 1 Master Darrell hasn't said better than a dozen words this night. Miss Milli- cent ; and those words were mad words,, and never once spoke your name.' ' But my husband said ' * The Captain sent you here, then ?' 1 No, no; he didn't send me here. Heboid me — at least he gave me to under- stand that Darrell had spoken of me — had asked to see me.' 'Your husband is a strange gentleman, Miss Millicent.' 1 Let me see him, Sarah, only let me see him. I won't speak one word, or breathe one sigh ; only let me see him.' Mrs. Pecker withdrew for a few moments into the blue room, and whispered to the doctor. Millicent Duke, still on her knees on the threshold of the half- opened door, strained her eyes as if she would have pierced through the thick oak that separated her from the wounded man. The landlady returned to the door. "'If you want to look at a corpse, Miss Millicent, you may come in and look at him, for he lies as still as one." She took the kneeling girl in her stout arms, and half lifted. her info the room, where, opposite a blazing fire, Darrell Markham lay unconscious on a great draperied four-post bed. His head was thrown back upon the pillow, the fair hair dabbled with a lotion with whiih. Mrs. Pecker had been bathing the scalp wound spoken of by the doctor. Millicent tottered to the bedside, and seating herself in an arm-chair which had been occupied by Sarah Pecker, took Darrell Markham's hand in her's, and pressed it to her tremulous lips. It seemed as if there was something magical in this gentle pressure, for the young man's eyes opened for the first time since the scene in the hall, and he looked at his cousin. 1 Millicent/ he said, without any sign ef surprise, 'dear Millicent, it is.so good of you to watch nie.' She had nursed him three years before through a dange- rous illness, and in his delirium he confused the present with the past, fancying that he was in his old room at Compton Hall, and that his cousin had been watch- ing by his bedside. ;thb captain of the vulture. 21 ' Call my uncle/ he said, ' call the squire; I want to see him !' and then, after a pause, he muttered, looking about him, < surely this is not the old room — surely some one has altered the room.' ' Master Darrell, dear,' cried the landlady, ' don't you know where you are ? With friends, 3Iaster Darrell, true and faithful friends. Don't you know, dear V ' Yes, yes/ he said, ' I know, I know, I've been lying out in the. cold and my arm is hurt. I remember, Sally, I remember ; but my head feels strange, and I can scarce tell where I am.' ' See here, Master Darrell, here's Mistress Duke has come all the way from the other end of Compton, on this bitte^ black night, on purpose to see you.' The good woman said this to comfort the patient, but the. utterance of that one name, Duke, recalled his cousin's marriage, and the young man exclaimed, bitterly, ' Mistress Duke ! yes, T remember/ and then turning his weary head upon the pillow, he cried, with a sudden energy, ' Millicent Duke, Millicent Duke, why do you come here to torture me with the sight of you V At this moment there arose the sound of some altercation in the hall below, and then the noise of two voices iu dispute and hurried footsteps upon the staircase.- Mrs. Pecker ran to the door, but before she could reach it, it was burst violently open, and the Captain of the Vulture strode into the room. He was closely fol- lowed by the doctor, who walked straight to the bedside, exclaiming with sup- pressed passion, ' I protest against this, Captain Duke ; and if any ill consequence come of it, I hold you answerable for the mischief The Captain took no notice of this speech, but turning to his wife, said savagely, • Will ft please you to go home with me, Mistress Millicent? It is near upon four o'clock, and a sick gentleman's room is scarce a fit place for a lady at such a time.' Darrell Markham lifted himself up in the bed, and cried with a hysterical laugh, 'I tell you that's the man, Millicent; Sarah, look at him. That is the man who stopped me upon Compton Moor, shot me in the arm and rifled me of my pUrse.' 'Darrell! Darrell!' cried Millicent, 'you do not know what you arc saying. That man is my husband.' 1 Your husband ! A highwayman ! — a ' Whatever word was on his lips remained unspoken, for he fell back insensible upon the pillow. - ' Captain George Duke,' said the surgeon, laying his hand upon the patient's wrist, ' if this man dies, you have committed a murder.' CHAPTER HI.— Looking Back.' John Homcrton, the blacksmith, only spoke advisedly when he said that the young squire, Ringwood Markham, was ruining himself up in London. Iiingwood Markham was three years older than his sister 'Millicent, and six years younger than his cousin Darrell; for old Squire Markham had married late in life, and" had, shortly after his marriage, adopted little Darrell, the only child of a younger brother, who had died early, leaving a small fortune to his orphan boy g£ DARRELL MARKHAM; OR Ringwood Markham in person, closely resembled his sister. He had the sanie pule, golden hair, the deep, limpid, blue eyes, the small features, and delicate pink and white complexion. Ringwood had always been bis father's favorite, to the exclusion even of pretty, loveable Millieent; and as his cousin Darrell grew to manhood, it vexed the -old squire to see the elder, high-spirited and stalwart, broad-chested and athletic, ac- complished in all manly occupations; a good shot, an expert swordsman, a bold horseman, and a reckless, dare-devil, generous, thoughtless, open-hearted lad, while [Ringwood only thought of his pretty face and his embroidered waistcoat, and loved the glittering steel ornaments of h#sword-hilt far better than the blade of that, weapon. It was hard for the squire to have to confess it, even to himself; but it was not the less a fact, that Ringwood Markham was a milksop. The old man hated Darrell for being superior to his son. This was how the pale face of sorrow first peeped in upon the little family group at Comptou Hall. ' Darrell and Millieent had loved each other from that early childish, but unfor- gotten day, on which the orphan boy peeped iuto his baby cousin's cradle, and cried out at her pretty face and tiny rosy hands. They loved each other from such an early age, and they loved each other so honestly and truly, that perhaps they were never, in the legitimate sense of the word, lovers. If the squire saw this growiug attachment between the young people, he neither favored nor discouraged it. He had never cared much for Miflicent, She and her brother were the children of a woman whom he had married for the sake of a handsome fortune, and who died unnoticed and unregr'etted, and, some people said, of a broken heart, before Millieent was a twelvemonth old. So things went on pretty smoothly. Millieent and Darrell rode together through the shady green lanes, and over the stunted grass and heather on Comp- ton Moor, while Ringwood idled about the village, or lounged at the bar of the Black Bear, until a catastrophe occurred which changed the whole current of events. Darrell and Ringwood Markham had a desperate quarrel — a quarrel in which blows were struck and hard words spoken upon both, sides, and which abruptly ended Darrell's residence at Compton Hall. Darrell had discovered a flirtation between Ringwood and a girl of seventeen. the daughter of a small farmer — a flirtation which, but for this timely discovery, might have ended in shame aud despair. Scarlet with passion, the young man had taken his foppish cousin by the collar of his velvet coat, and dragged him straight into the presence of the father of the girl, saying, with an oath, such as was, unhappily, only too common a hundred years ago — < k'ou'd better keep an eye on this youug man, Farmer Morrison: if you want to save your daughter from a scoundrel.' Ringwood turned very white — he was one of those who grew pale aud not red with passion — and sprang at his cousin like a cat, caught at his throat as if he would have strangled him; but one swinging blow. from Darrell's fist laid the young man on Farmer Morrison's sanded floor, with a general illumination glit- tering before his dazzled eyes. THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 2;; Darrell strode, back to the Hall, where he packed some clothes iu his saddle- bags, and wrote two letters, one to his uncle, telling him, abruptly enough, that he had knocked Ringwood down because he had found him acting like a rascal, and that he felt, as there was now bad blood between them, they had better part. His second letter was addressed to Millicent, and was almost as brief as the first. He simply told her of the quarrel, adding that he was going to Londou to seek his fortune, and that he should return to claim her as his wife. He left the letters on the high chimucy-piccc in his bedroom, and went down to the stables, where he found his own nag Balnierino, and fastened his few possessions to the saddle, mounted the horse in the yard, and rode slowly away from the house iu which his boyhood and youth had been spent. Ringwood Markham went home late at night with a pale face and a handker- chief bound about his forehead. lie found his father sitting over a spark of fire iu the oak parlor on one side of the hall. The door of this parlor was ajar, and as the young man tried to creep past, ou his way up stairs, the squire called to him sharply, * Ringwood, come here.' He cowered sulkily into the room, hanging his broken head down, and looking at the floor. 'What's the matter with your head, Riugwood V 1 The pony shied at some sheep on the moor, and threw me against a stone,' muttered the young man. ' You're telling a lie, Ringwood. Markham I've a letter from your cousin Darrell iu my pocket. Bah, man ! you're the first of the Markhams that ever took a blow without paying it back with interest. You've your mother's milk- and-water disposition, as well as your mother's fate.' * You needn't ta'lk about her/ said Ringwood ; ' you didn't treat her too well, if folks speak the truth.' f Riugwood Markham, don't provoke me. It's grief enough to have a son that can't take his own part. Go to bed.' The young man left the room with the same slouching step with which he had entered. He stole cautiously up stairs, for he thought his cousin Darrell was still in the house, and he had no wish to arouse that gentleman. So Millicent was left alone at Comptou Hall. Utterly alone, for she had now no' one to love her. Darrell, therefore, beiug gone, and dear old Sally Masterson having left the Hall to be mistress of the Black Bear, poor Millicent was abandoned to the ten- der mercies of her father and brother, neither of whom cared much more for her than they did for the meek white aud liver-coloured spaniel that followed her about the house. So the delicate piece of mechanism got out of order, and "Mil- licent's days were devoted to novel reading and to poring over an embroidered waistcoat-piece that was destined for Darrell, and the colors of which were dull and faded from the tears that had dropped upon the silks. She kept Darrell's letter in her bosom. In all the ways of the world she was as unlearned as in that da* when Darrell had peeped in upon her asleep in the cradle, and she had do more doubt that her cousin would' make a fortune, and re- turn in a f'tw years to claim her as his wife, than she had of her own exusteucc. Bat, in spite of this hope, the day- Wtere long and dreary, her father neglect- 24 DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR Jul, her brother supercilious and disagreeable, and her home altogether very miserable. The bitterest misery was yet to come. It came in the person of a certain Cap- tain George Duke, who dropped into Compton on his way from Marley Water to rhe metropolis, and who contrived to scrape acquaintance with Squire Markham in the best parlor at the Black Bear. Captain George and Master Bingwood" became sworn friends in a day or two, and the hearty sailor promised to stop at Compton again on his return to his ship, the Vulture. The simple villagers readily accepted Captain Duke as that which he repre- sented himself, an officer of His Majesty's navy; but there were people in the -caport of Marley Water who said that the good ship whose name was written down as the Vulture in the Admiralty's books was quite a different class of vessel, to the trim little craft which lay sometimes -in a quiet corner of the obscure har- bor at Marley. There were malicious people who whispered such "Words as ' pri- vateer ! — pirate ! — slaver !' — but the most daring took good care only to whisper out of the Captain's hearing, for George Duke's sword was as often out of its scabbard as in it during his brief visits to the little seaport. However it might be, handsome, rollicking, light-hearted, free-handed Geprge Duke became a great favorite with Squire Markham and his son Bingwood. Compton Hall rang night after night with the gay peals of his hearty laughter; corks flew, and glasses jingled, as the three men sat up till midnight (a terrible hour at Compton) over their Burgundy and claret. It was in one of these half- drunken bouts that Squire Markham promised the hand of his daughter Millicent to Captain George Duke. 1 You're in love with her, George, and you shall have her !' the old man said ; ' I can give her a couple of thousand pounds at my death, and if anything should happen to Bingwood, she'll be sole heiress to the Compton property. You shall have her, my bpy ! I know there's some sneaking courtship been going on be- tween Milly and a broad-shouldered, fair-haired nephew of mine, but that shan't stand in your way, for the lad is no favorite with me ; and if I choose to say it, my fine lack-a-daisical miss shall marry you in a week's time.' Captain Duke sprang from his chair, and wringing the squire's hand in his, cried out with a lover's rapture — • She's the prettiest girl in England ! and I'd sooner have her than any duchess at St. James's/ ' She's pretty enough as for that/ said Bingwood, superciliously, ' and she'd be a deal prettier if she was not always whimpei-ing.' Farmer Morrison could have told how Master Bingwood himself had gone- whimpering out of the sanded kitchen on the day that Darrell Markham knocked him down ; and the plain-spoken farmer told him, after dressing his broken head, that if he ever came about those premises again, it would be to get such a thrash- ing as he would be easily able to remember. Both the children inherited something of the nervous weakness of that poor, delicate, and neglected mother who had died seventeen years before in Sally Mas- terson's arms; but timid and sensitive as Millicent was/I think that the higher nature had been given to her, and that beneath that childish timidity and that nervous excitability which would bring tears into her eyes at the sound of a harsh THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 25- word, there was a latent and quiet courage that had no existence in Ringwocd's selfish and frivolous character. Harsh words on this occasion, as on every other, did their work with Milliccnt Markham. She heard her father's determination that she should marry George I Hike, at first, with a stupid apathetic stare, as if the calamity were too great for her to realize its misery at one. grasp ; then, as he repeated his command, her clear blue eyes brimmed over with big tears, as she fell on her knees at his feet. ' You don't mean it, sir,' she said, pitcously clasping her poor little feeble hands. l You know that I love my cousin Darrell, and that we are to be man and wife when you are pleased to give your consent. You must have known it all along, sir, though we had not the courage to tell you. I will be your obedient rhild in everything but this ; but I never, never can marry an}' one but Darrell !' What need to tell the old story of stupid, obstinate, narrow-minded country squire's fury and tyranny. Did not poor Sophia Western suffer all these torments, though in the dear old romance all is so happily settled in the last chapter : but in this case it was different — Squire Markham would hear of no delay ; and be- fore Darrell could get the letter which Milliccnt addressed to a coffee-house near < lovent Garden, and bribed one of the servants to give to the Compton post- master — before the eyes of the bride had recovered from long nights* of weeping — before. the village had half discussed the matter — before Mrs. Sarah Pecker could finish the petticoat she was quiltiug for the bride — the bells of Compton church were ringing a cheery peal in the morning sunshine, and Milliccnt Markham and Ceorge Duke were standing side by side at the altar. "When Darrell Markham received the pool- little 'tear-stained letter, telling him of this ill-omened marriage, he fell into an outburst of rage ; an outburst of blind fury which swept alike upon the squire, young Ringwood, Captain George Duke, and even poor Millicent herself. It is so difficult for a man to understand the influence brought to bear upon a weak, helpless woman by the tyranny of a brutal lather. Darrell cried out passionately that Millicent ought to have been true to him, in spite of the whole world, as he Would have been to her, through every trial. Made desperate by the shipwreck of his happiness, he rushed for a brief period into the dissipations of the town, and tried to drown Millicent's fair face in tavern measures and long draughts of Burgundy. A marriage contracted under such circumstances was net likely to be a very happy one. Light-hearted, rollicking George Duke was by no means a delightful person by the domestic hearth. At home he was mopdy and ill-tempered, always ready to grumble at Millicent's pale face, and tear-swollen eyes. For the best part of the year he was away with his ship, on some of those mysterious voyages of which the Admiralty knew so little; and in these long absences, Millicent, if not happy, was at least at rest. Three months after the wedding the old squire was found dead in his arm-chair, and Ringwood succeeding to the estate, shut up the Hall, and rushed away to London, where he was soon lost to the honest folks f Compton in a whirlpool of vice and dissipation. This was how matters stood when George and Millicent had been married fifteen months, and Darrell Markham well-nigh lost his life upon the dreary moorland road to Marlej Water. DARRELL MARKHAMj OR CHAPTEB IV.— Captain Duke Proves an Alibi. Darrell Markham did not die from the effects of tliat excitement which the doctor said might be so fatal. He was very slow to recover; so slow that the snow lay white upon the moorland before the windows of the Black Bear, before the shattered arm was firmly knit together, or the enfeebled frame restored to its . native vigor. It was a dreary and tedious illness. Honest Sarah Pecker was nearly worn out with nursing her sick boy, as she insisted on calling Darrell. The weak-eyed Samuel was made to wear list shoes and to creep like a thief about his roomy hostelry. The evening visitors were sent into a dark tap-room at the back of the house, that the t>ound of their revelry might not disturb the sick man. Gloom and sadness reigned in the Black Bear until that happy day upon which Doctor .Tordau pronounced his patient to be out of danger. Sarah Pecker gave away a barrel of 'the strongest ale upon that joyous afternoon, giving freely to every loiterer who stopped to ask after poor Maister Darrell Captain GeoYge Duke was away on a brief voyage round the Spanish coast, when Darrell began to mend ; but by the time the young man had completely re- covered, the sailor returned to Compton. The snow was thick in the narrow street when the Captain came back. He found Milliccnt sitting in her old attitude # by the fire, reading a novel. But he was in a better temper than usual, and looked wonderfully handsome and dashing in his weather-beaten uniform. Not quite the King's uniform, as some people said ; very like it, but yet with slight technical differences, that told against the Captain. He caught Milliccnt in his arms, and gave her a hearty kiss upon each cheek, before he had time to notice the faint repellarjt shuddjer. 1 I've come home to you laden with good things, Mistress Milly,' he said, as he seated himself opposite to her, while the stout servant-maid piled fresh logs upon the blazing fire. 'A chest of oranges, and a cask of wine from Cadiz — liquid gold, my girl, and almost as precious as the sterling metal ; and I've a heap of pretty barbarous trumpery for you to fasten on your white neck and arms, and hang in your rosy little ears.' The Captain took an old-fashioned, queerly shaped bather case from his pocket, wind opening it, spread out a quantity of foreign jew- elry, that glittered and twinkled in the fire-light. Arabesqued gold of wonderful workmanship, and strange, outlandish, many-colored gems sparkled upon the dark <>ak table, and reflected themselves deep down in the polished wood, like stars in a river. Milliccnt blushed as she bent over the trinkets, and stammered out some gen- tle, grateful phrases. She was blushing to think how little she cared for all these gew-gaws, and how her soul was set on other treasures which never could be — the treasures of Darrell's deep and honest love. As she was thinking this, the Captain looked up at her carelessly, as it seemed, but in reality, with a very searching glance in his flashing brown eyes. ' Obj by-the-byc,' he said, ' how is that pretty fair-haired cousin of yours ? Has he recovered from that affair? or was it his death?'. THE CAPTAIN' OF THE VULTURE. 07 There was a malicious sparkle in his eyes, as he watched her shiver at that cruel word, Death. ' That's another figure iu the long score between, you and I, my lady.' Re thought. ' Tie is much better. Iudeed, he is nearly well,' Millicent said, quietly. ' Have you seen him ?' 'Never since the night on which you found me at his bedside.' She looked up at him calmly, almost proudly, as she spoke. It was a look that seemed to Bay, ' I have a clear conscience, and do what you will, you cannot make me blush or falter.' She had indeed a clear conscience. Many times Sarah Pecker had come to her and said, 'Your cousin is very low to-night, Miss Millicent; come and sit be- side him', if it's only for half an hour, to cheer him up a bit. Poor old Sally will be with you, and where she is, the hardest can't say there's harm.' But Millicent had always steadily refused, saying, ' It would only make us both unhappy, Sally dear, ['d rather not come.' None knew how, sometimes late at night, when the maid-servant had gone \>> bed, and the lights in the upper windows of Comptou High Street had been one by one extinguished, this same inflexible Millicent would steal out, muffled in a long cloak of shadowy grey, and creep to the roadway under the Black Bear, to stand for ten miuutes in the snow and rain, watching the faint light that shone, from the window of the room where Darrell. Markham lay. - Once, standing ankle-deep in snow, she saw Sarah Pecker open the window to look out at the night, and heard his voice, faint iu the distance, asking if it were snowing.* She burst into tears at the sound of this feeble voice. It seemed so long since she had heard it, she fancied she might never hear it again. Oue of the Vulture' '# men brought the case of oranges and the cask of sherry from Marley to Compton upon the very night of the Captain's return, and Georg ■ Duke drank half a bottle of the liquid gold before he went to bed. He tried in vain to induce Millicent to taste the topaz-colored liquor. She liked Sarah Pecker's cowslip wine better than the finest sherry ever grown in the Peninsula. Early the next morning the Compton constable came to the cottage armed with a warrant for the apprehension of Captain George Duke, ou a charge of assault and robbery on the King's highway. Pale with suppressed fury, the Captain strode into the little parlour where Millicent was seated at breakfast. 1 Pray, Mistress Millicent,' he said, 'who has set on your pretty cousin to trjC and hang an innocent man, with the intent to make a hempen widow of you, a8 1 suppose:' What is the meaning of this V 'Of what, George?' she asked, bewildered by his manner. He- told her the whole story of the warrant. ' < )!' course,' he said, 'you re- member this Master Darrell's crying out it was I who shot him?" ' I do, George ; I thought then it was some strange feverish delusion, and I think so now.' ' I scarcely expected so much of your courtesy, Mistress Duke,' answered her husband. ' Luckily for me, 1 can pretty easily clear myself from this mad- brained charge, but I'm not the less grateful to Darrell Markham for his kind intent ' DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR They took Captain Duke at once to the magistrate's parlour, where he found 1 tarreU Markhain seated, pale from his .long illness, and with his arm still in a sling, 'Thank you, Mr? Markhain, jbr this good turn/ said the Captain, folding his arms and placing himself against the doorway of the magistrate's room ; * we shall find an opportunity of squaring our accounts, I dare say.' The worthy magistrate was not a little puzzled as to how to 'deal with the case before him. Little as was known in Compton of Captain George Duke, it seemed incredible that the husband' of Squire Markham's daughter could be guilty of highway robbery. J >arrell stated his charge in the simplest and most straightforward fashion. He had ridden away from the Black Bear to go to Marley Water. Three miles from ( Ymipton, a man, whom he swore to as the accused, rode up to him and demanded his purse and watch. He drew his pistol from his belt, but while he was cocking it, the man, Captain Duke, fired, shot him in the arm, and dragging him off his horse, threw him into the mud. He remembered nothing more until he awoke in the hall at the Black Bear, and recognized the accused amongst the bystanders, .The magistrate coughed dubiously. ' Cases of mistaken identity have not been uncommon in the judicial history of this country,' he said sententiously. l Can you swear, Mr. Markham, that the man who attacked you was Captain George Duke?' ' If that man standing against the door is Captain Duke, I can solemnly swear that he is the man who robbed me.' ' When you were found by the persons who picked you up, was yoar horse found also r * ' No; the horse was gone.' « ' Would you know him again ?' . ' ' Know him again ? What, honest Balmerino? I should know him amongst a thousand.' 'Hum!' said the magistrate; 'that is a great point; I consider the horse a great point.' He pondered so long over this very important part of the case that his clerk had to nudge him respectfully, and whisper something in his ear before he went on again. 'Oh, ah, yes, to be sure, of course,' he muttered, helplessly; then, clearing his throat, he said, in his magisterial voice, ' Pray, Captain Duke, what have you to say to this charge V * Very little,' said the Captain, quietly ; ' but before I speak at all, I should be glad if you would send for Mr. Samuel Pecker, of the Black Bear.' . The magistrate whispered to the clerk, and the clerk nodded, on which the magistrate said, 'Go, one. of you, and fetch the aforesaid Samuel Pecker.' While one of the hangers-on was gone upon this errand, the worthy magistrate nodded over his Flying Post, the clerk mended the fire, and Mr. Darrell Mark- hain and theCaptain stared fiercely at each other— an ominous red glimmer burn- ing in the sailor's brown eyes.. Mr. Pecker came, with a white face and limp, disordered hair, to attend the magisterial summons. He had some vague idea that handn°; misrht be the result THE CAPTAIN' OF THE VULTURE. o<, of this morning's work; or that, happily escaping that, he would suffer a hundred moral deaths at the hands of Sarah, his wife. He could not for a moment imagine that he could possibly be wanted in the magistrate's parlour, unless accused of some monstrous, though unconsciously-committed crime. He gave a faint gasp of relief when some one in the room whispered to him that he was required as a witness. ' Xow, Captain Duke,' said the magistrate, ' what have you to say to this V f Will you be good enough to ask Mr. Darrell Markham two or three ques- tions '.'' The magistrate looked at the clerk, the clerk nodded to the magistrate, and the magistrate nodded an assent to Captain Duke's request. ' Will you ask if he knows at what time the assault was committed ?' Before the magistrate could interpose, Darrell Markham spoke — 4 1 happen to be able to answer that question with certainty,' he said. ' The wind was blowing straight across the moor, and I distinctly heard Compton church clock chime the three-quarters after seveu as the mau rode up to me.' 1 As I rode up to you V asked George Duke. 1 As you rode up to me,' answered Darrell. 1 Mr. Samuel Pecker, will you be so good as to tell the magistrate where I was at a quarter to eight o'clock upon the night of the 27th of October V ' You were in the parlour at the Bear, Captain,' answered Samuel, in short g tsps ; ' and you come in and ask the* time, which I went out to look at our eight- day on the stairs*, it ^vere ten minutes to eight exact by father's eight day, as is never a minute wrong.' * 'There were other people iu the parlour that night who saw me and who heard me ask the question, were there not, Mr. Pecker?' 'There were a many of 'em,' replied Samuel; 'which they saw you wind your 4 watch by lather's Sight-day ; for it weren't, you, Captain Duke',' as robbed Master Darrell, but / know who it were.' There was stupefaction in the court at this extraordinary Assertion. 'You know!' cried the magistrate; 'then, pray, why have you withheld the knowledge from those entitled to hear it ? This is very bad, Mr-. Pecker ; vei \ bad, indeed !' The unhappy Samuel felt that he was in for it. 1 It were no more Captain Duke thau it were mo,'' he gasped ; ' it were the other." ' The other ! What other ?' „ • ' Him as stopped his horse at the door of the Black -Bear, and asked the w:i\ to Marley Water.' Nothing could remove Samuel Pecker from this position. Questioned and« {-questioned by the magistrate, the clerk, and Darrell Markham, he steaof';ist!\ declared that a man so cloudy resembling Captain Duke as to deceive both him- self and Johu Homerton, the blacksmith, had .-topped at the Black Bear, ami 1 the way to Marley. He gasped and stuttered and choked and bewildered himself, but he neither prevaricated nor broke down in his assertions, and he begged that John Hornet- ton might l.e summoned to confirm his statement. John Homerton was summoned, and declared that to the best of his belief, it DARRELL ifARKKAM ; OR Captain Duke who stopped at the Black Bear, while he, Master Darrell Markham, and the landlord were standing at the door. But this assertion was shivered in a moment by an alabi. A quarter of an hour after, the traveller had ridden off towards Marley, Captain J Hike walked up to the inn from the direction of the High Street. Neither the magistrate nor the clerk had anything to say to this. The affair seemed altogether in a mystery, for which the legal experience of the Compton worthies could furnish no parallel. If .James Dobbs assaulted Farmer Hobbs, it was easy to deal with him accord- ing to the precedent afforded by the celebrated , case of Jones vs. Smith; but the affair of to-day stood aloue in the judicial records of Compton. While the magistrate and his factotum consulted together, in a whisper, without -jetting any nearer to a decision, George Duke himself came to their rescue. 1 1 suppose after the charge having broken down in this manner, I need' not stop here any longer, sir,' he said. The magistrate caught at (his chance of extrication. 1 The charge kas broken down/ he said, with solemn importance, l and, as you ol Berve, Captain Duke, and as indeed I was about to observe myself, we need not detain. you any longer. You leave this room with as good a character as that with which you entered it,' he added, while a slight titter circulated among some of the bystanders at this rather ambiguous compliment. ' I am sorry, Mr. Mark- ham, that this affair is so, involved in mystery. It is evidently a case of mistaken identity, one of the most difficult class of cases that the law ever has to deal with; . but, as I said before, I consider the missing horse a great point — a very, strong point.' . The Captain and Darrell Markham left the room at the same time. ' I have an account to settle with you, Mr. Markhani, for this morning's work/ Captain Duke whispered to his accuser. • • I do not fight with highwaymen/ Darrell answered, proudly. • AVhat, you still dare to insinuate — : — V . ' I dare to say that I don't believe in this story of George Duke and his double. I believe that you proved an alabi by some juggling with the clock at the Black Pear) and I most firmly believe that you are the man who shot me !' • You shall pay for this/ hissed the Captain, through his set teeth; ' you'shall pi y double for every insolent word, Darrell Markham, before you and I have done with each other.' He strode away, after flinging one dark, wicked look at his wife's cousin, and returned to the cottage where Millieent, pale and anxious, was awaiting the result of the morning Darrell Markham left Compton by the mail coach that very night ; and poorer by the l"ss of his horse, his watch, and purse, set forth once more to seek his fortune in cruel, stony-hearted London. THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 31 CHAPTER V. — Milligent Meets Her Husband's Shadow. • A fortnight after Darrell's departure, the good ship VulfUre was nearly ready for another cruise, and Captain l)ukc rode off to Marley Water to superintend the final preparations. * I shall sail on the thirtieth, Milly,' he said, the day he left Compton, ' and as 1 -han't have time to ride over here and say good-bye to you, 1 should like you to come to Marley, and see rue before I start ' . • ' I will come, if you wish, George,' sbeansw'ered, quietly. She was always gen- tle and obedient, something as a child might have been to a hard taskmaster, bul in no way like a wife who loved her husband. ' Aery good. There's a branch coach passes through here three times a week from York to Carlisle ; it stops at .Marley Water. You can come 'by that, Milli- eent. ' ' Yes, George.' , The snow never melted upon Compton Moor throughout the dark January days. Millicent felt a strauge, dull aching at her heart as she stood before the door of the Black Hear wailing for the Carlisle coach, and watching the dreary expanse of glisten ing white that stretched far away to the dark horizon. She had seen it often under the tenantless moonlight when Darrell Markham was lying on his sick bed. Dismal as that sad time had been, .she looked back on it with a sigh. • fie was near her then, she thought, and now he was lost, in the wild vortex of terrible London — lost to her, perhaps, forever. Mrs Sarah Pecker cried out indignantly at this wintry journey. ' What does the Captain mean by it/ she said, ' sending off a poor delicate lamb like you four-and-twenty mile in a old fusty stage-coach upon such a after- noon as this. If he wants you to catch your death, Miss Milly, he's a-going the right way to bring about his wicked wishes.' The great, heavy, lumbering, broad-shouldered coach drove up wlule Mistress Pecker was still holding forth upon this subject. . One or two of the inside pas- gers looked out and asked for brandy-and-water while the horses were being changed. Some of the oufaides clambered down from the roof of the vehicle, and went into the Black Bear to warm themselves at the blazing fire in the parlour and drink a. glass of raw spirits. One man seated upon the box refused! to alight, when asked to do BO by another passenger, and sat with his face turned away from the inn, looking straight out upon the snowy moorland. If even this man's face had been turned towards the little group at the door of the Black Hear, they would have had considerable difficulty in distinguishing his ires, for he wore his three-cornered hat slouched over his eyes, and the collar of his thick horseman's coal drawn close up to his ears. ' He's a grim customer up yonder,' said the man who had spoken to this outside pass* ti-er, designating him by a jerk of the head — ' a regular grim customer. I wonder what he IS, and where he's goinj Mistress Pecker assisted Milliccnt into the coach, settled her in a warm corner, uDd wrapped her camlet cloak about Her. 32 DARRELL MARKHAM : OR ' You'd better have one of Samuel's comforters for your throat, Miss Milly/ she said, ' and one of his coats to wrap about your feet. Its bitter weather for such a journey.? Millicent declined the coat and the comforter; but she kissed her old nurse as the coachman drew his horses together for the start. ' God bless you, Sally,' she said ; ' I wish the journey was over and done with.- and that I was back again with you.' The coach drove off before Mrs. Pecker could answer. 1 Poor dear child,' said the inn-keeper's wife, ' to think of her going out alom- and friendless on such a day as this. She wishes she. was back with us, she said. I sometimes think there's a look m her poor mournful blue eyes, as if she wished she was lying quiet and calm in Compton churchyard.' The high road from Compton to Marley Water wound amongst bleak and ste- rile moors, passing now and then a l'ong straggling village or a lonely farm-house. It was longer by this road than by the. moorland bridle path, and it was quite dark ■when the stage coach drove over the uneven pavement of the high-street of Marley Water. Millicent found her husband waiting for her at the inn where the coach stopped. 'You're just in time, Milly,' he said . ; 'the Vulture sails to. night.' Captain Duke was stopping at a tavern on the quay. He put Millicent's arm iu his, and led her through the narrow high-street. This Principal street of Marley Water was lighted here and there by feeble oil- lamps, which shed a wan light upon the figures of the foot-passengers. Glancing behind her, once, bewildered by the strange bustle of the busy little seaport town, Millicent was surprised to see the outside passenger whom she had observed at Compton, following close upon their heels. Captain Duke felt the little hand tighten upon his arm with a nervous shiver. ' What made you start ?' he asked. 'The— the man !' 'Whatman?' ' A man who traveled outside the coach, and whose face was. quite concealed by his hat and cloak. ' He is just behind us.' George Duke looked back, but the outside passenger was no longer to be seen. • What a silly child you are, Millicent,' he said. ' What is there so wonderful in your seeing one of your fellow-passengers in the high-street ten minutes after the coach has stopped V 1 But "he seemed to be following us.' ' Why, my country wench, people walk close behind each other in busy town- without any such thought as following their neighbors. Millicent. Millicent, when will you learn to be* wise V The Captain of the Vulture seemed in unusually good spirits this late January night ' I shall be far away upon the blue water in twenty-four hours, Milly,' he said. ' No one but a sailor can tell a sailor's weariness of land.' I heard of your brother llingwood last night.' 'Bad news?' asked Millicent anxiously. 1 No ; good news for you, who will come in for his money if he dies unmarried. He's leading a wild life, and wasting his substance in taverns, and worse place.- THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 33 than taverns. Luckily for the boy, Coinpton property is safely secured, so that he can neither scll°nor mortgage it.' The little inn at which George Duke was stopping faced the water, and Milli- cent could see the lights on board the Vulture, gleaming far away through the winter night, from the window of the little parlor where supper was laid out ready for the traveller. 'At what o'clock do you sail, George ?' she asked. * 1 A little before midnight. You cau go down to the pier with me, and see the last of me, and you can get back to Compton by the return coach to-morrow morning.' ' I will do exactly as you please. Will this voyage be a long one, George V 1 Not long. I shall be back in three mouths at the latest.' Her heart sank at his ready answer. She was always so much happier in his absence. Happy in her trim little cottage, her stout, good-tempered servants, the friends who had known her from her childhood, her novels, her old companion, the faithful brown aud white spaniel — happy in all these — happy, too, in her un- disturbed memories of Darrell Markbam. While George and his wife were seated at the little supper-table, one of the ser- vants of the inn came to say that Captain Duke was wanted. ' Who wants inc.?' he asked, impatiently. ' A man wrapped in a horseman's coat, and with his hat over his eyes, Captain.' ' Did you tell hiul that I was busy; that I was just going to sail?' ' I did, Captain ; but he says that he must see you. He has traveled above two hundred miles on purpose.' An angry darkness spread itself over the Captain's handsome face. ' Curse such interruption,' he said, savagely. ' Let him come up stairs. Here, Millicent,' he added, when the waiter had left the room, 'take one of those can- dles, and go into the opposite chamber; it is my sleeping room. Quick, girl, quick.' He thrust the candlestick into her hand with an impatient gesture, and almost pushed her out of the room, in his flurry and agitation. She hurried acsosa the landing-place into the opposite chamber, but not before she had recognized in the man ascending the stairs the outside passcuger who had followed them in the high-street; not before she had heard her husband say, as he shut the parlour door upon himself and his visitor — * You here ! By heaven, I guessed as much.' Some logs burned upon the open hearth in the Captain's bed-room, aud Milli- cent seated herself on a low stool before the warm blaze. She sat for upwards of an hour wonderiug at this stranger's lengthened interview with her husband. Once she went on to the landing to see if the visitor had left. She heard the voices of the two men raised as if in anger, but she could not hear their words. The clock was striking eleven as the parlour door opened and the stranger de- scended the stairs. Captain Duke crossed the landing-place aud looked into the bed-room where Millicent sat brooding over the fire. 'Come,' he said, ' I have little better than half an hour to get off; put ou your clonk and conic with me.' It was a bitter cold night, but the moon was nearly at the full, and shone upon the stone pier and the white quays with a cold, steely light, that gave a ghostly 3 34 DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR brightness to every objeet upon which it fell. The outlines of the old-fashioned houses along the quay were cut black and sharp against this -blue light; every coil of rope and idle anchor, every bag of ballast lying upon the edge of the para- pet, every chain and post, and iron ring attached to the solid masonry, was visible in this winter moonlight. The last brawlers had left the tavern on the- quay, the last stragglers had deserted the narrow streets, the last dim lights had been ex- tinguished . in the upper »windows, and Marley Water, at a little after eleven o'clock, was as still as the quiet churchyard at Comptou-on-the-Moor. Millicent shivered as she walked by her husband's side % along the main quay ; once or 'twice she glanced at him furtively; she could see the sharp lines of his profile against the purple atmosphere, and she could see by, his face that he had some trouble on his mind. They turned off the quay on to the pier which stretched far out into the water. 1 The boat is to wait for me at the othev end/ said Captain Duke. ' The tide has turned, and the wind is in our favour.' He walked for some time in silence, Millicent watching him timidly all the while; presently he turned to her, and said, abruptly — * Mistress George Duke, have you a ring or any such foolish trinket about you?' 'A ring, George?' she said, bewildered by the suddenness of the question. 'A ring, a brooch, a locket, a ribbon, anything which you could swear to twenty years hence if need were.' She had a locket hanging about her throat which had been given to her by Darrell, than which she would have sooner parted with her life. 'A locket?' she said, hesitating. 4 Anything ! Haven't I said before, anything ?' . ' I have the little diamond ear-rings in my ears, George.' ' Give me one of them, then ; I have a fancy to take some token of you with me on my voyage. The ear-ring will do/ She took the jewel from her ear and handed it to him. She was too indifferent to him and to all things in her weary life even to wonder at his motive in asking for the trinket. 'This is better than anything, Millicent,' he said, slipping the. jewel into his waistcoat pocket ; ' the ear-rings are of Indian Workmanship, and of a rare pat- tern. Remember, Millicent, the man who comes to you and calls himself your husband, yet cannot give you this diamond ear-ring, will not be George Duke.' 'What do you mean, George?' . j ' When I return to Compto'n, ask me for the fellow jewel to that in your ear. If I cannot show it to you ' 1 What then, George V • * Drive me from your door as an impostor.' ' But you may lose it.' . 'I shall not lose it.' He relapsed into silence. They walked on towards the farther end of the long pier, their shadows stretching out before them black upon the moonlit stones. They were half a mile from the quay, and they were alone upon the pier, with no sound to wake the silence but the echoes of their own footsteps and the noise of the waves dashing against the stone bulwarks. THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 35 The Vulture's boat was waiting at the end of* the pier. Captain George Duke took his wife in his arms and pressed his lips to her cold forehead ' You will have a lonely walk back to the inn, Millicent,' he said; 'but I have told them to make you comfortable; and to see you safely off by the" return coach to-morrow morning. Good-bye, and God bless you. Remember what I have told you to-night.' Something in his manner — a tenderness that was strange to him — touched her gentle heart. She stopped him as he was about to descend the steps. 'It has been my unhappiness that 1 have never been a good wife to you, George Duke. I will pray for your safety while you are far away upon the cruel sea.' The Captain pressed her trembling little hand. . • Good-bye, Millicent,' he said, ' and remember.' Before she could answer him he was gone. She saw the men push the boat oft from the steps * she heard the regular strokes ot the oars plashing through the water, the little craft skimming lightly over the surface of the waves. He was gone ; she could return to her quiet cottage at Compton, her novel reading, her old friends, her undisturbed recollections of Darrell Markham. She stood watching the boat till it grew into a dim, black speck upon the moonlit waters ; then she slowly turned and walked towards the quay. A long, lonely walk at that dead hour of the night for such a delicately nur- tured woman as Millicent Duke ! She was not a courageous woman either ; rather over-sensitive and nervous, as the reader knows; fond of reading silly romances, such as people wrote a century ago, full of mysteries and horroi-s, of haunted chambers, secret passages, midnight encounters, and masked assassins. The clocks of Marley Water began to strike twelve as she approached the centre of the desolate pier. One by one, the different iron voices slowly rang out the hour; smaller voices in the distance taking up the sound, and all Marley and all the sea, to he^' fancy, tremulous with the sonorous vibration. As the last stroke from the last clock died away and the sleeping town relapsed into silence, she heard the noise of a man's footstep slowly 'approaching her. She must meet him and pass by him in order to reach the quay. She had a strange vague fear of this encounter. He might be a highwayman, he might attack and attempt to rob her. The poor girl was prepared to throw her purse and all' her little trinkets at his feet — all but 1 >arrcll's locket. Still the footsteps slowly approached. The stranger came nearer and nearer in the ghastly moonlight — nearer, until he came face to face with Millicent Duke. Then she stopped. She meant to have hurried by the man, to have avoided even being seen by him, if possible. But she stood face to face with him, rooted to the ground, a heavy languor paralysing her limbs, an unearthly chill creeping tn the very roots of her hair. Her hands fell powerless at her sides. She could only stand, white and im- movable, with dilated eyes, staring blankly into the man's face. He wore a blue coat, and a three-cornered hat, thrown jauntily upon his head, so as in nowise to overshadow his face. She wa* alone, half a mile from a human habitation or human help — alone at the stroke of midnight, with her 'husband's ghost. og DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR There was no illusion ; no shadowy deception, save of a fervid imagination. There, line for line, shade for shade, stood a shadow who wore the outward seem- ing of George Duke. She reeled away from him, tottered feebly forward for a few faces, and then summoning a desperate courage, rushed blindly on towards the quay, her gar- ments fluttering in the sharp winter air. She reached the inn ; a servant had waited up to receive her ; the sea-coal fire burned brightly in the wainscoted little sitting-room ; all within was cheerful and pleasant. Millicent fell into the girl's arms and sobbed aloud. ' Don't leave me,' she said- ' don't leave me alone this terrible night. I have often heard that such things were, but never knew before how truly people spoke who told of them. This°will be a bad voyage for the ship that sails to-night. I have seen my hus- band's ghost.' CHAPTER VI. — Sally Pecker Lifts the Curtain or the Past. The best part of the year had dragged out its slow monotonous course since that moonlit January night upon which Millicent Duke had stood face to face with the shadow of her husband upon the long stone pier at Marley Water. The story of Captain George Duke's ghost was pretty well known in the quiet village of Compton-on-the-Moor, though Millicent had only told it under the seal of secresy to honest Sally Pecker. We are but mortal. Mrs. Sally Pecker had tried to keep this solemn secret, but her very reticence was so overstrained, that in three days all Compton knew that the hostess at the Black Bear had something wondeiful on her mind which she l could, an' if she woiild/ reveal to her especial friends and customers. Ao-ain, though Millicent might be sole proprietress of that midnight encounter at Marley, had not Samuel Pecker himself a prior claim upon the Captain's ghost ? Had he not seen and conversed with the apparition ? l I see him as plain, Sarah, as I see the oven and the spit as I'm sitting before at thi^s present time/ Samuel protested. It was but natural, then, that, little by little, dark hints of the mystery oozed out, and that when the three months appointed for the voyage of .the Vulture expired, and Captain Duke did not return to Compton, the honest Cumbrians began to look solemnly at each other and to mutter ominously that they had never looked to see George Duke touch British ground alive. But Millicent heard none of these whispers ; shut up in her cottage, she read the well-thumbed romances, sitting in the high-backed arm chair, with the white and brown spaniel at her feet, and Darrell Markham's locket 'in her bosom. The stout servant girl went out in the evenings now and then, and heard the Compton gossip ; but if eter she thought of repeating it to ner mistress, she felt the words die away upon her lips as she looked at Millicent's pale face and mournful blue eyes. < Madam has trouble enough/ she thought, ' without hearing their talk.' It seemed, as month after month passed away— as the long grass grew deep in the meadow round Compton, and fell in rich waves of dewy green under the mower's scythe — as the stackers spread their smooth straw thatch over groups of noble hayricks clustering about the farm houses — as the corn began to change color, THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 37 and yeljow shades came slowly creeping up the waving stalks towards the heavy ears of wheat and rye — as the ponderous wagons staggered homewards under their rich burdens of golden store — as the flat stubborn fields were laid bare to the autumn breezes, and the ripening blackberries grew black in the hedges — as the bright foliage in the woods slowly faded out, and the withered leaves rustled to the ground—as the early frost began to sparkle upon the whitened moors in the chilly sunrise — as the pale November fog came stealing over the wide moorland, and creeping iuto Compton High street in the early twilight — as Time, with every changing sign with which he marks his course upon the face of nature,- passed away, and still no tidings of Captain George Duke and the good ship Vulture were heard in Compton ; — it seemed, I say, as if the honest villagers had indeed been strangely uear the truth when they said that the Captain would never, touch British ground again. In all Compton, Millicent Duke was, perhaps, the only person who thought differently. • ' It is but ten mouths that he has been away,' she said, when Mrs. Sally Pecker hinted to her that the chances seemed to be against the Captain's return, and that it might be only correct were she to think of putting on mourning, ' it is not ten months; and George Duke was never an over anxious husband. If it seemed pleasant or profitable to him to stay away, no thought of me would bring him back any the sooner. If it was three years, Sally, I should think little of it, and expect any day to see him walk into the cottage.' ' Him as you saw upon the pier at Marley, perhaps, Miss Milly,' answered 8ally, solemnly, ' but not Captain Duke. Such things as } 7 Ou and Samuel see last winter arn't shown to folks for nothing, and it seems like doubting Providence after that to doubt that the Captain's been drowned. I dreamt three times that 1 see my first husband, Thomas Masterson, lying dead upon a bit of rock in the middle of a stormy sea ; and I put ou widow's weeds after the third time/ ' But you had news of his death, Sally, hadn't you.' ' No more news than his staying away seventeen year and more, Miss Milly, and if that ain't news enough to make a woman a widow, I don't know what is ! Millicent was sitting on a low stool at Mrs. Sally Pecker's feet before a cheer- ful sea-coal fire in the snug little parlor at the Black Bear. It was a comfort to the poor girl to spend these long wintry evenings with honest Sally, listening to the wind roaring in the wide chimneys, counting the drops of rain beating against the window panes, and talking of the dear old times that were past and gone. The customers at the Black Bear were a very steady set of people, who came and went at the same hours, and ordered the same things from year's end to year's end ; so when Sally had her dear young mistress to visit her, she left the feeble Samuel to entertain and wait upon his patrons, and, turning her back to business and the bar, took gentle Millicent's pale golden head upon her knee, and lovingly* smoothing the soft curls, comforted the forlorn heart with that to Ik of the Jays gone by that was so mournfully sweet to Mistress George Duke. Long as Sarah Masterson had been housekeeper at the Hall. Millicent never remembered having heard any mention whatever of the name of Thomas Master- son. mariner; but on this dark November evening some chance word brought Sarth's first husband into Mrs. Duke's thoughts, and she felt a strange curiosity about the dead seaman. • Was he good to you, Sally[?' she asked, 4 and did you love him ':' 33 DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR Sally looked gloomily at the fire for some moments before she answered this question. 'It's a long while ago, Miss Millicent,' she said, 'and it seems hard, looking back so far, to remember what was and what wasn't I was but a poor stupid lass when Masterson first came to Compton. I did love him, Miss Milly, and he warn't good to me.' ' Not good to you, Sally}?' ' He was bitter, bad and cruel to me !\ answered Sally in a suppressed voice, her eyes kindling at the angry recollection. ' I had a bit of money left me by poor old grandfather, and it was that he wanted, and not me. I had a few bits of silver spoons and a teapot as had been grandmother's, and he cared more for them than me. I had my savings that I had been keeping ever since I first went to service, and he wrung every guinea' from me, and every crownpiece, and shil- ling, and copper, till he left me without clothes to caver me, and almost without bread to eat. You see me here, Miss, with Samuel, having my own way in eve- rything, and managing of him mild like. You wouldn't believe I was the same woman, if you'd seen me with Masterson. I was frightened of him, Miss Millicent ! — I was frightened of him !' The very recollection of her dead husband seemed to strike terror to the stout heart of the ponderous Sally Pecker. She cowered down over the fire, clinging to Millicent as if she would have turned for protection even to that slender reed, and, glancing across her shoulder, looked towards the window behind her, as if she expected to see it shaken by some more terrible touch than that of the wind and rain. ' Sally, Sally !' exclaimed Millicent soothingly, for it was now her turn to be the comforter, ' why were you frightened of him V ' Because he was I haven't told you all the truth about him yet, Miss Millicent, and I've never told it to mortal ears, and never will except to yours. I've called him a mariner, Miss, for this seventeen years and past. It's not a hard word, and it means almost anything in the way of sailoring; but he was ouc of the most desperate smugglers as ever robbed king and country, and I found it out three months after we was married.' It was some little time before Millicent uttered a word in reply to this. She gat with her slender hands clasped round one of Sarah's plump rists, her large blue eyes fixed upon the red blaze with the thoughtfully earnest gaze peculiar to her. ' My poor, poor Sally ! it was very hard for you,' she said at last. ' Compton seems so far away from the world, and we so ignorant, that it was little wonder you were deceived. Others have been deceived, Sally, since then.' ; • Mrs Sarah Pecker nodded her head. She had heard the dark reports current- among the Compton people about the good ship Vulture and her captain. She only sighed thoughtfully, as she murmured — ' Ah, Miss Milly, if that had been the worst, I might have borne it uncom- plainingly, for I was milder tempered those days than I am now. We didn't live at Compton, but in a little village along the coast, as was handy for my hus- band's unlawful trade. We'd lived together five years, me never daring to com- plain of any hardships, nor of the wickedness of cheating the king as Thomas Masterson cheated him every week of his life; I seemed not much to care what ' THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 39 he did, or where he went, for I had 1113* comfort and my happiness. I had»niy boy, who was born a year after we left Compton — my beautiful boy, with the great black eyes and the curly hail- — and I was as happy as the day was long while all went well with him. But the bitterest was to come, Miss Milly, for when the child came to be four years old, I saw that the father was teaching him his own bad ways, and putting his own wicked words into the baby's innocent mouth, and bringing him up in a fair way to be a curse to himself and them that loved him. I couldn't bear this ; I could have borne to have been trampled on myself, but I couldn't bear to see my child going to ruin before his mother's eyes. I told Masterson so one night. I was violent, perhaps, for I was almost wild like, and my passion carried me away. I told him that I meant to take the child away with me out of his reach, and go into service and work for himj and bring him up to be an honest man. He laughed and said I was welcome to the brat, and I took him at his word, thinking he didn't care. I went to sleep with the boy in my arms, •meaning to set out early the next morning, and come back to Compton, where I had friends. Oh, Miss Millicent, may you never know such bitter trials ! When I woke up my child was gone, and I never saw either Masterson or my boy again.' ' You waited in the village where he left you ?' asked Millicent. ' For a year aud over, Miss Milly, hopin' that he'd come back, bringing the boy with him; but no tidings ever came of him. At the end 'of that time I left word with the neighbors to say I was gone back to Compton, aud I came straight here, when your father took me as his housekeeper, and where I lived happy for many years ; but I've never forgotten my boy. Miss Millicent, atad it's very seldom that I go to sleep without seeing his beautiful eyes shining upon me iu my dreams.' ' Oh, Sally, Sally, how bitterly you have suffered, and what reason you have to hate this man's memory !' ' We've no call to talk harsh of them that's dead and gone, Miss Milly. Let 'em rest with their sins upon their own heads, and let us look to happier times. When Thomas Masterson went away, and left me without a sixpence to buy a loaf of bread, I never thought to be mistress of the Black Bear. Pecker has been a good friend to me, .Miss, and a true, and I bless the Providence that sent him courting to the Hall — sitting' of evenings *iu the housekeeper's room, never saying much, but always looking melancholic like, and dropping sudden on his knees one night, spying, " Sarah, will you have me V ' Mr. Samuel Pecker here venturing to put his head into the room, and fur- thermore presuming to ask some question connected with the business of the es- tablishment, was answered so sharply by his beloved wife that he retreated iu confusion without obtaining what he wanted. For the worthy Sarah, in common with many other wives, made a point of scrupulously concealing from her weaker helpmate any tender or grateful feeling that she might entertain for him; being possessed with an ever-present fear that if treated with ordinary civility he might, to use her own words, try to/get the better of her. So the dreary winter time set in, and, except for thi? honest-hearted Sally Pecker, and the pale curate's busy little wife, who had much ado to keep seven children fed and clothed upon sixty pounds a year, Millicent Puke was almost 4Q DARRELL MARKHAM; QR friendless. She was so gentle and retiring that she had never made many ac- quaintances. In the happy old time at the Hall, Darrell had been her friend, confidant and playfellow ; and she had neither needed nor wished for any other. So now she shut herself up in her little cottage, with its quaint old mirrors and spindle-legged table ; its grim arm-chairs of dark .mahogony, and heavy oaken seats, that were too big to be moved by her feeble arms ; she shut herself up in her prim, orderly little abode, and the Compton people seldom saw her except at Church, or on her way to the Black Bear. Millicent heard nothing of Darrell directly, but he wrote about once in six weeks to Mrs. Sarah Pecker, who was sorely put to it to scrawl a few words in reply, telling him how Miss Millicent was but weakly, and how Captain Duke was still away with his ship, the Vulture. Through Sally, therefore, Mrs. Duke had tidings of this dear cousin. He had found friends in London, and had been taken as secretary to a noble Scottish lord, suspected of no very strong attachment to the Hanoverian cause ; but it was not so long since other, noble Scottish lords had paid the price of their loyalty, and there were ghastly and hideous warnings for those who went under Temple Bar ; so whatever was done for the exiled family was done in secret — for the failures of the past had made the bravest men cautious. CHAPTER VII.— How Darrell Markham Found his Horse. While Millicent sat in the Jittle oaken parlor at the Black Bear, with her head on Sarah Pecker's knee, and her melancholy blue eyes fixed upon the red recesses of the hollow fire, Darrell Markham rode westward through the dim November fog, charged with letters and messages from his patron, Lord C , to some noble Somersetshire gentlemen, whose country seats lay very near Bristol. On the first night of his journey, Darrell was to put up at Reading. It was dark when he entered the town, and rode between the two dim rows of flickering oil lamps straight to the door of the inn to which he had been recommended. The upper windows of the hostelry were brilliantly illuminated, and he could hear the jingling of glasses, and the noise of loud and riotous talk within. Though dark it was but early, and the lower jpwet of the house was erowded with stalwart farmers, who had ridden over to the Reading market, and towns-people congre- gated about the bar to discuss the day's business. • Darrell flung the reins to the ostler, with a few particular directions about the treatment of his horse ' I Will come round to the stable after I've dined,' Darrell said, ? and see how the animal looks ; for he has a hard day's work before him to-morrow, and he must start in good condition.' The ostler touched 'his hat, and led the horse away. It was a tall bony grey, not over handsome to look at, but strong enough to make light of the stiffest work. They ushered Darrell up the broad staircase, and into a long corridor, in, which he heard the same loud voices that had attracted his attention outside the inn. * You have rather a riotous party,' he said to the landlord, who was carrying a pair of wax lights, and leading the way for his visitor. 1 The gentlemen are merry, sir,' answered the man. ' They have been a long THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTCRE. 41 time over their wine. Sir Lovel Mortimer se of his head, sir; he's a stiffish temper,' remonstrated the ostler, drawing back. ' Give me the lantern, man ; I know all about his temper.' The ostler obeyed very unwillingly, and handed Darrell the lantern. 1 1 thought so,' said the young man, holding the glimmering light before the horse's face; ' and you knew your old master, Dalmerino, eh, boy?' The horse whinnied joyously, and snuffed at Darrell's coat sleeve. * The animal seems to know you, sir,' exclaimed the ostler. • We know each other as well as ever brothers did,' said Darrell, stroking the horse's neck. ■ 'I have ridden him for seven years and more, and I only last him b twelvemonth ajro. Do vou know anything of this Sir Lovel Mortimer who owns •him." ' • 'Not over much, sir, except that he's a fine hiirh-spoken gentleman. He al- our house when he's travelling between London and the west.' •And ia that often?' asked Darrell. ' Maybe six or eight times in a year,' answered the ostler. 42 DARRELL MARKHAM; OR 'The gentleman is fonder of the road than I am,' muttered the young man • Has he ever ridden this horse before to-day V The ostler hesitated, and scratched his head thoughtfully. 'I see a many bay horses/ he answered, after a pause; 'I can't swear to this- here animal ; he may have been here before ; but then, lookin' at it the other -way, he mayn't.' # 'Anyhow, you don't remember him?' said Darrell. ' Not to swear to,' repeated the man. ' I wouldn't mind giving a hundred pounds for this meeting of to-night, Bal- merino, old friend,' murmured Darrell, l though it was the last handful of guineas I had in the. world !' He returned to the house, and going up to the bar, called the landlord aside. ' I must speak to one of your guests up-stairs, my worthy host,' he said. ( Sir Lovel Mortimer must answer me two or three questions before I leave this house.' . The landlord looked alarmed at the very thought of an intrusion upon his im- portant customer. . . 1 Sir Lovel is not one'to see over much company,' he said ; ' but if you're a friend o£ his ' ' I never heard his name till to-night/ answered Darrell ; ' but when a man rides another man's horse, he ought to be prepared to answer a few questions.' ' Sir Lovel Mortiniei riding another man's horse !' cried the landlord, aghast. ' You must be mistaken, sir !' r ' I have just left a horse in your stable that I could swear to as my own before any court in England.' ' A gentleman has often been mistaken in a horse/ muttered the landlord. ' Not after he has ridden him seven* years/ answered Darrell. ' Be so good as to take my name to Sir Lovel, and tell him I should be glad of five minutes' conversation.' The landlord obeyed very reluctantly. Sir Lovel was tired with his journey, and would take it ill being disturbed, he muttered ; but as Darrell insisted, lie went up-stairs with the young man's message, and returned presently to say that Sir Lovel would see the gentleman. Darrell lost no time in following the landlord, who, inhered him very ceremo- niously into Sir Lovel's apartment. The room occupied by the west country baro- net was a long wainscoted chamber, lighted by wax candies in sconces between the three windows and the panels in the opposite walls. It was used on grand occasions as a ballroom, and had all the stiff, old-fashioned grandeur of a State apartment. A pile of blading logs sent the red flames roaring up the wide chim- ney, and in an easy chair before the open hearth lolled an effeminate-looking young man, in a brocade dressing-gown, silk stockings, with embroidered clocks, and shoes with red heels and glittering diamond buckles that emitted purple and rainbow sparks in the firelight. He wore a flaxen wig, curled and frizzed to such a degree that it stood away from his face, round which it formed a pale yellow • frame, contrasting strongly with a pair of. large, restless, black eyes, and the blue stubble upon his slender chin. He was quite alone, and in spite of the two empty punch bowls and the regiment of bottles upon the table before him, he seemed perfectly sober. ' Sit ye down, Mr. Markham/ he said, waving a hand as small as a woman's, ' THE- CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 43 and all of a glitter with diamonds and emeralds, ' sit yo down ; and hark ye, Mr. William Byers, bring me auother bottle of claret, and see that it's a little better than the last. My two worthy friends have staggered off to bed, Mr. Markham, a little the worse for this evening's bout, but you see I've contrived to keep my brains pretty clear of cobwebs, and am your humble servant to command.' Sir Lovel Mortimer was 1 as effeminate in manners as in person. He had a clear treble voice, and spoke iii the languid, drawling manner of the maccaronis of llanelagh aud the Parks. . Darrell Markham told the story of his recognizing his horse iu the stable below, in a few words. ' And you lost him V drawled Sir Lovel. ' A year ago last month.' ' Strange !' lisped the baronet. ' I gave fifty guineas for the animal at a fair at „ Barnstable last July.' ' Do you remember the person of whom you bought him ?' ' Yes, perfectly. He was an elderly mau, with white hair ; he represented himself as a farmer from Dorsetshire.' ' Then the trace of the villran who robbed me is lost,' said Darrell. ' I would have given much had you got him straight from the scoundrel who robbed me of my purse and watch, and some documents of value to others besides myself, upon Compton Moor, last October.' Sir Lovel Mortimer's restless black eyes flashed with an eager light as he looked at the speaker. Those ever restless eyes were strangely at variance with the young bafonet's drawling treble voice and languid manner. It was as if tht ef- feminate languor was only an assumption, the falsehood of which the eager, burn- ing eyes betrayed in spite of himself. ' Will you tell me the story of your encounter with the knight of the road V he asked. Darrell gave him a brief description of his meeting with the highwayman, omitting all that bore any relation to either Millicent or Captaiu George Duke. ' I scarcely expect you to believe all this/ said Darrell, iu conclusion, ' or to acknowledge my claims upon the horse ; but if you like to come down to the stable, you will see at least that the faithful creature remembers his old master.' ' I have no need to go to the stable for confirmation of your words, Mr. Mark- ham, ' answered the young baronet; ' I would be the last to doubt the truth of a gentleman's assertion.' The landlord brought the claret and a couple of clean glasses, while the two men were talking, and Sir Lovel pledged his visitor iu a bumper. The west country baronet seemed delighted to secure Darrell's society. He talked of the metropolis, boasted of his conquests among the fair sex, aud slipping from one subject to auother, began presently to speak of politics. Darrell, who had listened patiently to his silly prattle, grew grave immediately. ' You seem to take but little interest in either party, Mr. Markham,' Sir Lovel said at last, offer vainly trying to discover the bent of Darrell's mind. 'Not over much,' answered the young man. 'I was bred in the country, where all we knew of politics was to set the bells ringing on the kiu_:"s birthday, and pray for his majesty iu church on Sundays and holid:.; Sir Lovel^shrngged his shoulders. 44 DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR 4 What say yon to our eating a broiled capon together V he said. ' My friends ■were too far gone to bold out for supper, and I shall be very glad of your company over a bowl of punch/ Darrell begged to be excused. He had to be on the road early the next morn- ing, he said, and sadly wanted a good night's rest. The baronet would take no refusal ; he rang the bell, summoned Mr. William Byers, the landlord, who waited his person upon his important guest, and ordered the capon and the punch. ' We can come to a friendly understanding about the horse while we sup, Mr. Markham,' said Sir Lovel. Darrell bowed. Tbe friendly understanding the two men came to was, that Markham would pay the baronet twenty guineas and give him the grey horse in exchange for Balmerino — the grey being worth about twenty pounds, and Sir Lovel being willing to lose ten by his bargain. So Darrell and the baronet parted excellent friends, and early the next morning Balmerino was brought round to the front door of the inn saddled and bridled for his old master. The animal was in splendid condition, and, as Darrell spi-ang into the saddle, neighed proudly as he recognised the light hand of his familiar rider. The pave- ment of the Reading street clattered under his hoofs, and in ten minutes he was out upon the Bath road with the town melting into the distance behind him. Darrell dined at Marlborough, and as the evening closed in with a thick white fog that shut him in on every side, he found himself in the loneliest part of the road between Marlborough and Bath. He had a well-filled purse, but he had a good pair of pistols, and felt safely armed against all attack. But, for the second time in his life, he had reason to repent of his rashness, for in the very loneliest turn of the road he heard the clattering of many hoofs close behind him, and by the time he had his pistols ready he was surrounded by three men, one of whom coming behind him threw up his arm as he was about to fire at the first of his assailants, while the third struck the same swinging blow upon his head that had laid him prostrate a year before upon the moorland road between Comp.ton and Marley. When Darrell Markham recovered his senses, he found himself lying on his back in a shallow, dry ditch ; the fog had cleared away and the stars shone with a pale and chilly glimmer upon the winter landscape; the young man's pockets had been rifled and his pistols taken from him ; but tied to the hedge above him .'Stood the grey horse which he had left in the custody of the west country baronet. • Stupefied with the blow, and with every bone in his body stiff from lying for four or five hours in the cold and damp, Darrell was just able to get into the sad- dle and ride about a mile and a half to the nearest road-side inn. The country people who kept this hostelry were almost frightened when they saw his white face and blood-stained forehead ; but any story of outrage upon the high road found ready listeners and heartfelt sympathy. The landlord stood open-mouthed as Darrell told of his adventure of the night before, and the exchange of the horses. ' Was the west country baronet a fine ladyfied little chap, with black eyes and small hands V he asked eagerly. 1 Yes.' The man looked triumphantly round at the bystanders. < I'm blest if I didn't think so/ he said. 'It's Captain Fanny.' THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE 45 ' Captain Fanny !' 1 Yes, one of the worst scoundrels in all the West of England, and the most difficult to catch. He's been christened Captaiu Fanny for his small hands and feet and his lackadaisical ways.' ' The ostler came in as the landlord was speaking. ' I don't know whether you kdew of this, sir,' he said, handing Darrell a slip of paper ; ' I found it tied to the horse's bridle.' The young man unfolded the paper and read these few words : — ' With Sir Level Mortimer's compliments to Mr. Markham, and in strict accor- dance with the old adage which says that exchange is no robbery.' CHAPTER Vfll.— How a Strange Pedlar. worked a Great Change in the Mind and Manners of Sally Pecker. Darrell Markham waited at the roadside inn till the tedious post of those days brought him a packet containing money from his friend and patron, Lord C . He waa vexed and humiliated at his encounter with Captain Fanny ; for tlie se- cond time in his life he had been worsted, and for the second time he found him- self baulked of his revenge. The constable to whom he told the story of the robbery only shrugged his shoulders, and offered to tell him of a dozen more such adventures which had occurred within the last week or two ; so Darrell had no- thing to do but to submit quietly to the loss of his money and his horse, and ride on to execute his commissions in Somersetshire. . Commissions from which little good ever came, as the reader knows ; for it seemed as if that kingly house on which misfortune had so long set her seal was never more to be elevated from the degradation to which it had sunk. All this time, while Darrell turned his horse's head from the west and jour- neyed by easy stages slowly back to town ; while Sally Pecker at the Black Bear, and all Compton, from the curate, the lawyer, and the doctor, to the lowliest cot- tager in the village, was busy with preparations for the approaching Christmas ; Millicent Duke waited and watched day after day for the return of her husband. All Compton might think the Captain dead, but not Millicent. She seemed pos- sessed by some settled conviction that all the storms that ever rent the skies or shook the ocean would never cause the death of (jeorge Duke. She watched for his coming with a sick dread that every day might bring him. She rose in the morning with the thought that ere the early winter's night drew in, he would be seated by the hearth. She never heard a latch lifted, without trembling lest his hand should be upon it, nor listened to a manly foot-fall in' the villagejhigh street without dreading lest she should recognize his familiar step. Hermeeting with George Duke's shadow upon the moonlit pier at Marley had added a superstitious terror to her old dread and dislike Of her husband. She thought of him now a.- a being possessed of unholy privileges. He might be near her, but unseen aHd impalpable; he might be hiding in the shadowy corners of the dark wainscot, U crouching in the snow outside the latticed winuow. He might be a spy upon her inmost thoughts, and knowing her distrust and aversion, might stay away for long 40 DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR year?, only to torment her the more by returning when she had forgotten to expect him, and had even learned to be happy. You see there is much to be allowed for her lonely life, her limited education, and the shade of superstition inseparable from a poetic temperament whose sole mental aliment had been such novels as people wrote and -read a hundred years' ago. . She never heard from her brother Ringwood, and the few reports of him that came to her from other sources only told of riot and dissipation, of tavern brawls and midnight squabbles in the streets above Covent Garden. She knew that' he was wasting his substance amongst bad -pieu, but she never once thought of her own interest in his fortune, or of the chances there might be of his death making her mistress of the stately old mansion in -vAuch she had been born. Sally Pecker was in the full flood-tide of her Christmas preparations. Fat geese dangled from the hooks in the larder, with their long necks hanging within within a little distance of the ground; brave turkeys and big capons hung cheek by jowl with the weighty sirloiu of beef which was to be the leading feature of the Christmas'" dinner. Everywhere, from the larder to the scullery, from the cellars to the sink, there were the tokens of plenty and the abundant promise of good cheer. In the kitchen, as in the pantry, Sally was the presiding deity. Betty, the cook-nfaid, plucked the geese, while her mistress made the Christmas pie§ and prepared the ingredients for the pudding, which was to be carried into the oak parlour on the ensuing day, garnished with holly and all a-blaze with burnt brandy. So important were these preparations, that as late as nine o'clock on the night of the twenty-fourth of December, found the maid and her mistress hard at work in the great kitchen at the Black Bear. This kitchen lay at the back of the house, and was divided from the principal rooms and the entrance- hall and bar by a long passage, which kept tire clatter of plates and dishes, the wnell of cooking, and all the other tokens of preparation, from the ears and noses of Mrs. Pecker's customers, who knew nothing 'of the dinner they had ordered, until they saw it smoking upon the table before* them. Sally Pecker and her maid were cpiite alone in the kitchen, for Samuel was busy with his duties in the bar, and the two chambermaids were waiting upon the visitors who had been dropped at the Bear by the Carlisle coach. The pleasant seasonable frost, in which all Compton had rejoiced, had broken up with that per- ■ tinacious spirit of contradiction with which a hard frost generally does break up just before Christmas, and a drizzling rain fell silently without the closely-barred window-shutters. 'I never see such' weather/ said Mrs. Pecker, slamming the back door with an air of vexation after having taken a survey of the night ; ' nothing but rain, rain, rain, coming down as .straight as oneof Samuel's pencil streaks between the figures in a score. v (jjhristmas scarcely seems Christmas in such weather as this. We might as-JKellThUve ducks and green peas and cherry pie to-morrow, for all I can see, for it's so close and muggy that I can scarcely bear a good tire' i The servants a+*the Black Bear knew the value of a good place and a peaceful life -far too well ever to contradict their mistress, so Betty, the cook-maid, coin- cided immediately with Mrs. Pecker, and said that it certainly was hot — very much in the same spirit as that of the Danish courtier who was so eager to agree with Prince Hamlet. THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 47 The back door communicating with this kitchen at the Black Bear was the entrance generally used by any of the village tradesmen who brought Mrs. Pecker their goods, as well as by tramps and beggars and such idle ne'er do weels, who were generally sent oft' with a sharp answer from Sarah or her hand- maidens. On this Christmas Eve Mrs. Pecker was expecting a parcel of groceries from the nearest market-town, which were to be brought to her by the Conipton carrier. 1 Purvis is late, Betty/ she said, as the clock struck nine, 'and I shall want the plums for my next batch of pics. Drat the man ! he's gossiping and drinking at every house he calls at, Pll be bound.' Betty murmured something about Christmas, and taking a friendly glass like, tor the sake of the season ; but Mrs. Pecker cut short her maid's apology for the delinquent carrier, and said sharply, ' Christmas or no Christmas, folks should attend to the business they live by; and as for friendly glasses, nufoof compliment to the season, it's a rare season that isn't a good season for drink with the men, for every wind that blows is an excuse for a fresh ' • A highwayman ! The baronet — the mould of fi^ion and the glass of form — as lawless, the attorney, said of him; the most elegant beau that ever danced at Ranelagh ; the owner of one of the finest estates in Devonshire. Have a care, Darrell, how you speak of my friends.' It would be better if you had more care in choosing them,' answered Darrell, quietly. ' My poor, foolish Bingwood, I hope you have not been letting this man clean out your pockets at hazard.' 1 1 have lost a few guineas to him at odd times,' muttered Bingwood, with a very long face. The young squire had paid dearly enough for his love of fashionable company, and he had borne his losses without a murmur ; but to find that he had been made a fool of all the while was a bitter blow to his self-conceit; still more bitter, since Darrell, of all others, was the person to undeceive him. ' You mean to tell me, then,' he said, ruefully, ' that this Sir Lovel ' 1 Is no more Sir Lovel than you are,' answered Darrell ; ' that all the fashion he can pretend to is that he has picked up on the king's highway ; and that the only estate he will ever be master of in Devonshire or elsewhere will be enough stout timber to build him a gallows when his course comes to an abrupt termina- tion. He is known to the knights of the road and the constables by the nickname i >f Captain Fanny, and there is little doubt the house in Chelsea to which he took you was a nest of highwaymen.' • Ringwood had not a word to say ; he sat with his night-cap in his hand and one foot out of bed, staring helplessly at his cousin, and scratched his head dubiously. ' But that is not all,' continued Darrell, ' there is some mystery in the connexion between this man and George Duke. They might prove a dozen alibis, and they might swear me out of countenance,' but prove what they may, and swear all they may, I can still declare that George Duke was-the man who robbed mc between '\mipton-on-the-Moor and Marley Water — George Duke was the man who stole my horse, and it was only seven months back that I found that very horse, stolen 58 DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR from me by that very George Duke, in the custody of this man, your friend, the baronet, alias Captain Fanny. The upshot of it is, that while we have thought George Duke was away upon the high seas, he has been hiding in Loudon and going about the country robbing honest men. The ship Vulture is a fiction, and instead of being a merchant, a privateer, a pirate, or a slaver, George Duke is neither more nor less than a highwayman.' ' I only know that T saw him one night last week at a house in Chelsea/ mut- tered Ringwood, feebly. His weak intellect could scarcely keep pace with Dar- rell's excitement. ' Get up and dress yourself, Ringwood, while I run to the nearest magistrate ; this fellow, Captain Fanny, stole my horse and emptied my pockets on the Bath road; we'll get a warrant out, take a couple of constables with us, and you shall Jead the way to the house in which you saw George Duke ; we'll unearth the scoundrels and find a clue to this mystery before night.' ' Two constables is not much/ murmured Ringwood, doubtfully. ' Sir Lovel always had his friends about him, and there may be a small regiment in that house.' Darrell looked at his cousin with undisguised contempt. ' We don't want you to face the gang/ he said; ' we shall only trek you to show us the way and point out the house ; you can run away and hide round the corner when you've done that, wIimP I go in with the constables/ ' m 'As to pointing out the house,' ansvflered the crest-fallen squire, 'I'll give my help and welcome ; but a man may be as brave as a lion, and yet not have any great fancy for being shot from behind a door.' 'I'll take the risks of any stray bullets, man/ cried Darrell, laughing; ' only get up and dress yourself without loss of time, while I go and fetch the constables.' The getting of a warrant was rather a long business, and sorely tried Darrell's patience. -It was dusk when the matter was accomplished, and the young man returned to Ringwood's lodging with the two constables and the official document which* was to secure the elegant person of Captain Fanny. Darrell found his cousin specially equipped for the expedition, and armed to the teeth with a complicated collection of pistols, of- the power to manage which he was as innocent as a baby. A formidable naval sword swung at his side, and got between his legs at every turn, while the muzzles of a tremendous pair of horse-pistols peeped out of his coat-pockets in such a manner that had they by any chance exploded, their charge must inevitably have been lodged in the elbows of the squire. Darrell set his cousin's warlike toilette a little in order, Ringwood reluctantly consenting to be left with ouly one pair of pistols and a small rapier, in exchange for the tremendous cutlass he had placed so much faith in. ■ It isn't the size of your weapon, but whether you're able to use it, that makes the difference, Ringwood,' said Darrell. ' Come along, my lad. We wont leave* you in the thick of the fight, depend upon it.' * Ringwood looked anxiously into the faces of the two constables, as if to see whether there were any symptoms of a disposition to run away in either of their stolid countenances ; and being apparently satisfied with the inspection, consented to step into a hackney-coach with his three companions. "Ringwood Markham was by no means the best of guides. The coachman who drove the party had rather a bad time of it. First, Ringwood was for going to THE CAPTAtN OF THE VULTURE. ' 5;. Chelsea through Tyburn turnpike, and could scarcely be persuaded that Ranelagh and Cheyne Walk did not lie somewhere in that direction. Then the young squire harassed and persecuted his unfortunate charioteer by suddenly command- ing him to take abrupt turnings to the left, and to follow intricate windings to the right, and to keep scrupulously out of the high road that would have taken him straight to his direction. lie grew fidgety the moment they passed Hyde Park corner, and was for driving direct to the marshes about Westminster, assuring his companions that it was necessary to pass the abbey in order to get to Chelsea. for he had passed it on the night in question ; and at last, when Darrcll fairly lost patience with him, aud bade the coachman go his own way to Cheyne Walk with- out further waste of time, Millicent's brother threw himself back in a fit of the sulks, declaring that they had made a fool of him by bringing him as their guide, and then forbidding him to speak. Put when they reached Cheyne Walk, and leaving the coach against Don Saltero's tavern, Set out on foot to find the house occupied by Captain Faun}',* Ringwood Markhain was of very little more use than before.. In the first place, he had never known the name of the street; in the second place, he had gone I it from Ranelagh, and not from Loudon, and that made all the difference in the finding of it, as he urged, when Darrcll- grew impatient at his stupidity; and then again, he had been with a merry party on that particular night, and had therefore taken little notice of the way. At last Darrell hit upon the plan of leading his cousin quietly through all the small streets at the back of Cheyne Walk, in hopes by that means of arriving at the desired end. Nor was he disap- pointed; for, after twenty false alarms, and just as he was beginning to give up the matter for a bad job, Ringwood suddenly came to a dead stop before the door ot' a substantial-looking house, and cried' triumphantly, 'That's the knocker !' • , But the young squire had given Darrell and the constables so much trouble for the last hour aud a half by stopping every now and then, under the impres- sion that he recognized a door-sUp, or a shutter, a lion's head in stone over the door-way, a brass beil-handle, a scraper, a peculiarly-shaped paving-stone, or some other object, and then, after a few moments deliberation, confessing himself to be mistaken, that, in spite -of his triumphant tone, his cousin felt rather doubtful about the matter. 'You're sure it is the house, Ringwood V he said. •' Sure ! Don't I tell you I know the knocker? A»n I likely to be mistaken, do you think V asked the squire indignantly, quite forgetting that he had con- fessed himself mistaken about twenty times in the last hour. 'Dou't I tell you that I know the knocker.* I know it because I knocked upon it, and Sir Lov he the Captain, said I was a fool. It's a dragou's-head knocker in brass. I remember it well/ 1 A dragon's head is a common enough pattern for a knocker,' said Darrell, rather hopelessly. ' Yes ; but all dragon's heads are not beaten flat on one side, as this one is, are they V cried Ringwood. 'I remember taking notice how the brass had been battered by some roysterer's sword-hilt or loaded cane. I tell you this is the house, cousin; and if you want to see George Duke, you'd better knock at the £0 DARRELL MAEBHAM ; OR - door. As I was a friend of Sir Lovel's, I'd rather not be seen in the matter ; so I'll just step round the corner.' With which expression of gentlemanly feeling, Mr. Bingwood Markham re- tired, leaving his cousin and the constables upon the door-step. *It had long been dark, and 'the night was dull and moonless, with a heavy fog rising from the river. Markham directed the two men to conceal themselves behind a projecting door- way a few paces down the street, while he knocked and- reconnoitered the place. His summons was answered by a servant girl, who carried a candle in her hand, and who told him that the west-country baronet, Sir Lov,el Mortimer, had indeed occupied a part of the house, with his servant, and two or three of his friends, but that he had left three days before, and the lodgings were now to be let. Did the girl know where Sir Lovel had gone V Darrell asked. She believed he had gone back to Devonshire ; but she would ask her missus, if the gentleman wished. But the gentleman did not wish. He was so disappointed at the result of his •expedition that he scarcely cared even to make an attempt at putting it to some trifling use. But as he was turning to leave the door-step, he stopped to ask the girl one more question. • 4 This servant of Sir Lovell's,' he said, ' what sort of a person was he V 'A nasty, grumpy, disagreeable creature,' the girl answered. * 4 Did you know his name V 1 His master always called him Jeremiah, sir; some of the other gentlemen called him sulky Jeremiah, because he was always grumbling and growling, ex- cept when he was tipsy.' ' Can you tell me what he was [like ?' asked Darrell. ' Was lie a good looking fellow?' ' Oh, as for that,' answered the servant girl, 'he was well enough to look at, but too surly for the company of Recent folks ' 9 Darrell dropped a piece of silver into the girl's hand, and wished her good night. The constables emerged from their lurking-place as the young man left the door-step. ' Is it the right hous"e, sir ?' asked one of them. ' Yes,' replied Darrell ; ' we've found the nest sure enough, but the birds have flown. We must even make the best of it, my friends, and go home, for our war- rant is but waste-paper to-night.' They found Ring-wood Markham waiting patiently enough round the corner. He chuckled rather maliciously when he heard of his cousin's disappointment. ' You'll believe me though, anyhow/ he said, ' since you found that it was the right house.' • 4 Yes, the right house,' answered Darrell, moodily; ' but there's little satisfac- tion in that. How do I know that this sulky servant of the highwayman's was really George Duke, and that you were not deceived by some fancied likeness V THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE - Ql CHAPTER XI.— After Seyen^Years. • • The star of the young squire, Ringwood Markhaui, shoDe for a very little louger in metropolitan hemispheres. His purse was empty, his credit exhausted, his health impaired, his spirits gone, and himself altogether so much the worse for his few brief years of London life, that there was nothing better for him to do than go quietly back to Compton-on-the-Moor, and take up his abode at the Hall, with au^old woman as his housekeeper, aud a couple of farm labourers for the rest of the establishment. This old woman had lived at Comptou Hall while the shutters were closed before the priucipal windows, the heavy bolts fastened upon the chief doors, and the dust, cobwebs, and shadows brooding about the portraits of the dead aud gone Markhams, whose poor painted images looked out with wan and ghastly simpers from the oaken wainscoting. The old housekeeper, I say, had led a very easy life in the dreary, darkened house, while Ringwood, its mas- ter, was roystering in the taverns about Covent Harden; and she was by no means too well pleased when, in the dusk of a misty October evening, the young squire rode quietly up the deserted avenue, dismounted from his horse in the stable- yard, walked in at the back door leading into the servants' regions, aud standing upon the broad hearth in the raftered kitchen, told her rather sulkily that he had come to live there. His doming made very little change, however ; he established himself in the oak parlour, in which his father had smoked aud drunk and sworn himself into his coffin; and after giving strict orders that only the' shutters of those rooms used by himself should be opened, he determinedly set his face against the out- raged inhabitants of Comptou. Now these simple people, not being aware that Ringwood Markham had spent every guinea that he had to spend, took great um- brage at his. ecctmtric and solitary manner of living, and forthwith solved the enigma by setting him down a miser. When in the dusk of the evening the squire crept out of the Hall gates, and strolling up to honest Sally PeckerV hospitable mansion, took his glass of punch in the best parlour of the inn, the Comptou folks gathered round him and paid their homage to him as they had doue to his father, when that obstinate-tem- pered and violent old gentleman was pleaded to hold his court at the Bear. R wood felt that simple as the retired Cumbrian villagers were, they were wiser than the Londoners who had emptied his purse for him while they laughed in their sleeves at his dignity. Yes, on the whole, he was certainly -happier at Comptou than in his Bed ford -street lodgings, or with his old tavern companions. -He had been used to lead a very narrow life at the best, aud the dull mouotouy of this new existence gave him no pain. 31illiceut saw very little of her brother. He would sometimes drop into the cottage at dusk on his wjry to the Black Bear, and sit with her for a few minutes, talking of the village, or the farm, or some otRer of the every-day matters of life ; but his sister's simple society«only wearied him, aud after about a quarter of an hour he would begin to yawn drearily behind his hand, aud then after kissing her upon the forehead as he bade her good night, he would stroll asvay to Sarah Pecker's, switching his light riding-whip as he walked, and pleased by the sensa- tion his embroidered coat created among the village urchins and the idle womeu (52 DAEEELL MARKKAS; OR ? » gossiping at their doors. It had been agreed between Darreil and Ringwood that Millicent was to know nothing of the house in Chelsea and the young squire's mysterious rencontre with George Duke or his shadow^ People iu Compton — who knew of DarreH's encounter with the highwayman upon the moor, and of Mrs. Duke's meeting with the ghost upon Marley Eier — .said that the Captain of the Vulture had his double, who appeared sometimes to those belonging to him, and whose appearance was no doubt a sign of trouble and calamity to George Duke. Such things had been before, they whispered, let the parson of the parish say what he would •; andthere were some ghosts that^ill the Latin that worthy gentleman knew would never lay in the Red Sea. The quiet years rolled slowly by unmarked by change, either at the Hall, the Black Bear, or the little cottage in which Millicent spent her tranquil days. No tidings came to Comnton of the Vulture or its Captain, and though Millicent re- fused to wear a widow's dress, the feeling slowly crept upon her that she was in-' deed a widow, and that the tic knotted for her by others, and so, bitter to bear, was broken by the mighty hand of death. For the first year or two after Ringwopd Markham's return, it was thought that lie would most likely marry and take his place iu the village as his- father had done before him. The Hall estate was considered to be a very comfortable for- tune in the neighborhood of Compton-on-the-Moor, and many a rich farmer's daughter sported her finest ribbons, and pinned her jauntily-trimmed hat eoquet- tishly aslant upon her roll -of glossy hair, in hopes of charming the young squire. But Riugwood's heart was a fortress by no means easy to be stormed : selfishness held her court therein, arfd complete indifference to all simple pleasures, and a certain weariness of life, had succeeded the young man's brief career of dissipation. As his fortune mended with the first few years of his new and steady life, something of the miser's feeling topic possession of his cold nature. He had spent his money upon ungrateful boon companions, who had laughed at him for his pains, and refused him a guinea when his purse was low. He would be warned by the past, and learn to be wiser in the future. Small tenants on the Compton Hall estate began to murmur to each other that Master Ringwood Markham was a hard landlord, and that times were even worse now for poor folks than iu the old squire's day. These poor people spoke nothing but the truth. As Ringwood's empty purse filled once more, the young man felt a greedy eagerness to save money ; for what purpose he scarcely gave himself the trouble to think. Perhaps when he did think very seriously, a shuddering fear came over him that his im- paired constitution was not to be easily mended— that even the fine north-couiiitry air sweeping across broad expanses of brown moorland, and floating in at the open windows of the oak parlour, could never bring a healthy glow back to his flushed cheeks ; and that it might be that he inherited with his mother's fair face some- thing of her feebleness of constitution. But it was rarely that he suffered his mind 'to dwell upon these things. *He was his own stewart, and rode a grey pony about the farm, watching the men at their work^and gloating over the progress of the crops as the changing seasons did their bounteous work, a"nd the bright face of plenty met him in his way. Northern harvests are late, and that harvest was especially late which was gar- nered in the seventh autumn succeeding the last sailing of the good ship Vulture THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE.. , (]o from the harbor at Marley "Water. September had been wet and cold, and October set in with a gloomy aspect, as of an unwelcome winter come before his due time. In the early days of this chill and cheerless October, they were still stacking the corn upon the Compton Hall farm, while Ringwood, on his white pony, rode from field to field to watch the progress of the men. The young squire was cautious and suspicious, and rarely thought that work was well done unless he was at the heels of those who did it. He paid dearly enough for this want of faith in those who served him, for it was in. one of these rides that he caught a chill th;ir Bettled on his lungs, and threw him on a bed of sickness. At the first hint of his illness, Milliecnt was by his side, patient and loving, eager to soothe and comfort, to tend and to vesture. Like all creatures of his class, weak alike in physical and mental qualities, the joung man peculiarly felt the helplessness of his state. Tie clung to his sister as if he had been a sick child and she his mother. Tn the dead of the night he would awake with the cold drops standing on his brow, and cry aloud to her to come to him ; then, comforted and reassured at finding her watching by his side, he would fall into a peace- ful slumber, with her hand clasped in his, and his fair head pillowed upon liei shoulder. * The Compton doctor shook his head when he looked at the young squire's hectic cheeks and sounded his narrow chest. Not satisfied with the village surgeon's -ion, Millicant sent to Marley "Water for a physician to look at her sinking brother ; but the physician only confirmed what his colleague had already said. There was no hope for Ringwood. Little matter whether they called it a violent * cold, or a spasmodic cough, inflammation of the lungs, or low fever. All that I e fold about him would have been better told in one word — consumption. His mother had died of it before him, fading quietly away as he was fading now. In the dismal silence of those long winter nights in which the sick man awoke $0 often — always to sec Millicent's fair face, lighted by the faint glimmer of the night-lamp, or the glow of the embers in the grato — Ringwood began to think of his past life — a brief life, which had been spent to no useful end whatsoever — a selfish life that had been passed in stolid indifference t<> the good of others — per- haps, from this terrible uselessness. almost a wicked life. A few nights before that upon which the young squire died, he lay awake a long time couutiug the chiming of the quarters from the turret of Compton church, listening to the embers falling on the broad stone hearth, and the iv\ leaves flapping and scraping at the window panes, with something like the sound skeleton fingers tapping for admittance. And from this he fell to watching bis • e as she sat in a low chair by the hearth, with her large, thoughtful blue eyes fixed upon the hollow fire, and the unread volume half dropping from her loose hand. How pretty she was, lie thought ; but what a pensive beauty ! How little of the light of joy had ever beamed from those melancholy eyes since the old days when- Harrell and she were friends and playfellows, before Captain George Duke had ever shown his handsome face at {he Hall. Thinking thus, it was only natural for him to remember his t>wn share jn fon-ing on this unhappy marriage ; how he had persuaded his father to hear no girlish prayers, and to heed neither tears nor lamentations. Re: g this, he could but remember also the mean £4 DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR motive that had urged him to this course ; the contemptible spite against his cousin Darrell, that had made him eager even for the shipwreck of his sister's happiness, so that her lover might suffer. He was dying now, and the world and all that was in it was* of so little use to him, that he was ready enough to forgive his cousin all the old grudges between them, and to wish him well for the future. 1 Millicent !' 'he said, by and bye. ' Yes, flear,' answered his sister, creeping to his side. ' I thought you were asleep. Have you been awake long, Ringwood ?' ' Yes ; a long time.' ' A long time ! my poor boy.' 1 Perhaps it's better to- be awake sometimes,' murmured the sick man. ' I don't want to slip o"t of life in one long sleep. I've been thinking, Millicent.' • Thinking, dear V ' Yes ; thinking what a bad brother I've been to you.' ' A bad brother, Ringwood. No, no, no !' She fell on her knees by the bed- side as she spoke, and cast her loving arms about his wasted frame. ' Yes, Millicent, a bad brother. I helped to urge on your marriage with a man you hated. I helped to part you from the man you loved, and to make your young life miserable. You know that, and yet you're here, night after night, nursing me as tenderly as if I'd never thought but of your happiness.' ' The past is all forgiven long ago, dear Ringwood,' said his sister, earnestly ; ' it would be ill for brother and sister if the love between them could not outlive oldinjuries, and be the brighter and the truer for old sorrows. I have outlived the memory of my misery long ago. Ringwood, dear, I have led a tranquil life for years past, and it seems as if it had pleased God to set me free from the ties that seemed so heavy to bear.' 1 You will be almost a rich woman after my death, Milly/ said her brother, with a more cheerful tone. "I have done a good deal in these last five years to improve the property, and you will find a*bag full of guineas in the brass-handled bureau, where I keep all my papers and accounts. I think you may trust John Martin, the baliff, and Lawson and Thomas, and they will keep an eye upon the farm for your interest. You'll have to grow a woman of busiuess when I'm gone, Milly, and it wiH be a fine change for you from yonder cottage in Compton High street to this big house.' 'Ringwood, Ringwood, don't speak of this V ' But I must, Milly. It's time to speak of these things when a man feels he has not an hour upon this side of the grave that he can call his own. I want you to promise me something, Millicent, before I die; for a promise made to a dying man is always binding.' ' Ringwood dear, what is there I would not do for you V ' I knew you wouldn't refuse. Now listen. How long his Captain Duke been, away ?' She thought by this sudden mention of her husband's name that Ringwood's mind was wandering. ' Seven years, dear, next January.' ' I thought so. Now, Milly, listen «to me. When the mouth of January is nearly out, I want you to take a journey to London, aud carry a letter from me to Darrell Markham.' THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. <35 ' I'll do it, dear Ringwood, and would do more than that, if you wish. But why in January ? Why not sooner V • Because it's a fancy T have ; a sick nun's fancy, perhaps. Thd letter is not written yet, but I'll write it before I fall asleep again. Get me the pen and ink; Milly.' ' To-morrow, dearest, not to-night,' she pleaded ; ' you've been fatiguing yourself already with talking so much; write the letter to-morrow.' ' No, to-night/ he said, impatiently; " this very night, this very hour. I shall fall into a fever of anxiety if T don't write without a moment's delay. It is but a few lines.' His loving nurse thought it better to comply with his wishes than to irritate him by a refusal. She brought paper, pens, ink, sealing-wax and seals, and a lighted candle, and arranged them on the little table by his bedside. She propped him up with pillows, so as to make his task as easy to him as possible, and then quietly withdrew to her seat by the hearth. The reader knows how difficult penmanship was to llingwood Markham even when in good health. It was a very hard task to him to-night. He labored long and painfully with the spluttering quill pen, and wrote but a'few lines after all. These he read and re-read with evident satisfaction ; and then folding the big sheet of foolscap very carefully, he sealed it with a great splash of red wax and the Markham arms, and addressed it in a feeble, sprawling hand, with many blots, to Darritt Markham, E*> be delivered to him by Millicent Duke, s eyes. They fix^d her gaze as if they had some mag- netic power. She followed every motion of them earnestly, almost inquiringly, till the highwayman addressed her. 1 We have the extreme honour of being waited upon by the landlady of the Bear in her own gracious person, have we not?' he said gallantly, admiring his small jewelled hand as he spoke. He was but a puny, almost wasted stripling, this dashing captain, and it was only the extreme vitality in himself that pre- served him from insignificauce. Now at any other time Sarah Pecker would have dropped a curtsey, smoothed her muslin apron, and asked her guests whether their dinner had beea to their liking; if their rooms were comfortable ; the wine agreeable to their taste, and • other Buch hospitable questions; but to-night she seemed tongue-tied, as if -lit in the Captain's eyes had almost magnetized her into silence. ' Ye-,' she murmured, '1 am Sarah Pecker.' 'And a very comfortable and friendly creature you look, Mrs. Pecker,' an-, swered Captain Fanny, with a sublime air of patronage. '.A recommendation in your own person to the hospitable shelter of the Bear; and, egad I Co»ptoo»Ota- the -' need of some pleasant place of entertainment for the unlucky trav- indt himself by mischance in its dreary neighboring. d •' ver 1. turning .£§ DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR But Mrs. Sarah Pecker had been born in the village of Conrpton, and was by no means disposed to stand by and hear her native place so contemptuously spoken of- Turning her face a little away from the dashing knight of the road, as if it were easier to her to speak when out of the radius of those unquiet eyes, i she said, with some dignity, ' Compton-on-the-Moor may be a retired place, gentlemen, being nigh upon a week's journey from London, but it is a pleasant village in summer time, and there are a great many noble families about.' ' Ah, by the bye !' replied Captain Fanny, ' we took notice of a big, red-brick, square-built house, standing amongst some fine timber, upon a bit'of rising ground, half a mile on the other side of the village. A dull old dungeon enough it looked, with half the windows shut up. Who does that belong to V ' It is called Compton Hall, sir/ answered Sarah, ' and it did belong to young- Squire Bingwood Markham/ ' Bingwood Markham ! A fair-faced lad, with blue eyes and a small waist V 'The same, sir/ ' I knew him six years ago in London.' 'Very likely, sir. Poor Master Bingwood had his fling of London life, and very little he got by it, poor boy. He's gone now, sir. He was only buried three weeks ago.' * And Compton Hall belonged to him ?' ' Yes, sir ; ind Compton Hall farm, which brings in an income of four or five hundred a year.' ' And who does the Hall belong to now, then ?' asked Captain Fanny. * To his sister, sir, Miss Millicent that was — Mrs. Duke.' * Mrs. Duke ' The wife of a sailor — one George Duke V 4 The widow of Captain George Duke, sir.' ' The widow ! What, is George Duke dead V * Little doubt of that, sir. The captain sailed from Marley Water seven years ago come January, and neither he nor'his ship, the Vulture, have ever been heard of since/ 'And the widow of George Duke has come into a property worth four or •five hundred a year ?' 'Yes, sir; worth that, if it's worth a farthing/ ' And the only proof she has ever had of George Duke's death is his seve"n years' absence from Compton-on-the-Moor?' ■ ' She could scarcely need a stronger proof, I should think, sir/ . ' Couldn't she ?' exclaimed the young man, with a laugh. ' Why, Mrs. Sarah Pecker; I have seen so much of the strange chances and changes of this world that I seldom believe a man is dead unless I see him put into his coffin, the lid screwed down upon him, and the earth shovelled into his grave; and even then 'there are some people such slippery cu#tomers that I should scarcely be surprised to meet them at the gate of the churchyard. The world is wide enough outside Compton-on-the-Moor : who knows that Captain Duke may not come back to- morrow to claim his wife and her fortune V ' The Lord forbid !' said Mrs. Pecker, earnestly ; ' I would rather not be wishing ill to any one ' ; but sooner than poor Miss Millicent should see him come the Captain of the vultui gg back to break her heart and waste her money, I would pray that the Captain of the Vulture may lie drowned and dead under the foreign seas." ' A pious wish !' cried Captain Fanny, laughing. ' However, as I don't know the gentleman,. Mrs. Pecker, I don't mind saying, Amen? But as to seven years' absence being proof enough to make a woman a widow, that's a common mistake, and a vulgar one, Mrs. Sarah, that I scarcely expected from a woman of your sense Seven years — why, husbands have coine back after seventeen !' Mr. Pecker made no answer to this. If her face was paler even than it had been before, it was concealed from observation as she bent over the dessert-table- collecting the dirty glasses upon her troy. When she had left the room, and the three young men were once more alone, Captain Fanny burst into a peal of ringing laughter. ' Here's news !' he cried ; ' split me, lads, here's a joke! George Duke dead and gone, and George Puke's widow with a fine estate and a farm that produces five hundred a year. If that fool, sulky Jeremiah, hadn't quarrelled with his best friends, and given us the slip in that cursed ungrateful manner, here would have been a chance for him !' CHAPTER XIII.— The End of January. Captain Fanny, otherwise Sir Lovel Mortimer, did not leave the Black Bear until the morning after Christmas day, when he and his two companions rode blithely off through the frosty December sunlight; a£.er expressing much cou- teut with the festival fare provided by Mrs. Pecker; after paying the bill without so much as easting a glance at the items ; after remembering the ostler, the cham- bermaid, the boots, and*cvery other member of the comfortable establishment who had an} r claim to advance upon the generosity of the west-country baronet. So entirely occupied were the domestics of the Black Bear in discussing their late distinguished visitor, that the news of a desperate highway robbery, accom- panied by much violence, that had taken place near Carlisle, on the night of De- cember the twenty-third, made scarcely any impression upon them. Nor were they even very -seriously affected by an attack upon the York mail, the tidings of which reached them two days after the departure of Sir Lovel and his companions. ■ In the kitchen at the Black Bear, they spent the few remaining December evenings in talking of the gay young visitors who had lately enlivened the hos- telry by their presence, while Milliccut Duke, looking fairer and paler than ever iu her mourning gown, sat alone in the oak parlour at Compton Hall, with the brass-handled bureau opeu before her, and her poor brains patiently at work, try- ing to understand some farming accounts rendered by her bailiff. Mrs. Q-eorge Duke found faithful Sarah Pecker an inestimable comfort to her in her bereavement and accession of fortune.- I think, but for the help of that sturdy creature, pour Millioent would have made Compton Hall and Compton farm a present to the stalwart Cumbrian bailiff, and would have gone quietly back t • her cottage in the High i wait for the coming of death, or Captai Duke, i r any other calamity which was the predestined close of bet joyless 70 DARRELL 'MARKHAM; OR But Sarah Pecker was worth a dozen lawyers, and half-a-dozen stewards. She attended at the reading of the will, in which her own name was written down for * fifty golden guineas and a mourning^ring, containing ray hair, in remembrance of much love and kindness, to cost ten guineas, and no less.' She mastered all the bearings of that intricate document, and knew more of it after one reading than even the lawyer who had drawn it up. She talked to Millicent about quar- ters of wheat, and hay and, turnips,, till poor Mrs. Duke's brain reeled with vague admiration of Sarah's prodigious learning. The stalwart bailiff trembled before . the mistress of the Black Bear, and went into long stammering explanations to account for a quarter of a truss of hay that had been twisted into bands, lest he" should be suspected of dishonesty in the transaction. When all was duly settled and adjusted, Millicent Duke found herself almost a rich woman. Rich enough, at any rate, to be considered a very wealthy person by the simple inhabitants of Compton-on-the-Moor, unless indeed, the long-missing ' husband, Captain George Duke' of the good ship Vulture, should return to claim a share in his wife's newly-acquired fortune. The thought that there .was a remote possibility, a shadowy chance of this, would send a cold chill to Millicent's heart, and seem almost to stop its beating. If he should come home ! If, after all these years of fearful watching and waiting, of trembling at the sound of every manly footstep, and shuddering at every voice — if, after all, now that she had completely given him up — now that she was rich, and might perhaps by-and-bye be happy — if, at this time of all others, the scourge of her young life should return and claim her once more as his to hold and to torture by the laws of God and man ! A kind of distraction would take possession of her at the thought. She would deliver herself up to the horrible fancy until she could call up the image of the Captain of the Vul- ture, standing op the threshold of the door, with the wicked, vengeful light in his brown eyes, and the faint, far-off, breezy perfume of the ocean hovering about his chestnut hair. Then casting herself upon her knees* she would call upon Heaven to spare her from this terrible anguish — to strike her dead before that dreaded husband could return to claim her. The diamond ear-ring, the fellow of Avhich Captain Duke had taken from her on the night of their parting at Marley Water, had been religiously kept by her in a little red morocco-covered jewel-box. She was too simple and conscientious a creature to dream of disobeying her husband's commands. •She looked some- times at the solitary trinket ; and seldom looked at it without praying that she miglit never see its fellow. She wished George Duke no harm. Her only wish was that they might never meet again. She would willingly have sold the Compton property, and have sent him every fathing yielded by its sale, had she known him to be living, so that he had but remained away from her. Millicent was the onjy person in Compton who entertained any doubt of Capt. Duke's decease. The seven years which had. elapsed since his departure — years .of absence, unbroken by a single line from himself, or by one word of tidings from any accidental source — the common occurrence of wreck and disaster upon the seas, the .suspicions entertained by many as to the Captain's unlawful mode of life, all pointed to one conclusion — he was dead. He had gone to the bottom of the sea with his own vessel, or had been hewn^down by the cutlass of a French- man; or the scimitar of a Moorish pirate. The story of Millicent's meeting with . • THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 71 her husband's shadow upon the pier at Marley Water only confirmed this belief in the death of George Puke. Of course, Millicent told her faithful friend, Sarah Pecker, of the letter writ- ten by Kingwood a few nights before his death, and to be delivered by her to Darrell Markham. The two women looked long and inquisitively at the folded sheet of foolscap, with its sprawling red seal, wondering what mysterious lines were written on the paper; but the wishes of Millicent's dead brother were sacred; and as the first half of January drew to a close, Mrs. Puke began to think of her formidable journey to London. She had uevo| been further away from home than on the occasion of a brief visit to the city of York, and the thought of finding ■her way to the great metro- polis filled her with something almost approaching terror. I doubt if an Eng- lishwoman of this present year of grace would think as much of a voyage to Cal- cutta as poor Millicent thought of this formidable southward jouuney; but her staunch friend Sarah was ready to stand by her in this, as well as in every other crisis of life. ' You don't suppose you're going to find Mr. Darrell Markham all by yourself, .do you, Miss Millicent?' asked Sarah, when the business was discussed. • Why, who should go with me, Sally dear?' 'Ah, whd indeed?' answered Sarah, rather sarcastically ; ' who but Sally Pecker, of the Black Pear, that nursed you when you was a baby; who else, I should like to know ?' -.You, Sally?' • Yes, me. I'd send Samuel with you, Miss Millicent, dear, for there's some- thing respectable in the looks of .a man, and we could put him into one of the old Markham liveries, and call him your servant; but Lord have mercy on us, what a lost baby that goor husband of mine would be in the city of London! 1 oannot send him to the market-town for a few groceries, without knowing before the time comes that he'll bring raisins instead of sugar, or have his pocket picked staring at some Merry Andrew. No, Miss Millicent, Samuel Pecker's the best of men ; but you don't want a helpless infant to put you in the right way for finding Mr. Darrell J so you must take me with you, and make the best of a bad bargain.' 'My dear, good, kind, faithful Sally! Put what will they do without you at the Pear? It will be near upon a fortnight's journey to Loudon and back, al- lowing for some dela}- in the return coach ; what will they do ?' 'Why, do their best, Miss Millicent, to be sure; and a pretty muddle I shall find the place in when I come back. L dare say ; but don't let the thought of that worry you, Miss Milly ; I shan't mind it a bit. I sometimes fancy things go too smooth at the Pear, and 1- think the servants do their work well for sheer provocation.' Sarah Pecker was so thoroughly determined upon accompanying Millicent, that Mrs, George Puke yielded with a good grace, thanked her stout protectress, and 861 to work to trim a mourning bat with ruches and streamers of black crape. It was Sarah who devised the trimmings for the coquettish little hat, ami it was Sa- rah who found some jet ornaments amongst a ehesti'ul of clothes that had be- <1 to Millicent's mother, wherewith to adorn Mrs. Duke's fair neck and arms. •I' ] rell to find you changed for th< worse in tl 72 ' DARRELI/ MARKHAM ; OR seven years, Miss Milly/ Sarali remarked, as she fastened the jet necklace round Millicent's slender throat. i These black clothes are vastly becoming to your fair skin ; and I scarce think that our Darrell will be ashamed of his country cousins, for all the fine London madams he may have seen since he left Compton.' Mrs. Sarah Pecker had a natural and almost religious horror of the fair inhabi- tants of the metropolis, whom she dignified with the generic appellation of ' Lon- don madams.' She firmly believed the feminine portion of the population of that unknown city to be, without exception, frivolous, dissipated, faro-playing, masque- rade-haunting, painted, patched, and bedizened creatures, whose sold end and aim was to lure honest young country squires from legitimate attachments to rosy- cheeked kinswomen at home. It was a cheerless and foggy morning that welcomed Millicent and her sturdy protectress to the great metropolis. Sarah Pecker, putting her head out of the coach window, at- the village of Islington, saw a thick mass of blackness and cloud looming in a valley before her, and was told by a travelled passenger that it (the blackness aud the cloud/) was Loudon. It was at a ponderous, roomy inn, upon Snow-hill, that Millicent Duke and Sarah were deposited, with the one small trunk that formed all their luggage. Mrs. Pecker entered into conversation with the chambermaid, who brought the travellers some wretched combination of a great deal of crockery and a very little weak tea and blue-looking milk, face- tiously called breakfast. She took care to inform that domestic that the pale young lady in mourning, who, worn out by travelling all night, had fallen asleep upon a hard, moreen-covered, brass-nail-studded sofa, that looked as if it had been constructed out of coffin-lids — Sarah took care, I say, to casually inform this young person that her companion was one of the richest women in all Cumber- land, and might have travelled post all the way from Compton to Snow-hill, had she been pleased to spend her money. Mrs Pecker, who had at first rather in- clined towards the chambermaid, as a simple, plain-spoken young person, took of- fence at the cool way in which she received this information, and classed her forthwith amongst the ' London madams.' ' Cumbrian gentry count for little with you, I make no doubt,' Sarah remarked with ironical humility ; ' but there are many in Cumberland who could buy up your fine town folks, and leave enough for themselves after they'd made the bar- gain.' After having administered this dignified reproof to the chambermaid, who (no doubt penetrated and abashed) seemed in a great hurry to get out of the room, -Sarah condescended to ask the way to St. James's square, which she expected was either round the corner,- or across the street ; somewhere in the neighborhood of the Fleet, or Hatton Garden. She was told that a coach or a chair would take her to the desired locality, which was at the Court end of London, and much too far for her to walk, more especially as she was a stranger, and not likely to find her way thither. Mrs. Pecker stared hard at the chambermaid, as if she would very much have liked to convict her in giving a false direction ; but being unable to do so, sub- mitted to be advised, and ordered a coach to be ready .in an hour. The ' London madams ' Mrs. Pecker saw from the coach window, as she and her fair charge were driven from Snow hill to St. James's, looked rather pinched and blue-nosed in the bitter January morning. The snow upon the pavement THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE 7 , was a black compound unknown at Compton, and the darkness of the fo§g atmosphere rendered the worthy Sarah rather uneasy as to the possible speedy advent of an earthquake. The hostess of the Black Bear had neither read Mr. Creech's translation from Horace, nor Mi'. Alexander Pope's quotation from the same,, but she had reso- lutely determined on this, her vist to London, to preserve her dignity by a stolid and unmoved demeanor. Not to admire was all the art she knew ! She resolved that from the whispering gallery of St. Paul's Cathedral to the Merry Andrews in Bartholomew Fair, nothing she beheld should wring an exclamation of surprise from her tightly compressed lips. Although the distance betweeu Holborn and Pall-mall appeared to her almost illimitable, she scrupulously preserved her equanimity, and looked from the coach window at the crowded London streets with as calm and critical an eye as that with which she would have examined a field of wheat in her native Cumberland. All the busy .panorama of the metropolis Passed before the eyes of Millieeut Duke, as a dim and cloudy picture, in which no figure was distinct or palpable. She might have bceu driven close beside a raging fire, and yet have never beheld the flames ; or across a cataract, without hearing the roar of the boisterous water.-. One thought and one image filled her heart and brain, and she had neither eyes nor cars for the busy world outside the coach windows, and Sarah Pecker on the seat opposite to her. She was going to see Darrell Markham. For the first time after seven years — for the first time since she stood bee the bed upon which he lay insensible, with the blood-bedabbled hair and pale lips that only uttered wandering words, she was to see him again — to see him, and perhaps to find him changed ! So changed in that long lapse of ttme, that it would seem as if the old Pan ell was dead and gone, and only a stranger, with some trick of hi.- pace, left in his stead. And amongst all the other changes time- had worked in this dear cousin, ii might be that the old, hopeless love had faded out, and that another image had replaced Milliceut's own pale face in Darrell Markham's heart. He was still un- married ; she knew that by his letters to Sarah Pecker, which always came at intervals of about three months, to tell of his own whereabouts, and to ask for tidings of Compton. Perhaps it was his poverty that had kept him so long 8 bachelor ! A sudden crimson rushed to Mrs. Duke's face as she thought of this If this were indeed so, would it be more than cousinly — would it be more than her duty to share her own ample fortune with her owu relative, and to bid him marry the woman of his choice and be happy ? She made a picture of herself, with her pale face and mourning gown, bestowing her blessings and half of her estate upon Darrell and some defiant brunette beaut) with glowing checks and lustrous eyes altogether unlike her own. She acted over the imaginary scene, and composed a pretty self-abnegating, appropriate little speech with which to address the happy bride and bridegroom. It was so affect- ing a picture, that Mrs. Duke wept quietly for live minutes, with her face turned towards the opposite window to that out of which Mrs. Pecker was looking. The tears were still in her eyes when the coach stopped before the big town mansion of Parrcll Markham's "Scottish patron. That old feeling at lie;- : x emed I • stop its beating, as the coachmanV loud rap 71 DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR brazen knocker. The blinds were all do*wn, and wisps of loose straw lay about the doorsteps. ' My lord is out of town, perhaps,' said Mrs. Pecker, l and Mr. Darrell with him. Oh, Miss Milly, if we have had our journey for nothing !' Millicent Duke had no power to reply ; the question was doubtful now then. She was prepared for sudden death, but not for slow torture. For seven years she had lived in cornparative'eontentment without seeing Darrell Markham ; she felt now that she could scarcely exist seven minutes without looking at tha* fa- miliar face. ' An old woman opened the door. My lord was evidently out of town. Mrs. Pecker directed the coachman to inquire for Mr. Darrell Markham. The great carved doorway, the iron extinguishers upon the railings, the attenuated iron lamp frame, the figure of the old woman standing on the threshold, all reeled before Millicent's eyes, and she did not hear a word that was said. She only knew that the coach door was opened, and that Sarah Pecker told her to alight ; that she tottered up the steps, across the threshold of the door, and into .a noble stone- fiagged hall, at the end of which a feeble handful of burning coals struggled for life in a grate wide enough to have held well nigh half a ton. A stout gentleman wrapped to the chin in a furred coat, and wearing high- leather boots, bespattered with mud and snow, was standing against this fire, with his back to Millicent, reading a letter. His hat, gloves, riding-whip, and half a dozen unopened 'letters lay on a table near him. Millicent Duke only saw a blurred and indistinct figure of a map who seemed one wavy mass of coat and boots ; and a fire that resolved itself into one glaring round, like the red eye of a demon. Sarah Pecker had not alighted from the coach; the old woman stood cmtsying to Mrs. Duke, and pointing to the gentle- man by the fire-place. Millicent had a confused idea that she was to ask this gentleman to. conduct her to Darrell Markham. His head was bent over the letter, which he could scarcely decipher in the dim light from the dirty window-panes and the straggling fire. Millicent w;.^ almost afraid to disturb him. While she stood for a moment deliberating how she might best address him, he crumpled the letter into his pocket, and turning suddenly, stood face to face with her. The stout gentleman was Darrell Markham. CHAPTER XIV.— Ringwood's Legacy. . Of all the changes Millicent had ever dreamed of, none had come about. But this change, of which she had never dreamed, had certainly come to pass. Dar- rell Markham had grown stouter within the seven years ; not unbecomingly so, of course, but he had changed from a stripling into a stalwart, broad-chested, soldier- ly-looking fellow, whose very presence inspired a feeling of safety in Millicent's helpless nature. He clasped his poor little shivering cousin to his breast, and covered her cold forehead with kisses. Yet I doubt if even George Duke's handsome, sinister face could have peeped THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 75 in at the hall- open hall door at that very moment, whether the Captain of the \'nltar( would have had just cause for either auger or alarm. It was a brotherly embrace which drew Milliceut's slender form to that manly heart — it was a brother's protecting affection that showered kisses thick and fast upon Iter blushing face, and spoiled the pretty mourning hat which Mrs Pecker had been at such pains to triuv9 Poor Sally Pecker ! if she could only have known how little DarreH Markhatn saw of the crape ruches and streamers, the jet necklace and bracelets, and all the little coquetries she had prepared for his admiration. lie only saw the soft blue yes, with the old pleading look he remembered long ago when Ringwood and he were at high words at Compton Hall, and the anxious, fearful girl would creep between them to make peace. Millicent's eyes were tearless now, but such a mist was before Darrell's sight, that he could scarcely distinguish the happy face look- ing up at him from under the crushed mourning hat.' 4 Bless you, my darling, bless you !' he said again and again, seeming indeed to have little more to say than this ; but a great deal of inarticulate language in the way of kisses to supply his want of words. ' Bless you. bless you, my own precious Milly !' Nor did Mrs. George Puke do very much on this occasion to establish a charac- ter for eloquence, for after a great deal of blushing and trembling, she could only look shyly up at her cousin, and say — ' Why, Darrellj how stout you havo grown !' A 'moment before, Mr. Markham had a very great inclination to cry, but as these simple, faltering words dropped from his cousin's lips, he laughed"aloud, and opening a door near them, led her into my Lord C \s library, where the dust lay thick upon furniture and books, and the oaken window shutters were only half open. 'My Milliccnt,' he said, 'my dearest girl! what a happy chance that I should have ridden, into town on this snowy morning to fetch some letters of too great importance to be trusted to an ordinary messenger. 1 have spent Christmas with my lord in Buckinghamshire, and it was but an accident my coming here to-day.' He took Mrs. Pecker's hat from Millicent's head, and cast it ignomiuiously on the floor. Then smoothing his cousin's pale, golden ringlets With gentle, caressing hands, he looked long and earnestly at her face. ''My Milly,' he said, 'all these weary years have not made an hour's change ou !' ' And in you, Parrell ' i ■ In me' why, I am stouter, you say, Milly.' • Yes, yes. a little stouter; but I don't mean that!' She hesitated, and stood twisting one of the buttons of his furred coat iu her slender lingers, her bead bent, and the dim light from the half-opened shutters slanting upon the shadowy _ >ld tinges in her hair. Innocent and confiding, a pale saint crOWJied with a pale aureole, and looking too celestial a creature for foggy London and^St. Ji square. • What then, Millicent?' -aid Parrell. ( I mean that you must be changed in other things! 'ban-''! ii ! 1 have dawdled away my quiet lite at Compton, with no event to break these seven d have lived in the world, Parrell. 76 DARRELL MARKHAM;. OR the gay and great world, where, as I have always read, all is action, and the suf- ferings or pleasures of a lifetime are often crowded into a few brief months. You must have seen so many changes that you must be changed yourself, f fancy that wc country people fall into the fashion of imitating the nature about us* Our souls copy the slow growth of tho trees that shelters, and our hearts are change- less as the quiet rivers that flow past our houses. That must be the reason that we change so little ; but you, in this busy, turbulent London, you, who must have made so many acquaintance, so many friends — noble and brilliant men — amiable and beautiful women ' As in a lady's letter a few brief words in the postcript generally contain the whole gist of the epistle, so perhaps in this long speech of Mrs. George Duke's the drift of the exordium lay in the very last sentence. At any -rate it was to this sentence that Darrell Markham replied — ■ ' The loveliest woman in all London has had little charm for me, Millicent ; there is but one face in all the world that Darrell Markham ever cared to look upon, and that he sees to-day for the first time after seven years.' « Darrell, Darrell !' The joy, welling up to her heart, shone out from under the shelter of her drooping lashes. He was unchanged then, and there was no glorious dark beauty to claim her old lover. She was a niamed woman herself, and George Duke might return to-morrow ; but it seemed happiness enough to know that she was not to hear Darrell Markham's wedding-bells yet awhile. *• ' I was coining to Compton at the beginning of next month, to see you, Milly:' 1 To see me V ' Yes to remind you of an' old promise, broken once, but not forgotten. To -claim you as my wife.' ' Me, Darrell — a married woman !' ' A married woman !' he cried, passionately; ' no, Millicent, a widow by every evidence of common sense. Free to marry by the law of the land. But tell me. dearest, what brought you to town.' < This, Darrell.' She took her dead brother's letter from her pocket, and gave it tojiirn. • ' Three nights before his death, my poor brother Ringwood wrote this,' she said, ' and at the same time bade me put it with my own hand into yours. I hope, Darrell, it contains some legacy, even though it were to set aside Ring-wood's will, and leave you the best part of the fortune. It is more fitting that you should be the owner of it than I.' Darrell Markham stood with the letter in his hand, looking thoughtfully at the superscription. Yes, there it was, the sprawling, straggling penmanship which he had so often laughed at; the ill-shaped letters and the ill-spelt words, all were there; but the hand was cold that had held the pen, and the sanctity of death was about poor Ringwood's letter, and changed the scrawl into a holy relic. ' He wrote to me before he died Millicent ? He forgot all our old quarrels, then V ' Yes, he spoke of you most tenderly. You will find loving words in the .poor boy's letter, I know. Darrell, and I hope some mention of a legacy !' THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 77 ' 1 have neither need nor wish for that. Milly ; but I am happy that Ringwood remembered me kindly upon his death -bed. Darrell Markham broke the seal, and read the brief epistle. As he did so, a joyous light broke suddenly out upou his handsome face. ' Millicent, Millicent,' he said, ( do you know the contents of this letter V 1 Not one word, Darrcll.' ' It was noble and generous of my cousin Ringwood to write this to me. Oh, Milly, Milly, he has left me the most precious legacy that ever mortal mau received from the will of another.' ' l I am so glad of that, Darrcll. GLmI, ay, more than glad, if he has left you every acre of the Compton estate. My little cottage fs big enough for me; and I should be so happy to see you master of the old Hall.' ' But it is not the Compton estate, Milly darling. The legacy is something dearer and more valuable than all the lands and houses in merry England/ ' Not the Compton estate !' < No — the legacy is you.' He caught her in his arms, and clasped her once more to his heart. This time it was scarcely so brotherly an embrace, and this time, had the Captain of the Vulture been peeping in at the library door, he might have felt himself called upon to interfere. ' Darrcll, Darrell, what do you mean V cried Millicent, as soon as "she could extricate herself, with flushed cheeks and tangled curls, from her cousin's arms. ' What do I mean f Read poor Ringwood's letter, Milly.' Mrs. Greorge Duke opened her large blue eyes in an innocent stare of wonder as she took the foolscap sheet from her cousin's hand. In sober earnest she begat) very much to fear that Darrell Markham had become suddenly distracted. « '"Read, Milly, read !' Bespattered with unsightly blots, smudges, and erasures, and feeble, half formed characters, this poor scrawl, written by the weak hanfl of the sick man. was no such easy matter to decipher; but to the eye of Millicent Duke every syllable seemed burnt upon the paper in letters of fire. It was thus that poor Ringwood had written : 'Cousen Darrel, • When you gett this, Capten Duk will hav bin away sevin years. I cannot lieve you a legasy, but 1 lieve you my sister, Mily, who after my deth will be a ritch woman, for your tru and lovyng wife. Forgett all past ill blud betwixt us, and cherish her for the sake of ftlNGWOOD Makkjiam.' With her pale face dyed unnaturally red with crimson Mushes, and her blue -yes bent upon the. Turkey carpet in my lord's library, Mrs. Duke stood, holding her brother's letter in her trembling hands. Darrell Markham dropped on his knees at her feet. ' You cannot refuse me now, my Millicent,' he said ; ' for even if you could find the heart to be so cruel, I would not take the harsh word, no, from those beloved lips You are mine, Mrs. Duke — mine, to have and to hold. The legacy left me .by my poor cousin.' 1 Am I free to wed, Darrell V she faltered, ' am I free V 78 DARRELL MARXcfAiv | >B 'As free as you were, Millicent,' before ever the shadow of George Duke darkened your father's door.' # • AVhile Darrell Markham was still upon his knees on my lord's Turkey carpet, and while Mrs. Millicent Duke was still looking down at him with a glance in which love, terror and perplexity had equal share, the library door was burst open, and Mrs. Sarah Pecker dashed in upon the unconscious pair. ' So, Mrs. George Duke, and and Mr. Darrell Markham,' she said, ' this i^ mighty pretty treatment upon my first visit to Londdfc ! Here have 1 been sit- ting in that blessed coach for the space of au hour by your town clocks, and neither of you have had so much civility^as to ask me to come in and warm my fingers' ends at your wretched fires.' Darrell Markham had risen from his knees on the advent of Mrs. Pecker, and it is to be recorded that the discreet Sally had evinced no surprise whatever at the abnormal attitude in which she had discovered Millicent's cousin ; and further- more that, although expressing much indignation at the treatment she liad received, Sarah appeared altogether in very high spirits. " You've been rather a long time in giving Master Darrell the letter, 31 iss Milly,' she said slyly. { That wont surprise you, Sally, when you hear the contents of the letter,' an- swered Darrell; and then planting Mrs. Pecker in a high-backed leather-covered chair by the fire-place, he told her the whole story of RingwoOd's epistle. Heaven knows if Millicent Duke would ever ha-ve freely given her consent to the step which appeared to her such a desperate one; but between Darrell Mark- ham and Sarah Pecker she was utterly powerless, and when her cousin handed her back to the coach that had been so long in waiting, she had promised to become his wedded wife before noon on the following day. ' I will make all arrangements for the ceremony, dearest,' Darnell said, as he lingered at the c«^ich door, loth to bid his cousin good-bye ; ( and that done, s must ride into Buckinghamshire with my lord's letters, and wish him farewell for a time. 1 will breakfast with you to-morrow morning at your inn, and escort you and Sally to the church. Good-bye, darling, God bless you !' The blue-nosed coachman smacked his whip, and the coach drove away, leaving Darrell Markham standing on the door-step looking after his cousin. 'Oh, Sally, Sally, what "have I done !' cried Millicent, as soon as the coach had left St. James's square. 'What have you' done, Miss Millicent!' exclaimed Mrs. Pecker, 'why only what was right and proper, and according to your brother's wishes. You wouldn't have goue against them, miss, would you, knowing what a wickedness it is t i thwart those that are dead and gone V ejaculated Sarah, with pious horror. For the rest of the day Millicent Duke was as one in a dream. She seemed to lose all power of volition, and to submit quietly to be carried hither and thither at the will of the stout Sarah Pecker. As for the worthy mistress of the Black Bear, this suddenly-devised wedding between = the two young people, whom she had knowu as little children, was so deep a delight to her that she could scarcely contain herself and her importance within the limits of a hired coach. ' Shall I bid the mau to stop at a silk-mercer's, Miss Milly ?' she ask?/), as the vchieb drove Holborn-wurds. ' What for, Sally V THi .'•.'> i rHE VTJLT1 RE ■" 79 ' For you to choose a wedding-dress, miss. You'll neve: be married iu mourning ?' 'Why not, Sally? Do you think I mourn less for my brother because 1 am going to marry Darrell Markham ? It would be paying ill respect to his mem- ory to cast off my black clothes before he has been three mouths iu his grave." ' But for to-morrow, Miss Millicent ? Think what a bad omen it would be to wear black ou your wedding-day." # Mrs. Duke smiled gravely. ' If it please Heaven to bless my marriage, Sally,' she said. ' I do not thiuk the colour of my dress would come between me and Providence.' % Sarah Pecker shoek 'her keacT ominously. 'There's such tilings as tempting Providence and flying in the face of good fortune, Miss Milly,' she said, aud without waiting for leave from Millicent, she ordered the coachman to stop at a mercer's on Holborn hill. Mrs. Duke did not oppose her protectress, but when the shopman brought his rolls of glistening silks and brocade, and castHhem in voluminous folds upon the narrow counter, Millicent took care to choose a pale lavender-coloured fabric, arabesqued with flowers worked iu black floss silk. .' YoU seem determined to bring bad luck upon your wedding, Mrs. Duke,' Sarah said, sharply, as Millicent made this sombre choice. ' Who ever heard of black roses and lilies V ■ But Millicent was determined, and they drove back to the big gloomy hostlerj ou Snow hill, where Mrs. Pecker seated herself to her task of making the wedding- dress. CHAPTER XV.— Millicent's Wedding Very little breakfast Was eaten the next morning by either of* the trio as in the dark sitting-room at the inn ou Suow hill. To-day there was neither rain nor sleet falling from the leaden sky ; but that blackness was in the air and in the heavens that tells the coming of a tremendous fall of suow. The mud of the day before had frozen iu the gutters, and the pavements were hard and dry in the bitter frosty morning — so bitter a morning that Mrs. Pecker's numbed fingCTS could scareely adjust the brocade wedding-dress, which she had set up half the night to prepare. A cheerless, black, and hopeless frost — black alike upon the broad moor arouud Compton, aud in the dark London streets, where the breath of half-frozen foot -passengers aud shivering horses, made a perpetual fog\ A dismal wedding morniug, this, for the secoud nuptials 01 Millicent Puke. Sally Pecker was the only membe*r of the little party who took any especial notice of the weather. DarreH's cheeks glowed with the crimson lires of love and joy, and if Millicent trembled and grew pale, she knew not whether it was from the bitter cold without, or that cold shudder at her heart within, over which hail no control. The coach- was waiting in the iuu-yard below, aud Mrs. Pecker was putting the last finishing touches to the festooned bunches of- Millieent's brocaded gown, and the soft folds of the quilted petticoat beneath, when this feeling broke forth into g,) DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR ''•. words ; and Mrs. George Duke, falling on her knees at DarreH's feet, lifted up "* her clasped hands and appealed to him thus : — • Oh, Darrell, Darrell, I feel as if this was a wicked thing that* we are going to do ! What evidence have I that George Duke is dead? and what right have I to give my hand to you, not knowing whether it may not still belong to another ? Delay this marriage. Wait, wait, and more certain news may reach us; for some- thing tells me that we have no justification for the vows we-are going to take to-day.' She spoke with such a solemn fervor, with such an earnestness in every word, with a light that seemed almost the radiance of inspiration shining in her blue eyes, that Darrell Markham would have been led -to listen to her almost as seriously . as she had spoken, but for the interference of jNJrs. Sarah Pecker. That aggrieved matron, however, showering forth a whole volley of exclamations, such, as 'stuff,' and 'nonsense, child,' and 'who ever heard such a pother about nothing,' and 'after sitting at work at the wedding dress till my fingers froze upon my hands,' hustled Millicent and Darrell down the wide inn staircase, and into the coach, before either of them had. time to remonstrate. St. Bride's church had been Selected by Darrell for the performance of the ceremony, and on the way thither Mrs. Pecker devoted herself to lamentations on the performance of this London wedding. ' Not so much as a bell a-ringing,' she said ; ■ and if it had been at Compton they'd have made the old steeple rock again, to do honor to the squise's daughter.' It was a brief drive from Snow hill to St. Bride's church, in Fleet street. The broad stone flags before the old building were slippery with frozen sleet and mud, and Darrell had to support his cousin's steps, half carrying her from the coach to the church door. The solemn aisles were dark in the wintry morning; and Ro- meo, breaking into the tomb of the Capulets, could scarcely have found himself in a gloomier edifice than that which Darrell entered with his shivering bride. Mrs. Sarah Pecker lingered behind to give some instructions to the coachman, having done which, she was about to follow the young people, when she was vio- lently jostled by a stout porter, laden with parcels, who ran against her, and nearly knocked her down. Indeed, the pavement being slippery, it is a question whether the dignified hostess of the Black Bear would not have entirely lost her footing, but for the friendly interposition of a muscular, though slender arm, in a claret-colored velvet coat-sleeve, which was thrust out to save her, while rather an affected and foppish voice drawled a reproof to the porter. Poor Sally Pecker, saved from the collision, was once more like to fall at the sound of this effeminate voice, for it was the very same which she had heard a month before in her best room at the Black Bear, and the arm which had saved her was that of Sir Lovel Mortimer, the west-CQuntry baronet Mrs. Sarah would scarcely have recognised him had she not heard his voice, for he was wrapped in great woollen mufflers, that half buried the lower part of his face, and instead of the flowing flaxen wig he usually affected, wore a brown George, which was by no means so becoming; but under his slouched beaver hat, and above the many folds of his woollen mufflers, shone the restless black eyes which, once seen, were not easily to be forgotten. ' Sir Lovel Mortimer '.' exclaimed Mrs. Pecker, clasping her broad hands 'about the young man's arm, and staring at him as one aghast. THE CAPTAIN 0? THE VULTURE. g]_ ' Hush, my good soul ; you've no need to be so ready with my name. Why. what ails the woman V he said, aUSarah still stood, staring at her deliverer's face with much that uneasy, bewildered, wondering expression with which she had regarded him on his visit to Compton. '' Oh, sir, forgive a poor childless woman for looking over hard at you. IvV never been able to get your honor's face out of my head since last Christmas night.' Captain Fanny laughed gayly. ' I'm used to makiirg an impression on the fair sex,,' he said ; ' and there are many who have taken care to get the pattern of my face by heart before this. Why, strike me blind, if it is not our worthy hostess of the Cumbrian village, where we eat such a glorious Christmas diuuer. Now, what in the name of ^ill that's wonderful has brought you to Loudon, ma'am ?' ' A wedding, your honor,' ' A wedding ! — your own of course. Then I'm just in time to salute the bride. 5 1 The wedding of Mrs. George Duke with her first cousiu, Mr. Darrell Mark- ham.' • ' Mrs. George Duke, the widow, whose husband is away at sea V 1 The same, sir.' Captain Fanny pursed up his lips and gave a low but prolonged 'whistle. ' So. so, Mrs Pecker, that is the business that has brought you all the way from Cum- berland to Fleet street. Pray present my best compliments to the bride and ■ bridegroom, and good-day to you.' He bowed gallantly to the innkeeper's wife, and, hurrying off, his slender figure was soon lost amidst the crowd of pedestrians. A shivering parson in a tumbled surplice read the marriage service, and a grim beadle gave Millicent to 'this man,' in consideration of a crown-piece whieh he- had himself received. The trembling girl could not but "lance behind her as the clergyman read that preliminary passage which called on any one knowing any just cause or impediment why these two persons should not be joined together, to come forward and declare the same. One of the ponderous doors of the church was ajar, and a biting, frozen wind Mew in from the courts and passages in whose neighborhood John Miltou had lived so long ; but there was no Captain George Duke lurking in the shadow of the doorway, or hiding behind a pillar, ready to come forth and protest against the mai riage. Had the Captain of the Vulture been in waiting for this purpose, he must have lost uo time in carrying it into effect; for the shivering parson gave brief oppor- tunity for interference, andj-attled through the solemn service at such a rate that Darrell and Millicent were man and wife before .Mrs. Pecker had recovered from the surprise of her unexpected encounter with Captain Fanny. The snow was falling in real earnest when Millicent, Darrell and Sarah took their seats that night in the comfortable inferior of the York mail, and the chilly winter daws broke next morning upon whitened fields and hedges, and far-off distances and hill-tops that shoue out white against the blackness of the sky. All the air seemed thick with snow-flakes throughout that long homeward journey ; but Darrell and Millicent might have been travelling through an atmosphere of melted sapphires and under a cloudless Italian heaven, for auj;ht they kuew to the contrary ; f<$r the sometime wil ; " George Duke had forgotten all 6 OQ DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR ♦ old sorrows in the one absorbing thought that she and Darrell were to go hence- forth and foraver side by side in life's journey.* This being so, it mattered little, whether they went northward through the bleak January weather, or travelled some rose-bestrewn path under the most cerulian skies that were ever painted on . a fire-screen or a tea-board. They reached York on the third day from that of the wedding ; and here it was decided that they should finish the journey in a post-chaise, instead of waiting for the lumbering branch coach that travelled between York? and Compton. It was twilight when the four horses of the last relay swept across the white moorland .and dashed into the- narrow Compton high street. Past the forge and the little cottage Millicent had lived in so long — past the. village shop, the one great emporium where all the requirements of Compton civilization were to be pur- chased — past groups of idle children, who whooped andjiallooed at the post-chaise for no special reason, but from a vague conviction that any persons travelling in such a vehicle must be necessarily magnates of the land, and bent upon some er- rand of festivity and rejoicing — past every familiar object in the old place, until the horses drew up with a suddenness that sent the Limbering chaise rocking from side to side before the door of the Black Bear, and under the windows of that very room in which Darrell Markham had lain so long a weary invalid. The reason of this arrangement was that Mrs. Pecker, knowing the scanty ac- commodation at Compton Hall, had sent on an express from York to bid Samuel prepare the best dinner that had ever been eaten within the walls of the Black Bear, to do honour to Mr. and Mrs Darrell Markham. Tn her eagerness to ascertain if this message had been acted upon, Sarah was the first to spring from the post-chaise, lcavjng Darrell and Millicent to alight at their leisure. She found Samuel upon the door-step; not the easy, self-assured, brisk and cheerful Samuel of late years, but the pale-faced, vacillating, feeble-minded^ being of the old dispensation ; an unhappy creature, looking at his ponderous bettev- half with a deprecating glance, which seemed to say, • Don't be violent, Sarah, it is not my fault.' But Mrs. Pecker was in too great a hurry to notice these changes. She dashed past her husband into the spacious hall, and glanced with considerable satisfaction at an open door, through which was to be seen the oak parlour, where on a snowy table-cloth glistened the well-polished plate of the Pecker family, under the light of half a dozen wax candles. 1 The dinner's ready, Samuel ?' she said. k Done to a turn, Sarah/ he replied, dolefully. 'A turkey, bigger than the one we cooked at Christmas; a sirloin, a pair of capons, boiled, plum-pudding, and a dish of Christmas pies. I hope, poor things, they may enjoy it!' Mrs. Sarah Pecker turned sharply round upon her husband, and stared with something of her old glance of contempt at his pale, scared face. •Enjoy it!' she said; 'I should think they would enjoy it, indeed, after the cold journey they've had since breakfast time this morning. Why, Samuel Pecker,' she added, looking at him more earnestly than before, • what on earth is the matter with you ? When I want you to be most brisk and cheerful, and to have everything bright and joyful about the place, to do honour to Miss Milly and her loving husband, my own handsome Master Darrell. here you are quajdng THE CAPTAIN OF THE VCJLTURE. and quavering, and seemingly took with one of your old fits of the doldrums. What's the matter with you, man ? and why don't you go out and bring Mrs. Markham and hc*r husband in, and offer your congratulations V Samuel shook his head mournfully. • * Wait a hit, Sarah,' he said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper; ' wait a bit ; it will all come in good time, and 1 daresay it's all for the best; but I was took aback at first by it, and it threw me a little backward with the cooking, for it sceined as if neither me nor Betty could put any heart into the basting or the j ravies afterwards. It seemed hard, you know, Sarah ; and it seems hard still/ •What seems hard ? — What! what!' cried Sarah, some indistinct terror chil- ling her very blood ' What is it, Samuel? — have you lost your speech ?' It seemed indeed for a moment as if Mr. Pecker had been suddenly depri of the u/e of that orpin. lie. shook his head from side to side, swallowed and gasped alternately, and then grasping Sarah by the arm, pointed with his div a- gaged hand to another half-open door exactly opposite to that of th6 room in which the diuner-table was laid. ■ Look there !' he ejaculated in a hoarse whisper close to Sarah's car. Kollowiug the direction -of Samuel's extended hand, Mrs. Pecker looked into a room which was generally devoted to the ordinary customers at the Bear, but which on this winter's evening had but one occupant. The solitary individual was a man wearing a dark-blue travel-stained coat, jack- boots, and loose brown curling hair, tied with a ribbon. His back was turned to 'Sarah and her husband, and he was bending over the sea-coal fire with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his hands. While Mrs. Sarah Pecker stood as if transfixed, staring at this traveller, Darrell followed Milliecnt into the hall, and thence into the oak parlour, closing the door behind him. •Oh, Samuel, Samuel, how shall T ever tell her?' exclaimed Mrs. Pecker. CHAPTEB XVI. — The Tinr.u Appearance of tut; Ghost. While the wedding dinner was being eaten in the oak parlour, Mrs. Si rah Pecker and her husband sat looking at each other with pale, auxious faces, within the sacred precincts of the bar. In vain had Milliecnt and Darrell implored their old and faithful friend to down and partake of the u;ood cheer which had been prepared at her expense. • No, .Miss Milly, dear/ she said, ' it isn't for me to sit down at the same table with Squire Markham's daughter — and — and — her —co'usin. In trouble and sor- Icar — surely trouble and sorrow seem to be the lot of all of us — I'll be trio to you to the end of life ; and if T could save your young life from one grief, dear, I think I'd throw away my own to do it.' She took Milliecnt in her stout arms as she spoke, and covered the fair head with, passionate tears and kisses. ' Oh, Miss Milly, Miss Milly,' she cried, ' it seems at if 1 was strong enough to saw you from anything ; but I'm not, my dear — I'm not !' It. was Millicent's turn to chide and con umt-hearted Sarah. Her own •.one consider;.! ' he tedious homeward journey. 84. DARRELL MARKHAM; OP. The strangeness of her new position had in some degree worn ofiy and the horizon seemed brighter. She was surprised at Sarah Pecker's unwonted emotion. ' Why, Sally, dear !' she said, ' you seem quite out of spirits tnis evening.' 'lani a little worn and harassed, Miss Milly ; but rlever you mind that — never yew. think of me, dear; only remember that if I could save you from grief and trouble, I'd give my life to do it.' With a certain vague impression of unhappiness caused by this change in Sarah Pecker, Millicent sat down with Darrell to the table which Samuel* had caused to be loaded with such substantial fare as might have served a party of stalwart farmers at an audit dinner. The traveler sitting over the fire in the common parlour had been served with a bowl of rum-punch ; but Mr. Samuel Pecker had not waited upon him in person. ' You haven't spoke to him then, Samuel V asked Mrs. Pecker. , ' No, Sarah, no ; nor he to me. , 1 saw him a comin' in at the door like a evil spirit, as Fve half a mind he is ; but I hadu'.t the courage to face him, so I crept into the passage quietly and listened against the door, while he was askin all sorts of questions about Compton Hall, and poor Miss Milly, and one thing; and another ; and at first I was in hopes it was my brain as was unsettled, aud that it was me as was in a dream like, and not him as was come back ; and then he ordered a bowl of rum-punch, and then I knew it was him, for you know, Sarahj rum-punch was always his liquor.' ' How long was it before we got home, Samuel ?' . ' When he came V . ' Yes.' ' Nigh upon an hour.' ' Only an hour — only an hour,' groaned Sarah; ' if it had pleased Providence to have taken his life before that hour, what a happy release for them two poor innopent creatures in yonder room.' 'Ah, what a release indeed,' echoed Samuel. 'He's sittin' with his back to the door; if somebody could go behind him sudden with a kitchen poker,' added the inn-keeper, looking thoughtfully at Sarah's stout arm; 'but then,' he continued reflectively, ' there M be the body; and that would be against it. If you come to think of it, the leaving inconvenience of a murder is that there's generally a body. If it wasn't for bodies, murders would be uncommon easy.' Sarah did not appear particularly struck by the brilliancy of her husband's dis- course ; she sat with her hands clasped upon her knees, rocking herself to and fro, and repeating mournfully — ' Oh, if it had but pleased Providence to take him before that hour! If it hud but pleased Providence !' ' She remembered afterwards that as she said these words there was a feeiiuii' in her heart tantamount to an inarticulate prayer that some species of sudden death might overtake the traveler in the common parlour. 'Neither Sarah nor her husband waited on the newly-married pair. The cham- bermaid took in the dishes and brought them out again, almost untouched. Mr. and Mrs. Pecker sat in the bar, and the few customers who came in that night were sent into a little sitting-room next to the oak parlour, and on the opposite side of the hall to that chambar in which the solitary traveller drank his rum-punch. It was striking eight by Compton church and by the celebrated eight-day oaken clock that had belonged to Samuel Pecker's mother, when this traveller cam.e out • E CAPTAHI OF Ti'E VULTURE. 85 of the common parlour, and after paying his score and wrapping a thick cashmere shawl about his neck, strode out into the snowy night. He paid his score to the girl who had taken him the punch, and he did not approach the bar, in the innermost recesses of which Sarah Pecker sat with h'er knitting-needles lying idle in her lap, and her husband staring hopelessly at her from the other side of the fire-place. ' He's gone to the Hall, Samuel/ said Mrs. Pecker, as the inn-door closed with :i sonorous bang, and shut the traveller out into the night. ' Who's to tell her, poor dear? — who's to tell her?' Samuel shook his head vaguely. • Tf he could lose himself in the snow any way between this and Compton Hall,' he said. ' I've read somewhere in a book of somewhercs in foreign parts, where there's travellers and dogs, and where they're always a doin' it, only the dogs save '<'iii ; besides which there was the old woman that left Winstell market late on a Christmas night that year as. we had so'many snow storms, and was never heard of again.' Mrs. Pecker not appearing to take any especial comfort from these rather ob- scure remarks, Samuel relapsed into melancholy silence. Sarah sat in her old position, rocking herself to-and-fro, only murmuring now and then — ' Who's to tell her ? Poor innocent child, she was against it *rorn the first to the hist ; and it was n#e that 'helped to drive her to it.' Half an hour after the departure of the traveller, Parrell Markham opened the door of the oak parlour, and Millicent came out into the hall equipped for walking. Her now husband's loving hands had adjusted the wrappers that were to pro- tect her from the piercing cold; her husband's §trong arm was to support her in the homeward walk, and guide her footsteps through the snow. No more loneli- ness — no more patient endurance of a dull and joyous life. A happy future stretched before her like a long flower-begemmed vista in the woodland on a sunny summer's day. Sarah took up her knitting-needles, and made a show of being busy, as Millicent aud Parrell came out into the hall, but she was not to escape so easily. ■ Sally, dear, you'll bid me good-night, wont you':' Millicent said, tenderly.. Mrs Pecker came out of her retreat in the bar, and once more took her old Boaster's daughter in her arms. Oh. Miss Milly. Miss Milly,' she cried, k I'm a little dull and a little cast down like to-night, and I'm all of a tremble, dear, and 1 haven't strength to talk to you — only remember in any trouble, dear, always remember to send for Sally Pecker, and she'll stand by you to the last.' ■ § 'Sally, Sally,* what is it?' asked Millicent, tenderly; 'J know something wrong. Is it anything that has happened to you, Sally?'' ■ No, no, no, dear.' • Ur to any one connected with you V • No, BO.' • Then what is it, Sally?' • Oh, don't ask me ; don't, for pity's sake, ask me, Miss Millicent.' and without I er word, Sarah Pecker broke from the embrace of the soft arms which were locked lovingly about her neck, and ran hack into the bar ! ! 1 couldn't tell her, Samuel,' she whispered in her husband's ear — ' 1 couldn't 8£ UAEKELL MAHKHAM; OR tell her though I tried. The words were on nry lips, but something rose in nay threat and choked all the voice I- had to say 'em with. Now, look you here, Samuel, and mind you do what I tell . you faithful, without making any stupid mistakes.' ' I will, Sarah ; I'll do it faithful, if it's to walk through fire and water ; though that ain't likely, fire and water not often coming together, as I can see.' ' You'll get the lantern, Samuel, and you'll go with Mr. Darrell and Miss Mil- licent to light them to the Hall ; and when you get there you won't come awaj immediate, but you'll wait and see what happens, and bring me back word, es- pecially ' ' Especially what, Sarah ?' ' If they find him there.' / I'll do it faithful, Sarah. I often bring you the wrong groceries from market, but I'll do this faithful, for my heart's i* it ' So Millicent and Darrell went out into tlie snowy night as the traveller had gone before them. Samuel Pecker attended with the lantern, always dexterously contriving to throw a patch of light exactly on that one spot in the road whe^e it was most un- likely for Darrell and Millicent to tread. A very Will-'o-the-Wisp was the light from Samuel's lantern ; now shining high upon a leafless hedge top ; now at the bottom of a ditch ; now far ahead, now away to the left, now to the extreme right, but never affording one glimmer upon the way that he and •his companions had to ^:o. The feathery snow-flakes drifting on the moors shut out the winter sky till all the atmosphere seemed blind and thick with woolly cloud. The snow lay deep on every object in the landscape — house-top and window-ledge, chimney and door porch, hedge and ditch, tree aijd gate-post, village street and country road jail melted and blotted away in one mass of unsullied whiteness ; so that each familiar spot seemed changed, and a new world just sprung out of chaos could hardly have been more painfully strange to the inhabitants of the old one. Compton Hall was situated about half a mile from the village street, and lay bo,ck from the high road, with a waste of neglected shrubbery and garden before it. The winding carriage-way, leading from the great wooden entrance gates to the. house,- was half choked by the straggling and unshorn branches of 'the shrubs that grew on either side of it. There were few carriage folks about Compton-oti- the-Moor, and the road had been little used save by foot passengers. At the gate Darrell Markham stopped and took the lantern from Mr. Pecker's hand. ' The path is rather troublesome here,' he sadd; ' perhaps I'd better light the way my^lf, Samuel.' '"It was thus that the light of the lantern being cast upon the pathway straight before them, Millicent happened to perceive footsteps upon the snow. These footsteps were those of a man, and led from the gates towards the house. The feet could but just have trodden the path, for the falling snow was fast filling in the traces of them. '.Who can have come to the Hall so late?' exclaimed Millicent. She happened to look at Samuel Pecker as she spoke. The innkeeper stood staring helplessly at her, his teeth audibly chattering in the quiet night. Darrell Markham laughed «t her alarm. 1 Why, Milly,' he said, ' the poor little hand resting on my arm trembles as if THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. >7 .you were looking at the footmarks of a ghost — though I suppose, by the bye, that ghostly feet scarcely leave any impression behind them. Come, Milly, come, 1 see the light of a fire in your father's favorite parlour. Come, -dearest, this cold night is chilling you to the heart.' Something had indeed chilled her to the heart, but it was no external influence of the January weather. Some indefinable, instinctive terror had takeu possession of her on seeing those manly footsteps in the snow. Darrell led her to the house. A terrace built of honest red brick, and flanked by grim stone vases of hideous shape, ran along the facade of the house in front of the windows on the ground floor. Darrell and Millicent ascended some side steps leading to the terrace, fol- lowed by Mr. Pecker. To reach the front door they had to pass several wiudows ; amongst others that wiudow from which the 'lire-light shone. Passing this it was but natural they should look for a moment at the chamber within. The light from a newl^-kindled- fire was flickering upon the sombre oaken pan- % Belling ; and close beside the hearth, with his back to the wiudow, sat the same traveller whom Samuel Pecker had last seen beneath his own roof. The uncertain flame of the fire, shooting up for a moment in a vivid blaze, only to sink back and leave all in shadow, revealed nothing but the mere outline of this man's figure, and revealed even that but dimly, yet at the very first glance through the uncurtained' wiudow, 31illicent Puke uttered a great cry, and falling on her knees in the snow, sobbed aloud — ' My husband ! my husband, returned alive to make me the guiltiest and most miserable of women !' She grovelled on the sjiowy ground, hiding her face in her hands and wailing piteously. Darrell lifted her iu his arms and carrieM her into the house. The traveller had heard the cry, and stood upon the hearth, with his back to the fire, facing the open door. In the dusky shadow of .the fire-lit room there was little change to be seeu iu the face or person of George Duke. The same curls of reddish auburn fell about his shoulders. r escaped from the careless ribbou that kuottcd them behind; the same steady light burned in the hazel brown eyes, ami menaced mischief as of old. Seen by this half. light, seven years seemed to have made no change whatever iu the Captain of the Yultur< . 1 What's this, what's the meaning of all this ?' he exclaimed, as Darrell Mark- ham carried the stricken creature he had wedded three days before, into the Hall ' What does it mean '(' Darrell laid his cousin ou a couch beside the hearth ou which the Captain stood, before he auswered the question. ' It means this. George Duke,' he said at last, ' it means that if ever you wetfi pitiful in your life, you should be pitiful to this poor girl to-night.' The Captain of the Vulture laughed aloud. ' Pitiful,' he cried ; I never yet heard that a woman needed any great pity ou having her husbaud restored to her after upwards of seven years' separation.' Darrell looked at him half contemptuously, half compassionately. • I an vou gueaa nothing?' he add. ' No/ 1 Can you imagine no fatal result of your long absence from this place : in nv people — every oue — thinking you de • 88 DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR < Can you think .of nothing Hkely to have happened — remembering, as yon must, that this poor girl married you in obedience to her fathers command, .and against her own wishes ?' 'No.' • Can you guess nothing V ' How if I don't choose to guess, Master Darrell Markham ? How if 1 say that whatever you want me to know you must speak out word for word, however much cause you and my lady there may have to be ashamed to tell it. I'll help you by no guesses, I can tell you. Speak out, what is it ?' He stirred the fire with the toe of his boot, striking the coals into a blaze, in order that the light might shine upon his rival's face, and that whatever trouble or humiliation Darrell Markham might have to undergo might not be lost to him. ' What is it ?' he repeated savagely. 4 It is this, George Duke — but before I speak another word, remember that whatever has been done has been done in opposition to-«-your wife.' The pain he had in calling the woman he loved by this name was not lost on. Captain Duke. Darrell could see it reflected in the malicious sparkle of those cruel brown eyes, and nerved himself agaiost affording another triumph to his rival. ' Remember,' he said, ' through all, that she is blarrfeless-' ' . ' Suppose we leave her and her blamelessness alone,' answered the, Captain, k until you've told me what has been done.' ' Millicent Duke, being persuaded by her brother in a letter written on his dy- ing bed, being persuaded by every creature in this place,, all believing you to be dead, being persuaded by her old nurse and by me, using every prayer I knew to win her consent, against her own wisTi and in opposition to her own better judg- ment, was married to me three days ago in the church of St. Bride's^ London/ ' Oh, that's what you wanted me to guess, is it V exclaimed the Captain ; < by the heaven above me, I thought as much ! Now you come here and listen to me, Miss Millicent Markham, Mrs. George Duke, Mrs. Darrell Markham, or whatever you may please to call yourself — come here.' She had been lying on the sofa, never blest by one moment's unconsciousness, but acutely sensible of every word that had been said. Her husband caught hold of her wrist with a rough jerk, and lifted her from the sofa. ' Listen to me, will you,' he said, ' my very dutiful aucl blameless wife ? I am goinsj to ask you a few questions, .do you hear?' * 'Yes.' She neither addressed him by his name nor looked at him as he spoke. Gentle as she was, tender and loving as she was, to every animate thing, she made no show of gentleness to him, nor any effort to conceal her shuddering abhorrence of him. ' When your brother died, he left you this propertv, did he not V < He did.' ■' And he left nothing to your cousin, Mr. Darrell, yonder V • Nothing — but his dear love.' ' Never mind his dear loVe. He didn't leave an acre of land or a golden guinea, eh V 1 He did not.' P] E CAPTAIN OF THE VUI/tURE. ' gg • Good ! Now, as I'don't choose to hold any communication with a gentleman who persuades another man's wife to marry him in her husband's absence, against her own wish, and in opposition to her better judgment, I use his own words, mark you — you will be so good as to tell him this. Tell him that, as your hus- band, I claim a share in your fortune, whatever it may be ; and that as to this little matter of a marriage; in which you have been so blameless, I shall know how to settle accounts with you upon that point, without any interference from him. Tell him this, and tell him also that the sooner he takes himself out of this house; the pleasanter it will be for all parties.' She stood with he*r hands clasped tightly together, and her fixed eyes Blaring into vacancy, while he spoke, and it seemed as if she neither heard nor compre- hended him. When he had done speaking, she turned round, and looking him full in the face, cried out, ' George Duke, did you stay away these seven years on purpose to destroy me, body and soul V • 1 stayed away seven years, because ten months after 1 sailed from Marie? Water I was cast away upon a desert i#md in the Pacific,' he answered, doggedly. J Captain Puke,' said Parrel], 'since my presence here can only cause pain to vouv unhappy wife. I leave this house. I shall call upon you to-morrow to account tor your words; but in the meantime, remember this, 1 am yonder poor girl's sole surviving kinsman, and, by the heaven above me, if you hurt but a hair of her head, you had better have perished on one of the islands of the Pacific, than have come back here to account to Darrell Markham !' ' I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Markham. I know how to treat that innocent lady r'o re, without taking a lesson -from you or any one else. Good night to you.' He nodded with an insolent gesture in the direction of the door ' To-morrow,' said Darrell. • To-morrow, at your service,' answered the Captain. , • Stop !' cried Millicent, as her cousin was leaving the room ; ' my husband took an caning from me when we parted at^Marley, and bade me ask him for it on his return. Have you that trinket V She looked him in the face with an earnest, hall-terrified gaze. She remem- bered the double of George Puke, seeu by her upon Marley Pier, in the winter moon-light. The sailor took a small canvas bag from his waistcoat pocket. The bag con- tained a few pieces of gold and silver money, and the diamond earring which .Millicent had given George Puke on the night of their parting. • "V V i 1 1 that satisfy you, my lady?' he asked, handing her the gem. • Yes,' she answered, with a long, heavy sitrh ■ and then going straight to her cousin, she put her two icy han'ds into his, and addressed him thus : — • Farewell, Darrell Markham, we must never, never meet again.. Heaven for- _ive us both for our sin ; for heaven 'knows we were innocent of evil intent. 1 will obey this man in all things, and do my duty to him to my dying day ; but I i an never again be what I was to him before he left this place seven years ago. Good night.' She put him from her with a solemn gesture, which, with the simple words that she had spoken, seemed to him like a dissolution of their marriage. He took her in his arms, and pressed his lips to her forehead ; then leading hei back to George Puke, he said — « be merciful to her, as you hope for I h !'- mercy.' 90 DARRELL MARKHAJI; OR Iq the hall without, Darrell Markham found Mr. Samuel Pecker, who, crouch- ing against the half-open door, had been a patient listener to the foregoing scene. ' It Was according to the directions of Sarah,' he said, apologetically, as Darrell emerged from the parlour, and surprised the delinquent. ' I was to be. sure, and take her word of all that happened. Poor young thing, poor young thing ! It seems such a pity when Providence casts folks on desert islands, it don't leave 'em there, snug and comfortable, and no inconvenience to themselves or anybody else." It seems as if, upon this particular night, Mr. Pecker was doomed to meet with inattentive listeners. Darrell Markham had strode past him on the terraee, and from the terrace to the pathway leading to the high road. ." The young man walked so fast that Samuel had some difficulty in trotting after him-. . - ' Excuse the liberty, Mr. Markham, but where might you be going?' he said. when at last he overtook Darrell, just as the latter dashed out on to the high road. and halted for a moment as if uncertain which way to turn, 'humbly Begging "your pardon, sir, where might you be goi^f Y 1 Ay, where, indeed ?' said Darrell, looking back at the lighted window. ' 1 don't like to leave the neighborhood of this house to-night. I want to be uear her. My poor, poor girl !' 'But, you see, Mr. Darrell,' urged Samuel, interrupting himself every now and then to shift the lantern from his right hand to his left, and to blow upon his dis- engaged fingers, i as it don't happen to be particular mild weather, I don't see how you cau spend the night hereabouts very well; so I hope, sir, you'll kindly make the Black Bear your home for such time as you may please to stay in Comp- ton; only adding that, the longer the better for me and Sarah.' There was an affectionate earnestness in Samuel's address which could not fail to touch Darrell, distracted as was his mind at that moment. ' You're a good fellow, Pecker/ he said, 'and I'll follow your advice. I'll stay at the Bear to-night, and I'll stay there till I see how that man means to treat my unfortunate cousin.' Samuel led the way, lantern in hand. It was close upon ten o'clock, and scarcely a lighted window glimmered upon the deserted village street ; but half- way between the Hall and the Black Bear the two pedestrians met a man wearing a horseman's cloak, and muffled to the chin, with the snow-flakes lying white upon his hat and shoulders. Samuel Pecker gave this man a friendly though feeble good-night, but the man seemed a surly fellow, and made no, answer. The snow lay so deep upon the ground that the three men passed each other noiselessly as shadows. < Have you ever taken notice, Mr. Darrell,' said Samuel, some time afterwards, ' that folks in snowy weather looks very much like ghosts ; quiet, and white, and solemn?' • ' „ ■ Left alone in the solitude of the bar, Mrs. Pecker, lost in dreamy reflection, suffered the fire to burn low and the candles to remain unsnuffed, until the long wicks grew red and topheavy, smouldering rather than burning, and givinsr scarcely any light whatever. The few customers, who had been drinking and talking- together since six or THE CAPTAIN' OF THE VULTURE 91 seven o'clock, strolled out iuto the snow, leaving all at one time for company, and the business of the inn was done. The one waiter, or Jack-of-all-trades off the establishment, prepared to shut up the house ;*and, as, the first step towards agoing so, opened the front door and looked out to see what sort of night it was. As he did so, the biting winter breeze blew in upon him, extinguishing the caudle in his hand, and also putting out the two lights in the bar. ' What are you doing there, Joseph V Mrs. Pecker exclaimed, sharply. ' Come in and shut up the place.' * Joseph was about to obey, when a horseman galloped up to the door, and spring- ing from his horse, looked into the dimly-lighted hall. 'Why, you're all in the dark here, good people,' he said, stamping his feet an I shaking the snow from his shoulders. ' What's the matter ?' Mrs. Sarah Pecker was'stooping Oyer the red embers, 'trying to re-light one of the, candles. 'Can you tell me the way to Compton Hall, my good friend?' said the traveller to Joseph the waiter.- 'Squire Markham's that was':' 'Ay, Stpiire Markham's that was." The waiter gave the necessary directions, which were* simple enough. 'Gflod,' said the stranger; ' 1 shall go on foot, so do you fetch the ostler and give him charge of my horse. The animal's hard beat, and wants rest and a good feed of corn.' The waiter hurried oft' to find the ostler, who was asleep in a loft over the stables. The stranger strode up to the bar, in the interior of which Mrs. Pecker was still straggling with the refractory wick of the tallow candle. ' You seem to have a difficult job with that, light, ma'am,' he said ; but, per- haps, you'll make as short work of it as you can, and 'give me a glass of brandy, for my very vitals are frozen with a twenty-mile ride through the snow.' There was something in th^ stranger's \»ic"e which reminded Sarah Pecker oi some other voice that she knew.; only that it was deeper and gruffer than thai other voice. She succeeded at last in lighting the candle, and placing it iu front of the bar between herself and the traveller, took up a wine-glass for the brandy. ' A tumbler, a tumbler, ma'am,' remonstrated the stranger ; ' this is no weather for drinking spirits out of a thimble.' The man's face was so shaded by his slouched hat, and further concealed by the thick neckerchief muffled about his throat, that it was utterly irrecognizable in the dim light of Sarah Pecker's one tallow candle; but'as he took the glass of brandy from Sally's hand, he pushed his hat off his forehead, and lowered his neckerchief in order to drink. lie threw back his head as he swallowed the last drop of the fiery liquor, then throwing Mrs. Pecker the price of the brandy, he bade her a hasty good-night, and strode out of the house. The empty glass dropped from Sarah's hands, and shivered into fragments oa the floor. Her white aud terror-stricken face frightened the waiter when he re- turned from his errand to the stables. The man she had served with brandy could not surely be George Duke, for the Captain had an hour before set out for the Hall; but, if not George Duke him- Q2 DARRELL MARKHAM; OR • » self, this wan was most certainly some unearthly shadow or double of the Captain of the Vulture. Sarah Pecker was a woman of Strong sense ; but she was ^uman, and when questioned upon her pale face and evident agitation, she told Joseph, the waiter, Betty, the cook, and Phoebe Price, the pretty chambermaid, the whole story of .Millicent's fatal marriage, Captain Puke's return, and the ghost that bad followed him back to Compkm-on-the-Moor. ■ When Miss Millicent parted with her husband seven years ago, she met the same shadow upon Marley Pier, and now that he's come back the shadow has come back too. There's more than flesh and blood in all that, you may take my word tor it.' • The household at the Black Beav had enough to talk of that night. What was- the excitement of a west-country baronet, generous anddiandsome as he might be, to that caused by the visit of a ghost, which called for a tumbler of brandy, drank it and paid for it like a Christian? Samuel and Sarah sat up late in the little bar talking of the apparition, but they wisely kept the secret from Parrell Markham, thinking that he had trouble enough without the knowledge. CHAPTER XVII.— Captain Puke at Home. Gteorge Duke sat by the fire, staring moodily at the burning coals, and never so much as casting a look in the direction of the wretched- pale face of his wife, who stood upon the spot where Darrell had left her, with her hands clasped about her heart, and her eyes dilated in a fixed and vacant gaze, almost terrible to look upon. The sole domestic at the Hall was the same old woman wh§ Jiad succeeded Sally Masterson as the squire's housekeeper, and s^pce kept house for Kingwood and his sister. She was half blind and hopelessly deaf, and she took the return of ( !aptain Duke as quietly as if the sailor had not been away seven weeks. How long she stood in the same attitude, seeing nothing, thinking of nothing, how long Captain George Duke sat brooding over the hearth, with the red blaze upon his cruel face, Millicent never knew. She only knew that by-and-bye he addressed her, still without looking at her — ' Is there anything to drink — any wine or spirits in this dull old place ?'»he asked. She told him that she did not know, but that she would go and find Mrs. Mag- gie (the deaf old woman), and ascertain. In the overwrought state of her brain, it was a relief to her to have to do her husband's bidding; a relief to her to go outside the chilly hall and breathe an- other atmosphere than that which he respired. It was a long time before she could make Mrs. Meggis understand what she wanted; but when at last the state of the case dawned upon the' old woman, she nodded several times triumphantly, took a key from a great bunch that hung over the dresser, opened a narrow door in one corner of the large stone-flagged kitchen, and, candle in hand, descended a flight of steps leading into the cellar. After a considerable period she emerged with a bottle under each arm. She OR THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE, jq 93 held each of these bottles' before the light for Millicent to see the liquid they contained. That iu one was of a bright amethyst colour, the other a golden brown. The first was claret, the second brandy. Millicent was preparing to leave the kitchen, followed by the old housekeeper carrying the bottles and a couple of glasses, when she was startled by a knocking at the hall-door. When Mrs. Meggis became aware of this summons, she put down her tray of bottles and glasses, and went ouce more to the bunch of keys, for on the departure of Darrell and Sarah Pecker the door had been locked for the night. It was cow past eleven. An unusual hour for visitors anywhere; tin unearthly hour at this lonely Cumbrian mansion. Millicent had but one thought. It must be Darrell Markham. She took the tray herself and followed Mrs. Meggis, who carried the light and the keys. When they reached the hall, Millicent left the old woman to open the door, and went straight into the parlour to carry George Duke the liquor he had asked for. ' That's right,' he said ; ' fhy throat's as hot as lire. So, so ! no corkscrew '.' 1 leaven bless these pretty novel-reading wives, they're so good at looking after a man's comfort !' He took a pistol from his breast, and with the butt-end knocked off the necks of the two bottles, spilling the wine and spirit upon the polished parlour table. He rilled a glass from each, and draiued them oue after the other. 'Good,' he said; 'the claret first, aud the brandy afterwards. We don't gel such liquor as this in — in the Pacific. I shall have no heel-taps tonight. Mrs Duk<\ What's that V He looked up from the third glass that he had emptied to ask the question. That which had attracted his attention was the sound of voices in the hall with- out — the shrill treble pipe. of Mrs. Meggis, aud the deep voice of a man. ' What is it ?' repeated George Duke. ' Go and see, can't you V Millieeut opened the parlour door aud looked out into the hall. Mrs. Meggis was Standing with the, heavy door in her hand, parleying with some strange man who stood in the snow upon the threshold. The same bitter winter wind which had extinguished the lights at* the Black Bear had blown out the guttering tallow candle carried by Mrs. Meggis, aud the hall was quite dark. 1 What is it V Millicent asked. • ' Why, it is merely this, ma'am,' answered the man upon the threshold : ' this | woman is rather hard of hearing, and not over easy to understand ; but from what she tells me, it. seems that Captain Duke has come home. Is that true?* The man spoke from behind the thick folds of a woollen handkerchief, which muffled aud disguised his voice, as much as it concealed his face. Even in the obscurity he seemed jealous of being seen, for he drew himself further back into the shadow of the doorway as he spoke to Mrs. Duke. ' It is quite true,' answered Millicent; 'Captain Duke has retu: The man muttered an angry oath. • Returned, 1 he said. ; ' returned. Surely he must have come back very lately ?' ' lie came back to-night.' 'To-night! to-night! Not half-a-dozen hours ago, 1 - • N )t thre? hours aao ' <)4 £ DARRELL MARKHAM ; OR ' That's good,' muttered the man, with another imprecation ; ' that's like my luck, Down once, down always; that's the way of the world. Good-night, ma'am !' He left the threshold without another word, and went away; his footsteps noiseless in the depth of snow. • Who w^s it V asked George Puke, when Millicent had" returned to the parlour. ' Some man who wanted to know if you had returned.' ' Where is he V cried the Captain, starting from his seat, and going towards the hall. ,' Gone.' 1 Cone, without my seeing him V • lie did not ask to see you.' The Captain of the Vulture clenched his fist with a savage frown, looked at Millicent, as if in some sudden burst of purposeless fury he - could fain have struck her. 'Gone! gone !' he said; 'd him, whoever he is. On the very night of my return, too !' . ' He began to pace up and down the room, his arms folded upon his breast, and his head bent gloomily downwards. ' The garden room has been prepared for you. Captain Duke,' said Millicent, walking towards the door, and pausing upou the threshold to speak to him'; ' it is the best room in the house, and has been kept well aircd >; for it was poor Ring- wood's favourite chamber. Mrs. Meggis has lighted a good fire there.' 'Ay,' Said the Captain, looking up with a malicious- laugh, ' it would be clever to give me damp sheets to sleep upon, and kill me on the night of my return. Folks could scarcely call that murder, and it might be so easy done.' ■• She did net condescend to notice this speech. ' Good night, Captain Duke, she said : 'Good night, my kind, dutiful wife, good night. I am to have the garden room, am I ? well and good ! May I ask in what part of the house it may please your ladyship to rest V • In the room my poor mother slept in,' ^ie said ' Good .night' Left to himself, the Captain of the Vulture drew the table close to the hearth, and seating himself in old Squire Markham's high-backed arm-chair, stretched <>ut his legs before the blaze, filled lfis glass, and made himself quite comfortable. The broad light of the fire shining full upon his face brought out the changes worked in his seven, years' absence. 'Wrinkles and hard lines, invisible before, seemed to grow and gather round his eyes and mouth as he sat 'gloating over the 'daze, and the strong drink, and the comfort about him. With his distorted shadow cast upou the panelling behind his chair, darkening the wall with its exaggerated shape, he looked like some evil genius brooding over that solitary hearth, and plot- ting mischief for the roof that sheltered him." Every now and theu he looked up from the blaze to the bottles upon the table,, the fire-lit walls, the antique bureau, the oaken sideboard, adorned with tankards of massive tarnished silver and china punch-bowls, the quaint silver candlesticks, and all other evidences of solid countryfied prosperity around him, and rubbing his hands softly, broke out into a low triumphant chuckle. 'Better than over yonder/ he said, with a backward gesture of his head — ' hetter than over yonder, anyhow. Thunder and fury ! better than that, Ge THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTIRE. ■ $5 Duke. You've not eha tiffed' your quarters for the worse, since you bade good-bye to old comrades over there.' He filled his glass again, and burst into some fragment ui' a French song, with a jingling chorus of meaningless syllables. ' To think,' he said, ■ only to fancy that this Ringwood Markham, a younger man than myself, should die within a few mouths of my coming home ! Egad, they've said that George Duke was one of those fellows who always fall on their ■ et. I've had a hard time of it for the last seven years, but I've dropped into good luck after all- — dropped into my old luck— a fortune, and a poor, frightened wife that can't say boo to a goose — a poor, trembling, novel-reading, pale-faced baby that ' . lie broke off to fill himself another glass of claret. He had nearly finished the bottle up this time, and his voice was growing thick and unsteady. Presently, he fell into a half doze, with his elbows on lii^ knees, and his head bent over the tire. Sitting thus, nodding forward every "now and then, as if he would have fallen upon tfce burning coals, he woke presently with a sudden jerk. 'The chain,' he cried, ■ the chain. D you, you French thief, bear your >i\vu share of the weight.' llejooked down at his feet. One of the heavy fire-irons had fallen across his ankles. Captain Duke laughed aloud, and looked around the room, this time with a drunken stare. : A change,' he said, ' a change for the better.' The bottles were both nearly empty, and the fire had burped low. Midnight had sounded some time before from the distant church clock — the strokes dull and muffled in the snowy weather. The Captain of the Vulture rubbed his eyes drowsy. 1 My head is as light as a feather,' he muttered indistinctly; ' I've uot been ..ver-used to a bottle of good wine- lately. I'm tired and worn out, too, with three days coach traveling, and a week's tossing about in stormy weather. So now for the garden room; and to-morrow, Mrs. George Duke and Mr. Darrell Markham,* for you.' . ' ' He shook his fist at the low tiro as he spoke ; then rising with an effort, he took a candle from the table, blew out the other, and staggered off to find his way to >>m in which he was to sleep. The house had been so familiar to him in the old sijuire's lifetime, that, drunk as he was, he had no fefar of losing himself in the gloomy corridors on the upper floor. . The garden room was a large' chamber, which had been added to the house 1 a hundred years before, for the. accommodation of a certain whimsical lady f . fortune, who had married old Squire Markham'? grandfather. It was a large apartment, with a bay-window overlooking a flower-garden, with trimly-cut box borders, quaintly-shaped shrubs, and a fountain that had long been dry. A half- glass door opened on to a flight of*stonc steps, leading down into this garden ; which advantage, added to the superior size and furniture ol' the apartment, had long made the garden room the state chamber at Compton Hall. A great square bed, with gilded frame work and mouldering tapestry curtains, faced the bay- window and the half-glass door, which was shrouded in win + er by a curtained" ':e hangings of the 1 * 96 BARRELL MARXHAM, OR George Duke set his caudle ou a table near the fire and Jooked about him Millicent had spoken the truth when she said that Mrs. Megges had made a good fire, for, late as it was, the wood and coal burued pleasantly behind the bars of the wide grate. The Captain replenished the fire, and flinging himself into an arm-chair, kicked off his dqnip, worn boots. ' There isn't a shred about me that would have held out a week longer/ lie sai'h as he looked a£ his patched and threadbare blue coat, the tarnished lace ou which hung in frayed fragments here and there. ' So it's no bad fortune that brought me back to look for Mrs. Millicent.' Even in his intoxication he took such a malicious delight in having returned to cheat and outwit his wife, that the triumphant sparkle re-illumined, his eyes. dull as they had 'grown with wine and sleep. lie took off his boots, coat, and waistcoat, put a pair of pistols under the pillow, and throwing back the counterpane, flung himself, in his shirt, breeches and stockings, upon the bed. ' I wonder whether youder glass door is bolted,' he muttered, as he dropped ofl to sleep ; ' of course it is though — and little matter if it wasn't — I'm not much afraid of the honest villagers of Comptou-on-the-Moor, for folks who come front the place I've just left, don't often carry much to be robbed of.' Mechanically, the wandering right hand sought the butt-end of the pistol be- neath the pillow, aud so, with his fingers resting on the familiar weapon, George Duke dropped off to sleep. 1 doubt if he hud, ever said a prayer iu his life. T know that he said uone that night. CHAPTER XVIIL— What was Done in the Garden Room. Fur Millicent Duke there was no sleep ou that wretched, hopeless night: she did not undress, but sat still and rigid, with her hands locked together, and her eyes staring straight before her, thinking— thinking of what? What was she '' It was that.u which some weary, monotonous action in her brain was forever asking and never answering. What was she, and what had she done ? What was the degree of guilt in this fatal marriage, a-ud for how much of that guilt was she responsible ? She had opposed the marriage, it is true, and she had striven hard agaiust the tender pleadings of every memory of her youth and its one undying affection* but she had yielded. She had yielded*us Darrell had but truly said, asainst her bet ter judgment ; or rather against some instinctive, unreasoning warning which had whispered to her that she was not free to wed. What was the extent of her guilt? She had been simply and piously educated. ' Educated by people, whoso honest minds knew no degrees of right or wrong ; whose creed lay iu hard, unassailable doctrines ; and who set up the Ten Commandments as so many stone boundaries about the Christian's feet, and left him without one gap or loophole by which .•scape their full siaaiicance. What woul >f Comptou say to he: the next d ■'...• weut to THE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. v 1 him to fall at his feet and tell her storv ? Then n nuiM*„ „„ • • ji she flung herself upon the ground, ^oIKug tL^^d S^W pi ^d« winch, was to be spent with him-with tub hate \nd £~S !Vk • T '' ,,; ' P eo2d ; oP /She Cried ' P iteous1 ^ ' uo > no > ^, I cannot die with my si as rffc*. be to mo/ Sd y Mr D urr my g0 ° d - faitbful ^'H** > *** she would an J boko !l°out a , n t d ,!, 0,1 none had slept well, and all had been 1 bv the knocking. No unearthly shadow, or double, or ghost newly arisen in the grave-clothes of the. dead, could have struck more horror to these people's minds than did the figure of Millicent Puke, standing amidst them, with her pale, dishevelled hair, damp with the melted snow, her disordered : I railing about her, wet and blood- ed, her eyes dilated with the same look of horrified astonishment with which she had looked upon the murdered man, and her wounded hand, from which the handkerchief had dropped, dyed red with hideous smears. She sto.fld amongst them for some momeuts, nether speaking to them nor look- ing at them, but with her eyes still fixed in that horror-stricken stare, and her wounded hand wandering about her forehead till her brow and hair were dis- d with the same red smears. With his own face blanched to the ghastly hue of hers, Darrell Markham looked at his cousin, powerless to speak or question her. Sarah Pecker was -the first to recover her presence of mind. 'Miss Milly,' she said, trying to take the distracted girl in her arms, 'what is it '( What has happened ? Tell me, dear.' At the sound of this familiar voice, the fixed eyes turned towards {\\q speaker, and .Millicent Duke burst into a long, hysterical laugh. ■ My God !' cried Darrell, 'that man has driven her mad !' ' Yes, mad,' answered Millicent, ' mad ! Who can wonder ? lie is murdered. I saw it with my own eyes. His throat cut from car to ear, and the red blood Blowly from the wound to join that-black pool upon the floor. Oh! Darrell, Sarah, have pity upon me, have pity upon me, and never let me enter that dreadful house again !' She fell on her knees at their feet, and held up her clasped h; 'Be calm, dear, be calm,' said Mrs. Pecker, trying to lii't her from the ground. . darling, you are with : ; you — with Master Darrell, and with your faithfn) old Sally, and with all fri ( you. What is it, dear ? Who .rdered V . ' George Duke.' 100 DARRELL MARKHAM; OR ' The Captain murdered ! But who could have done it, Miss Milly ? % Who could have done such a dreadful deed V She shook her head piteously, but made no reply. It was now for the first time that Darrell interfered. ' Take her up stairs,' he said to Mrs. 'Pecker, in an undertone. ' For Gk>d's sake take her away. Ask her no questions, but get her away from all these people, if you love her.' Sarah obeyed ; and between them, they carried Millicent to the room in which Darrell had been sleeping. " A few embers still burned in the grate, and the bed was scarcely disturbed, for the young man had thrown himself dressed upon the outside of the counterpane. On this bed Sarah Pecker laid Millicent, while Dar- rell with his own hands re-lighted the fire. . On entering the room he had taken the precaution of locking the door, so that they we're sure of being undisturbed ; but they could hear the voices of the agi- tated servants and the inn-keeper, loud and confused below. Mrs. Pecker occupied herself in taking off Millicent's wet shoes, and bathing her forehead with water and some reviving essence. ' Blood on her forehead !' she said, ' blood on her hand, blood on her clothes ! Poor dear, poor dear ! what can they have been doing to her ?' Darrell Markham laid his hand upon her shoulder, and the inn-keeper's wife could feel that the strong man trembled violently. < Listen to me, Sarah,' he said ; ' something horrible has happened at the Hall. Heaven only knows what, for this poor distracted girl can tell but little. I must go down with Samuel to see what is wrong. Remember this T that not a creature but yourself must come into this room while I am gone. You understand V ' Yes, yes !' * ' You will yourself keep^watch overjmy unhappy cousin, and not allow another mortal to see- her ?' ' I will not, Master Darrell.' * And you yourself will refrain from questioning her; and should she attempt to talk, check her as much as possible V ' I will — I will, poor dear/ said Sarah, bending tenderly over the prostrate figure on the bed. Darrell Markham lingered for a moment to look at his cousin. It wa3 difficult to say»whether she was conscious or not; her eyes were half open, but they had a lustreless, unseeing look, that bespoke no sense of that which passed before them. Her head lay back* upon the pillow, her arms powerless at her sides, and she made no attempt to stir when Darrell turned away from the bed to leave the room. ' You will come back when you have found out V 1 What has happened yonder ? Yes, Sarah, I will.' He went down stairs, and in the hall found one of the village constables, who lived near at hand, and who had been aroused by an officious ostler, anxious to distinguish himself in the emergency. 'Do you know anything of this business, Master Darrell ?' asked this man.- ' Nothing more than what these people about here can tell you,' answered Dar- rell. ' I was just going down to the Hall to see what had happened.' 1 Then I'll go with your honour, if it's agreeable. Fetch a lantern, somebody.' The appeal to 'somebody' being. rather vague, everybody responded to it; and .. • TEE CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 101 all the lanterns to be found in the establishment were speedily placed at the dis- . posal of the constable. That functionary selected one for himself, and handed another to Darrell. 'Now, then, Master Markham,' he said, 'the sooner we /start the better.' Neither of the two men spoke to each other on the way to the Hall, except once, when 'the constable again asked Darrell if he knew anything of this busi- ness, and Darrell again answered, as he had answered before, that he knqw no- thing of it whatever. 4 We shall have difficulty enough to get in/ said Darrell, as they groped their way towards the terrace, 'for the only servant I saw in the house was a deaf old woman, and I doubt if Mrs. Duke aroused her.' ' Then Mrs. Duke ran straight out of the house when the deed was done, and came to the Black Bear V 1 1 believe so.' 4 Strange that she did not run to nearer neighbors for assistance. The Bear is- upwards of a mile and a half from here, and there are houses within a quarter of a mile.' Darrell made no reply. ' See yonder,' said the constable ; ' wc shall have no difficulty about getting in — there is a door open at the top of those steps.' He pointed to the half glass door of the garden room, which Millicent had left ajar when she fled. The light streaming through the aperture threw a zigzag streak upon the snow-covered steps. The sfiow still falling, for ever falling through that long night, blotted out all ibot-prints almost as soon as they were made. * Do you know in which room the murder was committed, Master Darrell V asked the constable as they went up the steps. ' I know nothing but what you know yourself.' The constable pushed open the half-glass door and the two men entered the room. The candle, burned down to the socket of the quaint old silver candlestick, stood where Millicent had lefr, it on a table near the window. The tapestry cur- tain, flung aside from the door as she had flung it in her terror, hung in a heap of heavy folds. The dark pool between the bed and the fire-place had widened and spread itself, but the hearth was cold and black, and the bed upon which George Duke had lain was empty. It was empty. The pillow on which his head had rested was there, stained red with his blood. The butt-end of the pistol, on which his fingers had lain when he fell asleep was still visible beneath the pillow. Red, ragged stains and streaks of blood, and one long gory line which marked what way the stream had flowed towards the dark pool on the floor, disfigured, the bed-clothes; but beyond this there was nothing. , * He must have got off the bed and dragged himself into another room,' said the constable, taking the candle fron^his lantern and sticking it into the candle- stick left by Millicent;