CHAPTER V.

́ SURELY, MOST BITTER OF ALL SWEET THINGS THOU ART.'

MAURICE CLISSOLD keenly scrutinized Bridget Trevanard's face as they sat at supper that evening. Muriel's look of horror at the mention of her mother's name had inspired unpleasant doubts upon the subject of his hostess's character. He remembered how Elspeth had told him that Mrs. Trevanard was known as a hard woman; and he told himself that cruelty, or even crime, might be consistent with that hard nature which had won for the farmer's wife the reputation of a stern and exacting mistress. His closer examination of that face showed him no indication of lurking evil. That square, unwrinkled brow, those dark brown eyes, with their keen, straight outlook, denoted at least an honest nature. The firm lips, the square jaw, gave severity to the countenance

-a resolute woman-a woman not to be turned from

her purpose, thought Maurice, but a woman whom he could hardly imagine capable of crime.

And then why give credence to the rambling assertions of lunacy? It is the nature of madness to accuse the sane. Maurice tried to put the thought of Muriel's wild talk out of his mind; yet that awful question, 'What has she done with my child?' haunted him.

He felt less desire to prolong his stay at Borcel. The restful tranquillity of the place seemed to have departed. Muriel's fevered mind had its influence upon the atmosphere. He could not forget that she was near-wakeful, unhappy-waiting for the lover who was never to return to her.

He took good care to lock his door that night, and his slumbers were undisturbed. The next morning was devoted to a long ramble with Martin. They walked to a distant hill-side, where there were some Druidic remains well worth inspection; came back to the farm in time for the substantial early dinner, had a look at the

plenteously in a great stone

haymakers dining

kitchen, and then

retired to a field where the hay was cocked, to lie

basking in the sun, with their faces seaward, dreaming away the summer afternoon.

Here Maurice told Martin the story of James Penwyn's death, and the brief love story which had come to so pitiful an ending.

'Poor child,' he said, musingly, recalling his last interview with Justina, 'I verily believe she loved him truly and honestly, and would have made him a good wife. I never saw a nobler countenance than that player girl's. I'm sorry I thrust myself between them with so much as one hard word.'

'Was no one ever suspected of the murder?' asked Martin.

'Yes,' replied Maurice, without taking his cigar from his lips, 'I was for a little while.'

This was rather startling. Martin Trevanard stared at his new acquaintance with a curious look for a moment or so, before he recovered himself.

'You were?'

'Yes. Didn't you know? My name was in the papers, but I believe they did me the favour to spell it wrong. Perhaps I ought to have mentioned the fact when I was asking Mrs. Trevanard to take me

in. Yes, I, his bosom friend, was the only person they could pitch upon when they wanted to find the assassin. Yes, I have been in Eborsham gaol under suspicion as a murderer. The charge broke down at the inquest, and I came off with flying colours, I believe. Still there the the fact remains. The Spinnersbury detectives put the crime down to

me.'

'It would need pretty strong proof to make me suspect you,' said Martin, heartily.

'I was a good many miles away from the spot when that cursed deed was done, but it did not suit me to advertise my exact whereabouts to the world.' 'Why not?

'Because to have told the truth would have been to compromise a woman, the only one I ever loved, as a man loves one chosen woman out of all the world.'

'Martin threw away his unfinished cigar, turned himself about upon the haycock which he had chosen for his couch, and settled himself to hear something interesting, with a bright eager look in his

dark eyes.

Tell me all about it,' he said.

'Bah! weak sentimentality,' muttered Maurice, 'I should only bore you.'

'No, you wouldn't. I should like to hear it.'

'Well, naming no names, and summing up the matter briefly, there will be no harm done. It is the story of a dead and buried folly, that's all; a hackneyed commonplace story enough.'

He sighed, as if the recollection hurt him a little, dead as this old foolishness might be-sighed and looked seaward dreamily, as if he were looking back into the past.

'You must know that when I was a year or two younger, and life was fresher to me, I went a good deal into what people call society-didn't set my face against new acquaintances, dinner parties, dances, and so forth, as I do now. I've a fair income for a bachelor, belong to a good family, and can hold my own position well in a crowd. Now amongst the houses I visited in those days there were only two or three where I went from sheer honest regard for the people I visited. Among these was the house of a certain fashionable physician, not