"Five thousand a year," she thought; "it is little, after all, compared to the fortune that would have been mine had I been lucky enough to captivate Sir Oswald Eversleigh. It is little compared to the wealth enjoyed by that low-born and nameless creature, Sir Oswald's widow. But it is much for one who has drained poverty's bitter cup to the very dregs as I have. Yes, to the dregs; for though I have never known the want of life's common necessaries, I have known humiliations which are at least as hard to bear."

The many windows of the manor-house were all a-blaze with light as the hunting-party entered the gates. Fires burned brightly in all the rooms, and the interior of that comfortable house formed a very pleasant contrast to the cheerless darkness of the night, the muddy roads, and damp atmosphere.

The butler stood in the hall ready to welcome the returning guests with stately ceremony; while the under-servants bustled about, attending to the wants of the mud-bespattered huntsmen.

"Mr. Dale is at home, I suppose?" Douglas said, as he warmed his hands before the great wood fire.

"At home, sir!" replied the butler; "hasn't he come home with you, sir?"

"No; we never saw him after the meet. I imagine he must have been called away on parish business."

"I don't know, sir," answered the butler; "my master has certainly not been home since the morning."

A feeling of vague alarm took possession of almost everyone present.

"It is very strange," exclaimed Squire Mordaunt. "Did no one come here to inquire after your master this morning?"

"No one, sir," replied the butler.

"Send to the stables to see if my brother's horse has been brought home," cried Douglas, with alarm very evident in his face and manner.

"Or, stay, I will go myself."

He ran out of the hall, and in a few moments returned.

"The horse has not been brought back," he cried; "there must be something wrong."

"Stop," cried the squire; "pray, my dear Mr. Douglas Dale, do not let us give way to unnecessary alarm. There may be no cause whatever for fear or agitation. If Mr. Dale was summoned away from the hunt to attend the bed of a dying parishioner, he would be the last man to think of sending his horse home, or to count the hours which he devoted to his duty."

"But he would surely send a messenger here to prevent the alarm which his absence would be likely to cause amongst us all," replied Douglas; "do not let us deceive ourselves, Mr. Mordaunt. There is something wrong--an accident of some kind has happened to my brother. Andrews, order fresh horses to be saddled immediately. If you will ride one way, squire, I will take another road, first stopping in the village to make all possible inquires there. Reginald, you will help us, will you not?"

"With all my heart," answered Reginald, with energy, but in a voice which was thick and husky.

Douglas Dale looked at his cousin, startled, even in the midst of his excitement, by the strange tone of Reginald's voice.

"Great heavens! how ghastly pale you look, Reginald!" he cried; "you apprehend some great misfortune--some dreadful accident?"

"I scarcely know," gasped the baronet; "but I own that I feel considerable alarm--the--the river--the current was so strong after the thaw--the stream so swollen by melted snow. If--if Lionel's horse should have tried to swim the river--and failed--"

"And we are lingering here!" cried Douglas, passionately; "lingering here and talking, instead of acting! Are those horses ready there?" he shouted, rushing out to the portico.

His voice was heard in the darkness without, urging on the grooms as they led out fresh horses from the quadrangle.

"Gordon!" cried Lydia Graham, "you will go out with the others. You will do your uttermost in the search for Mr. Lionel Dale!"

She said this in a loud, ringing voice, with the imperious tone of a woman accustomed to command. She was leaning against one angle of the great chimney-piece, pale as ashes, breathless, but not fainting. To her, the idea that any calamity had befallen Lionel Dale was very dreadful--almost as dreadful as it could be to the brother who so truly loved him; for her own interest was involved in this man's life, and with her that was ever paramount.

She was well-nigh fainting; but she was too much a woman of the world not to know that if she had given way to her emotion at that moment, she would have given rise to disgust and annoyance, rather than interest, in the minds of the gentlemen present. She knew this, and she wished to please every one; for in pleasing the many lies the secret of a woman's success with the few.

Even in that moment of confusion and excitement, the scheming woman determined to stand well in the eyes of Douglas Dale.

As he appeared on the threshold of the great hall-door, she went up to him very quietly, with her head uncovered, and her pale, clearly-cut face revealed by the light of the lamp above her. She laid her hand gently on the young man's arm.

"Mr. Dale." she said, "command my brother Gordon; he will be proud to obey you. I will go out myself to aid in the search, if you will let me do so."

Douglas Dale clasped her hand in both his with grateful emotion.

"You are a noble girl," he cried; "but you cannot help me in this. Your brother Gordon may, perhaps, and I will call upon his friendship without reserve. And now leave us, Miss Graham; this is no fitting scene for a lady. Come, gentlemen!" he exclaimed, "the horses are ready. I go by the village, and thence to the river; you will each take different roads, and will all meet me on the river-bank, at the spot where we crossed to-day."

In less than five minutes all had mounted, and the trampling of hoofs announced their departure. Reginald was amongst them, hardly conscious of the scene or his companions.

Sight, hearing, perception of himself, and of the world around him, all seemed annihilated. He rode on through dense black shadows, dark clouds which hemmed him in on every side, as if a gigantic pall had fallen from heaven to cover him.

How he became separated from his companions he never knew; but when his senses awoke from that dreadful stupor, he found himself alone, on a common, and in the far distance he saw the glimmer of lights--very feeble and wan beneath the starless sky.

It seemed as if the horse knew his desolate ground, and was going straight towards these lights. The animal belonged to the rector, and was, no doubt, familiar with the country.

Reginald Eversleigh had just sufficient consciousness of surrounding circumstances to remember this. He made no attempt to guide the horse.

What did it matter whither he went? He had forgotten his promise to meet the other men on the river-brink; he had forgotten everything, except that the work of a demon had progressed in silence, and that its fatal issue was about to burst like a thunder-clap upon him.

"Victor Carrington has told me that this fortune shall be mine; he has failed once, but will not fail always," he said to himself.

The disappearance of Lionel Dale had struck like a thunderbolt on the baronet; but it was a thunderbolt whose falling he had anticipated with shuddering horror during every day and every hour since his arrival at Hallgrove.

The lights grew more distinct--feeble lamps in a village street, glimmering candles in cottage windows scattered here and there. The horse reached the edge of the common and turned into a high road. Five minutes afterwards Reginald Eversleigh found himself at the beginning of a little country town.

Lights were burning cheerily in the windows of an inn. The door was open, and from within there came the sound of voices that rang out merrily on the night air.

"Great heaven!" exclaimed Reginald, "how happy these peasants are--these brutish creatures who have no care beyond their daily bread!"

He envied them; and at that moment would have exchanged places with the humblest field-labourer carousing in the rustic tap-room. But it was only now and then the anguish of a guilty conscience took this shape.

He was a man who loved the pleasures and luxuries of this world better than he loved peace of mind; better than he loved his own soul.

He drew rein before the inn-door, and called to the people within. A man came out, and took the bridle as he dismounted.

"What is the name of this place?" he asked.

"Frimley, sir--Frimley Common it's called by rights. But folks call it Frimley for short."

"How far am I from the river-bank at the bottom of Thorpe Hill?"

"A good six miles, sir."

"Take my horse and rub him down. Give him a pail of gruel and a quart of oats. I shall want to start again in less than an hour."

"Sharp work, sir," answered the ostler. "Your horse seems to have done plenty already."

"That is my business," said Sir Reginald, haughtily.