"The Regent's Canal?"

"Yes, missus," said Bootle, taking the title from his wife; "it's there you've had your duckin'--just by the Park Road here. You come switching over the bridge. Can't you tell who chucked you over? Or did ye do it yerself?"

The eyes of the rescued woman assumed a wandering expression, as if her thoughts were straying back to some past scene.

Then all at once a change came over her countenance, like one awaking from a horrid dream, and not altogether comprehending the reality!

For a moment she remained as if considering; and then all became clear to her.

"You have saved me from drowning," she said, leaning forward, and grasping the boatman by the wrist.

"Well, yes; I reckon you'd a-goed to the bottom, but for me, an' the old tow-rope."

"By the Park Road bridge, you say?"

"It be right over ye--the boat's still under it." Another second or two spent in reflection, and the lady again said:

"Can I trust you to keep this a secret?" Bootle looked at his wife, and Mrs B back at her husband, both inquiringly.

"I have reasons for asking this favour," continued the lady, in a trembling tone, which was due not altogether to the ducking. "It's no use telling you what they are--not now. In time I may make them known to you. Say you will keep it a secret?"

Again Bootle looked interrogatively at his wife; and again Mrs B gave back the glance.

But this time an answer was secured in the affirmative, through an act done by the rescued lady.

Drawing the diamond ring off her finger, and taking the gold watch from behind her waistbelt, she handed the first to the boatman's wife, and the second to the boatman himself--telling both to keep them as tokens of gratitude for the saving of her life!

The gifts appeared sufficiently valuable, not only to cover the service done, but that requested. With such glittering bribes in hand, it would have been a strange boatman, and still stranger boatman's wife, who would have refused to keep a secret, which could scarce compromise them.

"One last request," said the lady. "Let me stay aboard your boat till you can land me in Lisson Grove. You are going that way?"

"We are, missus."

"You will then call a cab for me from the stand. There's one in the Grove Road, close up."

"I'll do that for your ladyship in welcome."

"Enough, sir. I hope some day to have an opportunity of showing you I can be grateful."

Bootle, still balancing the watch in his hand, thought she had shown this already.

Some of the service still remained to be done, and should be done quickly. Leaving the lady with his wife, Bootle sprang back upon the tow-path, and once more taking his old horse by the head, trained on towards the Grove Road.

Nearing its bridge, which terminates the long subterraneous passage to Edgware Road, he again brought his barge to a stop, and went in search of a cab.

He soon came back with a four-wheeler; conducted the dripping lady into it; said good-night to her; and then returned to his craft.

But not till she he had rescued had taken note of his name, the number of his boat, and every particular that might be necessary to the finding him again!

She did not tell him whither she was herself bound.

She only communicated this to the cabman; who was directed to drive her to a hotel, not far from the Haymarket.

She was now sober enough to know, not only where she was, but whither she was going!

CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE.

CONSENT AT LAST.

Since our last visit to it, Vernon Hall had changed from gay to grave.

Only in its interior. Outside, its fine facade presented the same cheerful front to its park; the Corinthian columns of its portico looked open and hospitable as ever.

As ever, elegant equipages came and went; but only to draw up, and remain for a moment in the sweep, while their occupants left cards, and made inquiries.

Inside there was silence. Servants glided about softly, or on tiptoe; opened and closed the doors gently, speaking in subdued tones.

It was a stillness, solemn and significant. It spoke of sickness in the house.

And there was sickness of the most serious kind--for it was known to be the precursor of death.

Sir George Vernon was dying.

It was an old malady--a disease of that organ, to which tropical climes are so fatal--in the East as in the West.

And in both had the baronet been exposed; for part of his earlier life had been spent in India.

Induration had been long going on. It was complete, and pronounced incurable. At the invalid's urgent request, the doctors had told him the truth--warning him to prepare for death.

His last tour upon the Continent--whither he had gone with his daughter--had given the finishing blow to his strength; and he was now home again, so enfeebled that he could no longer take a walk, even along the soft, smooth turf of his own beautiful park.

By day most of his time was spent upon a sofa in his library, where he lay supported by pillows.

He had gone abroad with Blanche, in the hope of weaning her from that affection so freely confessed; and which had been ever since a sore trouble to his spirit.

How far he had succeeded might be learnt by looking in her sad thoughtful face; once blithe and cheerful; by noting a pallor in her cheek, erst red as the rose leaf; by listening to sighs, too painful to be suppressed; and, above all, to a conversation that occurred between her and her father not long after returning from that latest journey, that was to be the last of his life.

Sir George was in his library reclining, as was his wont. The sofa had been wheeled up to the window, that he might enjoy the charm of a splendid sunset: for it was a window facing west.

Blanche was beside him; though no words were passing between them.

Having finished adjusting his pillow, she had taken a seat near the foot of the sofa, her eyes, like his, fixed on the far sunset--flushing the horizon with strata-clouds of crimson, purple, and gold.

It was mid-winter; but among the sheltered copses of Vernon Park there was slight sign of the season. With a shrubbery whose foliage never fell, and a grass ever green, the grounds immediately around the mansion might have passed for a picture of spring.

And there was bird music, the spring's fit concomitant: the chaffinch chattering upon the taller trees, the blackbird with flutelike note fluttering low among laurels and laurustines, and the robin nearer the window warbling his sweet simple lay.