The squire, Rowland Lester, a man of cultivated tastes, was a widower, with two daughters and a nephew.  Walter, the only son of Rowland’s brother Geoffrey, who had absconded, leaving his wife and child to shift for themselves, was in his twenty-first year, tall and strong, with a striking if not strictly handsome face; high-spirited, jealous of the affections of those he loved; cheerful outwardly, but given to moody reflections on his orphaned and dependent lot, for his mother had not long survived her desertion.

Madeline Lester, at the age of eighteen, was the beauty and toast of the whole country; with a mind no less beautiful than her form was graceful, and a desire for study equalled only by her regard for those who possessed it, a regard which had extended secretly, if all but unacknowledged to herself, to the solitary scholar of whom I have been speaking.  Ellinor, her junior by two years, was of a character equally gentle, but less elevated, and a beauty akin to her sister’s.

When Eugene Aram arrived at the manor house in keeping with his promise, something appeared to rest upon his mind, from which, however, by the excitement lent by wine and occasional bursts of eloquence, he seemed striving to escape, and at length he apparently succeeded.

When the ladies had retired, Lester and his guest resumed their talk in the open, Walter declining to join them.

Aram was advancing the view that it is impossible for a man who leads the life of the world ever to experience content.

“For me,” observed the squire, “I have my objects of interest in my children.”

“And I mine in my books,” said Aram.

As they passed over the village green, the gaunt form of Corporal Bunting arrested their progress.

“Beg pardon, your honour,” said he to the scholar, “but strange-looking dog here last evening—­asked after you—­said you were old friend of his—­trotted off in your direction—­hope all was right, master—­augh!”

“All right,” repeated Aram, fixing his eyes on the corporal, who had concluded his speech with a significant wink.  Then, as if satisfied with his survey, he added, “Ay, ay; I know whom you mean.  He had become acquainted with me some years ago.  I don’t know—­I know very little of him.”  And the student was turning away, but stopped to add, “The man called on me last night for assistance.  I gave what I could afford, and he has now proceeded on his journey.  Good evening!”

Lester and his companion passed on, the former somewhat surprised, a feeling increased when shortly afterwards Aram abruptly bade him farewell.  But, recalling the peculiar habits of the scholar, he saw that the only way to hope for a continuance of that society which had so pleased him was to indulge Aram at first in his unsocial inclinations; and so, without further discourse, he shook hands with him, and they parted.

III.—­The Old Riding-Whip