Yes, for more than twenty bitter years James Hornby had savagely brooded over the shame and wrong inflicted on him before the mocking eyes of a brutal crowd by Henry Burton.  Ever as the day’s routine business closed, and he retired to the dull solitude of his chamber, the last mind-picture which faded on his waking sense was the scene on the crowded race-course, with all its exasperating accessories—­the merciless exultation of the triumphant adversary—­the jibes and laughter of his companions—­the hootings of the mob—­to be again repeated with fantastic exaggeration in the dreams which troubled and perplexed his broken sleep.  No wonder that the demons of Revenge and Hate, by whom he was thus goaded, should have withered by their poisonous breath the healthful life which God had given—­have blasted with premature old age a body rocker with curses to unblessed repose!  It seemed, by his after-confessions, that he had really loved Elizabeth Gainsford with all the energy of his violent, moody nature, and that her image, fresh, lustrous, radiant, as in the dawn of life, unceasingly haunted his imagination with visions of tenderness and beauty, lost to him, as he believed, through the wiles, the calumnies, and violence of his detested, successful rival.

The matronly person who, a few days after the Christmas following Hornby’s arrival at Pool, was conversing with her husband in the parlor of Grange farmhouse, scarcely realized the air-drawn image which dwelt in the memory of the unforgiving, unforgetting man.  Mrs. Burton was at this time a comely dame, whose embonpoint contour, however indicative of florid health and serenity of temper, exhibited little of the airy elegance and grace said to have distinguished the girlhood of Elizabeth Gainsford.  Her soft brown eyes were gentle and kind as ever, but the brilliant lights of youth no longer sparkled in their quiet depths, and time had not only “thinned her flowing hair”—­necessitating caps—­but had brushed the roses from her cheeks, and swept away, with his searing hand, the pale lilies from the furtive coverts whence they had glanced in tremulous beauty, in life’s sweet prime; yet for all that, and a great deal more, Mrs. Burton, I have no manner of doubt, looked charmingly in the bright fire-blaze which gleamed in chequered light and shade upon the walls, pictures, curtains of the room, and the green leaves and scarlet berries of the Christmas holly with which it was profusely decorated.  Three of her children—­the eldest, Elizabeth, a resuscitation of her own youth—­were by her side, and opposite sat her husband, whose frank, hearty countenance seemed to sparkle with careless mirth.

“Hornby will be here presently, Elizabeth,” said he.  “What a disappointment awaits the rascally curmudgeon!  His uncle was a prince compared to him.”

“Disappointment, Henry! to receive four hundred pounds he did not expect?”

“Ay, truly, dame.  Lawyer Symonds’ son Frank, a fine, good-hearted young fellow as ever stepped in shoe-leather—­Lizzy, girl, if that candle were nearer your face it would light without a match”—­