dark mahogany furniture.  On the walls hung the portraits of the Scroopes for many generations past, some in armour, some in their robes of state, ladies with stiff bodices and high head-dresses, not beauties by Lely or warriors and statesmen by Kneller, but wooden, stiff, ungainly, hideous figures, by artists whose works had, unfortunately, been more enduring than their names.  He was pacing up and down the room with a candle in his hand, trying to realize to himself what life at Scroope might be with a wife of his aunt’s choosing, and his aunt to keep the house for them, when a door was opened at the end of the room, away from that by which he had entered, and with a soft noiseless step Miss Mellerby entered.  She did not see him at first, as the light of her own candle was in her eyes, and she was startled when he spoke to her.  His first idea was one of surprise that she should be wandering about the house alone at night.  “Oh, Mr. Neville,” she said, “you quite took me by surprise.  How do you do?  I did not expect to meet you here.”

“Nor I you!”

“Since Lord Scroope has been so ill, Lady Scroope has been sleeping in the little room next to his, downstairs, and I have just come from her.”

“What do you think of my uncle’s state?”

“He is better; but he is very weak.”

“You see him?”

“Oh yes, daily.  He is so anxious to see you, Mr. Neville, and so much obliged to you for coming.  I was sure that you would come.”

“Of course I came.”

“He wanted to see you this afternoon; but the doctor had expressly ordered that he should be kept quiet.  Good-night.  I am so very glad that you are here.  I am sure that you will be good to him.”

Why should she be glad, and why should she be sure that he would be good to his uncle?  Could it be that she also had been told the story of Kate O’Hara?  Then, as no other occupation was possible to him, he took himself to bed.

CHAPTER X.

Fred Neville’s scheme.

On the next morning after breakfast Neville was taken into his uncle’s chamber, but there was an understanding that there was to be no conversation on disagreeable subjects on this occasion.  His aunt remained in the room while he was there, and the conversation was almost confined to the expression of thanks on the part of the Earl to his nephew for coming, and of hopes on the part of the nephew that his uncle might soon be well.  One matter was mooted as to which no doubt much would be said before Neville could get away.  “I thought it better to make arrangements to stay a fortnight,” said Fred,—­as though a fortnight were a very long time indeed.

“A fortnight!” said the Earl.

“We won’t talk of his going yet,” replied Lady Scroope.

“Supposing I had died, he could not have gone back in a fortnight,” said the Earl in a low moaning voice.