CHAPTER V.

"I will not hear thee speak:

I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool,
To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield
To christian intercessors.'

RESTING against the trunk of the yewtree, I listened with a loud and throbbing heart for the footfall of Mary's approach. The deep moaning of the breeze, bending the thick branches overhead, and throwing varied and sombre shadows on the ground, seemed like the sighs of the departed, slumbering together in death, perhaps as they had lived, in groups and singly. The ivy, twining with the grey moss, and hiding the rents and clefts in the time-worn church hard by, flapped and rustled in the sudden gusts with a harsh and grating noise. From

the tower a bur-r-r and a hum issued, as the wind swept through the bells, causing them to swing and jar with a damping and deadly sound. Cold as it was, from some sheltered nook and cranny the loud chirp of a cricket fell shrilly on the ear; and now and then, from far distant, the sharp bark of the watchdog and bleating of the folded flock. All else was silent.

Whilst I stood, with the moon casting a long shade of my body from behind, I fancied, for a moment, that two shadows flitted on the ground. Turning sharply round, I expected to see her for whom I was waiting; but there was no one. "I could have almost sworn," observed I, mentally, bending my eyes again upon the shadow, "that I saw two."

There, however, was that, moving as I moved, and no other.

Impressed with this idea, I continued to gaze intently before me; and, as I looked, a shadow slowly parted from and left the reflection of myself, and then stood out clear and palpable. Again I turned my head to

seek the cause; but nothing met my view. There, however, were the two shadows, defined as if thrown from two substances. In a short time, and like dissolving mist, one faded from my sight, and then went and came thrice in the like manner.

Agape with fear, I staggered against the tree; the knife dropped from my opened palm; and instead of the fierce and ungovernable passion with which I had been filled, I felt stricken with terror and weakness. My blood stagnated in its course, and my trembling limbs all but sunk from under me. At this moment I heard footsteps rapidly and lightly approaching.

"Who comes?" I almost shrieked.

""Tis me, Tom," replied a well-known voice; and in an instant more, Mary threw herself into my arms. "I'm out of breath, Tom, quite," continued she; "for, knowing that I should be late, I ran every inch of the way."

"And why," said I, steadying my voice with an effort, "were you late?"

"Come, come," rejoined she playfully,

66

you must not scold me, Tom; nor will you, when you hear. To-night the young squire, -as was his right, you know-chose me for his partner; and, dance succeeding dance, I could not get away unobserved."

"Indeed!" returned I.

"Nay, nay,” added Mary, “you should not deal thus harshly with me, Tom. I have often been at our trysting-place beforehand, and never reproached ye with look or word."

To this I made no answer.

"What!" she exclaimed, "no word! Will you not give me a welcome, Tom?” "No," I replied. "Not one word of welcome. My tongue couldn't utter it." "And why not?" returned she, bursting into tears. 66 Why not? Oh! tell me, Tom." "Because it would be a lie," I responded. "How cruel! how dreadfully cruel!" she ejaculated, convulsed with grief. "How have I offended you, Tom? Surely, not for being somewhat later than I said."

"I'm not so chary of my time," joined I.

F

"What, then, is the matter?" asked Mary, with choking voice. "But great Heaven!” continued she, peering into my face, "How blanched your cheek is! Your lips, too,

are bloodless!"

"And not without cause," I replied.

"Then tell it me, I beseech you," rejoined she. "Pray keep nothing from me." "Is it not enough to blanch my cheek," said I, with returning anger, "and drive the colour from my lips, to know that you act the hypocrite with me?"

"How?" briefly inquired she.

"By turning your ear to another's liking,' returned I. "By having double looks, and words, and sighs, and all the cunning of breaking honesty."

"I'm amazed!" she exclaimed.

"Not more so than myself," replied I. "And who has dared to revile me thus?" rejoined Mary, her eyes flashing as she spoke. "He who saw you," added I; "if the truth can be called reviling."

"You are deceived, Tom; indeed you are!" cried she.