CHAPTER IV.

BE

THE HOLY WELL.

EECHGROVE HALL, the residence of Mr. Gordon, Walter's father, stood a mile inland from the village. It was an old house, lofty for its width, with high-pitched roofs and turret-like projections at the angles of the walls. It was reached from the road by a fine avenue of beeches; and standing near the middle of a long acclivity, it commanded an extensive view of the surrounding country.

Mr. Gordon had been a navy contractor, and had amassed a large fortune while he was still comparatively in the prime of life. His wife had died shortly after the birth of his only daughter Sibylla, who was two years younger than Walter. Though only sixteen years of age, she seemed already a young woman— this precocious physical development being probably due to the fact that her mother had been a Creole.

It was the breakfast hour of the day after Walter's arrival, and his father and he were standing at the window chatting together till Sibylla should make her appearance. Mr. Gordon was a stout handsome man, whose whole appearance, his massive and yet well-proportioned frame, his grave and deliberate movements, the level steadiness of his voice, and the dignity of his look, conveyed an impression of moral

stability and repose, which contrasted strikingly with the gay vivacity of his son. And yet the youth had his father's powerful brow, and his expressive and mobile features when at rest settled into the same placid gravity. His face had a healthy paleness, with a faint olive tinge, suggestive of the Creole blood in his veins; but he had his father's dark-blue eyes, with specks of hazel round the iris.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said a playful voice; and as father and son turned round, Sibylla-for it was she—made an elaborate curtsey, full of sportive grace.

Her father imprisoned her soft cheeks within his large shapely white hands and kissed her on the brow; and Walter, imitating her roguish humour, took her hand and raised it to his lips with an air of courtly homage.

"Ten minutes late, Miss Indolence," said Mr. Gordon, smilingly consulting his watch as he took his seat at the table.

"T is deep design, papa; your hunger makes me sure of a welcome. Good morning, John."

This salutation was addressed to Mr. Gordon's manservant, John Wilkie, who waited at table. He was a tall, elderly man, with a rugged weather-beaten face ; his lower eyelids were seamed with a network of fine wrinkles, and his eyes wore that peering and yet faraway look-the reflection of the mystery of the seawhich sailors acquire who have for long years been in the habit of scanning distant horizons and misty stretches of ocean. He had a wooden leg, and wore a long pig-tail tied with a bow of black ribbon.

He had been boatswain on board the frigate Resistance under Captain King, and had lost his right leg below the knee in the spirited action fought between that vessel and the French frigate La Coquette in the year 1783 near Turk's Island. He had been pensioned, and had returned to his native village of Fownie, where Mr. Gordon had made his acquaintance and taken him into his service. He had proved an invaluable servant, obedient without servility as a true man-of-war's-man, and punctiliously honest as befits a man with a wooden leg, who, from the emphasis and noisy assertion of his walk, has lost the capacity for furtive and sneaking movements. He idolised his young mistress, and while mechanically respectful to his master, was on quarter-deck behaviour with the young midshipman, doffing his cap to him in season and out of season. Poor John! he knew nothing of natural equality and the rights of man; and if any one had tried to indoctrinate him with these fine French notions, he would probably have squirted his tobaccojuice with vicious energy and growled his contempt for the Johnny Crapauds and their frivolous and fantastic notions.

John returned the morning salutation of his mistress in a voice like the rumble of a carronade, though his eyes brightened and his features assumed a grim and dislocated smile.

Sibylla was a charming and engaging sight, as she sat at the head of the table behind the tea-urn, dressed in a dainty white muslin gown, her taper fingers hovering over the cups as she dispensed the hospitalities of the breakfast-table. Her cheeks had the

same olive tinge as her brother's, her hair and eyebrows were dark; but her eyes, like her brother's, were blue-a piquant contrast, which lent a strange and bewildering charm to her features. The arch smiling face had the soft loveliness, the almost porcelain delicacy, of a portrait by Greuze; but if any critic of physiognomy had observed that face while her father said grace, he would have been struck by the complete change of expression, due to the absolute correspondence between feeling and its outward manifestation, which resulted in what might be called physical honesty. The Hebe had become a nun, the maiden à la Greuze was transformed into a Madonna à la Murillo. Her face, indeed, with the eyes closed and the lips gently pressed together, might have served as a model for that of some virgin confessor, the more so that in repose it bore the imprint of a haunting and unconscious pathos, a dim foreshadowing of sorrow.

After the conversation had touched on a number of indifferent topics, Walter said suddenly

"Speaking of the people I met yesterday, there was one whom I don't happen to know."

"What sort of a person?" asked Mr. Gordon.

"A gentleman, rather dark-complexioned, the cheeks and chin close-shaven, and with a long black moustache. He was riding on a handsome chestnut in the direction of Swinton. You know I had gone to see my old nurse, and I met him on the way back. He looked inquisitively at me for a moment or two, and then honoured me with an almost imperceptible salutation."

"Who could it be, John?" asked Mr. Gordon, with some show of interest.

"Lord Wimpole, sir," said John, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Ah, to be sure," rejoined Mr. Gordon; "Lord Wimpole of Swinton Hall, Walter. I heard that he had recently arrived, and meant to stay for a few months. I must give him a call."

"Is it socially possible for you to visit a live lord, papa?" asked Sibylla, half jocularly. "Is it not the case that etiquette, like the tide, only goes up a certain distance, and that the nobility are above high-water mark? I would not like you to be

snubbed."

"Lord Wimpole is as little likely to snub me as I am to take a snubbing, my dear," said Mr. Gordon.

"Well, he looks as if he was quite capable of being arrogant," remarked Walter. "He is just like the captain of an Algerine felucca or a Spanish xebeque : these fellows often have the same air of dusky picturesque dare-devilry. But what is he? who is he? what is he doing here?"

"I don't know much about him," replied his father. "I understand he has obtained his estate and title from some collateral branch. In his younger days I believe he was in one of the services-army or navy, I don't know which. He has the reputation of having led a somewhat unsettled life."

"Is he married, sir?" asked Walter.

"I believe not. But it is hardly in good taste to talk about him in this way. Did you see Mr. Prosser, Walter?"