Chapter XVIII. Day--Twilight--Darkness
Chapter XXI. The Wykeford Doctor
Chapter II. Harry Drinks a Glass and Spills a Glass
Chapter V. The Heir of the Fairfields
Chapter VI. Bertha Velderkaust
Chapter VII. Sergeant-Major Archdale
Chapter VIII. A Talk With the Squire
Chapter IX. Harry Fairfield Grows Uneasy
Chapter XI. How Fares the Child?
Chapter XII. The Old Squire Leaves Wyvern
Chapter XIII. Marjory Trevellian
Chapter XIV. The Enchanted Garden
Chapter XVII. The Hour and the Man
Chapter XVIII. The March to Noulton Farm
Chapter XIX. A Silent Farewell
Chapter XX. The March by Night
Volume I:
Chapter I.
Alice Maybell
In the small breakfast parlour of Oulton, a pretty girl, Miss Alice Maybell, with her furs and wrappers about her, and a journey of forty miles before her -- not by rail -- to Wyvern, had stood up to hug and kiss her old aunt, and bid her good-bye.
"Now, do sit down again; you need not be in such a hurry -- you're not to go for ten minutes or more," said the old lady; "do, there's a darling."
"If I'm not home before the sun goes down, aunt, Mr. Fairfield will be so angry," said the girl, laying a hand on each shoulder of kind old Lady Wyndale, and looking fondly, but also sadly, into her face.
"Which Mr. Fairfield, dear -- the old or the young one?"
"Old Mr. Fairfield, the Squire, as we call him at Wyvern. He'll really be angry, and I'm a little bit afraid of him, and I would not vex him for the world -- he has always been so kind."
As she answered, the young lady blushed a beautiful crimson, and the old lady, not observing it, said --
"Indeed, I don't know why I said young -- young Mr. Fairfield is old enough, I think, to be your father; but I want to know how you liked Lord Tremaine. I told you how much he liked you. I'm a great believer in first impressions. He was so charmed with you, when he saw you in Wyvern Church. Of course he ought to have been thinking of something better; but no matter -- the fact was so, and now he is, I really think, in love -- very much -- and who knows? He's such a charming person, and there is everything to make it -- I don't know what word to use -- but you know Tremaine is quite a beautiful place, and he does not owe a guinea."
"You dear old auntie," said the girl, kissing her again on the cheek, "wicked old darling -- always making great matches for me. If you had remained in India, you'd have married me, I'm sure, to a native prince."
"Native fiddlestick; of course I could if I had liked, but you never should have married a Mahomedan with my consent. Never mind though; you're sure to do well; marriages are made in heaven, and I really believe there is no use in plotting and planning. There was your darling mamma, when we were both girls together, I said I should never consent to marry a soldier or live out of England, and I did marry a soldier, and lived twelve years of my life in India; and she, poor darling, said again and again, she did not care who her husband might be, provided he was not a clergyman, nor a person living all the year round in the country -- that no power could induce her to consent to, and yet she did consent, and to both one and the other, and married a clergyman, and a poor one, and lived and died in the country. So, after all, there's not much use in planning beforehand."
"Very true, auntie; none in the world, I believe."
The girl was looking partly over her shoulder, out of the window, upward towards the clouds, and she sighed heavily; and recollecting herself, looked again in her aunt's face and smiled.
"I wish you could have stayed a little longer here," said her aunt.
"I wish I could," she answered slowly, "I was thinking of talking over a great many things with you -- that is,
