like a good fellow. Show yourself a man.
I know you are too much of a soldier and a
gentleman to make any scene when a lady asks
you. That's it. 'Pon my word I feel for you
from my heart, I do indeed; and I declare, when
I think of it, I am ashamed of the way I
behaved." (They were going down the steps
gradually. Ross, with gloomy, glaring eyes,
answered not a word, and let himself be led off.)
"But I am such a touchy old fogie. I am
always making a fool of myself."

They were now at the bottom of the steps;
Ross looked back sharply, but the vision was
gone. He tottered into the cab. With deep
sympathy in his soft eyes the captain looked
at him, not wishing to say anything, nor even
administer consolation; then touched the shovel
again, as they drove away. As they did so, the
vestry door opened, and Mr. Tilney appeared
at the top of the steps, with another head
behind him. Mr. Tilney's sight was not of the
best.

"No carriages yet, Diamond?" he said; "they
must have gone round to the other door." But
here were the carriages coming plunging up—
Mr. Tilney's and the captain's. Room on the
steps for the new Mrs. Tillotson, pale, leaning
on the arm of the happy, happy Mr.
Tillotson. Brightest of mornings, sweetest of
days; yet not more bright, more sweet, than the
tumult of happiness, of pride, of joy, within him.
The furies of gloom, dejection, and perhaps
remorse, were scattered, gone for ever. The
fairies of hope and joy were fluttering round,
had taken possession, and made him their own.
Surely if mortal man might look forward to happiness,
it was the young Mr. Tillotson, positively
not more than thirty to look at, but in reality
some five or six years older, who divided the
step with that lovely girl.

Now the door is shut with a crash, and they
drive away.

The captain's carriage next, scattering gravel,
and the captain's temporary servant holding
the door open. The captain gives seats, as
a matter of course, to the whole Tilney family,
being sadly squeezed himself, and the "poor
hip" similarly incommoded for want of room
to stretch it out.

While Mr. Tilney was in the drawing-room,
with his finger in Mr. Crozier's button-hole, and
Tilney and her daughters were clustered
round Mrs. Crozier on the sofa, and the whole
seemed to glisten with white bonnets
and white ribbons, and all were waiting for
the breakfast, no one missed either the
captain or the bride. She was "getting ready,
you know," said Mrs. Tilney; and as for the
captain, "it might be assumed that he was
settling with somebody financially. Settling
with somebody he certainly was, but although
not in that way, yet doing no less efficient service.
This was what had occurred as he was
coming in at the gate—the last: he saw an
excited figure and a wild face and eyes posting
towards him:—

"I can't bear it. Let me pass," said Ross.
"I must see him and speak to him and to
her, too, again. Let me pass."

But the captain stood firmly in the gateway,
and even dexterously drew it to, behind him.

"For shame, man," he said, in a low voice.
"I declare I expected better of you. You
gave your word, too, as a gentleman——"

"I don't care," said the other, raising his
voice; "I am not going to let him have it all
his own way. I won't be tricked."

"Hush!" said the captain, taking his arm.
"For God's sake, think of these men. Here,
come round here with me—this way—and tell
me what it is you want."

Ross let himself be led away; but presently
roared out, "Here, this is the back door. I will
go in. I'll expose her and him—let me go."

"Now, now, now," said the captain, much
alarmed. "Surely you wouldn't raise a row,
would you—an ungentlemanly row?" But
Ross had burst from him and was in the back
garden. "Wait, wait!" said the captain, in a
fever. "Do, for Heaven's sake. What d'ye
want? Tell me. I'll do it for you, but don't
bring disgrace on the house."

There was a small greenhouse at the back of
this house, through which a garden was reached.
He stopped at the door, and said to the
captain:

"Well, then, send her out to me here."

The captain limped past him.

"I'll see, I'll see," he said; "there can be
no harm in that. But, now, do behave—no
noise. Will you promise—eh?"

The amiable old officer would, under the
circumstances, have disposed of this intruder
readily, but all he dreaded was a meeting with
Mr. Tillotson. He went in. Almost the first
person he met was Ada, flitting across the hall.
She stopped to speak to him. His face was full
of disquiet.

"The fact is," he said, "my dear, our friend
is back on us again. I did my best to keep him
out, for I thought if Tillotson saw him——"

"Where is he?" she said, hastily; then saw
a glimpse of him in the door.

It was a curious interview on the steps of the
greenhouse. Ross drew near, and said, half
mournfully, half savagely, "There you are, Mrs.
Tillotson. No, let him stay, if he likes. I don't
care if all the world listens. It's a proud day
for you, Mrs. Tillotson. You have managed
splendidly. But what is to become of me?
What matter? A poor ruined wretch like me.
You have played your cards capitally."

"O!" she said, sadly, "played my cards!
You think so? How little you know. I never
understood—never could understand. Dear
Ross, you know well it is not my fault. But it
is too late now."

"Yes, for me," he said, with an unusual softness
and mournfulness. "Indeed it is. Not
for you. Ah, you have managed charmingly. /
am the poor, miserable, humbugged, ruined
creature among you all. I am a disgraced man.
In another fortnight I shall be in all the
newspapers. This is your work."