BLACK SHEEP!

BY THE AUTHOR OF "LAND AT LAST," " KlSSING THE ROD,"
                                   &C. &C.

                                  BOOK II.

                  CHAPTER II. IN CONFERENCE.

IT is nine o'clock in the morning, and breakfast
is on the table in the pretty breakfast-room
at Poynings. Mrs. Carruthers presides over the
breakfast-table, and Clare is occupied in
arranging some flowers which have just been sent
in by the head gardener — sweet, fresh flowers,
partaking alike of the brightness of spring and
the sweetness of summer, for the April showers
have fulfilled their mission, and the earth is alike
glowing and redolent. Through the bow-window,
opened in fear and trembling by Clare before
her uncle's appearance, and hitherto unnoticed
by that potentate, who has a vivid dread of
rheumatism, comes a soft air laden with
delicious scent of new-mown grass; for close
underneath three men are busily engaged in trimming
the broad lawn, and the sound of their swiftly
plied whetstones and the hum of their talk in
their occasional intervals of rest has penetrated
into the room, and makes a kind of human
accompaniment to Mr. Carruthers's strictly
unhuman and intonative manner of reading the
morning prayers. Spreading far away, and
bordered in the extreme distance of a sloping
shoulder of Surrey down, lies the glorious
Kentish landscape, dotted here and there with
broad red-faced farmsteads and lowly labourers'
cots, with vast expanse of green and springing
wheat and hop-grounds, where the parasite has
as yet scarcely taken the tall poles within its
pliant embrace, with thick plantations and high
chalk cuttings, over which the steam from the
flying train hangs like a vaporous wreath. In
the immediate neighbourhood of the house the
big elm-trees, guarding on either side the
carriage-drive, tossed their high heads and rustled
their broad arms in all the delight of their
freshly acquired greenery; dew-bathed broad
upland and mossy knoll sparkle alike in the
morning sun; in the silvery bosom of the little
lake the reflexion of the slowly-drifting clouds
rears quaint impalpable islands of strange
fantastic form; within the magic square of the old
red kitchen-garden wall, where rusty nails and
fragments of last year's list still hung, large
cucumber and melon frames blink in the
sunlight, and every little hand-light lends a
scintillating ray. Over all hangs a sense of stillness
and composure, of peace and rest and
quietude, such as might bring balm and healing
to any wounded spirit.

External influences have, however, very little
effect on one of the persons in the breakfast-room,
for Mrs. Carruthers is bodily ill and
mentally depressed. A racking nervous headache
has deprived her of sleep during the past night,
and has left its traces in deep livid marks
underneath her eyes. She has a worn-out look and
a preoccupied manner, and while she is
superintending the preparation of the Grand Lama's
tea — a process about which he is particular, and
which is by no means to be lightly undertaken—
her thoughts are far away, and her mind is full
of doubts and misgiving. Why did her husband
come back so suddenly from the agricultural
meeting yesterday? Could he by any means have
been aware of George's presence in the
neighbourhood; and, if so, had he hastened his return
with the view of detecting him? If so, he had
providentially been thwarted in his plan. Nurse
Ellen had seen the boy, and had conveyed to
him the bracelet; the means of release from his
surrounding difficulties were now in his hands,
and the mother felt sure, from his manner, that
he would keep his word, and never again subject
himself to such a fearful risk. All danger surely
must be over; no hint had been dropped by her
husband of the slightest suspicion, and yet Mrs.
Carruthers watches every change of his countenance,
listens nervously to every footfall on the
stairs, hears with a heart-beat the creak of every
opening door, and is, obviously, constrained and
wretched and ill at ease.

Clare notices this pityingly and with wonder ;
Mr. Carruthers notices it too, with wonder, but
without any pity, but he resents it, in point of
fact, silently and with dignity. That Mrs.
Carruthers of Poynings should "mope" and be
"out of sorts" is a kind of reflection on Mr.
Carruthers of Poynings, which that gentleman
by no means approves of. Over the top of his
rustling newspaper he looks at his wife with
severe glances levelled from under knitted brows;
between his occasional bites of toast he gives a
short, sharp, irritable cough; now and then he