When she came to herself, the second
dinner-bell had rung, and her hair was
hanging loose over her shoulders.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

LAUNCELOT and Edmund Thorold came to
Lyndon Hall. They were both exceedingly
handsome, though very unlike each other,
and quite unlike Lucy, excepting indeed a
certain genial expression in Launce's face,
which was like Lucy's when she was at her
best—when she was not acting a part and
not thinking of herself. But of the two,
Launce was the more manly, as Lucy had
said, and Edmund the better looking. Both
were very gentle: Launce from that good
nature and mental indolence which belongs
to a certain type of large-built, stout, strong-limbed
young Saxons; Edmund, from a refined
nature, and from the absence of combativeness.
Launce was the more affectionate;
Edmund, the more loving. Launce would
make the kind husband, the good master, and
the indulgent father.

The Colonel liked them. Their quiet
manners pleased him, as did their manly
deference to himself. For Lucy had warned
them of his character, and had besought
them to be extraordinarily respectful. And
they always did what Lucy told them.
Gregory stood aloof, watching his rivals. He
surrounded Norah with more jealous cares
than ever, hardly letting her out of his sight
for a moment; sitting by her; talking to her
exclusively, or rather suffering no one else to
speak with her; breathing defiance and
distrust in every glance and gesture; chained
to her side like a fierce gaoler standing
between the very sun and her. It was a
hard time for Norah: it very nearly killed
her.

The marriage-day was drawing near.
Norah was growing thin and pale; Gregory
more restless and more violent. It was no
secret now, that he was eating his heart out
for despair at Norah's want of love for him,
or that Norah was literally dying of terror
and oppression. But no one spoke; not even
Lucy. She did not feel the ground beneath
her firm enough yet for such a hazardous
chance.

The young men had been a week at the
hall, and the marriage was to take place
now in ten days, when Gregory received a
letter from his lawyer which threatened to
destroy all existing engagements whatsoever.
A cousin of his, the son of his father's
younger brother, suddenly claimed the estate,
on the plea that Gregory's Nubian mother
had never been legally married. A doubt
had always existed in that branch of the
family; for, if true, the estates would be
theirs, and self-interest marvellously sharpens
suspicion.

Colonel Lyndon was only half-brother to
Gregory's father, and knew nothing of the rest
of the family. In no case, then, could the estates
devolve on him; consequently, he had never
questioned the validity of his half-nephew's
title. Had he received only a hint of such a
possibility as the want of those important
marriage lines, which change so many
destinies, he would have thoroughly
investigated the matter before he had suffered
him to stand suitor to his daughter. For
he cared only for the estates—not the man,
and he would give Norah quite as willingly
to the new owner as he had given her to
Gregory; a great deal more willingly if he
had a better income. Gregory knew this
well enough, and foresaw all that would
happen if he could not overcome this
difficulty—a difficulty not wholly contemptible,
for, though he had been brought up and
considered as the lawful heir, he had no legal
or documentary evidence of his father's
marriage, and could not prove his title, if
disputed; at least, not with the proofs in
his hands. He would have to search for
more.

After thinking over his position for full
five minutes—which was a long time for
Gregory to reflect—he determined on going
at once to London, and seeing the matter to
the end. Nothing but the certainty of losing
Norah altogether—should his opponent's
claim be made good—could have spurred him
to this extreme step. But he felt it was
better to risk a few weeks' absence than a
life's loss;—better to suffer anxiety for a
term than anguish for ever.

He rode over to Lyndon Hall, taking
the letter with him. It was early morning,
and he found the family assembled at
breakfast. Lucy in the most wonderful
elaboration of lace and muslin that the genius of
Parisian artist could invent, was sitting by
the Colonel, whom she was drugging with
her pleasant poison. Norah was between
Launce and Edmund, and assiduously
attended to by both. It was the only hour
they had with her unmolested, and as they
both wished to become really acquainted with
her, it is not surprising that they made the
most of it. In the midst of this delightful
ease and dangerous pleasure, Gregory's step
was heard in the hall. Not suffering the
servant to announce him, he opened the
door of the breakfast-room and strode rapidly
forward. Norah was just handing a cup of
tea to Edmund, at whom she was looking
earnestly, smiling at an anecdote he was
relating; Launce, on her other side, was
bending forward, listening, but putting in a
laughing commentary. Both the young men
were animated; Norah unembarrassed and
pleased. The instant Gregory appeared the
smile faded from her lips, her eyelids drooped,
her hand trembled, her breath was checked,
and she turned pale. Launce and Edmund
both stopped speaking, and Edmund half
drew away, looking a shade guilty and caught.
Lucy flushed crimson, a welcome springing
like a word to her eyes; Colonel Lyndon