For some minutes Clement Austin lingered in the porch at Maudesley Abbey, utterly at a loss as to what he should do next.

Margaret had left the Abbey an hour ago, according to the footman’s statement; but, in that case, where had she gone? Clement had been walking up and down the road before the iron gates of the park, and they had not been opened once during the hours in which he had waited outside them. Margaret could not have left the park, therefore, by the principal entrance. If she had gone away at all, she must have gone out by one of the smaller gates — by the lodge-gate upon the Lisford Road, perhaps, and thus back to Shorncliffe.

“But then, why, in Heaven’s name, had Margaret set out to walk home when the fly was waiting for her at the gates; when her lover was also waiting for her, full of anxiety to know the result of the step she had taken?

“She forgot that I was waiting for her, perhaps,” Clement thought to himself. “She may have forgotten all about me, in the fearful excitement of this night’s work.”

The young man was by no means pleased by this idea.

“Margaret can love me very little, in that case,” he said to himself. “My first thought, in any great crisis of my life, would be to go to her, and tell her all that had happened to me.”

There were no less than four different means of exit from the park. Clement Austin knew this, and he knew that it would take him upwards of two hours to go to all four of them.

“I’ll make inquiries at the gate upon the Lisford Road,” he said to himself; “and if I find Margaret has left by that way, I can get the fly round there, and pick her up between this and Shorncliffe. Poor girl, in her ignorance of this neighbourhood, she has no idea of the distance she will have to walk!”

Mr. Austin could not help feeling vexed by Margaret’s conduct; but he did all he could to save the girl from the fatigue she was likely to entail upon herself through her own folly. He ran to the lodge upon the Lisford Road, and asked the woman who kept it, if a lady had gone out about an hour before.

The woman told him that a young lady had gone out an hour and a half before.

This was enough. Clement ran across the park to the western entrance, got into the fly, and told the man to drive back to Shorncliffe, by the Lisford Road, as fast as he could go, and to look out on the way for the young lady whom he had driven to Maudesley Abbey that afternoon.

“You watch the left side of the road, I’ll watch the right,” Clement said.

The driver was cold and cross, but he was anxious to get back to Shorncliffe, and he drove very fast.

Clement sat with the window down, and the frosty wind blowing full upon his face as he looted out for Margaret.

But he reached Shorncliffe without having overtaken her, and the fly crawled under the ponderous archway beneath which the dashing mail-coaches had rolled in the days that were for ever gone.

“She must have got home before me,” the cashier thought; “I shall find her up-stairs with my mother.”

He went up to the large room with the bow-window. The table in the centre of the room was laid for dinner, and Mrs. Austin was nodding in a great arm-chair near the fire, with the county newspaper in her lap. The wax-candles were lighted, the crimson curtains were drawn before the bow-window, and the room looked altogether very comfortable: but there was no Margaret.

The widow started up at the sound of the opening of the door and her son’s hurried footsteps.

“Why, Clement,” she cried, “how late you are! I seem to have been sitting dozing here for full two hours; and the fire has been replenished three times since the cloth was laid for dinner. What have you been doing, my dear boy?”

Clement looked about him before he answered.

“Yes, I am very late, mother, I know,” he said; “but where’s Margaret?”

Mrs. Austin stared aghast at her son’s question.

“Why, Margaret is with you, is she not?” she exclaimed.

“No, mother; I expected to find her here.”

“Did you leave her, then?”

“No, not exactly; that is to say, I——”

Clement did not finish the sentence. He walked slowly up and down the room thinking, whilst his mother watched him very anxiously.

“My dear Clement,” Mrs. Austin exclaimed at last, “you really quite alarm me. You set out this afternoon upon some mysterious expedition with Margaret; and though I ask you both where you are going, you both refuse to satisfy my very natural curiosity, and look as solemn as if you were about to attend a funeral. Then, after ordering dinner for seven o’clock, you keep it waiting nearly two hours; and you come in without Margaret, and seem alarmed at not seeing net here. What does it all mean, Clement?”

“I cannot tell you, mother.”

“What! is this business of to-day, then, a part of your secret?”

“It is,” answered the cashier. “I can only say again what I said before, mother — trust me!”

The widow sighed, and shrugged her shoulders with a deprecating gesture.

“I suppose I must be satisfied, Clem,” she said. “But this is the first time there’s ever been anything like a mystery between you and me.”

“It is, mother; and I hope it may be the last.”

The elderly waiter, who remembered the coaching days, and pretended to believe that the Reindeer was not an institution of the past, came in presently with the first course.

It happened to be one of those days on which fish was to be had in Shorncliffe; and the first course consisted of a pair of very small soles and a large cruet-stand. The waiter removed the cover with as lofty a flourish as if the small soles had been the noblest turbot that ever made the glory of an aldermannic feast.

Clement seated himself at the dinner-table, in deference to his mother, and went through the ceremony of dinner; but he scarcely ate half a dozen mouthfuls. His ears were strained to hear the sound of Margaret’s footstep in the corridor without; and he rejected the waiter’s fish-sauces in a manner that almost wounded the feelings of that functionary. His mind was racked by anxiety about the missing girl.

Had he passed her on the road? No, that was very improbable; for he had kept so sharp a watch upon the lonely highway that it was more than unlikely the familiar figure of her whom he looked for could have escaped his eager eyes. Had Mr. Dunbar detained her at Maudesley Abbey against her will? No, no, that was quite impossible; for the footman had distinctly declared that he had seen his master’s visitor leave the house; and the footman’s manner had been innocence itself.

The dinner-table was cleared by-and-by, and Mrs. Austin produced some coloured wools, and a pair of ivory knitting-needles, and set to work very quietly by the light of the tall wax-candles; but even she was beginning to be uneasy at the absence of hot son’s betrothed wife.

“My dear Clement,” she said at last, “I’m really growing quite uneasy about Madge. How is it that you left her?”

Clement did not answer this question; but he got up and took his hat from a side-table near the door.

“I’m uneasy about her absence too, mother,” he said, “I’ll go and look for her.”

He was leaving the room, but his mother called to him.

“Clement!” she cried, “you surely won’t go out without your greatcoat — upon such a bitter night as this, too!”

But Mr. Austin did not stop to listen to his mother’s remonstrance; he hurried out into the corridor, and shut the door of the room behind him. He wanted to run away and look for Margaret, though he did not know how or where to seek for her. Quiescence had become intolerable to him. It was utterly impossible that he should sit calmly by the fire, waiting for the coming of the girl he loved.

He was hurrying along the corridor, but he stopped abruptly, for a well-known figure appeared upon the broad landing at the top of the stairs. There was an archway at the end of the corridor, and a lamp hung under the archway. By the light of this lamp, Clement Austin saw Margaret Wilmot coming towards him slowly: as if she dragged herself along by a painful effort, and would have been well content to sink upon the carpeted floor and lie there helpless and inert.

Clement ran to meet her, with his face lighted up by that intense delight which a man feels when some intolerable fear is suddenly lifted off his mind.

“Margaret!” he cried; “thank God you have returned! Oh, my dear, if you only knew what misery your conduct has caused me!”

He held out his arms, but, to his unutterable surprise, the girl recoiled from him. She recoiled from him with a look of horror, and shrank against the wall, as if her chief desire was to avoid the slightest contact with her lover.

Clement was startled by the blank whiteness of her face, the fixed stare of her dilated eyes. The January wind had blown her hair about her forehead in loose disordered tresses; her shawl and dress were wet with melted snow; but the cashier scarcely looked at these. He only saw her face; his gaze was fascinated by the girl’s awful pallor, and the strange expression of her eyes.

“My darling,” he said, “come into the parlour. My mother has been almost as muc............