CHAPTER VIII.

WARREN'S RETURN.

Warren Courtly returned home during the week, and Irene was at the Manor to receive him. She did not welcome him with her usual heartiness, and he expected there was something wrong.

"You have been away a long time," she said. "I expected you home last week. Your business must have been very important."

"It was," he replied, "and I have not finished it. I shall have to go to London again soon."

"I will accompany you," she said; "I have not been to London for some time."

"As you wish. I shall be glad of your society. Have you been staying with the Squire?"

"Yes, and we have managed to pass the time pleasantly. I took him the picture of Random, and he was delighted with it; he has it in his study. We were very much surprised to see an announcement in the paper that you had sold the Holme Farm, but I suppose it is incorrect?"

"I am sorry to say it is correct. I had to sell it, Irene, I was in difficulties."

"You, in difficulties!" she exclaimed. "How is that possible, you have a large income?"

"I have been gambling, and owed more than I could pay. So I thought the best way would be to sell Holme Farm and clear them all off. I shall be more cautious next time, you may be sure."

"You might have told me how matters stood," she said, reproachfully. "And if you were compelled to sell the Farm, why did you not offer it to the Squire, he would have given you a better price than that for it?"

"I had no idea he would buy it; he is always grumbling about land, and saying it is no good investing in it."

"He said Holme Farm was worth five thousand more than you accepted for it, and I believe he would have given it."

He was angry with himself when he heard this, but he knew the real reason he had not offered it to the Squire was that he was ashamed to do so. As he looked at Irene, he recognised her beauty more clearly than he had ever done before. He felt he was dealing her blow after blow, and the worst was yet to come. It made him desperate when he thought of Janet, and the trouble she could cause. Why had he been such a fool to fall into the toils of such a minx? He hated her name, and it was sacrilege to think of her in the presence of Irene. As for Irene she was depressed and uneasy at her husband's statement. If he was compelled to sell the Holme Farm, others might follow, and the estate gradually dwindle down to small proportions. It was not a bright prospect after only eighteen months of married life. She saw he was worried and troubled, and did not look himself.

"Are you feeling unwell?" she asked.

"No, why?"

"Because you do not look in your usual health; if you have any trouble, Warren, I wish you would confide in me, and I might possibly help you. It will be far better for me to hear it from you than from any outsiders, and you know what gossips people are."

He felt a strong impulse to tell her everything even to confess his fault with Janet, and how he had allowed suspicion to rest upon Ulick, but he dare not do it. He knew she would never forgive him, although she might condone his failings. If an outsider made her acquainted with the fact it would be far worse, but he must risk that.

"I have nothing to tell you," he said. "It troubled me to have to part with the farm, but I saw no other way out of the difficulty."

"I can quite understand that," she replied. "As it was necessary for you to do it, we will say no more about it; but I expect the Squire will pull you over the coals," she added, with a smile.

Next morning a thaw set in, and the pure white landscape quickly changed to a dull, leadened colour. The melting snow dripped from the roof in a monotonous splash, the trees were wet and dismal, and the ground was a mass of sticky slush and mud. The sky was dark and lowering, and the effect depressing.

They both felt the effects of the change at breakfast time. Irene was naturally of a bright disposition, and tried to cheer her husband's drooping spirits, but with ill-success.

"Honeysuckle had a colt foal half an hour after midnight on New Year's Day," she said. "That was a slice of luck, and Eli had a very anxious time until he was born."

"What an extraordinary thing," he said. "The Squire would be pleased. What kind of a colt is he?"

"A good one I should say; we saw him the same day, and he pleased both the Squire and Eli."

"I must have a look at him," he replied; then, glancing out of the window, went on: "There is nothing more miserable than a thaw; I shall be glad when all the snow is gone, and there is a chance of hunting again."

"It will be a treat to be in the saddle after such a long spell," she replied. Then, changing the subject, she said, "I had a peculiar letter when you were away. I showed it to the Squire, and he thought it was written by a clever rogue. My impression was that the man was genuinely in want of a small loan, but how he came to write to me I do not know. Here is the letter and his reply to my note."

Warren Courtly took it carelessly, but no sooner did he see the handwriting than he hastily turned to look at the signature, and when he saw "Felix Hoffman" the letter fell upon the table and he sank back into his chair, his face white and drawn.

Irene was surprised and alarmed at the effect it produced, and said--

"What is the matter, Warren? Is it the letter causes you anxiety? Do you know the man?"

He made no answer, but took the letter and read it, wondering how it came about that Felix Hoffman should have discovered who he was and have the audacity to write to his wife. Janet must have confided in him, that was the only solution he arrived at, and he vowed she should suffer for her betrayal. These brief minutes, when his wife's eyes were upon him, noting every change and movement, were the worst he had ever spent in his life.

"Do you know the man?" she asked, again.

"Yes, I know him."

"Who is he?"

"A racecourse sharper, a scoundrel, an unprincipled blackguard," said Warren, savagely.

"Then how is it you know him?" she asked.

"We meet many undesirable people on racecourses; he is one of the most undesirable."

"But you have no necessity to associate with such men."

"They are useful sometimes; even the man Hoffman has given me good information."

"If he is such a man as you describe, I should be ashamed to be seen with him. How dare he write to me?" she said, angrily.

"It was a gross piece of impertinence," replied Warren, "for which he shall pay dearly. Leave me to deal with him, Irene."

"He ought to be thrashed," she said.

"He shall be, and he will not forget it as long as he lives. You were very foolish to send the money."

"The Squire said the letter ought to have been handed over to the police."

"It was a blessing it was not," thought Warren.

It was a rapid thaw, and at the end of the week not a vestige of snow was to be seen, except in some shaded corner where the sunlight never crept in, and where the overhanging cavern kept off the dripping water.

Warren Courtly rode over to Hazelwell, and did not receive a very hearty greeting from Redmond Maynard.

They looked at Honeysuckle's foal, and Warren pronounced it one of the best she had had. Eli Todd, he fancied, treated him in a somewhat off-hand manner. Surely he did not suspect anything, he could not unless Janet had written to him.

Everything jarred upon him, his nerves were disordered, and he felt irritable and out of sorts. He dreaded an exposure, and felt it was gradually coming. He knew what the Squire's wrath would be when he found out Ulick had been unjustly suspected, as he must do sooner or later.

"Tell him all and get rid of the burden," whispered conscience. He dare not, and yet it would have been the best way out of the sea of trouble into which he was floundering.

In the Squire's study hung the painting of Random, and he pointed it out to Warren with pride, and said--

"Irene has done it splendidly; it is lifelike. I never saw a picture of a horse more natural. You ought to be proud of your wife, she does many things, and does them all well."

"I am proud of her," said Warren, in a half-hearted tone that irritated the Squire, who of late had been constantly blaming himself for being the cause of Irene throwing herself away upon Warren Courtly.

"She is the best woman I know, and her heart is in the right place. Confound it, Warren, you have no right to leave her alone as you do, it is not fair to her. Why don't you take her up to London, if you really have to go to town so often?"

"I will next time," said Warren, lamely. He seemed at a loss for words, and the Squire thought he had a shame-faced look.

"He's been up to some devilment, I'm sure of it," he thought. "By Jupiter, if he's done anything to trouble Irene's peace of mind he'll find he has me to reckon with."

"Your journey to London does not seem to have benefited you much," said the Squire.

"I hate town," grumbled Warren.

"Then why go there?"

"Because it is so deuced dull at the Manor when there is no hunting on."

"The selfish beggar," thought the Squire, as he said aloud, "And do you not think it is dull for Irene when you are away?"

"She is generally at Hazelwell, and you are excellent company, Squire."

"Am I? Much you know about it. Let me tell you if it had not been for Irene I should have had a fit of the blues that would have got the best of me a few nights back. Perhaps you can imagine what night it was?" said the Squire.

"No, I cannot; but, anyway, I am glad she was here to cheer you up. I told her to ride over and see you."

"Have you forgotten what happened over two years ago?"

He could not pretend to misunderstand, although they were getting on rather dangerous ground.

"You mean the night Ulick left home?"

"Yes, and I sat up all that night, and I shall sit up every night when it comes round, year by year, until he returns home again."

"Then you have changed your mind?" said Warren.

"I have forgiven him, but he must prove his innocence, and I am beginning to believe he will. Something tells me he will," he said, as he looked at Warren in a way that made him feel very uncomfortable, and yet he knew nothing had been found out--at present.

"Ulick was hardly the sort of man one would have expected to get into such a mess," said Warren.

"You are right; that is what I cannot understand," replied the Squire, thinking at the same time Warren Courtly was a much more likely man to do so.

"Irene told me you thought I was foolish to accept ten thousand for the Holme Farm," said Warren.

"And I still think so. Why did you sell it?"

"I had to, I owed a lot of money."

"Betting?"

"Mostly, but I am out of the mire now, and intend to keep so," he replied.

"A good resolution. Why did you not offer me the Farm? I would have given you a better price for it."

"Because, to tell you the truth, I was ashamed to."

"You ought to have come to me, Warren," said the Squire, kindly, as he placed one hand on his shoulder. "I gave you Irene, and you ought to trust me. She was confided to my care by my old friend, Carstone, and I do not want to think I have made a mistake in placing her happiness in your hands. You do not look easy in your mind, or happy. If you are in any difficulty tell me, and I will do all in my power to help you for her sake and your own."

These words struck the right chord in Warren Courtly, but he had not the courage to confess what he had done.

"I am upset over selling Holme Farm," he replied, "but there is nothing else, except the barefaced audacity of such a man as Felix Hoffman writing to Irene."

"You know the man?"

"Yes, and I told her he was a scoundrel. He shall feel my stick across his shoulders the next time we meet."

"Better to have no scenes," said the Squire. "Avoid him in the future, but give him to understand there must be no more letters written, or he will be handed over to the police."

"That will probably be the best way. I met him casually at Hurst Park, and he gave me some very good information."

"And on the strength of that," said the Squire, "I suppose he has stuck to you like a leech. I know these men, they ought to be ducked in a horsepond, they are pestilential nuisances, but unfortunately there is no way of killing them off."

Warren Courtly rode home, where another unpleasant surprise awaited him. Irene had received a second letter from Felix Hoffman, returning the five pounds and thanking her for the loan.

"There," said Irene. "I am right, and the Squire is wrong. I felt sure from the tone of his letter he would return the money, so he cannot be quite so black as you painted him."

"I am very much surprised, I assure you," said Warren, "but the return of the money does not do away with the fact that it was a gross piece of impertinence on his part to write to you, and I shall call him to account for it."

This letter, returning the money, caused Warren Courtly much uneasiness. He knew it meant that Felix Hoffman was playing some clever game, and that trouble was brewing at no distant date. It was seldom Hoffman allowed a five-pound note to leave his possession, no matter how he obtained it. When he did so, it was generally with the certainty of getting many times its value in return.