he whistle was heard, and with the sharp crack of a whip,
denoting impatience; and fearful that some accident might betray his
secret, George clasped the old man's hand fervidly within his own, and
hurried away without a word.

"Is that George?" cried Norwood, as he stood beside a calessino ready
harnessed, and with lamps lighted, for the morning was still dark, "is
that George? Why, where have you been loitering this half-hour, man?
Our time is six sharp, and it is now considerably past five, and the way
lies all up hill."

"I have often done the distance in half an hour," said George, angrily.

"Perhaps the errand was a pleasanter one," rejoined Norwood, laughing;
"but jump in, for I feel certain the others are before us."

George Onslow was in no mood for talking as he took his seat beside his
companion. The late scene with his father and the approaching event were
enough to occupy him, even had his feeling for Norwood been different
from what it was; but in reality never had he experienced the
same dislike for the Viscount. All the flippant ease, all the cool
indifference he displayed, were only so many offences to one whose
thoughts were traversing the whole current of his life, from earliest
boyhood down to that very moment. A few hours hence he might be no more!
And thence arose to his mind the judgments men would pass upon him, the
few who would speak charitably, the still fewer who would regret him.
"What a career!" thought he. "What use to have made of fortune, station,
health, and vigor; to have lived in dissipation, and die for a street
brawl! And poor Kate! to what unfeeling scandal will this unhappy
meeting expose you! how impossible to expect that truth will ever
penetrate through that dark atmosphere of mystery and malevolence the
world will throw over the event!"

Norwood was provoked at the silence, and tried in various ways to break
it. He spoke of the road, the weather, the horse's trotting action,
the scenery, over which the breaking day now threw fitful and uncertain
lights, but all in vain; and at last, piqued by non-success, he
spitefully pointed attention to a little valley beside the road, and
said, "Do you see that spot yonder, near the pine-trees? that 's where
Harry Mathews was shot. Malzahn sent the bullet through the brain
at forty paces. They were both first-rate pistol-shots, and the only
question was who should fire first. Harry determined to reserve his
shot, and he carried the pr