CHAPTER XVI.

AUSTIN slept long the night after his release. He slept late into the day, like a tired child, and at last when he woke he lay still, waiting for the dreadful bell, which in prison had summoned him and the other convicts to rise from sleep, to quit the paradise of dreams, and come back to earth; to the cold, hard, reality of the dull, squalid, hideous prison life.

At first, when he had wakened to consciousness in gaol, he had always, for a moment or so, fancied that he was back safe in his old room at home; and that the past was merely a series of bad dreams: and he would sit up in his bed to shake them off-sit up and look round, to find his worst dream only too terribly true.

After a time, he grew to be cunning in his sleep; to know that he only awoke to misery, and so to hold

on, with obstinate tenacity, to the fag end of a dream, as long as possible, in order that he might keep it going until he was roused by that dreadful bell; for he found in practice, that the poorest dream, underlain as it might be with the sickening dread of waking from it, was preferable to the waking itself, and to seeing the four whitewashed walls. The very stupidest old dream, a dream that he detected and laughed at while he dreamt it, was better than waking and seeing the prison walls around him.

On this morning he dreamt that he was hunted through Hyde Park by something or another, which was called 974, until he came to Apsley House, at which place he managed to rise into the air, and triumphantly flew nearly over the Green Park, leaving 974 to come round by Constitution Hill. He wished to keep in the air until the bell rang, but he could not. He came down in front of Buckingham Palace and woke.

He waited for the bell. more for him—it rings still

That bell never rung any for eight hundred miser

able souls, but not for him. After a few minutes, he began to see that he was in his old room again; he sat up, and found that it was true. For a minute, he thought that the whole past had been dreamt, but the

next he knew that it was real; that he had been in prison and was free. He fell back again and tried to pray, but the utterance of his prayer was swept in a whirlwind of passion.

He rose and dressed himself. His resolution had been made long ago in prison; he rose from his bed calmly determined to act upon it at once. It was the result of long, calm thought, when his head was cool, and his intellect perfectly clear and unbiassed. He had said to himself in prison, "What is the right thing to do? When I get free I shall be excited, my judgment will not be so clear as it is now. The resolution made now must be inexorably carried out, without reason or argument, when I am free."

What was his resolution? Possibly the most foolish one ever made-at all events, very foolish, as are all resolutions made in the same spirit; that is to say, resolutions made without the saving clause, "that they may be altered by circumstances and after thoughts" these are indeed, if persisted in, not resolutions, but obstinacies. Austin had made himself a non possum, and he was going to act on it at once; lest the non should be swept away and highsouled martyrdom should become a more difficult His grand resolution was this-to see

matter.

Eleanor safe under the protection of the Duchess of Cheshire (who was very willing to be kind to her), and then himself go to-where? Why Canada! and see her no more: and he carried out his resolution most inexorably. He knew that she loved him, as he loved her, and he would not be so base as to follow her with his ruined fortunes: that was one argument, and the great one. Besides, she had shown her good sense and propriety by deserting him, which was another.

"Gil," said he, sitting by the forge that evening, "I have been to see my attorney."

"May the deil d—n a' attorneys, barristers, and writers to the signet, and him first of all," was Gil's reply.

"Why?" asked Austin.

'Why!" said Gil, "why! After lee'ing till the deil dinna like to hae him, could he no lee loud eneuch to keep ye out of prison? Being paid for his work in hard guineas and everlasting perdition, and then no doing it after all. Why? quoth he.'

"Don't you be an old fool, Gil. Mr. Compton is as noble and good an old man as any in the kingYou will know it soon; you shall meet

dom.

him."

"Meet him soon! I'm no saying contrary. Life

is short, and no man's salvation is sure. But I'll no speak to him."

"I hope you will, Gil.”

"I'm obleeged to you; but there, as here, I'll choose my own acquaintances."

"Don't be cross with me, Gil."

"Cross wi' you. God forgive me! Cross wi' my ain master (ye'll no get a highlandman to say that every day of the week), cross with ye!"

"I thought you were. Look here; that Mr. Compton has watched my interests very carefully; he has been a very faithful friend. The Crown has not claimed my property, and he has taken good care of it."

"The Crown no claimed your property?"

"No."

"Have you got your own wealth back again? Has the Queen gi'en ye back your siller?"

"She never took it, God bless her!"

"So ye'll no want to learn the gun trade-so we'll no have to sit pontering here together, over the dommed old gunstocks-so all the happy days I had pictured to myself, are all blasted awa to the winds. 'Tis a weary ungrateful world."