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The evening had advanced far into night before the effects
of the potion he had swallowed passed away, and left the mind
of Jasper clear, and his pulse regular and steady. When he
awoke from his long stupor, and turned his eyes around him, it
seemed as if he had dreamed of what he saw before him; for
the inanimate objects of the room, nay, the very faces which
met his eye, had something in them that was not altogether unfamiliar,
yet for his life he could not have recalled when, or if
ever he had seen them before.

The old dark-wainscoted walls of the irregular, many-recessed
apartment, adorned with a few water-color drawings,
and specimens of needlework, the huge black and gold Indian
cabinet in one corner, the tall clock-stand of some foreign wood
in another, the slab above the yawning hearth covered with
tropical shells and rare foreign curiosities, the quaint and grotesque
chairs and tables, with strangely-contorted legs and
arms, and wild satyr-like faces grinning from their bosses, the
very bed on which he lay, with its carved headboard, and
groined canopy of oak, and dark-green damask curtains, were
all things which he felt he must have seen, though where and
how he knew not.

So was the face of the slight fair-haired girl who sat a little
way removed from his bed's head, by a small round work-table,
on which stood a waxen taper, bending over some one of those
light tasks of embroidery or knitting which women love, and
are wont to dignify by the name of work.

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On her he fixed his eyes long and wistfully, gazing at her, as
he would have done at a fair picture, without any desire to address
her, or to do aught that should induce her to move from
the graceful attitude in which she sat, giving no sign of life
save in the twinkling of her long, downcast eyelashes, in the
calm rise and fall of her gentle bosom, and the quick motion of
her busy fingers.

Jasper St. Aubyn was still weak, but he was unconscious of
any pain or ailment, though he now began gradually to remember
all that had passed before he lost his consciousness in the
deep pool above the fords of Widecomb.

So weak was he, indeed, that it was almost too great an effort
for him to consider where he was, or how he had been saved,
much more to move his body, or ask any question of that fair
watcher. He felt indeed that he should be perfectly contented
to lie there all his life, in that painless, tranquil mood, gazing
upon that fair picture.

But while he lay there, with his large eyes wide open and
fixed upon her, as if by their influence he would have charmed
her soul out of its graceful habitation, a word or two spoken in
a louder voice than had yet struck his ear, for persons had been
speaking in the room all the time, although he had not observed
them, attracted his notice to the other side of his bed.

It was not so much the words, for he scarce heard, and did
not heed their import, as the tone of voice which struck him;
for though well-known and most familiar, he could in no wise
connect it with the other things around him.

With the desire to ascertain what this might mean, there
came into his mind, he knew not wherefore, a wish to do so
unobserved; and he proceeded forthwith to turn himself over
on his pillow so noiselessly as to excite no attention in the
watchers, whoever they might be.

He had not made two efforts, however, to do this, before he

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became aware of what, while he lay still, he did not suspect,
that several of his limbs had received severe contusions, and
could not as yet be moved with impunity.

He was a singular youth, however, and an almost Spartan
endurance of physical pain, with a strange persistency in whatever
he undertook, had been from very early boyhood two of
his strongest characteristics.

In spite, therefore, of his weakness, in spite of the pain every
motion gave him, he persevered, and turning himself inch by
inch, at length gained a position which enabled him clearly to
discern the speakers.

They were two in number, the one facing him, the other
having his back turned so completely that all he could see was
a head covered with long-curled locks of snow-white hair, a
dark-velvet cloak, and the velvet scabbard of a long rapier protruding
far beyond the legs of the oak-chair on which he sat.
The lower limbs of this person were almost lost in darkness as
they lay carelessly crossed under the table, so that he divined
rather than saw that they were cased in heavy riding-boots, on
the heels of which a faint golden glimmer gave token of the
wearer's rank in the knightly spurs he wore.

The lamp which stood upon the table by which they were
conversing was set between the two, so that it was quite invisible
to Jasper, and its light, which to his eyes barely touched
the edges of the figure he had first observed, fell full upon the
pale high brow and serene lineaments of the other person, who
was in fact no other than the old man who had spoken to the
youth in the intervals of his trance, and administered the potion
from the effects of which he was but now recovering.

Of this, however, Jasper had no recollection, although he
wondered, as he had done concerning the girl, where he had
before seen that fine countenance and benevolent expression,
and how once seen he ever should have forgotten it.

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There was yet a third person in the group, though he took
no part in the conversation, and appeared to be, like Jasper,
rather an interested and observant witness of what was going
on, than an actor in the scene.

He was a tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed man, in the first
years of manhood, not perhaps above five or six years Jasper's
senior; but his bronzed and sunburnt cheeks curiously contrasted
with the fairness of his forehead, where it had not been exposed
to the sun, and an indescribable blending of boldness —
it might have almost been called audacity — with calm self-confidence
and cold composure, which made up the expression
of his face, seemed to indicate that he had seen much of the
world, and learned many of its secrets, perhaps by the stern
lessoning of the great teachers, suffering and sorrow.

The fignre of this young man was but imperfectly visible, as
he stood behind the high-backed chair, on which the old man,
from whom the similarity in their features, if not in their expression,
Jasper took to be his father, was seated. But his
face, his muscular neck, his well-developed chest and broad
shoulders, displayed by a close-fitting jerkin of some dark stuff,
were all in strong light; and as the features and expression of
the countenance gave token of a powerful character and energetic
will, so did the frame give promise of ability to carry out
the workings of the mind.

The dialogue, which had been interrupted by a silence of
some seconds following on the words that had attracted Jasper's
notice, was now continued by the old man who sat facing
him.

“That question,” he said, in a firm yet somewhat mournful
tone, “is not an easy one to answer. The difficulty of subduing
prejudices on my own part, the fear of wounding pride on
yours — these might have had their share in influencing my
conduct. Beside, you must remember that years have elapsed

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— the very years which most form the character of men — since
we parted; that they have elapsed under circumstances the
most widely different for you and for me; that we are not, in
short, in anything the same men we then were — that the
gnarled, weather-beaten, earth-fast oak of centuries differs not
so much from the green pliant sapling of half a dozen summers,
as the old man, with his heart chilled and hardened into living
steel by contact with the world, from the youth full of generous
impulses and lofty aspirations, loving all men, and doubting
naught either in heaven above, or in the earth beneath. You
must remember, moreover, that although, as you have truly
said, we were friends in youth, our swords, our purses, and
our hearts in common, we had even then many points of serious
difference; and lastly, and most of all, you must remember
that if we had been friends, we were not friends when we
last parted —”

“What! what!” exclaimed a voice, which Jasper instantly
recognised for his father's, though for years he had not heard
him speak in tones of the like animation. “What, William
Allan, do you mean to say that you imagined that any enmity
could have dwelt in my mind, for so slight a cause —”

“Slight a cause!” interrupted the other. “Do you call that
slight which made my heart drop blood, and my brain boil with
agony for years — which changed my course of life, altered my
fortunes, character, heart, soul, for ever; which made me, in a
word, what I now am? Do you call that a slight cause, Miles
St. Aubyn? Show me, then, what you call a grave one.”

“I had forgotten, William, I had forgotten,” replied, Sir
Miles, gently, and perhaps self-reproachfully. “I mean, I
had forgotten that the rivaling in a strife which to the winner
seems a little thing, may to the loser be death, or worse than
death! Forgive me, William Allan, I had forgotten in my selfish
thoughtlessness, and galled you unawares. But let us say

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no more of this — let the past be forgotten — let wrongs done,
if wrongs were done, be buried in her grave, who was the most
innocent cause of them; and let us now remember only that we
were friends in youth, and that after long years of separation,
we are thus wonderfully brought together in old age; let me
hope to be friends henceforth unto the grave.”

“Amen, I say to that. Miles St. Aubyn, amen!”

And the two old men clasped their withered hands across the
table, and Jasper might see the big drops tricking slowly down
the face of him who was called William Allan, while from the
agitation of his father's frame he judged that he was not free
from the like agitation.

There was a little pause, during which, as he fancied, the
young man looked somewhat frowningly on the scene of reconciliation;
but the frown, it frown it were, passed speedily away,
and left the bold, dark face as calm and impassive as the surface
of a deep unruffled water.

A moment or two afterward, Sir Miles raised his head, which
he had bowed a little, perhaps to conceal the feelings which
might have agitated it, and again clasping the hand of the other,
said eagerly,—

“It is you, William, who have saved my boy, my Jasper;
and this is not the first time that a scion of your house has preserved
one of mine from death, or yet worse, ruin!”

Wilham Allan started, as if a sharp weapon had pierced him.

“And how,” he cried, “Miles St. Aubyn, how was the debt
repaid? I tell you it is written in the books that can not err.
that our houses were ordained for mutual destruction!”

“What, man,” exclaimed Sir Miles, half-jestingly, “do you
still cling to the black art? Do you still read the dark book of
fate? Methought that fancy would have taken wing with other
youthful follies.”

The old man shook his head sadly, but made no reply.

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“And what has it taught thee, William, unless it be that this
life is short, and this world's treasures worthless; and that I
have learned from a better book, a book of wider margin.
What, I say, has it taught thee, William Allan?”

“All things,” replied the old man, sorrowfully. “Even unto
this meeting — every action, every event of my own life, past
or to come, happy or miserable, virtuous or evil, it has taught
me.”

“But has it taught thee, William, whereby to win the good
and eschew the evil; whereby to hold fast to the virtuous, and
say unto the evil, `Get behind me.' Has it taught thee, I say
not to be wiser, but to be happier or better?”

“What is, is! What shall be, shall be! What is written,
shall be done! We may flap, or flutter, or even fight, like fish
or birds, or, if you will, like lions in the toil; but we are nettled,
and may not escape, from the beginning! The man may
learn the workings of the God, but how shall he control them?”

“And this is thy philosophy — this all that thine art teaches?”

“It is. No more.”

“A sad philosophy — a vain art,” replied the other. “I 'll
none of them.”

“I tell thee, Miles St. Aubyn, that years ago, years ere I had
heard of Widecomb or its water, I saw you deep, red-whirling
pool; I saw that drowning youth; I saw the ready rescue, and
the gentle nursing; and now,” he cried, stretching his hands
out widely, and gazing into vacancy, “I see a wilder and a sadder
sight — a deeper pool, a stronger cataract, a fierce storm
bellowing among the hills, and torrents thundering down every
gorge and gully to swell the flooded rivers. A young man and
a maiden — yet no! no! not a maiden! mounted on gallant
horses, are struggling in the whelming eddies. Great God!
avert — hold! hold! He lifts his arm, he smites her with his
loaded whip — smites her between the eyes that smiles upon

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him; she falls, she is down, down in the whirling waters —
rider and horse swept over the mad cataract; but who — who?—
ha!” and with a wild shriek he started to his feet, and fell
back into the arms of the young man, who from the beginning
of the paroxysm evidently had expected its catastrophe, and
who, with the assistance of the girl, supported him, now quite
inanimate and powerless, from the room, merely saying to Sir
Miles, “Be not alarmed, I will return forthwith.”

“My father!” exclaimed Jasper, in a faint voice, as the door
closed upon them.

The old man turned hastily to the well-known accents, and
hurried to the bedside. “My boy, my own boy, Jasper. Now,
may God's name be praised for ever!”

And falling into a chair by his pillow, the same chair on
which that sweet girl had sat a few hours before, he bent over
him, and asked him a thousand questions, waiting for no reply,
but bathing his face with his tears, and covering his brow with
kisses.

When he had at length satisfied the old man that he was well
and free from pain, except a few slight bruises, he asked his
father eagerly where he was, and who was that strange, old man.

“You are in the cottage, my dear boy,” replied the old knight,
“above Widecomb pool, tended by those who, by the grace of
God and his exceeding mercy, saved you from the consequences
of the frantic act which so nearly left me childless. Oh!
Jasper, Jasper, 't was a fearful risk, and it had well nigh been
fatal.”

“It was but one mis-step, father,” replied the youth, who, as
he rapidly recovered his strength, recovered also his bold
speech and daring courage. “Had there been but foothold at
the tunnel's end, I had landed my fish bravely; and, on my
honor, I believe, had I such another on my line's end, I should
risk it again. Why, father, he was at least a thirty-pounder.”

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