derelict, and seeing the tripod raised with the sail hoisted, bore down on the chance of finding some of the crew alive in her.

Tom was taken on board, and each one vied in kindness in nursing him and restoring him to health.

CHAPTER XL.

A VICTIM OF HIS OWN FOLLY

O that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains.

SHAKESPEARE.

DIRECTLY Mr. Marston heard that Tom had left Marston Towers, a reaction to his feelings set in, and he wanted him back. Had he known where to write to him, he would probably have invited him to return; but Tom's appointment to the Fidget appeared in the paper the day after he left, before any one thought of looking for it, and although they watched the naval intelligence diligently afterwards, of course there was no further announcement, so his whereabouts remained unknown.

Then Vita's illness absorbed all their thoughts. Mr. Marston grew so anxious and fearful about her that he telegraphed for one of the leading London physicians, and had him staying in the house for several days; but Vita's fine young constitution, and Mrs. Forbes' loving care, did more to bring her safely through the valley of the shadow of death than would the whole College of Surgeons.

Mr. Marston's own health was in a very serious condition, and there was no doubt his mind was

affected. The long course of intemperance which he had followed had tended to soften his brain; and the late worry and excitement brought a strain on his mental powers they were unable to withstand; and he became drivelling.

He used to moon about his property, accosting all the oldest labourers he met, and talk to them about Tom.

It was a subject they never wearied of discussing; and he heard of many of his son's exploits, of which, previously, he had been ignorant. In fact, many of them had never occurred, for Mr. Marston occasionally rewarded the narrator of some unusually good story; and as this got wind, they drew upon their imagination when their genuine stock got low.

After conversing with them for some time, he generally put the question-as he thought, very cleverly:

"Now some people think he is like me in appearance; others say he is not. What do you think?"

The answer invariably came that Tom was the very moral of Mr. Marston himself; with the opinion that no one, but Tom or his father, had ever done some big feat of strength lately under discussion, and no one else ever would.

Once or twice Mr. Marston had put the suggestion that Tom was thought very much like the late Earl; but this was repudiated with scorn, he being told that "He'd make three o' he.”

It is strange that the opinion of these uneducated labourers did more to convince Mr. Marston that Tom was born of his blood, and bred of his bone, than would have all the cleverest arguments in the world. How to get Tom back to Marston Towers was now his father's one idea in life; and Vita added her powers of persuasion to bring this about; almost the first thing she asked him, when she was restored

to convalescence, was to send for Tom and make friends with him; and her great longing, hungry eyes-looking larger since her illness-showed how empty the world would be to her without that central figure of her life.

Mr. Marston communicated with the Admiralty, and learned that Tom had sailed in the Fidget, for Halifax, a month before.

He wrote a long letter to him, begging him to return at once, without considering the cost, for he was miserable at having wronged him, and wished to offer him every reparation in his power.

Vita also wrote a pathetic appeal few could have resisted.

Several months elapsed, but no answer came. Vita believed Tom had never received the letters, and wrote again; but Mr. Marston attributed Tom's silence to anger, and he recalled his son's words when he told him he would be glad to have back the son he discarded, and that he should never see him again. As a last resource, he was prepared to sanction Tom's marriage with Lady Sybil Challenger, and give him a handsome income to live upon. He even contemplated going to The Beacon, and humbling himself before the Countess, when a startling piece of intelligence prevented him.

Sir Gilbert Caldecott had been confined to his bed for a long time, after Tom's rough handling, and he received scars that night which he would carry to his grave.

It is impossible to stop rumour's busy tongue; and an unpleasant little scandal grew out of that evening's escapade, which eventually reached Lady Raymond's ears, and she determined to take the bull by the horns, and consult the baronet.

When she told him that their names were being mixed up together, he looked rather uncomfortable for a minute, then he observed that he had been

considering the subject, and had decided that the best thing to be done was for him to marry Sybil.

"Marry Sybil!" exclaimed the Countess, "you must be mad. Such a suggestion is most insulting to me."

"My dear Hermione, your sweet Irish nature is so very impulsive. Sybil and I have already discussed the matter, and she has engaged herself to me."

"You fiend!" gasped Lady Raymond. “I will

never consent to it."

"Yes, dearest, you will. Trust me, it is the only satisfactory arrangement that can be made; and you, at any rate, shall not be the loser."

Lady Raymond stormed, raved, and protested; but all to no avail. Sir Gilbert gained the day, as he generally did when women were concerned.

One morning the trio left for London; and a fortnight afterwards an announcement appeared in the papers to say that Sir Gilbert Caldecott, Bart., had been married to Lady Sybil Challenger, the only daughter of the late Earl of Raymond, and that Sir Gilbert and Lady Sybil Caldecott had started for the Continent to spend their honeymoon.

It was this announcement which stopped Mr. Marston from soliciting the aid of The Beacon party to bring Tom home again.

He grew very melancholy after this, and turned for relief to his old enemy; but he no longer kept out of sight and drank in solitude. He would suddenly appear at all times and places; and on one occasion he turned up in church dressed in an old shootingsuit, and looking wild and disreputable. Unfortunately the lesson for the day contained the parable of the prodigal son, and Mr. Marston laid his head on the front of the pew, and sobbed as if his heart would break.

Vita was so frightened and shocked that, after church was over, she made up her mind to write off to Lord Southsea, and beg him to try and gain tidings of Tom, and get him to return home at once if he wished to save his father's reason.

She had not the slightest doubt that Rupert would do all that was possible for man to do, and she had no scruples about asking him.

There are some men to whom one does not mind being under an obligation, and Lord Southsea was one of them.

Day after day passed, and she received no

answer.

In the meantime Mr. Marston grew much worse, and at last things culminated in his having an attack of delirium tremens!

For three days and nights his wild ravings continued, without ceasing for five consecutive minutes.

Sometimes he was seized with a fit of merriment, and his laughter resounded in merry peals throughout the house. This would be followed by a feeling of the most abject terror; he imagined he was being chased by bloodhounds, and other monsters which are described in the Book of Revelations. He fancied he could hear them giving tongue, and the sounds coming nearer every moment.

At such times the perspiration poured off him, his bloodshot eyeballs started out of his head, and it required the united strength of four powerful men to hold him on his bed, and prevent him jumping out of the window to escape his imaginary pursuers. Then he would burst into a passion of maniacal rage, and believe that he was being held down to be tortured.

When this was the case, so great was his strength that even four of the biggest and most powerful men