e up already," mattered Maitland, as he moved away,--"I
have him."

CHAPTER XVIII. ON THE ROAD

A great moralist and a profound thinker has left it on record that there
were few pleasanter sensations than those of being whirled rapidly along
a good road at the top speed of a pair of posters. Whether, had he lived
in our age of express trains, the "rail" might not have qualified the
judgment is not so sure. One thing is, however, certain,--the charm of
a brisk drive on a fine breezy morning, along a bold coast, with a
very beautiful woman for a companion, is one that belongs to all
eras, independent of broad gauges and narrow, and deriving none of its
enjoyment from steam or science. Maitland was to know this now in all
its ecstasy, as he drove off from Lyle Abbey with Mrs. Trafford. There
was something of gala in the equipage,--the four dappled grays with pink
roses at their heads, the smartly dressed servants, and, more than all,
the lovely widow herself, most becomingly dressed in a costume which,
by favor of the climate, could combine furs with lace,--that forcibly
struck him as resembling the accompaniments of a wedding; and he smiled
at the pleasant conceit.

"What is it amuses you, Mr. Maitland?" said she, unable to repress her
curiosity.

"I am afraid to tell you,--that is, I might have told you a moment ago,
but I can't now."

"Perhaps I guess it?"

"I don't think so."

"No matter; let us talk of something else. Isn't that a very beautiful
little bay? It was a fancy of mine once to build a cottage there. You
can see the spot from here, to the left of those three rocks."

"Yes; but there are walls there,--ruins, I think."

"No, not exactly ruins. They were the outer walls of my intended villa,
which I abandoned after I had begun it; and there they stand,--accusers
of a change of mind, sad reminders of other days and their projects."

"Were they very pleasant days that you sigh over them, or are they sad
reminiscences?"

"Both one and the other. I thought it would be such a nice thing to
retire from the world and all its vanities, and live there very secluded
and forgotten."

"And how long ago was this?"

"Oh, very long ago,--fully a year and a half."

"Indeed!" cried he, with a well-feigned astonishment.

"Yes," said she, resuming. "I was very tired of being flattered and
feted, and what people call 'spoiled;' for it is by no means remembered
how much amusement is afforded to those who pla