She was, in reality, full of intense anxiety to learn what tidings Morley had received by the telegraph from London; but being bored and worried by Hawkshaw's cool and impudent love-making, she took this opportunity of quitting him, which, in her nervous haste, she did, perhaps, rather too abruptly. A shower of tears relieved her; but Hawkshaw, as he watched her figure flitting up the Pages' avenue of lilacs, balsam, poplars, and giant hollyhocks, bit his nether lip till the blood nearly came, and his sinister eyes emitted one of their most malevolent gleams. "Curse her!" he muttered, hoarsely and deeply, "curse her! She spoke of the Barradas, too! But I shall crush her proud heart yet--crush it like a rotten _castano_!" Then he turned away towards the seashore, with vengeance burning in his heart, and had not proceeded a quarter of a mile before he encountered Morley Ashton, perhaps the last person in the world he could have wished to meet at such a time, and when in such a bitter mood. CHAPTER VIII. MORLEY AND HAWKSHAW. A fierce and panther-like spirit swelled up in the breast of Hawkshaw on seeing his fortunate rival approach. He felt a strong desire to strangle him, and thus, by one determined stroke, remove him from his path, and gain revenge on Ethel too! He had more than once conceived the idea, in his wilder and more bitter moods, of giving Morley a _quietus_ of strychnine, or putting a loaded revolver in his hand, so that it might go off conveniently, and, to all appearance, unawares; but coroners' inquests often brought unpleasant things to light, and Morley was completely master of that ticklish fire-arm, the "six-shooter," as well as himself, and our Texan captain was far too politic to risk his valuable neck, in committing an open outrage on the queen's highway in England, whatever he may have done in his well-beloved Mexico, among the wild inhabitants of which he had learned the art--no small one certainly--of veiling alike every purpose, love, hate, or fear, under a bland and smiling exterior, when it suited his purpose to do so. The man he hated most on earth was Morley Ashton, yet he walked up to him frankly, with a smile in his deep eyes, and on his cruel lip (though his moustache concealed that), his right hand extended, and a cigar-case in his left---- "A lovely evening, Ashton," said he. "Had a pleasant walk? Have a weed--eh? Try a cigar?" "Thank you--I don't smoke cubas." "Do you prefer a regalia?" "Thank you, I have some here." "_Caramba_! I have smoked them two feet long ere this." "In Texas?" "Yes." "I thought so," replied Morley, laughing. He was in excellent spirits. A telegram to Acton-Rennel had announced that his cabin passage to the Isle of France had been secured on board the _Hermione_, immediately on receipt of his mandate, and added, that a letter, duly announcing the circumstance, had been posted for Laurel Lodge.