Flora Adair; or, Love Works Wonders. Vol. 2 (of 2)

CHAPTER IX.

At twelve o'clock that night—the hour when, on the previous one, they had all met in the brilliant salle of the Hotel de Ville—an express train was whirling Mr. Earnscliffe away from Paris, Flora Adair was walking restlessly up and down her room, and Mary Elton lay upon her deathbed.

The doctor had just left her, after having, as gently as possible, told Mrs. Elton that the last ray of hope for her daughter's recovery was gone,—she was sinking, and now it was only a question of how long she might hold out. Probably she might linger until the same time to-morrow, but it was also possible that the end might come much more quickly.

The night-lamp burned dimly, the nurse dozed in an armchair, and Mrs. Elton knelt in despairing grief beside her dying child, her head pressed down upon the bed-clothes, as she tried to smother the sound of her convulsive sobs, and prevent them from disturbing Mary; and she thought to herself, "I have killed her by letting her go to that ball. I saw that she was not fit to go, and yet through weakness I allowed it. Mary, my most precious child, my firstborn, do not leave me! What can the others be to me, if you are taken? Great God, in pity give me back this favourite one, or let me die with her!"

Mary was indeed Mrs. Elton's "most precious child;" she resembled her father strikingly in appearance, as also in many points of disposition, and far more than either Charles or Helena; therefore was she dearer to her mother than they were. Her husband's memory was the passion of Mrs. Elton's existence, as he himself had been whilst he lived; so now she felt that to lose the child who resembled him most was like losing all that remained to her of him, and to this was added the torture of believing that she might have saved her if she had only been firm about the ball. Her agony in her utter loneliness was piteous; her favourite child was dying, and the other two were far away; they had been telegraphed for, but neither of them could possibly have come to her as yet. Helena was expected to arrive early in the morning, but Mrs. Elton could make no guess as to when her son might come. He was quartered far up in the north of Scotland, and of course he could not start instantly on receipt of the telegram, as Helena would; he must wait to get leave, and thus the time of his arrival could not be counted upon.

Mary scarcely ever spoke, save to ask, "Can Lena soon be here?" But this question she repeated almost every hour, and each time it wrung her mother's heart anew, for it showed her that Mary felt herself to be dying, and that she feared she might not live to see her sister. Mrs. Elton saw with dismay that this dread was worrying her beloved child, yet she could do nothing to relieve it; and there are few sufferings more difficult to endure than this feeling of powerlessness even to give ease to one whom we love, although we must yield them up to the grave in a few short hours.

Through the whole of that lone night-watch Mrs. Elton remained on her knees beside the bed. Several times the nurse had tried to induce her to sit down, but she never answered, or appeared even to hear her; she seemed insensible to everything except the dying girl, but to her slightest movement, or barely audible words, she was keenly alive.

At last, about five in the morning, a carriage was heard to stop at the door. Mary quivered all over, and murmured, "Mamma, there is Lena; go to her and tell her that she must not be frightened when she sees me. Poor Lena, it is too bad to ask her to come almost from her honeymoon to see me thus; and she has never looked upon approaching death before. And you, mamma, you must not grieve so wildly for me: I heard your sobs and passionate prayers all through the long night, but I did not dare to speak to you, I was so afraid of exhausting my strength before Lena came. Mamma, she is far more worthy of your affection than I have been,—give it all to her, and she will repay you well. Go to her now."

"I cannot," murmured Mrs. Elton. "Nurse, go and receive Mrs. Caulfield, and beg of her to wait for a few moments in the drawing-room;" and, with an irrepressible sob, she added, as she clasped Mary's hand in hers, "My own child, take me with you to your father! Life without him and you will be too awful!"

"Shall I ever see him?" whispered Mary fearfully. "But it is cruel to treat Lena thus. Mamma, go to her for my sake, and let me see her as soon as possible, and then you must go and rest for a few hours,—I insist upon it," she said with a faint smile; "and you know you cannot disobey me, as it will be the last time."

Mrs. Elton turned away with a choking sensation in her throat, and left the room.

From the time that Mary had been carried from the carriage to her bed she felt that she had risked the last chance for her life, and lost it in order to gratify her revenge and gloat over the sight of her rival's misery; but even so she did not then regret it, for her triumph had been so full and complete, and every other thought was for the moment absorbed in the wish to see her sister; her affection for her being, as we have said before, the one pure feeling which not even the terrible passion of revenge could sully. But during the twenty-eight or thirty hours that she had lain on her dying bed she had been haunted by grim phantoms of terror regarding the unknown world to which she was going so fast, and she began to feel that the success of her revenge was far less sweet to think of than she had expected; now, however, Helena's coming brought up vividly before her the remembrance of that miserable night at Naples, and once more a flush of fierce satisfaction covered her face, as she muttered, "Well, at least I paid him off to the last farthing!" As these words passed her lips the door opened, and Helena entered, with the tears streaming from her eyes.

"Darling Lena!" exclaimed Mary, but without attempting to sit up, for the doctor had warned her that to do so would surely bring on a recurrence of the hemorrhage—"how good you were to come so quickly."

Helena threw herself on the bed beside Mary, and kissed her again and again, but she could not speak; and as Mary tried to soothe her, her tears only flowed the faster, until at last the former said in a broken voice, "Lena, think how you are trying me, and I have so little strength left to talk to you, or even to listen to you. I think I hear the nurse coming. Go and tell her not to come until you call her, and I begged mamma to lie down and rest for a little; so once more, Lena, you and I can have a tête-à-tête chat, as in days of old."

Helena silently rose, and did as Mary desired her; then returning, she seated herself beside the bed, and took her sister's cold hand in hers and began to rub it, saying, "How cold your hands are, sister!—let me warm them for you."

"They will never be warm again, Lena," answered Mary, with a sort of smile; "but never mind that now, tell me about yourself. Are you as happy as you expected to be?"

"Oh, Mary," rejoined Helena, trying to suppress her tears, "until I received that miserable telegram my happiness was unalloyed, and I only longed for the time when I could get you to come and stay with me, that you might have the pleasure of seeing what your kindness and affection had done for me; for had you not been all that you were to me, I should never have had the happiness of being Harry's. Mary, you must live to see your own work."

"Lena, how can you talk so! Has not mamma told you that by this time to-morrow I shall no longer be with you?"

"Yes," sobbed Helena; "but while there is life there is hope—and I will hope."

"You must not, Lena, for there is none; this is the second since——" a spasm caught her breath, but she went on, although her voice was evidently getting weak—"since that evening when you found me half fainting by the stone bench."

"Mary," cried Helena, almost angrily, "you have treated me shamefully in not letting me be told that you had an attack of this kind on the night of my wedding; and I saw by mamma that she blames me bitterly for having left you; she thinks that my doing so increased, even though it did not cause, your illness; and in justice to me, Mary, you ought to have written to me. I could have been with you all these weeks past since Harriet's marriage, and I might have saved you; being in your confidence, I could in some degree have prevented you from brooding over the past until it has killed you. Why have you kept me away from you, sister? But tell me what is all this about the ball, and Mr. Earnscliffe, and Flora Adair? I could not understand anything from mamma's account of it."

"You remember the first time in Rome that you spoke of those two names together,—I said then that I would rather see him dead than loving and beloved by her; then in Naples he spurned my love for her sake, and I swore to be revenged; and I have been!"

"Mary, for God's sake stop!" interrupted Helena, with an expression of horror; "it is too awful to hear the dying speak of revenge!"

But Mary resumed with increasing vehemence, "By chance I heard that he had been married, and that his divorced wife was living. I knew then that she could not marry him, and at the same time I was certain that he did not know enough of Catholics to be aware that this would be a barrier, so in all probability he had not told her; therefore I could easily make it appear that he had intended to deceive her, and thus torture her doubly: and through my instrumentality, too, he should feel the bitter agony of having his love rejected by the being whom he loved. Lena, I carried it all out at the ball, and I saw them both writhe under my blows! Ay, I paid him off fully for that night in Naples! Ah!——"

She half rose from her recumbent posture, and then fell back heavily. Helena caught her in her arms and screamed, "Nurse!"

The nurse was fortunately in the adjoining room, and she ran to Helena's assistance at once. She saw that her patient had only a passing faintness; and under her experienced treatment Mary soon rallied. Helena then asked her to leave them alone again, and she did so, but gravely cautioned Helena not to allow her sister to excite herself, as any violent agitation might be instantly fatal. Helena promised to do her best to prevent it, and the nurse left them.

For a full hour more the sisters' conference lasted, and then Helena went into the next room, murmuring, through her tears, "Nurse, desire a clergyman to be sent for; and wait: I must write a note, which can be left at its destination as the messenger goes to the clergyman."

Helena burst out crying afresh as she opened Mary's desk and tried to write; at last she succeeded in scribbling these few lines:—

"My dear Flora,

"Poor dearest Mary we fear is dying. She would like to see you; so I hope you will come to us as soon as you can.

"Yours affectionately,

"Helena Caulfield.

"Friday Morning."

As she gave the note to the nurse, Mrs. Elton came into the room, and Helena told her that Mary wished to see a clergyman, and also Flora Adair, and that the nurse had just gone to desire them to be sent for. Mrs. Elton passed on silently into Mary's room, and it was only the nervous quivering of her lips which told that she understood what had been said to her.

Helena had hard work to make Mary consent to receive a clergyman, and to see Flora Adair, in order to undo as far as she could the suffering which she had inflicted on her by calumniating Mr. Earnscliffe, and now she began to feel completely exhausted from fatigue and grief as she lay back in the chair after writing the note. But she was roused by Mrs. Elton, who lightly touched her shoulder, and said, like a person speaking in a dream, "Mary says that you must go and take some rest, and they will bring you breakfast." She rang the bell, and her own maid answered it, to whom she said, "Take Miss Helena to my room, and get her tea—breakfast—you know what to do." Then Mrs. Elton turned away and went back to Mary.

Helena followed the maid into Mrs. Elton's room, and gladly lay down upon the bed, as she said, "Margaret"—the maid was an old acquaintance of hers—"if my husband comes—he went to an hotel to be out of the way at first—show him in here, and also Miss Adair; of course you will tell me at once if Miss Elton should get worse."

"Yes, miss—I beg your pardon—ma'am; and now I will go and get you some breakfast."

"It will be useless to bring me anything but a cup of tea, Margaret."

After Helena had taken the tea she fell asleep, and slept for about an hour, when she was awaked by a kiss, and the sound of somebody saying, "Poor Cricket, how unlike itself it looks, doesn't it, Miss Adair?"

As she opened her eyes, and saw her husband and Flora standing beside her, she exclaimed, "Harry, I am so glad that you have come, and Flora too; but——" She covered up her face in her hands, and the tears trickled through her closed fingers.

Margaret now came in, and said, "Mrs. Caulfield, Miss Elton has asked for you."

"Say that I will be with her in a moment," answered Helena, springing off the bed, and hastening after Margaret, as she said to Mr. Caulfield and Flora, "Wait here for me."

She was only a few moments absent, and entering with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, she took Flora's hand and led her in to Mary, over whose countenance the livid colour of death was fast spreading.

Flora felt awe-stricken as she thought that not six-and-thirty hours had passed since she saw her in the ball-room, and silently she went over and knelt down beside the bed, as Mary said in a hollow voice, "Flora Adair, can you forgive me?"

"It was right that I should know it, Mary."

"Yes, that I understand; but can you forgive me for having tried to lower you in his opinion by falsehood, and every means in my power, and finally for insinuating to you that he was deceiving you by not telling you of his marriage, although he knew that you could not be his wife in the sight of your Church if that were known?"

Mary paused, and Flora, shuddering, said, "It was very cruel, the bare suspicion of it tortured me; but I did not believe it, or it would have driven me mad. But, Mary, what had I ever done to you that you should have thus sought to harm me?"

"You gained the love of the man whom I loved with an overwhelming love, and for you he rejected me.... Was this no cause to hate you? Revenge became the object of my life, and I had it,—I saw him suffer that night at the ball even as he had made me suffer; but that longed-for revenge has turned into bitterness, instead of sweetness, and my gentle sister there has won me to better thoughts, and induced me to send for you to ask your forgiveness, and to tell you distinctly what I knew all along, that he did not know the Catholic rules about divorce. So again I ask your forgiveness."

"You have it, Mary; although God knows you have made us both suffer doubly!" Flora rose and kissed her forehead, but she almost started at its cold, clammy touch, and Mary murmured, "Lena, it has been growing dark to me for a long time, but now it is nearly night, so call mamma and your husband; I must say good-bye to him,—I have not seen him since your wedding"—Lena sobbed violently—"and the clergyman, he may come too if you like; he is with mamma. But he cannot throw light upon the darkness into which I am entering. O God!" and Mary moaned.

That moan was heard in the next room, where her mother, her brother-in-law, and the clergyman were waiting to be called; and they stood up and went into the sick room.

Surely we may draw a curtain over these last awful moments. Poor Mary!... her dying words might have been similar to those of the great world poet—"Light, light, more light!"

Half an hour later Mrs. Elton was carried in a state of utter unconsciousness from the room of her dead child, whilst Helena sobbed away her grief in her husband's arms, and Flora Adair drove home more saddened even than when she left it some two hours before.

CHAPTER X.

That evening Charles Elton arrived in Paris to find his sister dead, and his mother stretched on her bed like a person in a trance, with her eyes wide open, but apparently unconscious of everything that was going on around her. She did not even speak or move when he went into the room and kissed her. Some hours later, when he and Helena were speaking in whispers about the preparations for the funeral, she, however, started up suddenly, and said, "She must be taken to England,—we will go with her and see her laid beside her father. Charles, you will arrange all this." Then slowly and deliberately she left the room and went into Mary's, where she remained day and night in spite of all remonstrance, until the coffin was screwed down and carried away for transportation to England. She gazed after it with tearless eyes as she stood leaning against the bed from which it had been taken, but the despair of her look and attitude was such that it awed Helena, who was sobbing passionately, into silence, and rising from her knees she went and wound her arms round her mother, and tried by her caresses to soften the bitterness of her grief, but Mrs. Elton seemed to shrink from her, and after a few minutes she said, coldly, "When do we start?"

"At six this evening," murmured Helena; "the packet leaves Havre for Southampton at twelve to-night."

Mrs. Elton then disengaged herself from Helena, and going into her own room she remained there alone with her sorrow, for Helena did not venture to follow her. This unnatural composure and coldness in their mother rendered the journey to England even more sad and silent to Helena and Charles than it must have been under any circumstances, and had it not been for Harry Caulfield's comparative cheerfulness and activity of mind it would have been almost unbearable.

The Eltons had a beautiful place in the neighbourhood of Southampton, and in the pretty retired cemetery close by, Mary was, according to Mrs. Elton's wishes, to be laid beside her father. On the evening of the funeral, when the sun's last rays had faded into twilight, and all nature seemed settling into repose, Mrs. Elton contrived to steal out unperceived to visit the joint tomb of her beloved husband and child. At the sight of it, and the thought of the two idols of her heart lying there, side by side, but insensible and unknown to each other, her icy composure gave way, and with a heart-broken cry she cast herself on the dewy ground which covered them. Then the long-suppressed tears burst forth in torrents, and an hour afterwards her two remaining children, after seeking her in vain all through the house, found her still crouched over the grave, weeping bitterly. It was a relief to them to see her cry, for now that her grief had a natural vent in tears they hoped that it would gradually become less overwhelming. They silently knelt down beside her, and their tears flowed too over a father and sister's grave. Then gently they raised their mother from the ground and induced her to return home with them, but scarcely had she entered the house when she was seized with a violent fit of shivering. They got her to bed as quickly as possible, and made her take hot drinks, but the shivering fits returned at intervals, and the next morning they sent for a doctor. He at once pronounced her illness to be fever, and for three weeks life and death seemed to be hanging in equal balance; but life, for the present at least, outweighed death, and Mrs. Elton slowly began to amend. Charles and Helena had been devoted in their attendance upon her during those weary one-and-twenty days, and now, as she daily regained a little strength, she used silently to clasp their hands in hers, whilst her countenance showed how much she felt their affectionate solicitude about her. And when at last she was able to go about again, she was quite a changed person; all the seeming coldness and self-reliance of her character had vanished, and she appeared to lean on Helena's affection.

Charles was obliged to rejoin his regiment, so the Caulfields persuaded her to accompany them to Ireland, and spend the remainder of the year with them, promising at the same time that they would return to England with her in the spring. And they did so, but, as it turned out, only to follow Mrs. Elton to her last home, for before spring's budding foliage had ripened into the maturity of summer, her weary spirit was set at rest, and she was laid beside the two whom she had so loved in life.

Here ends our record of the Elton family, and the story returns to the Adairs.

Mr. Adair went back to Ireland, regretting for his own sake as well as his sister's that fruitless visit to Paris; and, as soon as the hapless 21st was past, the remainder of the party went down to the south of France, to the de St. Severans, where they were received indeed with open arms.

Monsieur de St. Severan was a favourable specimen of a Frenchman of the old school, full of courtesy and compliment to ladies, but so delicately was the latter insinuated and interwoven in manner and speech that it never appeared fulsome or offensive. In appearance he was somewhat above the middle height, and very thin; his eyes were dark brown and his features marked and pointed; his countenance in repose was very grave, but his smile was like a sunbeam bursting through the clouds on a dull grey afternoon, it was so bright and genial. With such a smile did he welcome and fold Marie in his arms, as he murmured, "Ma chère enfant, enfin je te revois."

Madame de St. Severan was quite different. She was a short, plump, merry-looking Irishwoman, with frank, at times somewhat abrupt, cordial manners. She had evidently been pretty in her style, and even still retained a fair share of comeliness. She too received Marie most affectionately, and warmly joined in her husband's elaborate expression of thanks to Mrs. Adair for thus conducting their adopted child to their very arms.

It may be remembered that Flora did not wish the de St. Severans to be told of her intended marriage until it was on the eve of taking place, so now they knew nothing of her great sorrow. This was principally the reason why Mrs. Adair had induced her to consent to their accompanying Marie to the chateau, as with the de St. Severans she knew there would be a complete change of scene and association for her; there could be no allusions to the past, no recollections of bygone happy hours excited. Besides, being with complete strangers, she would be obliged to exert herself more or less, and thus Mrs. Adair hoped she would be roused from that state of sad silent abstraction in which she now lived. For the first week the plan seemed to have succeeded. Flora appeared to interest herself in everything, and quite won Monsieur de St. Severan's admiration; like most foreigners, he cared even more for agreeability than for beauty; but at the end of that week she was seized with a violent attack of neuralgia in the head; nothing seemed to give her any ease, and for four days the pain continued with almost maddening intensity; then, however, it began gradually to subside, and at length it ceased altogether; but almost her first words after she got ease were, "Mamma, take me home,—this is too much for me."

Mrs. Adair now saw what it was, and that it was better even to allow her to brood over her grief than to force her to make the exertion of mixing in society; and so, in spite of all the de St. Severans' warm entreaties for a longer visit, they left the chateau after about a fortnight's stay, and journeyed slowly towards Ireland. If Flora had any wish, save not to be obliged to see people, it was to be near her friend Mina Blake; yet it scarcely amounted to a wish; even friendly conversation and sympathy could give her but little pleasure, for now she felt how true was the saying, "Mieux se taire que de parler faiblement de ce que l'on éprouve fortement," and to speak of anything but that one subject was almost impossible to her, for in it was her whole mind absorbed. She had sent her lover from her rather than forswear the cause of truth, but to banish him from her thoughts and heart she did not attempt; indeed it would have been difficult to convince her that there was anything wrong in thus clinging to the memory of her short span of happiness. Nevertheless she wished much to get home and have some settled occupation, to try to while away the weary, weary time.

Marie was, as she herself said, "desolée" at being separated from "Flore," and her parting whisper was, "When you write you will sometimes tell me news of him, Flore,—except through you, I shall never even hear his name again."

Flora, of course, promised to do so, and after the first burst of irrepressible tears which followed the Adairs' departure, Marie began to feel that indulging such grief for her friends might hurt her adopted parents, who lavished so much affection upon her, so for their sakes she tried with all her usual amiability to appear cheerful. The task was not an easy one, particularly at first; but by degrees it became less difficult as she lost all remnant of shyness with Monsieur de St. Severan, and treated him as a petted daughter would a doating father. Madame de St. Severan was very kind and indulgent to her; yet Marie never felt towards her as she did to her "cher père." Of companionship of her own age she had not much, and what she had did not give her much pleasure. There were a few families in the neighbourhood where there were young ladies, but, unlike herself, they were prim and apparently retiring, so that when Marie did meet them it only made her think how different they were from "Flore." Therefore, notwithstanding all her praiseworthy exertions, and partly successful ones, to be cheerful and contented, it was a relief to her when October came, and they set out for Paris, where she had the prospect of a gay winter before her, and much more variety of every kind than she could have in the country; besides, almost unacknowledged to herself did she cherish an expectation of meeting Mr. Barkley there. She had not forgotten one pleasant evening's walk on the banks of the golden Arno, when he said something about intending to go to Paris during the ensuing winter, and asked casually what was Monsieur de St. Severan's address there. She remembered, too, that he wrote down the address as soon as she told it to him, so it was a possibility that he might come and see them, and beyond that she did not venture to let her thoughts wander.

Christmas passed, however, and no Mr. Barkley appeared, but early in January there came a letter from Flora, saying, she heard that he and his father were going immediately to Paris to meet, it was said, their friends the Molyneuxes, who were spending the winter there for the advantage of their only daughter, whom it was supposed Lord Barkley wanted his son to marry. Poor Marie! the realisation of her hope that Edmund Barkley would come to Paris now promised to bring her pain rather than pleasure. She knew the Molyneuxes well,—they were most intimate with the de St. Severans. The young lady was to have an enormous fortune, and she was undoubtedly very handsome, but hers was indeed—

There were none of the lovely lights and shades of Autumn. She was statuesque in appearance, and her manner was quite in keeping with her countenance, ever formal, cold, and inanimate. And this was the one for whom Mr. Barkley was expected to give up his bright, playful Marie, whose soft prettiness

varied with every passing feeling.

How true it is that we are always prone to think that our misfortune, whatever it might be, would be easier to bear if it were but different in this or that particular! So now Marie thought if Edith Molyneux were another sort of person, one, in short, whom Mr. Barkley could have loved and been happy with, that she would not have found it so difficult to give him up to her; but as it was it seemed doubly hard to bear. Then too she was obliged to try and hide it all away in the recesses of her own heart, for, except Flora, no one knew anything of her unhappy love,—she had not had courage to make a confidant of Monsieur de St. Severan, although he sometimes questioned her anxiously as to what made her at times, when she thought herself unobserved, look so sad and thoughtful; and more than once she was on the point of telling him the whole history; but she was always stopped by the fear of his blaming Mr. Barkley and becoming prejudiced against him.

Some few nights after she had received Flora's letter, she sat in company with Monsieur de St. Severan and the Molyneuxes, in an opera box, listening with glowing cheeks and glistening eyes to Mario's thrilling tones as they rang forth the "Non ti scordar di me" of "A che la morte;" and so absorbed was she that she did not know that the box door had opened, and two gentlemen had entered unperceived by her, until a low murmur of voices from behind disturbed her enjoyment of the music, and looking round impatiently, her eyes met Mr. Barkley's. It was all she could do to repress the cry of joy which trembled on her lips as she gave him her hand. He pressed it silently, but his lips seemed to form and follow the passionate words which Mario now sang, "Sconto col sangue mio l'amor che posi in te." The last eight months, Miss Molyneux, everything, did Marie forget in that moment, save that her lover was with her, and apparently true, and the tears which stole down her cheeks, as the devoted but hapless Leonora expired in the arms of her "true love," were mingled tears of real pleasure and fictitious sorrow. But as the curtain fell and the dewy mist cleared away from before her eyes, she saw a sight which dashed all her bright joy and recalled to her her real position.

Standing behind Miss Molyneux's chair, and leaning over it with marked attention, was an old gentleman bearing a strong resemblance to Mr. Barkley. Marie, of course, knew that this must be his father even before Mr. Molyneux said—

"Ah, Mademoiselle Marie! I must introduce you to my friend, Lord Barkley, though I see that you are already acquainted with his son."

Marie thought she perceived his lordship frown as he bowed to her, and said with a chilling smile—

"I have heard of Mademoiselle Arbi from my daughter, Mrs. Penton, who met her travelling in Italy last year with some acquaintances of ours." And turning to Colonel de St. Severan, to whom he had been already introduced, he added more graciously—"Her kind protector, Colonel de St. Severan's name is one too noted to be unknown to any one who has been much in France."

Colonel de St. Severan seemed to be pleased at this, and said he hoped to have the "honneur" of receiving his lordship at his hotel. The two old gentlemen then fell into a conversation upon the African wars, and Edmund, in obedience to a glance from his father, turned to Miss Molyneux, and tried to make her talk; whilst Marie leaned over the box's parapet, and feigned to be much occupied with the light afterpiece which followed the opera; yet had she been suddenly asked what it was about, she could no more have told than she could tell what was going on in Algiers at that moment.

Mr. Barkley did not, however, continue his efforts at "doing the agreeable" to Miss Molyneux very long, and Marie's painful thoughts were broken in upon by his bending over her chair, and asking in a low tone—

"Has Miss Arbi, then, forgotten Italy and the friends whom she met there, and whom, in those days, she seemed to honour with her regard, for she has not once bid me welcome to Paris?"

Marie looked up at him, and in her large truthful eyes might be read an expression of gentle but sorrowful reproach, as she said, "One forgets not always that which one ought to forget; also I have not forgotten Italy, and if I have not said, be welcome, I felt it."

"Ah! Mademoiselle, if you only knew how the memory of Italy has haunted me, you would not be so chary of your acknowledgment that you too had not forgotten it. I may have the happiness of seeing you here, may I not?"

"I have heard my dear father ask Lord Barkley to come to see us, and perhaps you will come with Monsieur votre père."

"Can you doubt it?"

"But you will be very occupied with your friends the Molyneuxes. You are come to Paris to meet them, are you not?" and involuntarily she glanced at Miss Molyneux.

"Marie!" he whispered,—then looking towards the stage, as if he were alluding to the opera which they had just seen, he repeated aloud, "The words, 'Sconto col sangue mio l'amor che posi in te,' harmonise so well with the air."

"Yes, 'A che la morte,' it is a melody so sweet," she answered, endeavouring to follow his example in seeming to talk of the music; but a bright flush spread itself over her face as she now heard him utter the words which before she only imagined she saw his lips silently form.

If such moments could only be lasting! But—

There was a general movement in the house; the performance was over and the audience all prepared to depart. Lord Barkley came forward and offered his arm to Marie, saying, "You must allow an old man, Mademoiselle, to have the pleasure of escorting you to your carriage, and so give him an opportunity of becoming somewhat better acquainted with you, and Edmund will no doubt take good care of my old friend Molyneux's fair daughter."

"Edmund" did not look delighted with this arrangement, but there was no help for it now; so with as good a grace as he could command in the midst of his annoyance, he obeyed the parental injunction, and took Miss Molyneux down.

Meanwhile, Marie timidly laid her hand on Lord Barkley's arm, as she tried to get a sidelong glimpse at his face, to see if he looked very sternly at her, and she felt a little reassured on finding that his countenance was quite the contrary of stern. His age might have been about sixty, and his hair and moustache were quite white. He had full ruddy cheeks, rather small blue eyes, full lips, and a thick nose, not quite guiltless of a suspicious vermilion tint. The expression of his face was altogether more that of a good-natured, jolly old bon vivant, than of a severe, unrelenting parent; and Marie would not have been dissatisfied with the impression which she made on him, had she known that as he handed her into the carriage he said to himself, "By Jove! I can't find fault with Edmund's taste in preferring this pretty, coy little creature, to that stiff, Juno-like beauty. If I were a young man myself, I should be sure to fall in love with the little one! Therefore, I am doubly sorry to be obliged to thwart the poor fellow; but I must do it for the sake of the family as well as his own. He would be a poor man all his life if I let him marry without a large fortune."

As the father and son walked home, the former said, "Edmund, my boy, I have just a few words to say to you about Miss Arbi. I think her very charming."

"So I perceived, sir," interposed Edmund, drily; "you lingered over the putting-on of her cloak with the courtly grace of a Leicester."

"Eh, boy, jealous are you?" replied the old man, with a chuckle; "but, seriously, I think her—as I have said—charming, and I should be delighted to see her your wife, if you could afford to marry without a good many thousands; therefore take my advice—don't go too far with her; that peppery old colonel mightn't like it. And I tell you again, I must do all I can not to allow you to ruin yourself by making an imprudent marriage; but if you will do it, I'll save the property, at least, by leaving it to Marie's second boy."

"This is the old story over again, sir," retorted his son, impatiently, "and I accompanied you to Paris on the express condition that you would endeavour to learn what fortune Monsieur de St. Severan will give Miss Arbi, and that you would then think about whether you would grant me your consent or not. The moment I meet her, however, you begin to lecture me about being prudent and keeping clear of her. If this was to be the way of it, it would have been better for us to have remained at home. Now, of course, I understand why you were so anxious that we should come to Paris: it was to try and entangle me with that block of ice, Miss Molyneux; but I'll not have her, father."

"Very well, just as you like, my dear boy, but you certainly might do worse. She is very rich, very beautiful—as you must admit—and I have reason to know that her family would be very willing to receive you as a suitor for her hand. But, all the same, I'll keep my promise about Miss Arbi, and if I can avoid it I'll throw no obstacle in the way. However, to be candid with you, Edmund, I feel certain that she can't have nearly enough for you. Why, ten thousand pounds would be an immense fortune for a foreigner to have, and that would be of no earthly use to you. So, for your own sake and hers, don't be too much with her—don't, at all events, make her remarkable before her friends, the Molyneuxes."

"How very anxious you are about her, sir; but leave that to me,—I'll take care not to make her remarkable. Good-night, sir," he added abruptly, as they got into the hotel; and he hastily took a candle and walked off in high dudgeon to his room.

Again Mr. Barkley was acting a cowardly, ungenerous part towards Marie in making these professions of love, although he should have known in his heart that his father would not be satisfied with anything that Colonel de St. Severan could give her, and that he himself had not the courage to marry her in spite of that, and so risk the loss of his hereditary estate, which, as we have just heard, his father threatened to leave away from him if he married any one whose fortune was not sufficient to clear it. Had he even been wholly dependent upon this, there might have been some excuse for him, but, on the contrary, he was actually in possession of a small property of about five hundred a year, which had been left to him by an uncle; but this seemed absolute penury to the luxurious heir of at least as many thousands per annum. He persuaded himself, however, that on the strength of his father's approbation of Marie personally, and his promise to inquire what her fortune might be, he was authorised in devoting himself to please her.

Accordingly, he sought her society in every possible way; and through the Molyneuxes, with whom his father was always pleased to see him, he contrived to get up riding parties, parties to operas, concerts, balls, &c. One day during a ride in the Bois de Boulogne, the party consisting of himself, Marie, Mr. and Miss Molyneux, the latter's horse became restive in the crowd, and Mr. Barkley suggested that they should get into some of the less-frequented alleys, where the animal would probably go quite quietly; he undertook to lead the way with Marie, whilst Mr. Molyneux and his daughter followed. Here on the first favourable occasion he renewed his protestations of undying love to Marie, and won timid avowals of the same nature from her. He told her—with a slight colouring it is true—of his father's promise, and how he only lived in the hope of being soon able to ask Colonel de St. Severan for her hand.

Marie listened in delight, and thought to herself—"Flore did not do him justice. How little he really cares about money; for notwithstanding Miss Molyneux's wealth, and beauty too, he is true to me." Then she said aloud in her low, sweet voice, "How happy you have rendered me! But I must tell my dear father all this, or I would feel that I deceived him."

"Marie, for my sake you must not speak to him yet. Only have a little patience. If you tell Colonel de St. Severan now, he will be sure to apply to my father at once in true French style, and then adieu to all my hopes. My father, taken thus suddenly, and before I have time to gain him over to all I wish, would peremptorily refuse his consent."

"No, no. I would pray my dear father for love of me to say nothing of it to anybody; but he would be wounded if I hide from him the truth. I must tell him, Edmund!"

Mr. Barkley drew himself up haughtily as he replied—

"Pray do not suppose that I wish to bind you to secresy further than that I know if you speak to Colonel de St. Severan now there will be an end to everything between you and me; but if you are satisfied that it should be so, I have no more to say. Miss Arbi is, of course, perfectly at liberty to act as she thinks right; only it would have been more candid had she told me from the beginning that she was not so deeply interested in the case as I flattered myself."

A vivid colour rushed up to Marie's face, mounting to her very temples, and for an instant her eyes flashed with indignation as she looked full at him; but it was only for a moment: the next, her bright eyes became suffused in tears, and without a word she turned away her head.

Marie had never appeared so lovely to Mr. Barkley as now. That sudden flash of anger, as he accused her of want of candour towards himself, which darted across her countenance, then faded into an expression of such deep sadness, seemed to him the prettiest and most touching thing he had ever seen, and he exclaimed, eagerly—

"Forgive me, my sweet Marie! How could I be so heartless as to say anything which could pain you? I know that you are all truth and candour; but the fact is, I scarcely know what I say. I am driven half wild between love of you and fear of not being able to marry you; and if you would not destroy all my hopes of ever having that happiness, do not tell Colonel de St. Severan for a few days longer, at all events. I know well that nothing you or any one else could say to him would prevent him from speaking to my father. Marie, here come the others! Will you promise me to be silent, at least until I can speak to you again on the subject?"

There was no time to expostulate any farther, and, half frightened at the suppressed vehemence of his voice, she murmured—"Yes."

He looked his thanks as the others came alongside of them, and for the remainder of the ride he attached himself to Miss Molyneux's side.

Marie went home looking so pale and tired, that Colonel de St. Severan, with fond anxiety, blamed himself for allowing her to take such long rides. He little knew that it was not fatigue, but remorse for the promise which she had given to deceive him—as it seemed to her—even for a time, that made her look so pale, and every mark of affection which he bestowed upon her increased this feeling.

Things went on in the same state for about ten days. Mr. Barkley, Marie thought, appeared to avoid any opportunity of speaking to her privately, although his manner to her, whenever he did meet her, was expressive of the utmost devotion; but her self-reproach for her conduct to her kind adopted father increased daily, and one afternoon, when she thought every one was out, she gave free vent to her tears as she lay on the sofa in the drawing-room, murmuring every now and then—

"Edmund, Edmund! why did you wring from me that unfortunate promise? My dear father, how much less unhappy I should be if I could tell you everything! It is terrible to feel that I am playing false to the one if I keep my word, and to the other if I break it! Terrible to be divided between my lover and my father! Oh, mon père!"

"Ma chère enfant!" said a voice close to her, and she was clasped in Colonel de St. Severan's arms.

He had heard all: so now there could be no further secresy, and in answer to her cry on seeing him, "What have I done? Edmund will say that I have broken my word to him!" he said—

"I am the witness that you have kept it but too well, until it made you almost ill. Had Providence not sent me home unexpectedly to-day, I should still have been in ignorance, and you would have been suffering."

When he had petted her into something like composure, he gently but firmly insisted upon hearing the whole history, assuring her that it was better he should know all than be left to form his own conjectures. She felt that he was right, and so she told him everything from the beginning in Florence, and tried to make Mr. Barkley's conduct appear in as favourable a light as possible; but Colonel de St. Severan's countenance grew darker and darker as she proceeded, till she came to the account of how Mr. Barkley made her promise to be silent, in spite of all her entreaties to be allowed to tell him; then his indignation burst forth, and he denounced him as a vaurien—un homme déshonorable. But Marie now fell into such a state of agitation that it almost frightened him, and so passionately did she plead for "Edmund," that Colonel de St. Severan said at last—

"In order to save you from grief, ma fille chèrie, I will give this gentleman a chance. I know from Molyneux that he has, independent of his father, an annual rent of from twelve to fifteen thousand francs, and I will give you a dot of three hundred thousand francs; therefore, if he really loves you, he can marry you without any assistance from his father."

Marie's gratitude knew no bounds. Poor confiding child, she never for a moment doubted her lover, and wild with joy she ran up to her room to wash away the traces of tears before Madame de St. Severan should come in.

The next day was their reception day, and among other visitors came Mr. Barkley. He saw that Mary looked flushed and excited, but gayer than he had ever seen her since the old days in Florence; and her gaiety jarred upon him, as he himself was in wretched spirits, his father having just told him finally that he must either give up all idea of marrying Miss Arbi, or of ever possessing Barkley Castle. Neither could he resolve to give up, and his object in paying that visit to the de St. Severans was to hear if they would be at the ambassador's ball that night, when he intended to have another conversation with Marie. Thus, his vexation was considerably increased on being told that they had sent an apology. Marie having looked so ill for the last few days, they were determined not to allow her to undergo any new fatigue.

He stood up to go away, feeling angry with the de St. Severans for not going to the ball, and with Marie for appearing gay when he was so miserable. Colonel de St. Severan left the room with him, and as soon as the drawing-room door was closed, he requested Mr. Barkley to grant him a few minutes' conversation in his study.

"She has betrayed me!" he thought, as he followed Colonel de St. Severan into the study.

Marie contrived to escape from the drawing-room, and went into the library, where she could be alone. It happened to be next to the study, to which there were two doors, one opening into it, the other giving upon the passage. The sound of raised voices caught her ear and made her tremble as she hastily went to the other end of the room, so as not to overhear a conversation which was not meant for her ears; but the next moment she heard the far door of the study closed violently, and at the same time the one leading into the library flew open, and Colonel de St. Severan entered, his face all in a glow from anger and indignation. He started as he saw Marie, who ran to him, exclaiming—

"My father! What has happened?"

"Marie, my dear child, I did not expect to find you here," he said, putting his arms round her, and looking earnestly at her; "but perhaps it is better as it is. Henceforth you will teach your heart to forget ce monsieur. He is unworthy of you, and I have told him never to dare to address you again! My child, I know, will do her best to obey me when I tell her that she must think no more of him!"

Marie became pale as death. Her lips quivered as she tried to answer; but instead of words there burst from her a long, low sob, and she remained passive in his arms.

CHAPTER XI.

The interview between Colonel de St. Severan and Mr. Barkley was short but stormy. That morning the former had called upon Lord Barkley to learn what were his true feelings with regard to his son's marriage.

Lord Barkley was a most plausible old gentleman, and liked to keep well with everybody; accordingly he bespattered Colonel de St. Severan with compliments, said that he himself found Mademoiselle Arbi charming, and that nothing grieved him more than being obliged to tell Edmund that if he married without getting a fortune of thirty or forty thousand pounds, he must leave the ancestral estate, in order to preserve it in the family, away from him; but were it not for their unfortunate embarrassments he would be only too delighted to receive Mademoiselle as his daughter-in-law.

Colonel de St. Severan thanked him and took his leave. Now that he had heard from Lord Barkley's own lips how much he approved of Marie personally, and that he left his son free to marry her if he chose to brave the threat of the family estate being left away from him, Colonel de St. Severan felt himself authorised in making the proposal to Mr. Barkley of which he had spoken to Marie.

Unfortunately for Mr. Barkley he had been out all the morning, and went to the de St. Severans without having heard what had passed between his father and Colonel de St. Severan, so he was completely taken by surprise when the latter called him into his study, and having explained how it was that by chance he discovered the attachment which existed between him and Marie, he proceeded to relate all that Lord Barkley had said to him; then in a concise but cutting manner he blamed Mr. Barkley for his conduct throughout the whole affair. He concluded by saying that it pained him deeply to think that Marie should have bestowed her affections upon one who had acted towards her as Mr. Barkley had done, but that she had wrung from him a promise not to put any obstacle in the way of her happiness, and in compliance with this promise he named the fortune which he was ready to give Marie, showing at the same time that he knew such a portion would enable Mr. Barkley to marry her—if he really loved her—independently of his father.

Mr. Barkley was not, as we said before, in a serene mood when he entered the study, and this speech of Colonel de St. Severan's worked him up almost into a passion. It was forcing him to do the very thing which he did not wish to do—to choose at once between love and mammon. To give up the latter and resolve to live on the thousand or so a year which his own and Marie's income would amount to, seemed to him too alarming a sacrifice. On the other hand he saw plainly that if he did not make it he must renounce Marie for ever, as he had no excuse to give for any further hesitation, save the true one of his unwillingness to run the risk of being a comparatively poor man all his life; after what his father had said he had not the courage to plead that fear of displeasing him was his motive.

He hated the colonel for placing him in such a position, and in vain he tried to think calmly how he could answer, until Colonel de St. Severan, tired of waiting for a reply, said—

"Your silence, I suppose, is a tacit acknowledgment that you have been merely trifling with Mademoiselle Arbi all this time; but indeed it is only what one might have expected from the whole tenor of your past conduct."

This was like applying a lighted match to a train of gunpowder. Mr. Barkley lost all control of himself, accused Colonel de St. Severan of false dealing, in having gone secretly to speak about him to his father, and said many other things which, had he been master of himself, he would never have uttered. Colonel de St. Severan interrupted him in a voice of thunder, commanded him to leave his presence instantly, and never to dare to speak to him or Mademoiselle Arbi again. He pointed to the door, and Mr. Barkley—awed by the dignity of his manner—obeyed the gesture silently, quailing like a bold schoolboy before the great and just anger of his superior.

He rushed out of the house in a state of wild excitement, and, as the fates ordained, almost at the door he met some young Frenchmen of his acquaintance.

They said they were going to dine at the Trois Frères, and asked him to join them. Mr. Barkley, glad to have any company rather than that of his own thoughts, accepted the proposal, and away they went to the Palais Royal.

The repast was most recherché, and naturally the wines were in keeping with it. Mr. Barkley drank freely of them all, and especially of champagne, until his spirits became quite exuberant, and when écarté was suggested as a fitting wind-up to the evening, he eagerly expressed his pleasure at the suggestion. He played high and lost considerable sums, but the more he lost the more recklessly he played, and it was with difficulty that his companions got him away from the card-table in time to dress for the ambassador's ball, to which they were all going.

It chanced that the Molyneuxes and Mr. Barkley arrived about the same time, and he secured Miss Molyneux for the next valse. She looked dazzlingly handsome in some sort of a light-blue dress over white satin, and a necklace of turquoise. A buzz of admiration followed her as she moved in her stately manner through the crowd, leaning on her partner's arm, so that Mr. Barkley began to feel that at least she would be a wife that a man could be proud of; and the valse finished the matter. Excitement, champagne, and that rapid dance all told upon him, and fired his heart with a momentary fancy for Miss Molyneux. He made desperate love to her, proposed, and was sobered by her calm acceptation of his offer. Up to that moment he scarcely knew what he was saying, but her cool answer and suggestion that they should return to "papa" made him fully sensible of what he had done. It was as if a pail of iced water had been thrown over him, and he could scarcely help shivering as he offered his arm to his affianced bride to lead her to her parents.

Mr. Barkley passed that night in all the torture of self-reproach. More than once, after he returned from the ambassador's, he attempted to write an apology to Colonel de St. Severan, but each time he tore up what he had written, feeling that it would look like a mockery to send an apology after that night's work, as he knew that of course the de St. Severans must hear of his engagement. When he did at last go to bed, he lay tossing on it with sleepless eyes and a racking headache as well as heartache.

The next morning he went into his father's room, about ten o'clock, looking so "seedy" and haggard that the latter exclaimed—

"Why, Edmund, you must have supped after the ball last night. You certainly look as if you had a good bout of it."

"Such an one, sir, as I shall never forget, only it was at the ball and not after it," answered his son; "and I have come to tell you that my happiness is destroyed for life, but your wishes are gratified. Miss Molyneux is my affianced wife. I hope she has money enough for you!"

"My dear Edmund, you amaze me! I should indeed have been delighted to hear of your engagement if you did not speak of it in this extraordinary manner. Surely I did not insist upon your proposing to Miss Molyneux."

"No, but you drove me to desperation by opposing my marriage with the woman I love. I behaved like a scoundrel to her and to Colonel de St. Severan; then to escape from my own thoughts I drank and gambled until I was half mad with excitement, and in that state I proposed to Miss Molyneux."

"Don't flurry yourself about it, my dear boy; under the circumstances, we can explain away anything a little too tender which you may have said to Miss Molyneux. I should be very sorry if you were to marry a girl whom you don't like; and as for the de St. Severan affair, I don't understand what you mean. I saw the colonel yesterday morning and explained everything to him. Why, we parted like the dearest friends in the world!"

"I know it, sir, but I have seen Colonel de St. Severan since, and——, but, no, I cannot speak of it. Now, with regard to Miss Molyneux," he continued, hurriedly; "you are mistaken in supposing that I merely said something too tender to her which could be explained away. I told you expressly that she was my affianced wife. I was not drunk enough—would that I had been—to talk nonsense; only enough to act like a madman. I proposed formally to Miss Molyneux, and she as—no far more—formally accepted me, and marched me up to 'papa.' As to not liking her, why I could no more like or dislike her than I could a beautiful piece of marble, so I may as well marry her as anybody else, since I am not to have the only one whom I love."

"Still, Edmund, it appears to me that you would do well to think a little more about this before you go any further."

"It's all very well for you, sir, to talk in this way now after you have driven me into it. I have twice said that I can't draw back unless I behave in the same manner to Miss Molyneux as I have done to that little angel, Marie Arbi. But let there be an end to all discussion. The die is cast. We must go to old Molyneux this morning, and you may make any arrangements you like with him, but I leave Paris to-morrow. I am not going to stay here to be a lasting insult to my poor lost darling. At what hour will you come with me to my future father-in-law?"

"At twelve, if you like, my dear fellow; but I am really unhappy about the manner in which you take this up. I wish something could be done to get you out of it."

"But nothing can be done, sir, and the greatest kindness you can show me is to say no more about it. We must only make the best of a bad case. At twelve I will meet you in the coffee-room."

So saying Mr. Barkley returned to his own room and began to dress.

The Molyneuxes left Paris a few days after this and went to London, whither Lord Barkley and his son had preceded them. The latter urged his father to get the settlements drawn up as quickly as possible, as he declared that the shorter time he had to sustain the lover's part towards his "marble bride" elect, the better it would be for them both, and he undertook to get Miss Molyneux to name an early day for the wedding. Accordingly it was fixed for the second week in April.

Towards the end of the month—February—the Barkleys left London for Ireland, on the plea of seeing that all the preparations for receiving the bride were being properly executed. Mr. Barkley however was to return to London in a fortnight or three weeks. In the meantime he, as well as his father, was delighted to get home to their beautiful place, and the attractions of a country life; even the old lord was still a keen sportsman.

A short time after their return there was to be a meet in the neighbourhood, and some eight or ten gentlemen were invited to dine and sleep at Barkley Castle the night before. It was a sort of farewell bachelor party, which Mr. Barkley induced his father to give. There was a good deal of joking about the approaching marriage, but the only answer which Mr. Barkley deigned to give to all the questions which were asked about his "ladye love" was—"When you see her you'll all acknowledge that I have imported something worth looking at."

Lord Barkley, however, saw by the impatient twitching of his lip how disagreeable the subject was to him, and although later in the evening he became boisterously gay, sang comic songs, and related many a good story, his father felt that his gaiety was forced, and more than ever did he regret the hastiness with which he had entered into the engagement with Miss Molyneux; yet he said to himself, "Perhaps it is better so. Once married he'll be proud of having such a magnificent looking wife, and they'll get on right well, I daresay. If he does not marry he would always have a hankering after that little Marie; not that I am a bit astonished at it, for she is a sweet little creature, and the other is so stiff and cold; but it would be ruin for him not to get a large fortune, so it's all as well that he is going to be settled,—only I wish with all my heart that the poor fellow seemed to like the idea of it a little better."

After this soliloquy his lordship sought his couch; nevertheless, as he rose next morning and donned his hunting suit, he could not shake off an unaccountable feeling of sadness and remorse about "Edmund's" coming marriage, and the latter happening to go in to him to ask some question relative to the starting, he said, laying his hand upon his shoulder—

"Come, boy, you and I must not go out to-day with any ill-will between us."

"How now, father; surely you are not growing nervous?"

"No, Edmund, that's quite out of my line; but before we go I want to hear you say that you bear me no grudge for opposing you about Miss Arbi. You must feel that it was only your own interest that I had at heart in so doing. I shall be dead and gone in a few years at farthest, but you would have been a ruined man all your life if I had forwarded a marriage between her and you."

Mr. Barkley winced at Marie's name and turned away his head, but when his father ceased speaking he answered gently, although sorrowfully—

"I do not doubt that you acted for the best, father; but was wealth worth the sacrifice of happiness? I, however, as well as you, helped to make the sacrifice, therefore I cannot blame you more than I do myself, or, God knows! half as much; so if it's any satisfaction to you to hear me say so, I bear you no grudge about it, father. My marriage with Miss Molyneux is my own work, and I must make the best of it."

"If the thought of it really makes you unhappy, Edmund," exclaimed Lord Barkley, struck by the despondency of his son's tone, "let us try to break it off even now."

"Why break it off, father, and at the expense of my honour too, unless you are willing to try and win back for me the girl whom I love?"

Mr. Barkley's eyes kindled for a moment as he looked half-questioningly at Lord Barkley, who felt almost tempted to answer, "Yes, I will get her back for you, and make you happy, my boy, if I can." But Mammon whispered, "What! for a young man's foolish dream of love will you let your broad acres pass away from the family?" and he replied, looking out of the window to avoid meeting his son's earnest gaze—"True, Edmund, your marriage could not be broken off now, as you say, except at the expense of your honour; and, after all, Miss Molyneux is gloriously handsome."

It was with difficulty that his son refrained from making an exclamation of impatience, but he did refrain, and left the room, merely saying, "I suppose it is nearly time for breakfast?"

Some hours afterwards how glad Mr. Barkley was that he had so restrained his impatience.