and I do so wish to see two people whom
I love dearly made happy before I go.
No, my dear, don't interrupt me. Now I
have begun, I must speak. You see how
it is with John, don't you, my dear?
Depend upon it, the love of such a man ought
not lightly to be put aside. I know your
papa and mamma were very angry at the
idea, because John is a poor man, but—but
—what I wanted to say is this. He will be
well off at my death. For many years I
have put by more than half my income
to accumulate for him. He will have, at
the least, eighteen hundred a year. And
the knowledge of this, though it will not
affect you, I am well aware, may influence
your papa and mamma: and therefore——"

"Dearest Mrs. Hicks, I must stop you.
If this marriage were possible, what you
say would influence Sir Andrew and Lady
Herriesson; but it is not possible. I have
the greatest regard and respect for your
nephew, but I can never be his wife. Please
say no more about it."

"Ah, my dear, consider! Where will
you find such a character as John's again?
He is as nearly perfect as any human being
can be, I think. It is not"—and the old
lady hesitated a moment—"it is not his
nose? It is not his personal appearance, is
it, my dear? Beauty is a vain thing—
it is as the grass of the field. I hope it
isn't that."

"It has nothing to do with personal
appearance—I know his worth. He is the
best man I have ever met; but I'm not
made to be the wife of such a man. If I
ever marry, it will be a far less perfect
character—indeed, a very imperfect one!"
And then, wishing to set this question at
rest, once and for ever, and driven by one
of those sudden impulses, which are
sometimes worth a year's deliberation, she
confessed that her heart was not free.

"I know what you will say—that I am
wasting my life in a delusion. Very likely.
Understand that I have no hope, my dear
old friend; but for all that, I can't marry
another, nor will you urge me to do so,
now that you know the truth."

It was thus that she concluded her
confession; and Mrs. Hicks pressed the girl's
hand, and sighed. She never spoke upon
the subject again.

John Miles passed all the rest of the
spring alone at Mortlands. There had been
a hollow sort of reconciliation between him
and Sir Andrew: a cold shaking of hands
at the church-door; and now the family
at the great house was up in London,
and John had the village all to himself,
and more solitary hours than ever, wherein
to dwell upon a passion which he knew
was hopeless. For Mrs. Hicks, in
compassion for her dear nephew, had not kept
Maud's secret.

CHAPTER XVII.

ON Lowndes's return from Salisbury,
after his interview with Maud, there had
been some violent scenes between Mrs.
Cartaret and her son. For the first time in
his life, Lowndes found it impossible, even
after repeated efforts, to make any impression
on his mother. In all their differences,
heretofore, he had ultimately "got round"
her; but now, the original wound in her
mind having been kept in a constant state
of irritation by the judicious application of
blisters from Mrs. Rouse, every word
Lowndes dropped only inflamed it more.
Lowndes was not a patient young man;
not used to be thwarted, nor submissive
under rebuke. He had departed for London
at the end of the second day, and had
not since been down to Beckworth. He
wrote occasionally to his mother, inquiring
briefly after her health, but never naming
himself. From others, however, Mrs.
Cartaret had accounts of her son's changed
mode of life, which amazed her. She
could hardly believe her ears when told of
her dissipated vaurien's working eight
hours a day: of his being no longer seen
in the Park, nor in any of the haunts of
men. She inquired anxiously whether he
had any liaison, as a natural solution to
the mystery. But none of the vultures who
feed upon the carrion of society could affirm
as much. And the idea of Maud's being
the cause of this revolution never crossed
Mrs. Cartaret's mind. He had quarrelled
with her about the girl, it is true; and
being the proud, obstinate boy he was, he
would not come home properly ashamed
and contrite, as he ought. That was his
character. But that he had not forgotten
the object of their dissension long since,
still less that the recollection of her was of
sufficient force to stimulate him to a new
life, this was a suggestion which Mrs.
Cartaret would have regarded as wildly
improbable. Why, he never even named Maud!
He never renewed the subject of their
quarrel! It was, fortunately, quite clear
that he had forgotten the cunning little
aventurière.

When, however, Easter and Whitsuntide
—holiday seasons which had never passed
without Lowndes's running down to