saloons, in his suit to her darling. When Sir
Mark came back, he was dismayed and shocked
beyond measure by finding the count and Theresa
at his feet, entreating him to forgive their stolen
marriage—a marriage which, though incomplete
as to its legal forms, was yet too complete to be
otherwise than sanctioned by Theresa's nearest
friends. The duchess accused her cousin of
perfidy and treason. Sir Mark said nothing.
But his health failed from that time, and he
sank into an old querulous grey-haired man.

There was some ado, I know not what,
between Sir Mark and the count regarding the
control and disposition of the fortune which
Theresa inherited from her mother. The count
gained the victory, owing to the different nature
of the French laws from the English; and this
made Sir Mark abjure the country and the city
he had loved so long. Henceforward, he swore,
his foot should never touch French soil; if
Theresa liked to come and see him at Crowley
Castle, she should be as welcome as a daughter
of the house ought to be, and ever should be;
but her husband should never enter the gates of
the house in Sir Mark's lifetime.

For some months he was out of humour with
Duke, because of his tardy return from his tour
and his delay in joining them in Paris: through
which, so Sir Mark fancied, Theresa's marriage
had been brought about. But—when Duke came
home, depressed in spirits and submissive to his
uncle, even under unjust blame—Sir Mark
restored him to favour in the course of a summer's
day, and henceforth added another injury to the
debtor side of the count's reckoning.

Duke never told his uncle of the woful ill-
report he had heard of the count in Paris, where
he had found all the better part of the French
nobility pitying the lovely English heiress who'
had been entrapped into a marriage with one of
the most disreputable of their order, a gambler
and a reprobate. He could not leave Paris without
seeing Theresa, whom he believed to be as
yet unacquainted with his arrival in the city, so
he went to call upon her one evening. She was
sitting alone, splendidly dressed, ravishingly
beautiful; she made a step forward to meet
him, hardly heeding the announcement of his
name; for she had recognised a man's tread, and
fancied it was her husband, coming to accompany
her to some grand reception. Duke saw
the quick change from hope to disappointment
on her mobile face, and she spoke out at once
her reason. "Adolphe promised to come and
fetch me; the princess receives to-night. I
hardly expected a visit from you, cousin Duke,"
recovering herself into a pretty proud reserve.
"It is a fortnight, I think, since I heard you
were in Paris. I had given up all expectation
of the honour of a visit from you!"

Duke felt that, as she had heard of his being
there, it would be awkward to make excuses
which both she and he must know to be false,
or explanations the very truth of which would
be offensive to the loving, trusting, deceived
wife. So, he turned the conversation to his
travels, his heart aching for her all the time, as
he noticed her wandering attention when she
heard any passing sound. Ten, eleven, twelve
o'clock; he would not leave her. He thought
his presence was a comfort and a pleasure to
her. But when one o'clock struck, she said some
unexpected business must have detained her
husband, and she was glad of it, as she had
all along felt too much tired to go out: and
besides, the happy consequence of her husband's
detention had been that long talk with Duke.

He did not see her again after this polite
dismissal, nor did he see her husband at all.
Whether through ill chance, or carefully disguised
purpose, it did so happen that he called several
times, he wrote several notes requesting an
appointment when he might come with the
certainty of finding the count and countess at
home, in order to wish them farewell before
setting out for England. All in vain. But he
said nothing to Sir Mark of all this. He only
tried to fill up the blank in the old man's life.
He went between Sir Mark and the tenants to
whom he was unwilling to show himself
unaccompanied by the beautiful daughter, who had
so often been his companion in his walks and
rides, before that ill-omened winter in Paris.
He was thankful to have the power of
returning the long kindness his uncle had shown
him in childhood; thankful to be of use to him
in his desertion; thankful to atone in some
measure for his neglect of his uncle's wish that
he should have made a hasty return to Paris.

But it was a little dull after the long excitement
of travel, after associating with all that
was most cultivated and seeing all that was
most famous, in Europe, to be shut up in that
vast magnificent dreary old castle, with Sir Mark
for a perpetual companion—Sir Mark, and no
other. The parsonage was near at hand, and
occasionally Mr. Hawtrey came in to visit his
parishioner in his trouble. But Sir Mark kept
the clergyman at bay; he knew that his brother
in age, his brother in circumstances (for had
not Mr. Hawtrey an only child and she a
daughter?), was sympathising with him in his
sorrow, and he was too proud to bear it;
indeed, sometimes he was so rude to his old neighbour,
that Duke would go next morning to the
Parsonage, to soothe the smart.

And so—and so—gradually, imperceptibly, at
last his heart was drawn to Bessy. Her mother
angled and angled skilfully; at first scarcely
daring to hope; then remembering her own
descent from the same stock as Duke, she
drew herself up, and set to work with fresh skill
and vigour. To be sure, it was a dangerous game
for a mother to play; for her daughter's
happiness was staked on her success. How could
simple country-bred Bessy help being attracted
to the courtly handsome man, travelled and
accomplished, good and gentle, whom she saw
every day, and who treated her with the kind
familiarity of a brother; while he was not a
brother, but in some measure a disappointed
man, as everybody knew? Bessy was a daisy
of an English maiden; pure good to the heart's
core and most hidden thought; sensible in all