Company's service, where a cadetship had been
secured for me; and that so long as I conformed
to his ways, it was no matter whether I studied
or not; in fact, it was no matter what I did.

Some time after becoming thus settled at
Beechgrove Hall, my uncle's attacks of gout,
in spite of the generous living he adopted as
a precaution, became so severe, that he was
unable to stir out except in a wheeled chair,
and it was with difficulty that he was lifted
occasionally into his carriage. The
consequence was, that to me all his business
naturally fell, and although he grumbled at losing
my society and attention, he was obliged to
send me to London to watch the progress of
a canal bill, in which he was deeply interested.
It was my first visit to London. I was well
provided with introductions and with funds.
My uncle's business occupied me in the
morning, for I dreaded his displeasure too
much to neglect it; but in the evenings I
plunged into every amusement, with all the
keen zest of novelty and youth.

I cannot say that up to that period I had
never been in love. My uncle had twice
seriously warned me that if I made a fool of
myself for anything less than a large fortune,
he would never forgive me. "If, Sir," he
said, when, on the second occasion, he saw
me blush and tremble—for I was too proud
and too self-willed to bear patiently such
control—"If, Sir, you like to make an ass of
yourself for a pretty face, like Miss Willington,
with her three brothers and five sisters,
half of whom you'd have to keep, you may
do it with your own money; you shall not do
it with mine."

I told my only confidant. Dr. Creeleigh,
of this; he answered me, "You have only
about a hundred and twenty a year of your
own from the estate you inherited from your
father, and you are living with your horses
and dogs at the rate of five hundred a year.
How would you like to see your wife and
children dressed and housed like the curate—
poor Mr. Serge. Your uncle can't live for
ever." The argument was enough for me,
who had only found Clara Willington the best
partner in a country dance. My time was
not come.

My lodgings in London were in a large, old-
fashioned house in Westminster—formerly
the residence of a nobleman—which was a
perfect caravanserai, in the number and variety
of its inmates. The best rooms were let to
Members of Parliament and persons like
myself; but, in the upper floor, many persons
of humbler means but genteel pretensions
had rooms. Here, I frequently met on the
stairs, carrying a roll of music, a tall, elegant
female figure, dressed in black, and closely
veiled; sometimes, when I had to step on
one side, a slight bow was exchanged, but for
several weeks that was all. At length my
curiosity was piqued; the neat ankles, a
small white hand, a dark curl peeping out of
the veil, made me anxious to know more.

Inquiries discreetly applied to Mrs. Gough,
the housekeeper, told me enough to make me
wish to know still more. Her name was Laura
Delacourt: not more than twenty, or twenty-
two years of age; she had lived four years
previously with her husband in the best
apartments in the house in great luxury for
one winter. Mr. Delacourt was a Frenchman
and a gambler; very handsome and very
dissipated; it seemed as if it was her fortune
they were spending. Mrs. Gough said it was
enough to make one's heart break to see that
young pretty creature sitting up in her ball
dress when her husband had sent her home
alone, and remained to play until daylight.
They went away, and nothing more was heard
of them until just before my arrival. About
that time Madame Delacourt became very
humble, had taken a room on the third floor:
had only mentioned her husband to say he
was dead, and now apparently lived by giving
music lessons.

It would be too long a story to tell how, by
making the old houskeeper my ambassador,
by anonymous presents of fruit and game, by
offering to take music lessons, and by professing
to require large quantities of music copied,
I made first the acquaintance, and then
became the intimate friend of Madame
Delacourt. While keeping me at a freezing
distance, and insisting on always having present
at our interviews a half servant, half companion,
of that indescribable age, figure, and
appearance that is only grown in France, she
step by step confided to me her history. An
English girl, born in France, the daughter of
a war prisoner at Verdun, married to the
very handsome Monsieur Delacourt at sixteen,
by a mother who was herself anxious to make
a second marriage. In twelve months,
Monsieur Delacourt had expended her small
fortune, and deserted her for an opera dancer of
twice her age.

All this, told with a charming accent in
melancholy tones—she looking on me sadly
with a face which, for expression, I have
never seen equalled—produced an impression
which those only can understand who have
been themselves young and in love.

For weeks this went on, without one sign
of encouragement on her part, except that she
allowed me to sit with her in the evenings,
while her bonne faddled at some interminable
work, and she sang—O! how divinely! She
would receive no presents directly from me;
but I sent them anonymously, and dresses
and furniture and costly trifles and books
reached her daily. I spoke at last; and then
she stopped me with a cold faint smile, saying,
"Cease! I must not listen to you." She
pleaded her too recent widowhood, but I
persevered; and, after a time, conquered.

She knew my small fortune and large
expectations; she knew that our marriage must
be a secret; but she was willing to live
anywhere, and was well content to quit a life in
which she had known so much trouble.