THE FLOWER OF THE FLOCK

It was, as we have seen, through, the remarkable and unexpected return of Colonel Mires to England, and the no less singular circumstance of the rencontre in the Queen’s Bench, that old Wilton was reinstated in the position from which years back he had been, by the harsh rigour of the law, ruthlessly expelled.

As Nathan Gomer had stated to Mr. Grahame, the Colonel not only came forward to prove the genuineness of his own signature and the integrity of the document to which it was attached, but he was able to show that a duplicate existed, to point out the solicitor in whose hands it had been placed, and to help to refresh this old man’s recollection as to what had become of that most important paper. The individual thus suddenly-dragged from his seclusion, had long retired from practice, but he yet retained many important deeds and documents, to which he had been attesting witness or a party in some way.

It was, therefore, mainly by Colonel Mires’s instrumentality that Wilton was once more a man of wealth and position; and, knowing this, the former felt no scruple in becoming a frequent visitor at Mr. Wilton’s house.

He had, indeed, a secret motive which impelled him to present himself pretty constantly at Mr. Wilton’s table.

He had, not unmoved, looked upon the face of Flora Wilton; first in the courtyard of the Queen’s Prison, and many times since when surrounded by all those accessories to personal charms which elegant dress and freedom from anxiety afford.

At first a high degree of admiration was raised in his breast by a personal beauty of rare excellence, which, at the same time, struck him as being familiar to him. A glorious star, worshipped in boyhood, since lost, and now suddenly reappearing in his sphere, which was only too sparsely studded with orbs of light.

The admiration deepened, as it was fed by frequent observation, into a more ardent emotion. Love and passion were called into being, and the Colonel had not been long the frequent guest at Wilton’s abode, ere he found himself ardently in love with Flora. He was at an age when love is a dangerous tenant in a man’s breast. In youth he had been tinged with romance, but he had had more than enough selfishness to counteract its promptings. His passions were no doubt strong while they lasted, but they were sufficiently evanescent to commit no havoc on his heart. There was one solitary case in which the love which is deaf to the urgings of self-worship, and susceptible to all that is noble, generous, and exalted, sought a home in his bosom; but the heart he coveted had been bestowed, the hand be yearned to obtain was given to another. He was compelled to subdue the fonder workings of his soul; and in a distant clime, amid the whirl of gay, heartless, frivolous society, to deaden the restless action of a sentiment he could not wholly forget. He was so far successful, that he reduced it to subordination. The stirring activity of camp life and warfare, the indolent, intriguing nature of domestic society in India, where ladies are scarce and gentlemen officers are in excess, these and many other causes peculiar to his isolation from all his English ties, kept this emotion deep beneath the surface. It was, however, like a trout in a deep and shady recess in a pool, and would spring to the surface whenever the attracting influence of a tempting object reached it.

He had, as we have said, been but a short time a partaker of the pleasant society of Flora, when he found raging in his breast a flame which burned the fiercer at every attempt he himself made to subdue it.

When it became evident to him that her beauty was the predominating object in his vision, whether absent from her or present, he determined to settle the question by widening the intervals of his visits. He shortened them, under the impression that they were lengthened.

His conduct towards her soon began to wear the colour and the impress of his feelings. His dark brown eyes settled upon her with a dreamy, fond expression. His dark visage, scarcely susceptible of change, yet showed the glow of pleasure he felt when she appeared in the room; and his voice softened to a mellow tone as he addressed her in language which often partook of the rich imagery of the East.

At first he had the field all to himself. His society, his ardent gaze, and his honeyed words did not appear distasteful to her. She did not refrain from appearing, when she knew that he was in the sitting-room, nor did she show any disposition to retire when in his society. This was gratifying to him as soon as he discovered that she had become necessary to his happiness, and yet it afforded ground for a very small congratulation.

Flora had not noticed his conduct as distinct from the manner in which she was usually accosted and regarded. From her earliest recollection, every one had looked upon her smilingly and tenderly, and spoken to her gently and fondly. Colonel Mires had done no more, and she saw nothing different in his behaviour to her to that of others at all times.

She had been grateful for this good feeling so generally evinced towards her, and had tried to repay it by being herself sweet tempered, kind mannered, and soft spoken.

Hitherto she had made no distinction between persons; now she began to perceive that there was one she should like to make; a homage it would be little short of felicity to herself to render. She began to feel that there was a voice whose music touched her brain, and thrilled the pulses of her heart; whose language, simple as it might be, bore a richer poetry than all that tongue of poet ever uttered. There was a hand whose pressure filled her with emotions no other touch could raise—there was a presence whose absence was not compensated for by the coming of all the world beside.

She began to be sensible of the new feeling growing upon her, and taking possession of her soul, after Hal Vivian paid his first visit, as distinct from, and subsequent to, that when accompanied by Lotte.

He being rather retiring by nature and abashed by the style in which the Wiltons now lived, made his appearance but seldom, though he would gladly have spent every hour of the day beneath the roof that sheltered Flora.

But if he came seldom, Colonel Mires came often, and thus Flora began to shape her first distinction between persons. She had no objection to the frequent appearance of Mires, but she would infinitely rather that Hal came oftener, even if his coming were to cause the absence of the Colonel—even if it occasioned him to stay away for ever.

She did not permit this impression in Hal’s favour to show itself; as soon as she began to recognise it, and assure herself that it was a reality, she fashioned it into her first secret, which was to be looked at with no eyes but her own.

So she came to compare the interval that passed between the visits of Hal and the space of time that elapsed during the absence of Colonel Mires, and she began to think that if Hal had ever conceived the notion of vexing her, this was just the plan that would be most successful.

At each of his last visits, Hal had met Colonel Mires; the ordinary civilities passed between them, but they looked at each other with fierce eyes.

Colonel Mires could not but regard young Vivian as a formidable rival, who must be got rid of at any cost. He had not forgotten how, when first he gazed upon the fair face of Flora, she hung upon his arm, and seemed to cling to him as if with him only was safety. He could not but see now how pleased, and even tender, was the expression of her eyes when they were turned upon him, and how sweet the smile with which she welcomed him. He could not avoid noticing that Hal was a handsome-faced, finely-formed young fellow, dressed in the latest style of fashion, in clothes of the best material, chosen with excellent taste; and that the small quantity of jewellery he displayed was of costly material and the very first workmanship.

Altogether the Colonel felt himself matched against heavy odds, and he foresaw that he would have to adopt in the coming struggle unusual weapons. It was true he had the chances that the young tradesman might not aspire to Flora’s hand; or if he had the temerity to do so, it was scarcely probable that old Wilton would give his assent to such an alliance. He had, however, but little faith in chance, and he resolved not to trust to it.

To set Wilton and young Vivian at variance, and to ruin him in Flora’s estimation were tasks to which he designed to devote himself, and to which he would have exclusively applied himself, but that Hal turned out to be not the only competitor he had to deal with.

Hal’s notion of Colonel Mires is quickly summed up—it was that the “fellow” conveyed insult in every glance he directed at Flora, and that he waited but for the opportunity in private to act as he would not dare openly.

“Some day,” thought Hal, with set teeth and a frowning brow, “I shall have to beat him to a jelly.”

He looked forward to that day not without a feeling of eager anticipation.

When old Wilton made one of the party, he engrossed the conversation of the Colonel; there was much to refer to in the events of the past, and the old man was minute in his inquiries, and pertinacious in insisting upon copious and clearly expressed details.

While thus occupied, the Colonel, with fiery eyes, would watch the movements of Hal and Flora. With sickening forebodings, he would note how completely satisfied they were with each other’s society—how unflagging their conversation—how little the outer world attracted their attention—how completely they were absorbed in gazing into each other’s eyes, and treasuring up words or observations, light and simple in themselves, which fell from the other’s lips.

“He loves her,” he grated through his compressed teeth, “but the whelp shall no more wed her than if she were a Princess Royal of England.”

It is possible that Mr. Wilton obtained some incoherent answers during the periods when the Colonel was mentally making these observations, and it is certain that the manner of the latter to Hal grew more distant, haughty, and contemptuous than ever, even as Hal’s to him grew more defiant, keeping pace with it.

It was upon a day when Flora and Vivian—while Mr. Wilton was pursuing some inquiries addressed to Colonel Mires—-were standing in the recess of a deep bay window, conversing in a low tone about Lotte, that the Colonel found his position insupportable. Old Wilton was more than usually pointed in his questions, and displayed great anxiety about the exactness of the replies he requested. The Colonel was frequently called upon to repeat his answers, and, in many instances, to explain them with deliberation and clearness. All the time he was called upon to do this, he observed Hal and Flora in close, animated converse, conducted in so low a tone that not a word could reach his ears. It was so intended. Flora did this for Lotte’s sake—the circumstances which had happened in connection with her were not of a nature to be spoken loudly, in indifferent ears; she therefore depressed her voice to so soft a tone that Hal had to bend his face near to hers, to catch the sound and comprehend its meaning.

Her warm breath must frequently have played upon his cheek.

If so, it was as balmy as the softest zephyr ever breathed upon a summer evening—as fragrant as the odour of a thousand sweet-scented flowers.

Mires rapidly lost the sound of Wilton’s voice, and heard nothing but the low, murmuring tones of the youthful pair; saw nought but that Flora’s delicately-shaped hand rested upon Vivian’s arm, and that their faces were in a proximity which maddened him to behold.

Bear it longer he could not; he was just about to betray himself by some violent, insane remark, when a servant entered, and announced to Mr. Wilton that Mr. Malcome Grahame, accompanied by the Honorable Lester Vane, would be glad of a few minutes’ conversation with him.

“Show the gentlemen in here,” Wilton returned, laconically.

At least, this interruption was, in the eyes of Colonel Mires, agreeable, for it broke up that torturing tête-à tète, and saved him from committing himself in a very ridiculous manner. He could not, however, let pass the opportunity of scowling at young Vivian, in a way highly expressive of hatred and malignity, which was responded to by the young gentleman, who saw, and rightly interpreted it, with a steadfast look of ineffable scorn.

The servant returned, and almost immediately ushered in Malcolm and Lester Vane. Young Mr. Grahame sent his eyes swiftly round the room, in search of Lotte, but was grievously disappointed not to see her. Vane looked directly in Flora’s face, and continued to do so during the interview, with but a trifling exception, causing her embarrassment, which he observed with pleasure, because, whenever he perceived that he raised an emotion in the female breast, he supposed that he had eliminated a symptom favourable to himself.

Malcolm, finding the only person he had really come to visit not present, opened his business to Mr. Wilton, who received him with sufficient coldness to have made uncomfortable a more sensitive person.

“My dear Mr. Wilton,” he said, with much awkward hesitation, “it was the intention of my good mamma, and two of my sisters, to have paid you and Miss Wilton an introductory visit, to open up a friendship between you, and to induce, if possible, Miss Wilton to form an agreeable intimacy with my sisters. But, unfortunately, my elder sister Helen, was most unaccountably and suddenly attacked with a fainting fit yesterday morning, and she is still very ill. Mamma has, therefore, been unable to carry out her wish, but fearing that you might, after your interview with my father, imagine there was some inexplicable delay in the tender of kind and social relations to you and your remarkably charming daughter, Miss Wilton, I have been—greatly to my own satisfaction—deputed to act as their avant courier, and to offer the kindest congratulations of our family.”

At the conclusion of this speech, Mr. Wilton coldly inclined his head.

“I thank Mrs. Grahame and her daughters for the honour they intend me and Miss Wilton,” he said, frigidly. “We do not at present mix much in society. We leave to a future time the desire to form new friends. Permit me, however, to thank you for the manner in which you have performed the task allotted to you.”

“Oh! there’s no credit due to me for that,” replied Malcolm—truly. “I believe,” he added, “the folks at home are animated by a wish to be on friendly terms with you and your family, and, upon my honour, I echo it. Besides, we are relatives, you know, Mr. Wilton.”

“Distant relatives, Mr. Grahame,” observed old Wilton, as though he wished that they should continue such.

He turned abruptly to Lester Vane, and continuing, said—

“Pray, Mr. Vane, are you of the Vanes of Durham?”

“A branch of my family,” replied Vane; “an uncle of mine lived on an estate in the county—Robert Tempest Vane, of Weardale——”

“An old and dear friend of mine. We were hoys and men together—friends from our first meeting until death separated us,” cried Wilton, with ardour.

“Delighted to hear this, Mr. Wilton,” exclaimed Vane, eagerly, “may I be permitted to hope that you will allow me, although I can do so but imperfectly I fear, to renew that friendship in my unworthy person?”

Wilton took his proffered hand and grasped it warmly.

“I shall have the sincerest pleasure in such an arrangement,” he responded. “It will afford me much gratification: I loved your uncle for his frank heart, his noble spirit, and his honourable manliness. I have no doubt that in you I shall find a worthy representative of him.”

“I hope I shall not wrong so generous a supposition,” said Vane, with affected modesty.

“I feel assured you will not,” rejoined Wilton, and, turning to Flora, he said—“Let me specially present the Honorable Lester Vane to you, Flo’, my darling. As the nephew of the dearest friend I ever had, I request you, out of your love for me, to render to him the warmest hospitality of our house, and such direct attention as my most valued guest is at all times entitled to.”

Flora bowed at her father’s fervidly uttered instructions, and submitted her hand to the pressure of Lester Vane’s. But she liked not his eyes, they made her—as they had done Helen Grahame—shudder. She liked not his voice; least of all, she liked the cold touch of his soft, smooth fingers.

“Miss Wilton,” he said, in a subdued, deep tone, “if I could have formed a wish, constructed so as to gain for me, in its realisation, the greatest possible amount of felicity, it should have been that which would have compassed what has come to pass. To be thrown into the society of your honoured parent, the loved friend of a relative, whose memory I reverence, is, indeed, a deep gratification, but to have to that happiness added the high privilege, commended to your best attention, of enjoying your sweet society, is to place me in a state of beatitude of which I am undeserving, but of which, in true sincerity of heart, I will strive to make myself worthy.”

Lester Vane was rather fond of this flowery style of expression. It was a mistake when adopted to create an effect on such minds as those possessed by Flora Wilton or Helen Grahame. It was as hollow to them, and as transparent, as a glass globe. Malcolm thought it a masterly power of language, “framed to make woman false.” Colonel Mires had some such thought, and gnawed his lips as he listened. Hal only smiled, and turned away. If such expressions were flowers at all, he believed them to be artificial flowers, and, at best, a bad imitation of nature.

To this rhapsody as to her father’s request. Flora only bowed; she turned her face away from Vane’s steadfast gaze, feeling that it would be a relief to her when the interview terminated, and she should be once more alone with Hal, for she imagined she had still much to say to him.

Malcolm Grahame had received special commands from his father to make himself as agreeable to Flora as circumstances would permit, and he actually made some way in her good opinion, because he spoke a little earnestly of Lotte, expressed a fear that he had startled her at the sudden meeting in the garden, and uttered a wish to see her to offer an apology for unintentional rudeness, if such were needed. He dropped no hint that he knew her to be humble in her position, spoke praisefully of her pleasant face, her smiling eyes, and her graceful figure, and he did so with such seeming frankness of tone and manner, that Flora felt absolutely gratified.

She smiled on him as she had not done on Lester Vane. She talked to him with less reserve than she would have displayed if that particular subject had not been broached; and Vane grew absolutely envious to find that Malcolm, who had not had the benefit of a friendly word from Mr. Wilton, made evidently more rapid progress in his daughter’s good graces than he who stood before her with the advantages of person, rank, and a powerful recommendation from her father. He looked on Malcolm’s claim to her favour as simply contemptible. He had a mean opinion of his intellect and of his capabilities. As a rival, he would have laughed him to scorn. He could hardly understand, therefore, the progress he had made in Flora’s good opinion. It was something of a lesson. He, however, dismissed the impression it had for a moment made upon his mind; he accounted for it, in accordance with his own low estimate of feminine truth and purity, by the conceit that Flora was playing off Malcolm against him, with the view of securing, by that small piece of coquetry, his direct attention.

Malcolm failed, notwithstanding his diligent inquiries, to learn more about Lotte than that she was no longer in the house, and that she lived in London, in the western quarter; there the conversation respecting her ceased. He had sense enough to understand that to pursue it further would be to make his notice of her too marked.

Having renewed a pressing invitation to Wilton and his daughter, if they would graciously waive the introductory visit of his mamma, on account of his sister Helen’s sudden attack, and having, as he believed—and with some show of reason—rendered himself quite as agreeable to Miss Wilton as could, under the circumstances, be expected, he took his leave, accompanied by Lester Vane.

The latter individual, wholly indifferent as to the effect he might produce upon the minds of the gentlemen there assembled, was very desirous of creating an impression upon Flora.

But he failed to attract even a glance from her, and her hand motionless under his pressure, was hastily withdrawn, even as he touched it. When he retired through the doorway, he saw that her gaze was fastened upon the face of the young and handsome person introduced to him as Mr. Vivian.

His quick eye and his experience noted all these symptoms of the small way he had made in her favour.

“Yet,” said he to himself, “she will fall far more easily into my mesh than Helen Grahame. She is so pure, so guileless, so innocent of the world’s ways, that she is without suspicion—that best defence for woman against man’s art. My heart now aches to gain her. She must be mine, my wife be it—but she shall be mine!”

He had at his departure, informed Wilton that he should take advantage of his friendly invitation, and he hoped that his occasional visits would not be deemed intrusive. The warmth with which old Wilton responded to this suggestion by repeating his desire that he would frequently test his hospitality, removed any hesitation he might have in again presenting himself there without a special invitation, and he determined quickly to avail himself of an opening so eminently favourable to his design to lay siege to Flora’s heart.

Somehow, the interruption caused by these visitors seemed to render the remaining part of the day less cheerful and happy than it had commenced.

Old Wilton sat in his easy chair, plunged in deep thought. Colonel Mires, though full of rumination, took care to prevent a repetition of Hal and Flora’s tête-à-tête, by joining them. Flora occasionally appeared abstracted, and Hal wore an expression upon his face very much as if his visions of the future were clouded and sad.

As the Colonel did not, and would not, shift his quarters, the conversation grew common-place until at length it became absolutely irksome to Hal, and he rose to depart.

Flora fancied that, as he bade her farewell, his tone was cold, and she missed the pressure of his hand. She knew, too, his eye was averted, and he lingered not as usual upon the threshold of the door, but he went away and never looked back to meet the gaze she directed to him—and which meant to say “adieu,” with an expression she could not trust to her words nor to her soft fingers—but he looked not back once—no, not once!

Yet, when without the house, he directed his steps to the nearest entry to the park, and paused not until he gained a spot, where he could look upon the lighted window of the room in which he knew she sat, thinking, perhaps, of the gentleman who had that day been first presented to her, and was shortly to be little else than a constant companion.

“Oh, Flora, dearest!” he murmured, compressing his hands tightly, “it was a dream—a happy, happy dream! I wake to misery. You can never, never be mine; it would be only mad presumption to entertain longer a hope so blissful—oh, so very blissful! You will wed some one higher, nobler than myself, for you are of proud and high descent, and I but humbly born. If in this your happiness be secured, I love you far, far too well to seek or wish a change. I can only hope and pray that he who wins you may love you as truly, as fondly, as devotedly as I do.”

He paused, for his throat swelled, and there was a gush of water in his eyes that made the lighted window upon which they rested dim and indistinct.

“What now shall be my future course?” he continued with deep emotion; “my ambition is strangled in its birth. Fame! what have I to do with fame? sought only that my hour of triumph should be rewarded by her sweet smile of joy. What to me the rank in which high success would place me, if her eyes, glowing with gratified pride at sight of the honours I had won, were lost to me? No; life hath no more a motive to render it worth its endurance. A rifle and the prairies of the Far West shall be my world; there at least in the vast solitudes I can, uninterrupted, dwell upon her memory, revel in glorious visions of her angel face”——

A hand placed lightly upon his shoulder interrupted his soliloquy.

He turned sharply to find at his side Colonel Mires.

“A word with you,” he said to Hal, abruptly. “Follow me.”

“No!” returned Hal, coldly. “What you can have to say to me can as well be said here as elsewhere. We are unobserved.”

“In sight of that window it is, perhaps, as well,” returned the Colonel.

There was a pause for a moment; Hal made no remark upon the insinuation thus conveyed, and the Colonel proceeded——

“With you I ought to have no difficulty in coming to the point,” he said. With one in a different position my task would not be so easy, therefore I at once say I perceive that you with ignorant audacity”——

“Sir,” cried Hal, fiercely.

“Hear me out”——

“Not another word, if such expressions are to be addressed to me. I will submit to insult from no man breathing; he who attempts it had need beware of a strong arm, and a spirit which never yet bent or quailed before a danger.”

“It is not my design to insult you. I gain no end by it; if I use plain terms, attribute it to my desire to describe exactly the act of one of mean birth aspiring to ally himself to a house with a pedigree extending to the Norman Conquest”——

“Colonel Mires, as few words, if you please, between us as possible; briefly state the object of your seeking this interview with me. My answer shall be clear, decided, and prompt as short.”

“Be it so. An accident has enabled you to render a service to Miss Wilton. The firemen of London nightly do the same thing to hundreds, and are content with the fee they receive as their reward. You, on the contrary, with, as I have said, ig”——

“I warn you to be choice in your terms!”

“You actually, on account of the common deed you performed, have inflated yourself with a monstrous notion that you might aspire to the hand of a young lady of birth and wealth. You have, perhaps, been led to nurse this ridiculous conception, because Miss Wilton, with the true and refined courtesy of a well-bred lady, has extended towards you a kindness of manner she would have displayed to the very fireman you forestalled, if he had been the person who rescued her from the peril she was in.”

“Have you finished?” cried Hal, impatiently.

“When I have told you to abandon for ever the wild and preposterous idea which seems to have taken possession of you, and to abstain from further visits to the house of Mr. Wilton, under the risk of my resentment, and perhaps an ignominious punishment, I have ended.”

“My reply is, sir,” returned Hal, with a swelling breast, and a sensation upon his forehead, like a burning band, “that I wholly deny your right to interfere either in Mr. Wilton’s or my affairs. I have further to inform you, that I am master of my actions, and that I intend to remain so; I conclude, sir, by telling you, in full explanation of the estimation in which I hold your resentment, that should you dare, in my hearing, speak of Miss Wilton as but now you have done, or should attempt to renew this conversation with me, I will treat you as I would a snarling, troublesome, officious hound! Stand out of my path!”

Hal placed his open hand on the breast of Colonel Mires, and thrust him back. He strode with a firm but dignified step from the spot.

“Scoundrel!” yelled Mires; “I will horsewhip you for this indignity.”

“We shall meet when you have a horsewhip,” answered Hal, scornfully. “Spare your promises until then.”

With rage and fury swelling his frame, and forming a hundred schemes of a deadly revenge, the foiled Colonel hastened in the opposite direction to that Hal had taken.

“And this dark-skinned villain hopes to take to his arms the fairest, brightest piece of Nature’s handicraft,” Hal muttered, as he pursued his way homeward. “He will vex and trouble her by his detestable addresses. Oh, Flora, dearest! if I may not aspire to your hand, or hope for your love, I may, at least, pass my life in protecting you from the machinations of such villains as this. At least I shall be near you; I will watch over you, and preserve you from ill, if I may never, never shelter you from harm within these arms as my own—my own.”

CHAPTER II.—THE DREADFUL SECRET.

Oh, shame! oh, guilt! oh, horror! oh, remorse

Oh, punishment! Had Satan never fallen,

Hell had been made for me. Oh, Leonora!

Leonora! Leonora!

Young.

Helen Grahame, borne helpless to her bed-chamber, remained for many hours without exhibiting any sign of returning consciousness.

An experienced physician had been summoned, and at length the fit was so far mastered by the application of remedies and restoratives, that the semblance of death no longer remained, and she was roused into motion, though not to consciousness.

She was delirious, at first: and sitting upright in the bed, caught the terrified, weeping Evangeline by the wrist, and pointed into vacancy.

“See, see,” she shrieked; “he stands tottering on the vessel’s side. Hold him back for mercy sake, hold him back, or he will be lost! Oh, Hugh, but one moment—pause—for very charity pause! I come to you—one moment, Hugh—I will hang on your breast, I will cling to you, I will go through the world with you—stay—one instant! Save him! Save him! Hugh!—Hugh!—see, he curses me—his eyes glare angrily on me, he tosses his hands wildly in the air—he leaps—ha!”

A piercing shriek burst from her lips, and rang through the house.

Evangeline threw her arms round her sister, and by force prevented her from springing from the bed on to the floor.

“Helen, darling,” she exclaimed, sobbing, as she felt the quivering, trembling frame of her sister shake in every limb, as though she was struck with an ague—“Helen, look upon me—I am Eva, sister Eva; you see only a horrible vision—a dreadful dream; you are at home in your own room—oh, Helen, Helen darling, speak to me one word, say that you know me, one word, Helen dearest.”

“One word, Helen dearest! the words mock me,” exclaimed Helen, in a low subdued tone, her large dark eyes wandering slowly round the room. “One word, Helen, dearest!—and I would not utter it. My cold selfishness has killed him. The remorseless sea has closed over him, the moaning wind chants his dirge, the slimy seaweed entangles his locks, he lays upon the cold, cold sand in the green depths, his white wan face turned, despairing, to the harsh world which had no compassion for him. He is gone, he is for ever gone!—I—I have slain him!”

A fearful passion of hysteric weeping followed these words. Her whole frame was convulsed. It took the united aid of the physician, Chayter, and Evangeline to hold her down, in order to prevent her committing some wild act of delirious extravagance.

The paroxysm passed away but it left her utterly prostrate. The physician declaring her out of immediate danger, retired, leaving Evangeline and Chayter to watch by her as she lay, wan and motionless—the faint heaving of her bosom only telling that she was not dead.

Helen’s intercourse with Hugh was known only to herself and to him—she had no confidante—and it was well that Mrs. Grahame was not present during the ravings uttered by her daughter. A secret is never so well kept as when it is never entrusted. Helen believed this, and confided to no one the love passage in her young life, Evangeline, in her innocence, believed that the mere relation of the incident with which Hugh Riversdale was connected, coming upon Helen at a moment when she was not quite in health, had so shocked her as to produce this grave result; but such would not have been the interpretation by Mrs. Grahame.

At present that lady decided in her own mind that Helen had been attacked by this fit, wholly irrespective of the paragraph in the paper; but she would at once have surmised the truth, if she had seen how her daughter wept the loss of the person they “could not notice now.”

The report of the physician was that she had suffered a severe attack of hysteria—that she was much prostrated, with a tendency to be delirious; but that though she might be compelled to keep her chamber for some time, there was no real danger. “It was necessary that she should be well nursed,” he said, and as he perceived that in that mansion, where pride reigned supreme, she was not likely to obtain the careful and constant attention which she so much needed, he recommended a person to be sent for from the institution for trained nurses.

Mrs. Grahame approved of the suggestion, and, within a couple of hours, one, a tall matronly female, was duly installed empress of Helen’s sick chamber.

She had a struggle, at first, to wrest the empire from Evangeline, but she was so forcible in her reasoning, and so kind and gentle in her manner, that Eva yielded up the sway, on the understanding that she should spend the greater portion of her time at her sister’s bedside.

And now the house assumed an aspect of quiet. The Duke of St. Allborne had just begun to find favourable qualities in Margaret, not visible to the eyes of others, but bright in his, for her homage to him had been so direct that he could but notice and approve it. Direct flattery rarely disgusts the weak-minded; it charmed the Duke, and he purred as he received it. He would have become more marked in his attentions to the artful girl, but Helen’s sudden illness brought his and Lester Vane’s visit to an abrupt close.

They quitted, with expressions of complimentary condolence, and promised, at a future time, to repeat their visit. Both intended to keep their word.

Lester Vane had no thought of yielding up his designs on Helen. He neither forgot nor forgave. He had correctly read her intention to make a prize of his heart, and then to toss it away as a worthless gain. He overlooked the provocation he gave her for entertaining such a scheme, unjustifiable as it was, and he resolved to punish her. There was a blow to wipe out, and he thought he knew how to exact ample vengeance in atonement of it.

So he determined to return again to the house when Helen had recovered.

The anticipated visit of old Wilton and his daughter Flora to the house of Mr. Grahame was not paid, the reason assigned was, that Wilton, with his daughter, had gone into the country—rather unexpectedly—to take possession of the estate of which he had been so long deprived.

The pressing claims upon Mr. Grahame were all satisfied, a large sum had been placed to his credit at his bankers, and proceedings were going on to carry into effect Nathan Gomer’s scheme.

Mr. Grahame was, upon the whole, though rather mystified and vexed by a lurking uneasiness, glad that the deed, bearing the signature of Eustace Wilton, which the latter had never written, had so strangely disappeared; and he was also rather pleased, though perplexed, to find Mr. Chewkle had never returned to him, after his departure with the professed object of enlisting the services of two arrant scoundrels in the atrocious business of false swearing. He, therefore, set out on a business visit to an estate he possessed in Scotland, with a much easier frame of mind, and a more decided disposition to enact the part of a haughty feudal lord, than he had done on the visits immediately preceding the present.

Mrs. Grahame and Margaret were incessantly engaged in fulfilling with propriety what they deemed the duties of the station they held. They were in their carriage one-half the day, and one-half the night at the opera, at soirées, and routs.

Evangeline spent all the time allotted her by her mamma, and by the nurse, Mrs. Truebody, in Helen’s room; but in the sick chamber, or away from it, her soft footsteps and her sweet low voice were rarely heard.

So the mansion was for the most part silent as an untenanted house of prayer. Helen was slowly recovering. She was still very ill. Since her raving in her delirium, she had never spoken a word.

To the fond and affectionate questions of Evangeline, she replied by a faint, loving smile, or a gentle pressure of the hand, but not a word.

To the physician or to the nurse, she either nodded slightly or shook her head, but not a sound escaped her lips.

At length the physician terminated his visits, recommending that Helen should rise for an hour or two, extending the time each day, until she had strength enough to resume her ordinary routine of life.

Mrs. Truebody had been most attentive to her patient; her medical knowledge was excellent, and frequently most usefully applied; her kindness, her patient, unweary watching, most exemplary; it had won, as it could not fail to do, the gratitude of Helen, occasionally displayed by a beaming look, not at all difficult of interpretation.

One night, towards midnight, when Eva had, after embracing and kissing her sister tenderly, retired to her own room to pray, as usual, for the speedy restoration of Helen to health, Mrs. Truebody seated herself by the bedside, and took Helen’s wasted hand in her own, and held it there.

“Miss Grahame,” she said, in a low tone, “you are progressing, though slowly, to recovery; but there is one impediment to your more rapid return to health, which, I confess, I am sadly afraid cannot be easily removed.”

She paused.

Helen turned her dark eyes upon her, with an inquiring look, but did not speak.

“You have a weight preying on your mind, which alone causes the physical prostration under which you suffer,” continued Mrs. Truebody. “It will continue to keep you here unless prompt arrangements are made to alleviate it by some decided step on your part.”

Helen remained silent. Still, Mrs. Truebody went on—

“Have you a friend, Miss Grahame?” she asked; adding—“I do not mean a mere acquaintance, nor yet a relative, but a friend, in whom you can place the fullest confidence, and who would spare no exertion and faint not at trial and trouble to serve you. Speak, my child, for in truth it is a momentous question I ask of you.”

Helen faintly shook her head, and, in a feeble voice, replied—

“No, I have not—not one—now.”

The tears clustered in her eyes.

Mrs. Truebody gazed upon her sadly.

“You have need of one—sore need of one,” she said, gravely; “for you have some painful secret in your heart.”

There was a silence as of the grave.

Helen’s eyes looked into the dark shadow in her room, as though there she saw a phantom. She spoke not.

“Have you never confided, by word or hint, to anyone that grief which now oppresses you?” asked Mrs. Truebody, in a curiously solemn tone.

A flush spread itself over the hitherto pale features of Helen, and then it passed away, leaving her whiter than ever.

“Never,” she murmured, in a low voice.

“And where is he who has brought you to this condition?” asked Mrs. Truebody, in a tone betraying indignation.

“Oh, do not speak, do not think harshly of him!” exclaimed Helen, with a quivering lip. “His anguish, his misery, and his despair, were greater than my own!”

Then, in hoarse accents, she briefly spoke of the circumstances which called Hugh away, of his letter to her, of her mental struggles, her hesitation, and vacillation, until too late even to write to him, and then of the incident published in the newspaper.

Mrs. Truebody listened in silence, with her eyes intently fixed upon Helen’s features, perusing them earnestly as though to ascertain whether there was not something more which Helen studiously concealed, but she did not seem to find what she sought.

Presently, she said abruptly—

“Were you married?”

A change instantly passed over the features of Helen—an expression impossible to describe: it told that a throng of unutterable thoughts were passing through her brain.

“Why do you ask me such a question?” she said, in an almost inarticulate voice.

Mrs. Truebody took a firmer hold of her hand.

“Look in my eyes, my child,” she said solemnly; “answer me truly—are you ignorant of your actual condition?”

“My—my condition!” feebly echoed Helen.

“Know you not, my poor girl,” exclaimed Mrs. Truebody, in a deep and earnest tone, “that ere a few short months have passed over your head, you will become a mother?”

Helen’s face became instantly of a ghastly whiteness. She turned an affrighted glare upon Mrs. Truebody. Her lips moved as though she would speak but could not. A film spread itself over her eyes, a moment before unnaturally bright, and she swooned away.

Mrs. Truebody let fall her hand, and hastened to apply restoratives.

Her tears fell fast upon the pallid countenance over which she bent like a tender mother.

“Poor child” she murmured. “Poor deluded child! Riches have not saved her from sin, nor spared her sorrow. Oh, woman! woman! you, who claim this frail creature as your child, what have you not to answer for!”

Once again Helen became conscious, and now she was face to face with her true position—now she felt more terribly the upbraidings of self-reproach, for not having complied with Hugh’s passionate appeal to her. But the opportunity was passed. He was gone—perhaps to heaven. She was here alone—alone with her sin.

Something to Mrs. Truebody’s surprise, she did not exhibit the violent emotions she had expected her to give way to, on being restored to a full sense of her position. She wept, it is true—her eyes rained tears, and her sobs—low, wailing sobs—were very painful to hear—but she was almost motionless; it was as though she cowered beneath the bed-clothes to hide herself for very shame.

After a time she whispered—

“This is a dreadful secret—a most dreadful secret. I have had, since I have laid here, a terrifying sense of the truth, but I drove it away—I would not think of it, I would not believe it—but oh! is it true—is it true?”

“It is true,” repeated Mrs. Truebody, emphatically.

Helen clasped her hands, and said to her, imploringly—

“Leave me to deal with this fearful discovery alone, but oh! Mrs. Truebody, if you have a spark of human charity, breathe not to mortal the calamity with which Heaven has afflicted me in meting out to me my deserts. Oh! think of my father’s and of my mother’s pride in the honour of our house. To know of my fall would crush them—that foul blot on their escutcheon would slay them. Oh! Mrs. Truebody, let me not add murder to my dread fault, I implore you, I pray of you—upon my knees with bitter, bitter tears I will pray of you, as you alone discovered my secret, so retain it in your own bosom.”

“Be comforted in this, my poor child,” she replied: “I will not add a pang to the anguish which I am sure you must now so keenly suffer, but what I must know, and what I will know, is, the course you are going to adopt.”

“You shall know as soon as I have the power to decide. At present my brain is racked with agony, my temples burn and throb: I cannot collect my thoughts into anything like coherency. Let me but have quiet—quiet, Mrs. Truebody, and I shall be able then to shape out the path my guilt and shame may compel me to take, without injuring or degrading those who are so jealous of their virtue and their fame.”

“Ah!” thought Mrs. Truebody, “if they had mixed up with this stern purity of character a little common humanity. If the haughty mother of this frail sinful girl had been but as proud of being a good, watchful, loving parent as she has been of her long line of ancestry, this dreadful thing surely had not happened.” She turned to Helen, and said—

“You shall have quiet and rest—so that you may gather strength to reflect upon the consequences of your terrible error, and pray to God for pardon.”

“I will try to do all you counsel,” responded Helen, excitedly, though speaking in the same hissing undertone; “but I must be left for a time to myself—be alone, quite alone! Above all, let not Eva come to me!”

“Miss Grahame?”

“No!—no!—no! Not Eva!—not Eva! I cannot now dare to look in her sinless face. I cannot bear the soft gaze of her innocent eyes, nor hear those affectionate words emanating from her pure heart, without acutely feeling each look, each tone of her dear voice, as a terrible reproach. I have so looked down upon her simplicity, taunted her guilelessness, scoffed at her singleness of heart, that the very sight of her seems to humble me to the dust.”

“She will be so very grieved, to be forbidden the usual seat by your bedside,” said Mrs. Truebody, deprecatingly.

“I know it—I feel it. I can see her turning sorrowfully away when you deny her access to me, but she is now to me an angel of such spotless purity, and I so foul, so black, so begrimed with wickedness, that were she to lay her tender hand upon me, and with those immaculate lips press my hot forehead, I should shrink from her, fearing to pollute her by the contact.”

“Whatever you may inwardly feel—and I would not have you repulse any such sense of your grievous fault—it will be necessary to obtain a control over your feelings, and to appear much as usual,” said Mrs. Truebody; “and I would suggest to you that by refusing to see your sister Eva—dear, sweet creature that she is—you will give rise to questions which it will be difficult to answer.”

“I will be guided by you, but pray let me be alone for the next day or two,” urged Helen. “You will tell her that, unless I am for a short time left entirely to myself, my recovery will be greatly retarded. She will not, after that, press her own kind desires in opposition to my recovery. And, now, if my beating brain will let me, I will try to sleep, and strive to gather strength; for, oh! I have a dreadful task to encounter—a desperate part to play. Good night, Mrs. Truebody; remember your promise!—not a word to mortal—not a word—not a word! as you hope hereafter for mercy from the Almighty!”

Mrs. Truebody slept in a small antechamber. Her room door was in Helen’s apartment, and this she always left open all night. Having performed a few necessary duties, and bade Helen farewell for the night, she retired to her bed.

At length Helen was quite alone. The slight hum of the gently-moving trees in the garden was broken only by the monotonous ticking of the time-piece over the fireplace. An hour passed, and not a sound broke the intense stillness which reigned throughout the house.

Suddenly Helen sat straight up in the bed. She stretched her arms out, and murmured, in accents of the keenest misery—

“Oh! Hugh, Hugh—pardon and pity me! If you are dead, come to me in the spirit; let your sad eyes once more turn on mine. I will not tremble, nor faint, nor be appalled. Come to me—bear me with you; for oh! it is dreadful to be here alone—alone, Hugh! Oh! you know not how lone I am—so utterly lonely. No, no; oh, mercy Heaven! not alone—not alone—no more alone!”

With a low wail, more like a cry of horror than, the sob of anguish, she sank shivering down, and buried her head beneath the bed-clothes. Once more she raised herself, and parted her long black hair from her tearful eyes, dim with long weeping.

“Are you dead, Hugh?” she moaned; “it is happiness for you, if you are. I may not die—I dare not die; I must live—live for, for—oh—I shall go frantic! Live? Live where?—where?—where?”

She clasped her hands in despair.

“Here I cannot stay. Here? No; I must out into the world. Oh! where, to hide my misery and my shame from all—the pitying and the pitiless? Oh, Hugh! that I had fled to you. If I had but listened to the pleadings of my heart, I had not fallen before the whisperings of my pride!”

And thus the night through did she start up and murmur in moaning accents, or hide herself beneath the bed-covering, sobbing and wailing in the very wildest grief.

The pale gray dawn began to show through the transparent blind, when sleep stole over the exhausted girl, and it was mid-day ere she awoke, strengthened, though not refreshed, by her long slumber—awoke, as Mrs. Truebody had told her, to be face to face with her miserable situation.

She did not shrink from it. The nurse kept her promise, and suffered no one to enter the chamber but herself, and Helen had all the quiet she could hope for.

She lay motionless the remainder of the day. The nurse could, however, see that her mind was working with ceaseless activity. Occasionally she would perceive her dark eyes, shining with an unnatural brilliancy, turned upon herself, and she knew that Helen was taking into her calculations her aid or her silence.

She did not try to induce her to speak, especially as she saw that she had a disinclination to do so. She believed it to be better for her to think. A steady reflection upon the failings of our nature tends to promote an endeavour to remedy them. Under such an impression, she did not care to make Helen talk.

Helen slept all that night, but the following day was a counterpart of the last. Neither Mrs. Grahame nor Margaret made any attempt to see her, when they were requested not to visit her for a day or so, but Evangeline could scarcely be moved from the chamber door.

She stole there upon tiptoe, and stood without for hours, listening intently. If she could have only heard Helen speak, it would have made her heart light and glad.

That night, at the hour when the household were retiring to repose, Evangeline escaped the vigilance of Mrs. Truebody, and crept to the bedside.

Helen lay there in deep thought, as for hours she had been—living over her past life, and vainly trying to shape out of the obscure future the lot she would have to endure.

Her restless eyes suddenly fell upon the upturned, loving face of her sister—that face so full of tenderness, and yet charged with an expression deprecating her anger for having broken through the arrangement which compelled her absence.

At first Helen shrank, as if horrified, from her, but Evangeline leaned over, and caught her in her arms.

“Do not be angry with me, Helen, dearest,” she said, entreatingly; “but indeed, indeed, I could not sleep without speaking just one little word to you, and kissing you. I sobbed all last night; it was foolish, I know; but I could not bear to go to bed without having even seen you during the day.”

“Do—do not touch me, Eva,” said Helen, gasping and struggling to free herself from her sister’s affectionate embrace.

Eva burst into tears.

“Do not be cross with me, Helen, darling, for I love you fondly and dearly!” she exclaimed. “If I too much intrude my love upon you, forgive me, for I cannot help it. Say to me only, ‘Good night, Eva,’ and kiss me, and I will leave you—oh, so happy, Helen.”

Helen could not bear this tenderness of her sister’s, and not respond to it; she strained her passionately to her bosom, and sobbed violently upon her neck. She then wiped her scalding tears from her burning eyes, and kissed Eva fervidly upon the forehead.

“Eva,” she whispered in her ear, “I love you with my whole soul. I have wronged you. I have treated you with unkindness——”

“No, darling—no, never.”

“With unfeeling scorn, Eva—cruel, selfish pride. I am punished, Eva—you cannot dream how fearfully; but let that pass—mine the crime, mine the atonement. Know this, however—that my eyes are opened, and my error stands before me, a monument of glowing brass. You do not understand this, sweet Eva; but you will comprehend that, from the inmost depths of my heart, I love and honour you.”

“Helen!”

“That in—in the—the time to come, I shall never forget your more than sisterly affection, your dear love for me, and I shall pray for blessings to be showered upon you, Eva—pray for you—as I hope you will—will pray for me.”

The last words were almost inaudible. She kissed the astonished Eva again and again with passionate fervour, and then she bade her not to say a word, but to leave her and come again at the same hour on the following night.

“But you will say, ‘Good night and good bye, dearest,’ to me, will you not, Helen?” asked Eva, softly and fondly.

Helen felt as if she should be suffocated by a rising hysterical sob, but she contrived to force out the words—

“Good night and good bye, dearest Eva,” and then she fell back, almost lifeless, on the bed.

Eva bent over her, imprinted one last kiss upon her burning lips, and then ran out of the room with a heart throbbing with joy, and kneeling down at her own bedside, she prayed with sincerity and fervour for the recovery and for the happiness of her sister Helen.

In the early morning, while Helen seemed yet sleeping, Mrs. Truebody went upon an errand, which her patient had begged her to execute herself; it took her to no great distance from the house, and when she returned she went into the kitchen and made breakfast for Helen herself, according to her usual custom, and then she carried it up to her bedside.

But Helen was not there!

Nor in the room, nor in the house, ransacked, in wild terror, by Mrs. Truebody.

Upon the toilet table, was subsequently found a note, addressed to Mrs. Grahame. Within, ran the following words—

“Search not for me. I have departed of my own free will. Rest satisfied in this—that the life bestowed by my Creator will not beshortened by a despairing hand. One word of solemn warning. Inquire not. Be content that there is a mystery. Do not seek to draw a veil from that which, hidden, cannot wound you, but if revealed would destroy you. Forget me!”

“Helen.”

So she was gone.

Mrs. Grahame, after perusing this strange and, to her mind, incomprehensible epistle, concluded to take no step in the matter until she had consulted with Mr. Gra-hame upon the subject. Such undignified behaviour on the part of her eldest daughter was unpardonable.

Margaret thought that her mother had adopted quite the proper course to pursue; Malcolm was out of town for a few days; and Evangeline, upon her knees, implored Mrs. Truebody to accompany her over London in search of her absent sister.

Mrs. Truebody, in deep tribulation, promised everything, and did nothing.

Yes, she did one thing.

She kept Helen’s dreadful secret!

CHAPTER III.—THE STRICKEN DEER.

Bel. Whither shall I fly?

Where hide me and my miseries together?

Where’s now the Roman constancy I boasted?

Sunk into trembling fears and desperation.

Jaf. Mercy! Kind Heaven has surely endless stores

Hoarded for thee, of blessings yet untasted.

—Otway.

So Lotte Clinton began the world afresh. Her prospects were newer and brighter. Since she had been flung abruptly and rudely upon the hard world, she had not known such true comfort and happiness as she now enjoyed. The death of her parents, within a few days of each other, had left her and her brother—her senior only some fifteen months—utterly destitute. The disinterested charity of a neighbouring humble tradesman, who had known something of the family in better times, not only provided the expenses of the double funeral, but paused not until it had placed the boy in a lawyer’s office, and the girl at a milliner’s, as an apprentice for three years in the house.

In those three years, Lotte had been trained to exist with as few hours nightly sleep as it was possible for her young nature to sustain without actually sinking under it. But she had acquired the whole mystery of cap-makings and some little knowledge of dressmaking.

When the term of her apprenticeship expired, she went through the routine of day work until her skill, and the known power she had of working long after midnight, and rising with the sun, enabled her to ask for, and to obtain, her work at home.

The advantages afforded her by this arrangement were, that she saved the time occupied in passing to and from her place of business, and she was spared exposure to insult on her nightly return to her humble lodging.

When our tale opened, she was occupied in making those pretty blonde, flowered fronts, worn by ladies as the inner adornment of their bonnets. For making up these, she was paid at the rate of sixpence-halfpenny, sevenpence-halfpenny, and for some eight-pence-halfpenny per dozen. At this miserable pay she had to rise with the dawn, and work until past the hour of midnight, to earn even a scanty pittance-Many a fair creature, consulting her mirror, has, with gratified pride, observed the becoming properties of the small and pretty addition to her head-dress; but how very few have reflected that their own efforts to procure it as cheaply as possible have helped to hurry many a poor exhausted careworn sister into the crowded paths of sin, or into a pauper grave!

Lotte was rapid with her needle, and was full of self-sacrifice, that she might be self-dependent. She possessed great powers of endurance, and, to preserve her independence, she taxed those powers to the utmost. No one but herself knew what privations she had undergone. No one but herself could tell of the hardships she had faced, struggled with, without a despairing sigh, and had surmounted—until the cruel circumstances succeeding the fire had ruthlessly dragged from her all hope.

Now her trials and her miseries seemed to have vanished. She had not to work so hard, for she was far better paid, and if her old habit of early rising still adhered to her, she laid her pretty, happy face upon her soft pillow at least an hour before midnight.

Her furniture was all her own, too, now; to the kind liberality of Flora Wilton she was indebted for that, and she had, at least, a sovereign by her for an emergency. She had begun to deposit in a Savings Bank already. She had a plan daintily conceived, which involved a fair amount of poetical justice. She had indomitable perseverance, and, if events unforeseen and uncontrollable did not occur, she fully resolved to carry it out. Her room—her one room, for she had only one—was a little picture, so clean, so tidy, so prettily arranged it was. There was her table with its two flaps, so that if she felt lonely and somewhat disposed to turn with liberal hand her economy aside it would accommodate a visitor—ay, actually company.

Then, in addition to her neat set of chairs, there was a sofa, which, by a marvel of mechanical ingenuity was converted at night into a pretty little bedstead. There was upon the floor a neat-patterned carpet. Upon the flowered walls a picture or two, not of much value, but they added to the liveliness of the room.

She had, too, a charming little canary, such a dear tiltle “dick,” which chirruped and sang to her all the long day, looking at her every now and then, and calling “sweet” to her with as knowing an expression in his little bright eye, as if he were that young smart though anky grocer himself round the corner, who never served her with sugar but he gazed upon her as if, like the genuine “barley,” he was a “sweetness long drawn out.”

There were flowers in the window. She was very fond of flowers. She could not afford the more expensive kinds, but as it was, she delighted in tending her geraniums, her mignionette, her fuchsias, and her trained convolvuli.

Altogether, in her eyes, her room was an earthly Paradise. She almost sighed with too much happiness as at times she lifted up her eyes from her work to gaze around.

“Oh, if Charley could only see me here, how happy he would be!” she would often say to herself; and then she would pray with earnest fervour that he might soon be restored to her.

As yet she had not had a visitor. Flora was away in the country. Hal Vivian she had expected to call, if only to say, “How do you do?” but he had never been, and Mrs. Bantom—who had promised to return the visit, which Lotte, full of gratitude and thankfulness to her for her motherly kindness in her distress, had paid—had not yet put in an appearance. Several times when a loud ring came to “her” bell, she ran with a light step and a beating heart down the stairs to answer the door, expecting to see some loved face reward her hopeful anticipations, but it was only “the milk,” or a boy to bring her a fresh supply of work, and take away that which she had done. She would return up to her room with just a little bit of a sigh, and take refuge once more in the sanguine belief that some one would come to see her, and that before long.

She little dreamed all this while that there was “some one” on the look-out to find her—one who was fully as anxious to become a visitor to her as she could be to receive one.

She was all unconscious that her round, attractive face had won the heart of “the heir of the haughty Grahame”—that is, so much of the article as he possessed. Alas! too, like many others of his sex, as far as woman was concerned, his heart greatly resembled a garden-grown cabbage, luxuriant in leaf, but without the solid centre, which was necessary to make it of value to the possessor.

She had no inkling that while she longed for some face, bearing a kind expression, to come shining through her doorway, that a suitor for her—love—was roaming through the more retired of the west-end streets, examining apartments to let, making kind inquiries after imaginary persons of impatient landladies, in the strong hope, that he should at last “come shining through the doorway” to her, as though by the most charming accident in the world.

The Flower of the Flock, Volume 2 (of 3)

THE FLOWER OF THE FLOCK

By Pierce Egan

In Three Volumes

Vol. II.

London: W. S. Johnson & Co.

1865

FLOWER OF THE FLOCK

CHAPTER I.—SUITORS

CHAPTER II.—THE DREADFUL SECRET.

CHAPTER III.—THE STRICKEN DEER.