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Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
absence, and find amusement in the pleasure of their own society
until our return.”
With the air of a patrician he waved his hand to his guests, and
turned to leave the room.
On reaching the threshold of the door, Flora looked back to Hal,
for she felt grieved, after what she had witnessed, to leave him in a
position which must, necessarily be embarrassing to him. His eyes
were bent upon her, and it seemed to her with a saddened
expression in them.
She gently disengaged her arm from her father’s grip, and said—
“One moment, dear father, I will follow you.”
She returned to the room, and he proceeded towards the library.
She hastened towards Hal with a smiling countenance. She laid
her white hand upon his arm, and whispered in his ear. He smiled,
and pressed her hands in evident gratefulness, and she quitted the
room, looking back upon him to the last.
Not a glance or motion did she vouchsafe to Vane or to Mires, for
she, with swelling bosom, seemed to feel that the insult directed at
Harry Vivian was levelled at her also, and she resented it
accordingly. Of course this was not so construed by either of the
suitors, nor did they seem to read her interpretation of their conduct
in her bearing towards themselves; they only saw in it a
confirmation of their fears, that she had by far too strong a
predilection for the youth whose society they had somewhat
unexpectedly been called upon to enjoy.
She was gone, and Hal was left alone with the pair. Colonel Mires
cast a hurried glance at him; there was no sign of the last night’s
encounter upon his person, or in his manner; he doubted, therefore,
if he could have been the man he had seen and fired at, but, if not,
who could it have been? That was a question to be settled hereafter.
 He caught Hal’s bright eye fixed upon him, and he tried with,
gloomy, knitted brows, to frown it down, but, as it never wavered in
its settled gaze, he deliberately turned his back upon him, and with a
formal salute to Lester Vane he strode out of the room.
The latter was thus left alone with Harry Vivian. He looked
steadfastly and scrutinisingly at him from head to foot; he could not
deny to himself that Hal was eminently handsome, and that he was
dressed fashionably—nay, elegantly, and with unexceptionable taste.
But he was a parvenu!—a creature in trade, only just out of his
apprenticeship. What a rival! Vane’s lip curled as the thought passed
through his mind; he even laughed, and aloud.
It was a mocking laugh, and grated on Hal’s ear most harshly. His
impetuous blood surged boilingly through his veins, and he trembled
in his effort to appear collected and calm. But such an outward
aspect he felt in his present position to be imperative to preserve,
and by a strong effort he kept his inward indignation from revealing
itself.
After his sneering laugh, Vane, with a direct and insolent stare,
again scanned Vivian from top to toe. As he smiled, he twirled the
points of his moustache between his fingers and thumb, and then
turning his back deliberately upon Harry Vivian, walked up to a pier-
glass, and arranged his collar. Harry saw now that he was the object
of deliberate and studied insult, but he felt that it would not be
advisable to create a scene in Mr. Wilton’s house by any impetuous
or violent conduct. For the behaviour of Colonel Mires towards him
he could make allowance, but this man had no such excuse. In
vindication of his position as a young honourable man, he resolved
not to submit to the indignity, or to suffer Vane to part from him in
the belief that he would endure contumelious rudeness without
resenting it. .
He advanced towards him, and said, in a low, but clear, firm voice
—
 “Mr. Vane!”
Lester Vane turned slowly round and stared at him. A most rude,
offensive stare it was; as though his groom had suddenly addressed
him on easy and familiar terms.
It failed to add anything to the resentment which Hal felt at the
treatment he had already experienced, because it could not exceed
in offence the previous contumely directed at him. But he proceeded
to say, with the air of one who would be neither put down nor put
aside—
“Mr. Lester Vane, we meet here upon an equal footing—that is, as
guests of Mr. Wilton. I have the honour of being received by him and
Miss Wilton as a friend; let us therefore understand each other.
While I am thus received by them, I claim to stand in the same
position as any of their guests, and to be regarded by those guests
as holding beneath this roof no meaner station. Here, sir, I am your
equal, and I request you to distinctly understand that I will not
calmly endure unprovoked insult from you or any individual
breathing.”
Lester Vane regarded him with a glance of scornful contempt, and
replied in a haughty, supercilious tone—“My good man, you forget
yourself and presume. Let me give you distinctly to understand that
I differ with you in your view of the laws and regulations which
govern the position of visitors in this or any house. Mr. Wilton is
undoubtedly master in his house and of his own actions, but I am no
less the master of mine. Mr. Wilton, in his eccentricity, may choose
to invite here some pin-maker’s son or apprentice, it is immaterial
which, but I am not bound to entertain violent feelings of friendship
for him, or even to associate with him. What is more, I do not
choose to do so.”
He was about to leave the room but Hal caught him by the wrist.
“No,” he said, “pardon me: you cannot go this moment.”
 Vane tried to fling him off, but Hal held him as if he were in a vice,
and said—
“It will be unadvisable to struggle or to raise your voice, because I
shall then consider you desire to make the household a witness to
our brief discussion, and I shall deem you coward as well as
poltroon. Now, sir, mark me, I repeat it—in this house I stand your
equal; out of it, your superior—ay, sir, your superior. You may be, as
the son of a poor lord, an empty-pocketed Honorable, without
deserving even that appellative, for honour is independent of
condition. You may possess a town-house, at which the sheriff’s
officer is the most frequent visitor; you may drive a carriage
obtained upon promise of payment, attended by a groom in arrears
of a wages; you may move in fashionable circles, attired in clothes
not paid for, or display at times money wrung by hard pleading from
usurers at exorbitant interest; you may do worse even than all this,
for in your ‘view’ to be honourable is not to be honest, but no item
of that foul list entitles you to treat me with scorn, or to reflect upon
my birth or position. Nor shall it. I will not permit your very brassy
nobility to be flashed in my eyes, and sounded in my ears as pure
gold. I know the ring of the true metal too well for that. If I am a
pin-maker, I scorn to do a dishonourable action, and, therefore, I
may justly, which you cannot, lay a claim to the title of ‘Honorable.’
And now let me warn you, that as I hold myself to be, in all
particulars upon which manhood may pride itself, infinitely your
superior, any further insult, tacit or direct, will be resented by me in
such manner as your courage or your cowardice may determine.
Now go.”
He flung him from him; then, turning his back, he walked slowly to
the window, which was open, and stepped upon the terrace, strolling
with a calm and seemingly imperturbed manner along the tesselated
pavement.
Lester Vane was livid with passion. He was obliged to wipe the
froth from his mouth. Yet, by no outward extravagance of manner
did he betray the emotions seething within his breast. His first
impulse was to follow, and commit some act of violence upon his
aggressor; his second, to act as though he had come in collision with
some low, vulgar personage.
As soon, therefore, as he was released, he shook his wrist,
apparently to remove from it visible marks of a dirty hand; he
smoothed the wrinkled evidences of the tight grip which had held
him, and walked to the pier-glass, to arrange his attire, should it
have been disarranged in the little passage which had just taken
place.
He was acting. He believed the eye of the “pin-maker” to be upon
him; it was not. The performance was therefore, in this instance,
thrown away.
The glass told him that his lips were parched, and as white as his
face. He bit them sharply to redden them.
“It would not be difficult to incite that fellow to go out with me,”
he muttered. “I could put a bullet in his heart at fourteen paces, to a
dead certainty.”
He paused for a moment, reflectively; then added—“Pshaw! it
would not do to go out with him; I should raise him—insulting
vagabond—to my level. No; I’ll ruin him here, and that promptly.
The girl is mine! thank the stars! that is settled. It is very clear that
Mires bears towards him a mortal hatred. Together we will get up a
little plot to blast him in the favour of Wilton; and my skill in
exercising an influence over a woman is mean indeed, if I cannot
make the simple, single-minded, pretty Flora despise him. Hum! let
me see. I will seek out Mires at once, and with his aid fling the
scoundrel a harder back-fall than ever he has sustained in his life.
When he is disposed of, I must turn my attention to my friend Mires.
I don’t like that fellow’s visage. I don’t like his scowl. I must be
careful how I handle him; but as for my friend, the pin-maker,’” he
concluded with gnashing teeth, “he shall be tossed into a horse-
pond before he leaves this, with the pretty Flora as a spectator,
looking on and enjoying the sport.”
He cast a glance towards the terrace, but did not observe the
object of his spite and envy; he then quitted the room, and
proceeded to that of Colonel Mires, where a servant had informed
him that he would find him.
He tapped lightly at the door, and entered the chamber. He beheld
Colonel Mires leaning forward upon the edge of his chamber-
window; yet in such a mariner as to avoid observation, and that he
was gazing eagerly down upon the terrace beneath.
His curiosity being aroused, he moved with a noiseless step to
Mires’s shoulder, and peered over it. The Colonel’s attention was so
riveted upon some object, that he did not perceive his unexpected
visitor, and the latter beheld on the terrace young Vivian, who
appeared to be somewhat closely examining a particular spot.
Presently he stooped down, picked up something, and put it in his
pocket. Colonel Mires uttered an oath, as he witnessed the act, and
the next moment, stepping back, he came in contact with Vane.
He gazed upon him fiercely, and said—
“How, sir? What is the meaning of this strange intrusion upon my
privacy?”
“Your pardon, Colonel!” exclaimed Lester Vane with a quiet smile
and a shrug of the shoulders. “I wish to have a few words in private
with you, and sought you with that purpose. I knocked at your door,
and imagined that I heard your voice bidding me enter. I came, in
fact, to confer with you respecting the individual who has this
morning obtruded himself in this house. I observed that you did not
welcome him with any indication of delight; and as I regard his
advent as an infliction and a nuisance, it struck me that together we
might rid ourselves and the house of a common enemy by some
little arrangement concerted for that purpose.”
 Mires listened coldly. He by no means jumped at the proposition,
but he motioned Vane to be seated, and they sat down to confer.
CHAPTER X.—THE OLD MAN AND
HIS DAUGHTER.
Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

Cap. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!

I tell thee what—get thee to church o’ Thursday,
Or never after look me in the face.
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me.

Day, night, late, early,

At home, abroad, alone, in company,
Waking or sleeping, still my care hath been
To have her match’d: and having now provided
A gentleman of princely parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful and nobly trained,
 Proportion’d as one’s heart would wish a man,—
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in her fortunes tender,
To answer—I’ll not wed—I cannot love—
I am too young—I pray you pardon me.
But, an’ you will not wed. Look to’t—think on’t—
I do not use to jest; Thursday is near—
An’ you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;
An’ you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i’ the streets;
For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee.

Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds

That sees into the bottom of my grief!
Shakspere.

W
ilton did not observe wherefore his daughter quitted his
arm, and re-entered the breakfast-room. In all probability, if
he had seen the little incident which followed, he would
have taken no notice of it. He took again her proffered arm, and
together they entered his library.
She arranged his easy chair—her frequent office—while he
carefully fastened the door. Then, placing a chair for her, he
motioned her to be seated.
She obeyed, gazing upon him with an expression of gradually
dawning surprise.
 “What can you possibly have to communicate to me in this retired,
private manner, dear sir?” she exclaimed, expecting that the
interview would result in the information that he had some present
to make her—a pleasure he had frequently indulged in since his
recent accession to wealth. Still there was an unusual expression in
his air and manner that warranted a strange and uneasy foreboding
that it would prove of greater importance and less pleasure than a
mere present.
The old man gave a loud preparatory hem! to clear his voice, and
then said, with a peculiar earnestness of tone—
“Flo’, my sweet one, during the struggling years of poverty to
which we were together doomed, neither I nor your sainted mother
—a-a-a-hem!—made any allusion, in your presence or in that of your
brother, to the past affluence from which we were so harshly and
unexpectedly thrust. Nor did we mention, at any time, the names of
those with whom we associated or with whom we were on intimate
or friendly terms. But there were many. Some are dead; some I do
not wish to renew relations with; others I may shortly invite here,
that I may have the joy of seeing the old hall brightened up with the
loved faces of happier times. To come, however, to the point and
purport of this interview, I must tell you that there was one friend to
whom I was greatly attached He was the playmate of my childhood,
the school companion of my boyhood, and my friend in after years.
His name was Montague Vane of Weardale. You heard me, I think,
on meeting with the Honorable Lester Vane in London, name him in
terms indicating the high esteem in which I held him.”
Flora’s attention began to be riveted, and her wonder at the
coming revelation to increase. She could not trust herself to speak.
She merely bowed.
“Well,” continued Wilton, “our friendship was so single-hearted
and unselfish—as we each many times proved it to he—that we
determined, on both contracting alliances, to draw that friendship
yet closer by cementing, if Providence permitted us, a union
between our families.”
Flora felt the colour stealing from her cheeks, and she could hear
the beating of her heart.
She watched, with intense eagerness, the half-thoughtful, half-
abstracted expression her father’s features wore while speaking, and
she remained wholly silent, awaiting what was yet to come.
Her father went on——-
“Yes, if Heaven blessed us with children of opposite sex, we made
a solemn compact, to betroth them, that in due time they might wed
each other.”
Flora became paler than marble, and a dizziness seemed to take
possession of her so that she could scarcely preserve her
equilibrium. Her father did not observe her, but went on, with the
same thoughtful manner as before.
“Heaven denied him family,” he continued.
Flora breathed again.
“But I was more blessed—” he proceeded, “you were born. Almost
immediately afterwards the wife of Montague Vane breathed her
last. Her death was sudden, and the shock to my friend appeared to
be irrecoverable. Our compact would thus have fallen through, but
that he urged and entreated me to permit him to nominate the son
of his elder brother, Lord Colborne, instead of the child he had hoped
would have handed down his name. I assented, and each solemnly
vowed to visit with our lasting displeasure and irreconcilable hostility,
either of the children attempting to frustrate our compact by wilful
and obstinate disobedience.”
“Cruel! cruel!” muttered Flora, overwhelmed with agony, at what
had just been communicated to her.
 Still, her father had not turned his eyes upon her to observe the
effect this startling intelligence would naturally have, but continued
addressing her.
“It is a singular coincidence,” he said, “that young Grahame—
whose father, by the way, has written to propose for your hand for
his son—ho! ho! I have declined that honour—I say it is singular that
young Grahame should, by accident, introduce to me and to you the
son of Lord Colborne, who, as you may surmise, is that young Vane
to whom, in your infancy, I contracted you. Yet more singular, for
these events generally turn out the reverse of what is intended or
desired, Mr. Vane declares himself most strongly and passionately
attached to you, and that it will be to him the proudest and happiest
event that has happened or can happen in his life, when you bestow
your hand upon him. We talked the matter over for some length of
time last night, after you had retired. I have no reason to doubt the
ardour of his affection for you, or that he will make it the study of
his future life to render your happiness perfect and complete. He will
be a lord some day, you know, and thus the humble daughter of the
poor old gilder will be ‘a lady and ride her Barbary courser yet.’”
It would be wholly impossible to attempt to depict the horror and
amazement of Flora, on receiving this announcement of the disposal
of her hand and person. She sat utterly aghast. The dreams of the
previous night, and at the golden dawn, were at one blow rudely
shattered. Her father had always been so gentle in his tenderness to
her; so mindful of her wishes and inclinings; so overjoyed to gratify
them; so careful not to thwart them, that though a strange,
unbidden impression had obtruded itself in her felicitous daydreams
that he might object to her love for Hal Vivian, yet she felt that he
was so devotedly fond of her, he would not be able to withstand her
fond and earnest pleadings in Hal’s favour.
Such a contingency as this which he submitted to her she could
not, by any possibility, have surmised; thought was absolutely
paralysed. She knew not what to say, how to act, for what to
prepare: in short, she was completely confounded, bewildered—
ready to die with fright and grief.
Even now, Wilton had not raised his eyes to catch the expression
of his daughter’s face. He was not without a consciousness that he
was exercising a stretch of parental authority beyond its just limits,
and he began to have a perception that it would be a great relief to
him if he were to feel his daughter’s white arms entwining his neck,
her soft lips pressing upon his forehead, as they uttered, in a low
whisper, her assent to do as he wished her. But she made no sign,
and he had a distinct sense that she did not.
“I sought this interview with you, Flo’, my darling,” he continued,
with a slight cough, “because I thought, before you formed for
yourself an attachment, you should know my position and your own,
in respect to the disposal of your hand; also, because the young
man to whom you are betrothed is in the house; and because,
further, he is urgent to plead his own cause, to do which, of course,
I have granted him full permission. You must expect to hear from his
lips the soft language of affection, to think of him with tenderness,
and always to remember that he will be your future husband.”
“Father!” burst from the lips of the unhappy girl. Sobbing
hysterically, she flung herself at his feet, and clasped his knees.
Wilton did not expect this display. He had been surprised at her
silence, and a feeling crept over him that she did not receive the
revelation he made with her usual deference to any expression of his
will, but he did not look for a weeping suppliant at his feet.
He started back and cried amazed:
“Flo’—Flo’—my child! why do you act thus?—what is the meaning
of this affrighted sorrow?”
“Spare me—in mercy spare me!” she gasped. “Do not let me leave
you; pray—pray—do not urge your proposition upon me!”
 “My foolish girl,” he replied, soothingly, “we shall not separate. You
will still be beneath this roof with me. Oh! believe me, I stipulated
for that. There—there, Flo’—dry your tears; you can be a happy wife
as well as a fond daughter.”
“No! no! no!” she exclaimed, with shuddering vehemence; “I
cannot—I cannot—I dare not!” she half shrieked.
“Dare not!” echoed her father, elevating his eyebrows with wonder,
almost with terror. “Your words are a mystery to me—your conduct
inexplicable! What is the meaning of it all?”
“I cannot—oh! I cannot receive Mr. Vane’s addresses!” she
exclaimed, almost frantically.
“Flora, this is but childish absurdity; unless you have some grave
complaint to make to me against Mr. Vane,” said her father, with a
slight sternness of manner. “Has he done aught to give you
offence?”
“No,” she replied, in a faint tone.
“Is there aught in his appearance or manner to create aversion in
your breast?” he inquired.
“It is not that,” she returned—“it is not that!” She paused.
“What is it?” inquired her father. “Rise, Flora; your position does
not become the relation in which we stand to each other. Be seated;
be composed and calm. Tell me where lies your objection to Mr.
Vane?”
She rose up slowly, and stood before her father. She pressed her
hand upon her throat to subdue its spasmodic heavings.
“I do not love him!” she ejaculated, almost inaudibly.
“I can well believe that,” returned her father, gently. “Your
acquaintance has been short. People don’t, out of romances, and in
the actual world, fall in love with each other the instant they meet. It
takes time and observation, besides many little nameless charms, to
raise love. At present you have not—you cannot have anything to
say against the personal appearance of Mr. Lester Vane; he is
gentlemanly in his manners, honourable in his sentiments, and in his
disposition amiable and kind. I judge so from what I have seen.
These are endearing qualities; and when you are thrown more into
each other’s society—when he yet more softens his manner in his
wooing, and consults your wishes and tastes, makes your will his,
and shows to you that he has no greater earthly bliss than that
afforded him in seeing you happy; when you come to observe this,
and to appreciate it—then, then you will begin to love him.”
“Never,” cried Flora, emphatically.
“I say, yes,” responded Mr. Wilton, with sharp emphasis.
“‘Dropping water wears away stone.’ You will receive him on
probation; you cannot remain ice-cold to many and constant
kindnesses—it is not your nature to do so; and when you find
yourself growing grateful, you will find love creeping into your heart
to keep it company.”
She had found it.
“I implore you, sir, to spare me from an ordeal agonising to me,
and utterly useless and hopeless in its result to the person for whom
it is appointed,” she rejoined, with extreme earnestness; “I never
can love Mr. Vane.”
“Why not?” cried her father, in a more excited tone than he had
yet used; and now regarding the expression on her face with
startled wonder. He had never before seen it so aroused, or such a
strange gleam flashing from her eye.
She spoke not in answer to this question.
“Why not, I ask?” he cried, loudly and harshly. “I see by your
manner that you imply a motive for that assertion. Again, I ask you,
why not?”
 She struggled passionately with her emotions. She wrung her
hands, and looked about her almost piteously for some aid or help
by which she might escape from answering this question.
“Speak!” he thundered, animated by a rage she had never yet
seen him display. It seemed gradually to change her to stone. She
drew herself gently up, crossed her hands over her breast, closed
her eyes, and said in a low, but clear, firm voice. “I love already—
another!”
Wilton, who in his excitement, had risen angrily from his feet, now
staggered back, and sank into his chair, like one smitten with
paralysis.
He pressed his hands over his forehead, upon which stood large
drops of perspiration. Suddenly he raised his head, and cried
hoarsely—
“It is impossible! it is a subterfuge; it is—but if it were true, girl, I
have—years, years ago—registered a vow.”
“And I!” she exclaimed, hysterically, “unknowing what you had
done, I, too, have registered a vow with Heaven. I may not—cannot
—will not—break it.” With a loud sobbing cry, she ran from the room,
and sought her own, plunged into a deeper grief than any yet known
by her, although she had suffered much.
She saw that she was to be torn from Hal, and her heart clung to
him only the more vehemently. Now she knew, indeed, that she
loved him; now she experienced in its fullest force how entirely he
was enwoven with all her hopes of future happiness; she knew it,
too, at the moment that she was to be robbed of him, perhaps for
ever.
She gave way to the wildest emotions of sorrow; she flung herself
by her bedside upon her knees, and called upon God to help her in
her distraction. She pictured Lester Vane approaching her, stealing
his arm, snakelike, about her waist, and his hot breath reeking on
her cheek. She shuddered, and shrieked.
“How may I help myself?” she gasped. “How! how! how! Oh! I am
so alone—so alone—none to counsel me—what am I to do? how
save myself from this fate? Oh, Hal! Hal! had you but let me perish
in the blistering flames. I shall go mad! I shall go mad!”
She sank, as she in acute agony vehemently ejaculated these
words, prostrate upon the floor, in abject despair, and almost
senseless.
Wilton remained for some time alone in his library, overwhelmed
by the result of his interview with his daughter. A project he had
nursed for years, even in his destitution, and especially in his
affluence, was destroyed from the quarter in which he least
expected to meet with opposition. He was foiled, too, by an event
upon which he had not calculated.
Flora in love! With whom?—with whom? ah! that was the point.
Who had won her young susceptible heart? Of young Vivian he
never thought. It was but the other day he was a mere youth; his
figure did not, therefore, now present itself to his inquiring eyes.
Was it young Grahame? His father had written to propose the match,
but where had they met? Then, too, he was vulgar and foolish. No,
no; he gave Flora’s taste more credit. Who was there else? no one—
save Mires.
The old man stopped in his walk.
“Can he have taken the opportunity of being my guest, to gain her
simple heart?” he muttered, with a fierce and angry gesture. “Can
he possibly have done this? He may—he is subtle and insinuating; if
he has, he shall never have her—never. It may be that I have hit the
truth in this surmise, but I will be sure; I will question him, and from
his own lips learn the truth.” He rang his bell violently, and a servant
answered him.
 “Seek Colonel Mires,” he said, sharply; “say to him that when he is
at liberty, I should be glad of a few minutes’ conversation with him
here in the library.”
The man disappeared with a bow, and performed his errand.
An hour probably elapsed, during which Wilton was eaten up with
anxiety, and a thousand distracting and inexact surmises. He was
about again to summon his servant, to request the presence of his
guest, when Colonel Mires made his appearance.
Wilton made a sharp and curt remark upon the engagement which
had so long detained him from complying with his request for an
interview, but he expressed his gratification that it had not wholly
prevented him from presenting himself.
The Colonel saw that something had happened, and excused
himself by stating that the servant who had conveyed to him the
message, had given him no intimation that Wilton desired the
interview to be immediate.
“As it is calculated to have a material influence upon my future
peace, it is one which cannot commence too early, nor close too
soon,” Wilton exclaimed, as he motioned Colonel Mires to a seat,
which he accepted. Wilton then proceeded—
“I have a daughter, Colonel Mires, almost at a marriageable age.”
Colonel Mires’ face flushed crimson, as Wilton’s bright eye met his.
He only bowed, however, wondering what this observation was to
prelude, especially as he could see that the old man was trembling
with strong excitement.
“That daughter, as you are aware, Colonel Mires,” continued
Wilton, “is my favourite child, the gift of wedded love, the most
beautiful among her sex—the ‘Flower of my Flock.’ I had designed a
certain position for her. I had bound myself to its fulfilment by a
vow. I have through the greatest trials and worst vicissitudes
cherished it, and now, when upon the verge of its consummation, I
find my purpose retarded, flung back by an event as unlooked for as
it is most untoward.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Yes, sir, indeed. Mark me, Colonel Mires, I am fully acquainted
with my daughter’s temperament, her inclinings, every phase of her
gentle disposition; I am fully convinced that she has no guile, would
not cast about her to find a man to love, to bestow her heart upon,
in the ultimate hope of following up the gift with that of her hand. It
is not her nature; she must be wooed to be won.”
“That I believe,” exclaimed Colonel Mires, with some little
emphasis.
“Of course,” responded Wilton. “Now let me inform you, sir, if you
know it not already, she has been wooed, sir, and won;
surreptitiously wooed, and stealthily, fraudulently won.”
The face of Colonel Mires changed colour like a chameleon; he
knitted his brows, and bent an almost fierce gaze upon Wilton.
“Have you strong reasons, sir, for forming this strange
conclusion?” he inquired.
“Oh, Colonel!” rejoined Wilton, with an expressive gesture, “the
very best; I have it on the authority of the lady herself.”
An oath escaped the lips of the Colonel. He rose and paced the
room in visible agitation. When he had somewhat controlled his
emotion, he returned to his seat, and confronting Wilton, he said—
“Will you tell me, sir, who has thus acted?”
“That is what I wish to know,” exclaimed Wilton, striking the palm
of his hand with his clenched fist; “the lady omitted that very
important item in her confession. I sent for you under an impression
that you were the very man who could supply that valuable piece of
information.”
 Colonel Mires was bursting to ask for the circumstances which led
to this confession on the part of Flora. He could easily understand
that it must have arisen from a proposition made by her father to
her, extremely repugnant to her feelings. He had an instinctive sense
that he was not the object of her father’s choice, and he was at least
glad that Flora had rejected the proposed husband, whoever he
might be.
It was not difficult for him at the same time to form a shrewd
guess at the person Flora had acknowledged loving. From the frame
of mind in which Wilton was at present, he foresaw that it would be
easy to ruin the successful rival in Wilton’s estimation at once, and,
as he believed, for ever; he therefore instantly resolved to attempt
it.
“Have you formed no surmise identifying the person who has
inveigled your daughter’s affections?” he asked. “I have” replied
Wilton, drily.
“May I ask who it is?”
“I prefer hearing your communication first,” responded Wilton, in
the same hard manner.
“I think I can show him to you, and at this moment,” exclaimed
Mires, rising.
“I am afraid that I expect you can,” returned Wilton, growing more
stern, severe, and cold in his manner.
“Attend me, if you please,” observed Mires; noticing the distant
manner of his host.
He advanced to the centre window, which looked out upon the
terrace beneath. He motioned to Wilton to gaze below. He pointed
out Hal Vivian, who stood in an attitude of melancholy abstraction,
his gaze seemingly fixed upon the beautiful landscape, stretching
away to the horizon.
 “That is the man,” he exclaimed, emphatically.
Wilton gazed upon him with distended orbs, and then gave
utterance to a wild laugh of incredulity.
“Preposterous!” he exclaimed.
“Unquestionably,” remarked Mires; “but it yet is the fact.”
Old Wilton pressed his hands to his temples, and tried to look
back upon the past. The effort helped him to no solution of the
enigma. That his daughter should have fallen in love with the
goldsmith’s apprentice seemed incredible; but when he came to
remember that he had saved her life, had been able to pay her
many most acceptable attentions when she was in misery and
distress, he began to believe that there might be something in it
after all.
He staggered rather than walked to his seat, and, pressing his
hands again over his brow, once more went over the scenes in
which, under his eye, they had taken part together. There was not
enough to satisfy him yet that the Colonel’s assertion could be true.
He turned sharply to him.
“Pray inform me, Colonel,” he said, “how you came to alight upon
this discovery?”
The Colonel shrugged his shoulders.
“I had a shrewd notion of it from the first,” he returned. “I
observed his conduct when visiting you at the Regent’s Park. I
detected his artful duplicity immediately after I had been, as your
guest, called upon to endure his company. I noticed his obsequious
deference to you, his readiness to coincide with your views, and to
assent, without reflection, to all you said.”
“I did not observe that,” remarked Wilton, thoughtfully.
 “No,” replied Colonel Mires; “nor did you notice his marked,
though quiet, attentions to your daughter; his incessant gaze upon
her eyes when she was present; his subdued, yet devoted, bearing
to her; the cunning manner in which he turned every word from her
lips into an acknowledgment of love, or asked for grateful
remembrances of an act which the Royal Society’s fire-escape
conductor would have done much better, and have expected scarcely
scanty thanks for the able performance of his duty. You did not
observe how he foisted his society upon her at every turn, because
you never dreamed that he would be guilty of such presumption,
any more than you could have any conception that he had induced
her to consent to clandestine meetings, or of the number of such
interviews which have taken place.”
Old Wilton sprang to his feet, with a howl of wounded rage and
pride.
“Colonel Mires, this is a most grave charge,” he cried, with
foaming lips. “It is one that compromises my daughter’s fair fame, as
well as the honour of young Mr. Vivian, of whom, until you have
spoken concerning him, I have heard nothing but what redounds to
his credit.”
Colonel Mires sneered.
“Praises, in fact,” he said, “which have been prepared for your
ears. Do not misapprehend me, Mr. Wilton,” he continued, hastily; “I
have no intention or design to compromise the fair fame of Miss
Wilton. She is too pure, too ingenuous and artless for any charge
having such object, to be sustained. But her simple guileless nature
lays her open to the designs of an unprincipled adventurer, who, by
adventitious circumstances, has obtained some influence over her,
and she might be induced to consent to an interview artfully
suggested, and ardently pressed, without having, in her simplicity,
any notion that her assent would bear a construction unfavourable
to her—to any lady acting in the same manner, under similar
influence.”
 Mr. Wilton waved his hand sternly.
“Let us keep to facts, Colonel,” he said. “You are now charging
upon my daughter and Mr. Vivian the grave impropriety of indulging
in clandestine interviews—are you prepared with proofs?”
“I can speak to one having occurred yesterday,” replied Colonel
Mires.
“Yesterday!” echoed Wilton. “You are mistaken, you must he.
Vivian did not arrive from London until to-day—that is, at least—are
you sure of what you assert?”
“I saw him in your park yesterday—let him deny it if he dare.”
“Colonel Mires, I must see this matter to the end. I will send for
Mr. Vivian, this moment, and interrogate him—and in your presence.”
“As you will,” returned Mires, coolly.
Mr. Wilton rang the hell sharply, and when the servant answered
the summons, he said—
“You will find in the garden my guest, Mr. Vivian, ask him to attend
me here immediately. Say that I have something of importance to
confer with him upon.” The man disappeared, and, in a few minutes,
young Vivian was ushered into the library. He started on seeing
Colonel Mires, and he turned his eyes upon the flushed and excited
countenance of old Wilton. The scene between himself and Flora, in
the glen, on the day preceding, flashed across his mind, and
instantly a grim foreshadowing of what was to come passed like a
gloomy cloud over his brain.
Wilton’s manner was grave, cold, even harsh. Colonel Mires met
him with an insulting but triumphant curl of the lip, which Hal
retorted with a glance of scorn and defiance.
“Mr. Vivian,” commenced Wilton, his voice trembling in his
eagerness to come at the truth, “I am given to understand that you
have designs upon the affections of my daughter, Miss Wilton—that
you have prosecuted those designs with secrecy and subtlety, and,
by mean artifices, have in some degree succeeded in your unworthy
purpose——”
“Mr. Wilton—sir!” interrupted Hal, in a voice which startled him,
“are you conscious of the nature of the words you are addressing to
me? Mean artifices!—unworthy purpose! This is bitter language, sir,
which I do not deserve, and most indignantly repudiate!”
“Listen to me!” rejoined Mr. Wilton, with an imperious manner.
“With respect,” responded Hal; “but at the same time, I must
insist, sir, in addressing me you do not employ terms derogatory to
my honour!”
Colonel Mires laughed scornfully.
Hal turned fiercely to him.
“Our day of reckoning is to come,” he exclaimed; “it is
unnecessary for you to add to your obligations.” Then again turning
to Mr. Wilton, he continued—
“I presume, sir, that I have been brought here as a delinquent
placed upon his trial—that you will enact the parts of judge and jury,
and this man will be the counsel for the prosecution, the witness,
and will offer the whole of the evidence. Be it so—proceed with your
charges, I will not utter one word until you have both finished, I
shall then reply to the allegations; and; of this be assured; sir, that I
shall not now, any more than I have ever done, swerve from the
truth, be the consequences what they may to myself.”
Hal kept his promise; not a word was extorted from him by the
wild suppositions of Wilton, or by the insults, the taunts, or the base
insinuations of Colonel Mires; but at last when Wilton called upon
him for his answer, he had discovered that, although Flora had
confessed to having disposed of her heart, she had not stated to
whom; that all that had been produced against himself were the
suppositions of the old man, or suggestions of the bitter enemy
before him. Even the accidental interview of the day before, so
strongly referred to, rested only on Colonel Mires’ statement of
having seen Flora and himself emerge successively from the glen;
and he perceived that if he chose to keep his mouth sealed, the
main features of the charge would hang upon the veracity of the
Colonel, respecting which it was certain that Mr. Wilton did not
entertain the most exalted notions. He, however, resolved to free
Flora from the faintest breath of imputation, and to acknowledge
just so much—with regard to their mutual passion—as the turn his
own defence and explanations might eliminate, and no more.
Had the course adopted to examine him been what it ought to
have been, he would not have concealed an incident; as it was, he
determined to reserve as much as he could, from Colonel Mires, at
least.
Before, however, he could speak, the library door was flung open,
and the servant announced in a loud voice—
“Mr. Mark Wilton.”
CHAPTER XI.—THE UNPLEASANT
CONFERENCE.
Sieg. You are charged,
Your own heart may inform you why, with such a crime
as—

Gab. Give it utterance, and then

I’ll meet the consequences.

Sieg. You shall do so—

Unless

Gab. First, who accuses me?

Sieg. All things.

If not all men; the universal rumour—
My own presence on the spot—the place, the time,
And every speck of circumstance, unite
To fix the blot on you.
—Byron.
M
r. Chewkle—attired as a traveller about to undertake a long
journey—entered the waiting-room of the Great Western
Railway Station on the morning following his interview with
Nathan Gomer, precisely as the clock pealed the hour of nine. He
gazed about him—inspected with unabashed steadfastness the
features of the individuals assembled in readiness for the 9.15 train,
and then seated himself in a conspicuous situation.
He arranged his hair and his hat: he looked slowly once more at
every face, and then, putting the knob of his walking stick to his lips,
he fixed his eyes upon a heap of miscellaneous luggage.
He commenced to wait for Nathan Gomer.
At the same hour Nathan presented himself at the gate of the
Queen’s Prison, and, in his turn, waited for admission. He took the
opportunity of obtaining from one of the officers “on the lock” some
particulars respecting Mr. Joshua Maybee, and, immediately the
opportunity was afforded him, he made direct for that man’s
apartment on the county side of the prison.
Josh Maybee was not afflicted with a mania for early rising; he
liked to take out a large share of existence reclining between sheets
upon a mattress: he would have preferred a down bed, but that was
a luxury unknown to the prison, at least on the county side; he,
therefore, went to bed early, and rose late.
He was miserably poor; and, as scarcely anything in the place
acknowledged him for master, he had no fear of being robbed—
consequently, he slept with his door unlocked. It saved him a trouble
night and morning. Nathan Gomer, therefore, entered his room
without difficulty, and, closing the door softly behind him, turned the
key in the lock. He gazed upon the poor mean prison bed, and upon
the pallid old face lying upon the pillow—the eyes closed in sleep. He
sighed—for the sallow hue of the man’s features, and the long lines
furrowing forehead and cheek, told of long incarceration, and much
continued mental suffering.
He drew towards the bed with a noiseless step, and taking off his
hat and gloves, he laid them aside with his stick. He then seated
himself upon the floor by the bedside, placing his face within a foot
of Maybee’s, so that when the latter awoke, he should be promptly
alive to the fact that he was honoured with the presence of a visitor.
Without pretending to assert that the eyes of Nathan Gomer
possessed magnetic influence, it must be acknowledged that very
shortly after Nathan had fixed them upon Joshua Maybee’s sealed
orbs, the latter commenced a tremulous vibration, and ultimately the
eyeballs appeared to be slowly rotating beneath the lids, increasing
their motion until the eyelids seemed forced open, and the eyes of
Josh Maybee and Nathan Gomer met.
For an instant there was perfect silence, accompanied by a fixed
stare on both sides, Maybee being uncertain whether he was
dreaming or awake; then Nathan grinned, whereupon Maybee
uttered a roar of fright, and would have leaped out of bed, but that
Nathan restrained him, bade him lie down again, and not be
terrified. He called upon him to preserve his calmness, as he desired
to have a long conversation with him. He also told him that he would
have occasion to exercise his memory with patient perseverance,
and to communicate the result of the examination to him. He added,
that he might expect immediate remuneration for his revelations,
equivalent to their value, as well as the prospect of a speedy
liberation from the den in which he had so long been incarcerated.
Josh Maybee listened in silent amazement. He looked distrustfully
and suspiciously at his mysterious visitor; and, notwithstanding the
grand promises of pecuniary recompense and release from
imprisonment, he did not seem disposed to entertain the
proposition, or to do anything, indeed, to prolong the interview. His
flesh crawled as he looked upon the singular features of the strange
being before him, who nodded and grinned at him very much after
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