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was, for her own ends, whatever they might be, feeding and fomenting the flames, casting oil instead of water upon the raging fire of passion and of prejudice. I took in all this, and a great deal more which I cannot describe, in a moment; and, therefore, much as I blamed Sir Percy, bitterly as I resented his harsh conduct towards a child so worthy of far different treatment at his hands, I could not but pity him even from the very bottom of my soul. Hence, as I have just said, I laid my hand gently but respectfully upon his shoulder:

"Dear Sir Percy," I ventured to say, "in all human probability this is the last time I shall ever trouble you with my presence. You can never know how grateful I am to you for all that you have done for me, for all that you intended to do. Pardon me, if I venture to ask you as a last request to think better of this. Depend upon it, you will regret the bitter words which you have used this day. Depend upon it, the day will come when you will be only too glad to look once more upon the face of him whom you thus cast away from your heart and love."

Almost before the words had left my lips he turned upon me as angrily as ever. He rang the bell violently, to summon a servant to show me to the door. "Go, sir," he cried, with a hasty gesture, and in a tone which left me no alternative but to obey; "go, sir, and for God's sake leave me alone, for I can bear no more of this."

Without another word, without the formality of a leave-taking, which, under the circumstances, would have been a mockery too bitter to be enacted by men who were so terribly in earnest as we were, I turned away and left him there, his hand pointing imperiously to the door, the fearful look glaring out

more hideously than ever from his face, his little child clinging in terror to his knees. Such was my last sight of him, and it was one never, never to be forgotten.

As I was passing through the hall to leave the house which already possessed so many painful recollections for me, I came suddenly upon my lady She was standing motionless as a statue, at some little distance from the door by which I must necessarily pass out. She made no attempt to approach me. She vouchsafed me never a passing word. She cast upon me one haughty glance, and I thought I had never seen her look half so handsome as she did standing there, with such an air of pride, of exultation, and of triumph, on her beautiful face. But though she spoke to me not a single word-though she cast upon me but one haughty glance as I passed her by-I knew instinctively that she was a wicked woman. I had always thought, I had always feared it, but I knew it now, knew it better than if I had seen it written on her brow in letters of living fire ; knew that she was a proud, scheming, ambitious woman-a woman who had shrunk from no misrepresentation, from no open slander, no covert insinuation, that she might harden the heart of the father against his child, that she might gain the triumph for herself which I saw glancing out of her eyes, and gleaming in every feature of her face, as her evil look fell on me whilst I passed as quickly as I was able from her presence.

And for him, that poor, unhappy, miserable, deluded father! Had he been in sad, sober earnest all this while, or had he been but acting a base and wretched part? If he had been but acting a part, it was but sorry acting after all; for when, a few

minutes later, my lady made her way to his room, the stern, the unforgiving look had passed from his face, the imperious gesture was there no more. She found him with his proud head bowed between his hands, weeping as a strong, proud man alone can weep weeping, it may have been, for what he deemed his dishonoured name-weeping, it may have been, for his blasted hopes, for his expectations never to be realized-weeping, it may have been, over the memory of days for ever passed away-weeping, it may have been, and, oh! God grant it, for the thought of the priceless love which he had so heedlessly trampled under foot, for the fair, young life on which he had thrown so fearful a blight-weeping, weeping, even for his lost, lost boy!

Whether he had been in earnest, or whether he had been but acting a part which he had forced himself to play, God alone can tell; but, of this I am quite sure, that there was no acting in the fierce gesture with which he threw my lady's hand aside when she laid it on his arm; no acting in the bitter words with which he bade her leave him to himself; no acting in the weary, weary cry with which, when she had gone, he drew his little child once more to his breast, and sobbed, and wept, as if the very fountains of his heart were broken up; wept as I think he would have wept in the days gone by, if it had been his lot to have had to lay in an early grave the fairhaired boy whom, in his pride and haughty rage, he had thus cast for ever from his heart and love.

CHAPTER XII

FACE TO FACE.

T the conclusion of the unsatisfactory interview with Sir Percy, which I have recorded in the last chapter, I returned home utterly dispirited and cast down at the gloomy aspect which the affairs of poor Eustace but too certainly wore. I saw that, at least for the present, Sir Percy was quite implacable, and that any interference on behalf of his son would only widen the breach between them. I was equally convinced that should Eustace persevere in his determination to see his father, such a step would be productive of nothing but misery now, and but too probably lead to a final and complete rupture between them. On the other hand, I could not help hoping that if they could but be kept apart for some little time, until reason had again resumed her sway over the angry and chafed mind of Sir Percy, all might yet be well. At all events, and under every point of view, I deemed it simply my duty to inform my friend of the interview which I had had with his father, and its results; at the same time, pressing upon him more earnestly than ever my own conviction of the absolute madness of endeavouring to force himself upon Sir Percy, and beseeching him to listen to my advice and be guided

by my counsels. He heard my story in silence, and made no effort to combat my arguments; but I was grieved beyond measure to see that the cloud only gathered more darkly than ever upon his brow, that the lines about his mouth grew harder and harder still, that the look of determination assumed a more fixed, I had almost said a more dogged, expression than be fore. When I had done, he laid his head upon the table for a second or two, then came over and shook me by the hand, and so, without a word, but with a world of sorrow and of stern resolve engraven on his poor, pale face, passed from out my sight.

He would not come down to dinner that day, but, to my very great astonishment, he came to me in the evening and asked me to accompany him for a walk. But too happy to witness even the slightest indication of anything that I might look upon as a return to a better and more cheerful state of mind, I gladly assented, never suspecting, even in the most remote manner, the snare into which he was about to lead me, or the resolution which he had formed. He took my arm and led me in the direction of Percy Grange, without, however, attempting to enter the grounds. I tried my best to engage him in cheerful conversation, but, to my sorrow and pain, I failed, failed signally, and the failure was all the more discouraging from the hopes which I had formed but a few moments before. Every now and then he sighed as if his very heart were broken, but his sorrow never found vent in words-the over-burdened soul never found relief in tears; and, although once or twice he leant heavily against me, as he rested on my arm, he quickly recovered himself, and led me on until we reached a kind of a rustic seat which had been hastily piled up in a recess of the wall which

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