"I don't understand you, Carrington."

"My dear Eversleigh, you very seldom do understand me," answered the surgeon, in that half-contemptuous tone in which he was apt to address his friend; "but that is not of the smallest consequence. Only do what I tell you, and leave the rest to me. You shall be lord of Raynham Castle yet, if my wits are good for anything."

A year had elapsed, which had been passed by Sir Oswald between Raynham Castle and Arlington Street, and during which he had paid more visits than he could count to "The Beeches."

On the occasion of these visits, he only saw his _protegee_ for about a quarter of an hour, while the stately Miss Beaumont looked on, smiling a dignified smile upon her pupil and the liberal patron who paid so handsomely for that pupil's education. She had always a good account to give of Sir Oswald's _protegee_--there never was so much talent united to so much industry, according to Miss Beaumont's report. Sometimes Sir Oswald begged to hear Miss Milford sing, and Honoria seated herself at the piano, over whose notes her white fingers seemed to have already acquired perfect command.

The rich and clear soprano voice had attained new power since Sir Oswald had heard it in the moonlit market-place; the execution of the singer improved day by day. The Italian singing-master spoke in raptures of his pupil--never was there a finer organ or more talent.

Miss Milford could not fail to create a profound impression when her musical education should be completed, and she should appear before the public.

But as the year drew to its close, Sir Oswald Eversleigh talked less and less of that public career for which he had destined his _protegee_. He no longer reminded her that on her own industry depended her future fortune. He no longer spoke in glowing terms of that brilliant pathway which lay before her. His manner was entirely changed, and he was grave and silent whenever any allusion was made by Miss Beaumont or Honoria to the future use which was to be made of that superb voice and exceptional genius.

The schoolmistress remarked upon this alteration one day, when talking to her pupil.

"Do you know, my dear Miss Milford, I am really inclined to believe that Sir Oswald Eversleigh has changed his mind with regard to your future career, and that he does not intend you to be an opera-singer."

"Surely, dear Miss Beaumont, that is impossible," answered Honoria, quietly; "my education is costing my kind bene--relative a great deal of money, which would be wasted if I were not to make music my profession. Besides, what else have I to look to in the future?

Remember, Sir Oswald has always told you that I have my own fortune to achieve. I have no claim on any one, and it is to his generosity alone I owe my present position."

"Well, I don't know how it may be, my dear," answered Miss Beaumont, "I may be mistaken; but I cannot help thinking that Sir Oswald has changed his mind about you. I need not tell you that my opinions are opposed to a professional career for any young lady brought up in my establishment, however highly gifted. I'm sure my blood actually freezes in my veins, when I think of any pupil of mine standing on a public stage, to be gazed at by the common herd; and I told Sir Oswald, when he first proposed bringing you here, that it would be necessary to keep your destiny a profound secret from your fellow-pupils; for I assure you, my love, there are mammas and papas who would come to this house in the dead of the night and carry off their children, without a moment's warning, if they were informed that a young person intended to appear on the stage of the Italian Opera was receiving her education within these walls. In short, nothing but your own discreet conduct, and Sir Oswald's very liberal terms, could have reconciled me to the risk which I have run in receiving you."

The first year of Honoria Milford's residence at "The Beeches" expired, and another year began. Sir Oswald's visits became more and more frequent. When the accounts of his _protegee's_ progress were more than usually enthusiastic, his visits were generally followed very speedily by the arrival of some costly gift for Miss Beaumont's pupil--a ring--a bracelet--a locket--always in perfect taste, and such as a young lady at a boarding-school might wear, but always of the most valuable description.

Honoria Milford must have possessed a heart of stone, if she had not been grateful to so noble a benefactor. She was grateful, and her gratitude was obvious to her generous protector. Her beautiful face was illuminated with an unwonted radiance when she entered the drawing-room where he awaited her coming: and the pleasure with which she received his brief visits was as palpable as if it had been expressed in words.

It was midsummer, and Honoria Milford had been a year and a quarter at "The Beeches." She had acquired much during that period; new accomplishments, new graces; and her beauty had developed into fresh splendour in the calm repose of that comfortable abode. She was liked by her fellow-pupils; but she had made neither friends nor _confidantes_. The dark secrets of her past life shut her out from all intimate companionship with girls of her own age.

She had, in a manner, lived a lonely life amongst all these companions, and her chief happiness had been derived from her studies. Thus it was, perhaps, that she had made double progress during her residence with the Misses Beaumont.

One bright afternoon in June, Sir Oswald's mail-phaeton and pair drove past the windows of the school-room.

"Visitors for Miss Milford!" exclaimed the pupils seated near the windows, as they recognized the elegant equipage.

Honoria rose from her desk, awaiting the summons of the schoolroom-maid. She had not long to wait. The young woman appeared at the door in a few moments, and Miss Milford was requested to go to the drawing-room.

She went, and found Sir Oswald Eversleigh awaiting her alone. It was the first time that she had ever known Miss Beaumont to be absent from the reception-room on the visit of the baronet.

He rose to receive her, and took the hand which she extended towards him.

"I am alone, you see, Honoria," he said; "I told Miss Beaumont that I had something of a serious nature to say to you, and she left me to receive you alone."

"Something of a serious nature," repeated the girl, looking at her benefactor with surprise. "Oh, I think I can guess what you are going to say," she added, after a moment's hesitation; "my musical education is now sufficiently advanced for me to take some new step in the pathway which you wish me to tread."

"No, Honoria, you are mistaken," answered the baronet, gravely; "so far from wishing to hasten your musical education, I am about to entreat you to abandon all thought of a professional career."

"To abandon all thought of a professional career! You would ask me this, Sir Oswald--_you_ who have so often told me that all my hopes for the future depended on my cultivation of the art I love?"

"You love your art very much then, Honoria?"

"More than I love life itself."

"And it would grieve you much, no doubt, to resign all idea of a public career--to abandon your dream of becoming a public singer?"

There was a pause, and then the girl answered, in a dreamy tone--

"I don't know. I have never thought of the public. I have never imagined the hour in which I should stand before a great crowd, as I have stood in the cruel streets, amongst all the noise and confusion, singing to people who cared so little to hear me. I have never thought of that--I love music for its own sake, and feel as much pleasure when I sing alone in my own room, as I could feel in the grandest opera-house that ever was built."

"And the applause, the admiration, the worship, which your beauty, as well as your voice, would win--does the idea of resigning such intoxicating incense give you no pain, Honoria?"

The girl shook her head sadly.

"You forget what I was when you rescued me from the pitiless stones of the market-place, or you would scarcely ask me such a question. I have confronted the public--not the brilliant throng of the opera-house, but the squalid crowd which gathers before the door of a gin-shop, to listen to a vagrant ballad-singer. I have sung at races, where the rich and the high-born were congregated, and have received their admiration.

I know what it is worth, Sir Oswald. The same benefactor who throws a handful of half-pence, offers an insult with his donation."

Sir Oswald contemplated his _protegee_ in silent admiration, and it was some moments before he continued the conversation.

"Will you walk with me in the garden?" he asked, presently; "that avenue of beeches is delightful, and--and I think I shall be better able to say what I wish there, than in this room. At any rate, I shall feel less afraid of interruption."

Honoria rose to comply with her benefactor's wish, with that deferential manner which she always preserved in her intercourse with him, and they walked out upon the velvet lawn. Across the lawn lay the beech-avenue, and it was thither Sir Oswald directed his steps.

"Honoria," he said, after a silence of some duration, "if you knew how much doubt--how much hesitation I experienced before I came here to-day--how much I still question the wisdom of my coming--I think you would pity me. But I am here, and I must needs speak plainly, if I am to speak at all. Long ago I tried to think that my interest in your fate was only a natural impulse of charity--only an ordinary tribute to gifts so far above the common. I tried to think this, and I acted with the cold, calculating wisdom of a man of the world, when I marked out for you a career by which you might win distinction for yourself, and placed you in the way of following that career. I meant to spend last year upon the Continent. I did not expect to see you once in twelve months; but the strange influence which possessed me in the hour of our first meeting grew stronger upon me day by day. In spite of myself, I thought of you; in spite of myself I came here again and again, to look upon your face, to hear your voice, for a few brief moments, and then to go out into the world, to find it darker and colder by contrast with the brightness of your beauty. Little by little, the idea of your becoming a public singer became odious to me," continued Sir Oswald.

"At first I thought with pride of the success which would be yours, the worship which would be offered at your shrine; but my feeling changed completely before long, and I shuddered at the image of your triumphs, for those triumphs must, doubtless, separate us for ever. Why should I dwell upon this change of feeling? You must have already guessed the secret of my heart. Tell me that you do not despise me!"

"Despise you, Sir Oswald!--you, the noblest and most generous of men!

Surely, you must know that I admire and reverence you for all your noble qualities, as well as for your goodness to a wretched creature like me."

"But, Honoria, I want something more than your esteem. Do you remember the night I first heard you singing in the market-place on the north road?"

"Can I ever forget that miserable night?" cried the girl, in a tone of surprise--the question seemed so strange to her--"that bitter hour, in which you came to my rescue?"

"Do you remember the song you were singing--the last song you ever sang in the streets?"

Honoria Milford paused for some moments before answering It was evident that she could not at first recall the memory of that last song.

"My brain was almost bewildered that night," she said; "I was so weary, so miserable; and yet, stay, I do remember the song. It was 'Auld Robin Gray.'"

"Yes, Honoria, the story of an old man's love for a woman young enough to be his daughter. I was sitting by my cheerless fire-side, meditating very gloomily upon the events of the day, which had been a sad one for me, when your thrilling tones stole upon my ear, and roused me from my reverie. I listened to every note of that old ballad. Although those words had long been familiar to me, they seemed new and strange that night. An irresistible impulse led me to the spot where you had sunk down in your helplessness. From that hour to this you have been the ruling influence of my life. I have loved you with a devotion which few men have power to feel. Tell me, Honoria, have I loved in vain? The happiness of my life trembles in the balance. It is for you to decide whether my existence henceforward is to be worthless to me, or whether I am to be the proudest and happiest of men."

"Would my love make you happy, Sir Oswald?"

"Unutterably happy."

"Then it is yours."

"You love me--in spite of the difference between our ages?"

"Yes, Sir Oswald, I honour and love you with all my heart," answered Honoria Milford. "Whom have I seen so worthy of a woman's affection?