From the first hour in which some guardian angel threw me across your pathway, what have I seen in you but nobility of soul and generosity of heart? Is it strange, therefore, if my gratitude has ripened into love?"

"Honoria," murmured Sir Oswald, bending over the drooping head, and pressing his lips gently on the pure brow--"Honoria, you have made me too happy. I can scarcely believe that this happiness is not some dream, which will melt away presently, and leave me alone and desolate--the fool of my own fancy."

He led Honoria back towards the house. Even in this moment of supreme happiness he was obliged to remember Miss Beaumont, who would, no doubt, be lurking somewhere on the watch for her pupil.

"Then you will give up all thought of a professional career, Honoria?"

said the baronet, as they walked slowly back.

"I will obey you in everything."

"My dearest girl--and when you leave this house, you will leave it as Lady Eversleigh."

Miss Beaumont was waiting in the drawing-room, and was evidently somewhat astonished by the duration of the interview between Sir Oswald and her pupil.

"You have been admiring the grounds, I see, Sir Oswald," she said, very graciously. "It is not quite usual for a gentleman visitor and a pupil to promenade in the grounds _tete-a-tete_; but I suppose, in the case of a gentleman of your time of life, we must relax the severity of our rules in some measure."

The baronet bowed stiffly. A man of fifty does not care to be reminded of his time of life at the very moment when he has just been accepted as the husband of a girl of nineteen.

"It may, perhaps, be the last opportunity which I may have of admiring your grounds, Miss Beaumont," he said, presently, "for I think of removing your pupil very shortly."

"Indeed!" cried the governess, reddening with suppressed indignation.

"I trust Miss Milford has not found occasion to make any complaint; she has enjoyed especial privileges under this roof--a separate bed-room, silver forks and spoons, roast veal or lamb on Sundays, throughout the summer season--to say nothing of the most unremitting supervision of a positively maternal character, and I should really consider Miss Milford wanting in common gratitude if she had complained."

"You are mistaken, my dear madam; Miss Milford has uttered no word of complaint. On the contrary, I am sure she has been perfectly happy in your establishment; but changes occur every day, and an important change will, I trust, speedily occur in my life, and in that of Miss Milford. When I first proposed bringing her to you, you asked me if she was a relation; I told you he was distantly related to me. I hope soon to be able to say that distant relationship has been transformed into a very near one. I hope soon to call Honoria Milford my wife."

Miss Beaumont's astonishment on hearing this announcement was extreme; but as surprise was one of the emotions peculiar to the common herd, the governess did her best to suppress all signs of that feeling. Sir Oswald told her that, as Miss Milford was an orphan, and without any near relative, he would wish to take her straight from "The Beeches" to the church in which he would make her his wife, and he begged Miss Beaumont to give him her assistance in the arrangement of the wedding.

The mistress of "The Beeches" possessed a really kind heart beneath the ice of her ultra-gentility, and she was pleased with the idea of assisting in the bringing about of a genuine love-match. Besides, the affair, if well managed, would reflect considerable importance upon herself, and she would be able by and bye to talk of "my pupil, Lady Eversleigh;" or, "that sweet girl, Miss Milford, who afterwards married the wealthy baronet, Sir Oswald Eversleigh." Sir Oswald pleaded for an early celebration of the marriage--and Honoria, accustomed to obey him in all things, did not oppose his wish in this crisis of his life. Once more Sir Oswald wrote a cheque for the wardrobe of his _protegee_, and Miss Beaumont swelled with pomposity as she thought of the grandeur which might be derived from the expenditure of a large sum of money at certain West-end emporiums where she was in the habit of making purchases for her pupils, and where she was already considered a person of some importance.

It was holiday-time at "The Beeches," and almost all the pupils were absent. Miss Beaumont was, therefore, able to devote the ensuing fortnight to the delightful task of shopping. She drove into town almost every day with Honoria, and hours were spent in the choice of silks and satins, velvets and laces, and in long consultations with milliners and dressmakers of Parisian celebrity and boundless extravagance.

"Sir Oswald has intrusted me with the supervision of this most important business, and I will drop down in a fainting-fit from sheer exhaustion before the counter at Howell and James's, sooner than I would fail in my duty to the extent of an iota," Miss Beaumont said, when Honoria begged her to take less trouble about the wedding _trousseau_.

It was Sir Oswald's wish that the wedding should be strictly private.

Whom could he invite to assist at his union with a nameless and friendless bride? Miss Beaumont was the only person whom he could trust, and even her he had deceived; for she believed that Honoria Milford was some fourth or fifth cousin--some poor relative of Sir Oswald's.

Early in July the wedding took place. All preparations had been made so quietly as to baffle even the penetration of the watchful Millard. He had perceived that the baronet was more than usually occupied, and in higher spirits than were habitual to him; but he could not discover the reason.

"There's something going on, sir," he said to Victor Carrington; "but I'm blest if I know what it is. I dare say that young woman is at the bottom of it. I never did see my master look so well or so happy. It seems as if he was growing younger every day."

Reginald Eversleigh looked at his friend in blank despair when these tidings reached him.

"I told you I was ruined, Victor," he said; "and now, perhaps, you will believe me. My uncle will marry that woman."

It was only on the eve of his wedding-day that Sir Oswald Eversleigh made any communication to his valet. While dressing for dinner that evening, he said, quietly--

"I want my portmanteaus packed for travelling between this and two o'clock to-morrow, Millard; and you will hold yourself in readiness to accompany me. I shall post from London, starting from a house near Fulham, at three o'clock. The chariot must leave here, with you and the luggage, at two."

"You are going abroad, sir?"

"No, I am going to North Wales for a week or two; but I do not go alone. I am going to be married to-morrow morning, Millard, and Lady Eversleigh will accompany me."

Much as the probability of this marriage had been discussed in the Arlington Street household, the fact came upon Joseph Millard as a surprise. Nothing is so unwelcome to old servants as the marriage of a master who has long been a bachelor. Let the bride be never so fair, never so high-born, she will be looked on as an interloper; and if, as in this case, she happens to be poor and nameless, the bridegroom is regarded as a dupe and a fool; the bride is stigmatized as an adventuress.

The valet was fully occupied that evening with preparations for the journey of the following day, and could find no time to call at Mr.

Eversleigh's lodgings with his evil tidings.

"He'll hear of it soon enough, I dare say, poor, unfortunate young man," thought Mr. Millard.

The valet was right. In a few days the announcement of the baronet's marriage appeared in "The Times" newspaper; for, though he had celebrated that marriage with all privacy, he had no wish to keep his fair young wife hidden from the world.

"_On Thursday, the 4th instant, at St. Mary's Church, Fulham, Sir Oswald Morton Vansittart Eversleigh, Bart., to Honoria daughter of the late Thomas Milford._"

This was all; and this was the announcement which Reginald Eversleigh read one morning, as he dawdled over his late breakfast, after a night spent in dissipation and folly. He threw the paper away from him, with an oath, and hurried to his toilet. He dressed himself with less care than usual, for to-day he was in a hurry; he wanted at once to communicate with his friend, Victor Carrington.

The young surgeon lived at the very extremity of the Maida Hill district, in a cottage, which was then almost in the country. It was a comfortable little residence; but Reginald Eversleigh looked at it with supreme contempt.

"You can wait," he said to the hackney coachman; "I shall be here in about half an hour."

The man drove away to refresh his horses at the nearest inn, and Reginald Eversleigh strode impatiently past the trim little servant-girl who opened the garden gate, and walked, unannounced, into the miniature hall.

Everything in and about Victor Carrington's abode was the perfection of neatness. The presence of poverty was visible, it is true; but poverty was made to wear its fairest shape. In the snug drawing-room to which Reginald Eversleigh was admitted all was bright and fresh. White muslin curtains shaded the French window; birds sang in gilded cages, of inexpensive quality, but elegant design; and tall glass vases of freshly cut flowers adorned tables and mantel-piece.

Sir Oswald's nephew looked contemptuously at this elegance of poverty.

For him nothing but the splendour of wealth possessed any charm.

The surgeon came to him while he stood musing thus.

"Do you mind coming to my laboratory?" he asked, after shaking hands with his unexpected visitor. "I can see that you have something of importance to say to me, and we shall be safer from interruption there."

"I shouldn't have come to this fag-end of Christendom if I hadn't wanted very much to see you, you may depend upon it, Carrington,"

answered Reginald, sulkily. "What on earth makes you live in such an out-of-the-way hole?"

"I am a student, and an out-of-the-way hole--as you are good enough to call it--suits my habits. Besides, this house is cheap, and the rent suits my pocket."

"It looks like a doll's house," said Reginald, contemptuously.

"My mother likes to surround herself with birds and flowers," answered the surgeon; "and I like to indulge any fancy of my mother's."

Victor Carrington's countenance seemed to undergo a kind of transformation as he spoke of his mother. The bright glitter of his eyes softened; the hard lines of his iron mouth relaxed.

The one tender sentiment of a dark and dangerous nature was this man's affection for his widowed mother.

He opened the door of an apartment at the back of the house, and entered, followed by Mr. Eversleigh.

Reginald stared in wonder at the chamber in which he found himself. The room had once been a kitchen, and was much larger than any other room in the cottage. Here there was no attempt at either comfort or elegance. The bare, white-washed walls had no adornment but a deal shelf here and there, loaded with strange-looking phials and gallipots.

Here all the elaborate paraphernalia of a chemist's laboratory was visible. Here Reginald Eversleigh beheld stoves, retorts, alembics, distilling apparatus; all the strange machinery of that science which always seems dark and mysterious to the ignorant.

The visitor looked about him in utter bewilderment.