CHAPTER IV.

THE BARON’S STORY.

‘I am afraid you will weary of me before I have finished my recital,’ commenced the Baron.

‘I shall not weary, monsieur,’ I answered simply.

‘You will keep my confidence, I know! This is the first time I have ever told the history of my folly to a living creature.’

I wondered for a moment, then, why he should have elected to tell it to me. But he went on too rapidly for me to put the question to him.

‘I have never had the happiness to possess a mother, a sister, or even a female relation sufficiently near to whom I could confide my sorrows or my perplexities. From a little child I was brought up in the society of men, and taught, as far as possible, to guide myself. That circumstance has been a terrible drawback to me, mademoiselle.’

‘Yes—so long as you were a little child.’

‘And not afterwards?’

‘Not so much afterwards! The mother is the God of the child, monsieur, and if a boy has a good, true, pure-hearted mother who loves him, he can have no better friend nor _confidante_ than herself, until he becomes a man. But then their positions should alter. The _man_ who leans upon his mother is a milksop. He should be her protector—her guide—even her counsellor. It is thus that women are rewarded for the care and pains with which they have watched over the infancy of their little ones.’

‘How true a woman you are!’ he said, earnestly.

‘I hope so, monsieur! I should be sorry to deserve any other name. But we are wandering from your story.’

‘My mother died when I was quite a baby. She was very beautiful, and my father, who held a high position at Court, was so distracted by her loss that he threw up his appointment, left all his friends, and wandered for many years in foreign countries. Meanwhile, I was transferred from my nurse’s arms to those of a private tutor, whose house I left only to go to college. I had an uncle on the mother’s side, Le Sieur de Beaupré, the father of the cousin to whom I told you I was once betrothed. This betrothal was contracted when I was very young—not yet sixteen, whilst Blanche had only completed her fourteenth year. We were betrothed with the consent and at the desire of my father, who was at that time wandering about the Brazils, and expressed his intention of not returning to Paris until I had passed through the _Athénée_, and was ready to be married. I had grown, therefore, up to eighteen years of age without ever having seen my father.’

‘What a sad, desolate childhood!’ I exclaimed; ‘and how different from mine, monsieur! My father died, it is true, but my dear mother never left me, day nor night, from the hour of my birth. No wonder that you should have gone wrong, without affection, counsel, or home. Those who left you so are more to blame for what followed than you are.’

‘You pity me, mademoiselle?’

‘I do indeed! From the bottom of my heart! I see you as a child and a growing man, lonely and unloved, and I could weep for the many desolate and unhappy hours you must have passed.’

‘_Que le bon Dieu te bénisse!_’ he said softly, as he lifted the hand that was lying idly on my lap to his lips, and let it quickly drop again. The action sent the blood rushing to both our faces, and for a minute or two we were silent altogether.

‘Yes! I was very unhappy at that period,’ continued the Baron. ‘It seemed to me that Heaven was unjust in so unequally dividing its favours. I had every luxury, because my father was rich, but I would have exchanged them all for a caress when I went to bed at night, or for the touch of a soft hand upon my head. I saw other fathers proud of their sons, and I wondered what I had done that mine should never care to see or hear from me, and scarcely took the trouble to write home to ask if I were dead or alive. Such thoughts embittered my mind and made it callous, and after I entered the _Athénée_ and joined the wild band of students assembled within its walls, I soon became the wildest of them all, and well known to the authorities as a dangerous leader into all sorts of mischief. Why should I not be? what was there to restrain me? No mother’s look of pain—no father’s frown—nothing but a remonstrance from Monsieur de Beaupré, that my allowance did not last long enough, and that if I could not moderate my expenses he should be obliged to inform his brother-in-law. So things went on till I was twenty-one, when the news reached Paris of my father’s death. I came into my title and my fortune, and was considered to be one of the best matches in Paris. But, mademoiselle, I am fatiguing you. Why should I be so vain as to imagine that all these paltry details can hold any interest for you?’

‘Indeed, monsieur, I am deeply interested. Pray believe me when I say so.’

‘Why should I tell this tale of folly and dissipation to you?’ he went on, musingly; ‘I knew I should have to confess it some day, to the woman I should make my wife—if such an event ever happens—but I never thought to disclose it before. _Hélas!_ this world brings strange things to pass! As soon as my uncle Beaupré heard of my father’s death, he tried to persuade me to complete the marriage with his daughter at once, but I was averse to the idea of tying myself down so soon, and refused to do so until the time named in the contract, which was on the attainment of my twenty-fourth year. I left the _Athénée_, of course, and, settling in my own _hôtel_, on the Boulevards des Tuileries, plunged, with the aid of my old college companions, into every sort of dissipation. Will mademoiselle pardon me for mentioning such a thing?’

‘We are better used to the mention of it in England, monsieur, than your ladies are in Paris, although we recognise its necessity less, and deplore its existence more. We Englishwomen are permitted to know that our men lead very different lives from ourselves, but we are taught at the same time that, for that very reason, it behoves us to be all the purer and more discreet, in order to win them back to a right and virtuous living.’

‘And you do so win them! In all the world there are no such lovers of domestic life as there are in England.’

‘I believe it,’ I answered, for I am very proud of and very devoted to my own country-people, whatever friends I may have found in other nations.

‘I am speaking now, mademoiselle, of ten years ago—when the first notes of that terrible discord that shook France to her foundations were beginning to be heard, and Paris was in a state of ferment and expectation. The revolution had not commenced, but disaffection was already pre-evident amongst the labouring classes, and _émeutes_ and brawls were of hourly occurrence in the city. It was on the occasion of the last night of the old year, which devotees celebrate in the churches and roysterers in the streets. I was returning home after the theatre with some of my friends, about the hour of midnight mass, when, just outside the church of the Madeleine, I saw a young girl standing up against the wall, and prevented from passing on her way by a band of tipsy artisans who surrounded her, calling out, “_A bas_ the aristocrat!”—“Pull off her hood and rub her face in the mud!”—“Down on her knees and make her pray for the _bonnets rouges_!” and other phrases of similar import. You may suppose that was more than I and my friends could stand, and we went at once to her rescue. The poor child caught hold of my arm, crying, “Oh! save me, monsieur; I am no aristocrat. My father is a commoner, and lives but a couple of streets from here.” A few blows and rough words soon dispersed the rioters, and I took the young lady home under my protection. I found that her name was Corinne Duplat, and her father was a man of letters. She was very beautiful——’

‘Oh yes, I know! You needn’t tell me,’ I interrupted him, impatiently. ‘She was the loveliest creature you had ever seen, and you became enamoured of her at once. You can skip all that! I have heard it so often before.’

The Baron fixed his dark eyes upon me with an expression of the greatest surprise. After all my amiability and interest, he did not know what to make of the sudden change. I suppose I looked as sulky as a bear, for he immediately began to apologise.

‘I felt I should weary mademoiselle. Let me say no more than to thank you for the patience with which you have listened to me.’

But this was not what I wanted.

I sat there, biting my lip and feeling very much as if I should cry; whilst Armand de Nesselrode looked deeply annoyed and a little bit wounded.

‘I have abused your goodness,’ he continued, ‘and I shall never forgive myself.’

‘No, no, monsieur! Do not think so. It was only because I was in such haste to hear the end of the story. Go on about Corinne! She was very beautiful, and you loved her!’

‘I _thought_ I loved her,’ he corrected me, gently. ‘I was very young and knew no better; I have found out since what true love is.’

‘Yes, monsieur?’

‘Her father neglected her dreadfully, and let her go anywhere alone, which is unheard of amongst young ladies in Paris. It was natural that after a while I should constitute myself her protector. She was only seventeen, and very fragile—almost ethereal in appearance; and when I had known her for about six months, I felt I should like to make her my wife. I forgot my betrothal to my cousin Blanche. All my wishes centred in the hope of marrying Corinne. I broached the subject one day to her father, almost timidly. He was taken aback by my communication.

‘“Marry my daughter!” he exclaimed. “You cannot know what you are asking for.”

‘“I know I am not worthy of her,” I began, but he cut me short.

‘“My dear Baron, such an alliance as you would offer Corinne is beyond all my hopes. But it is impossible.”

‘“Why?”

‘“Because she is doomed. She carries in her the seeds of a disease which must terminate her existence within a few years. She can marry no one.”

‘This intelligence was a great blow to me. I would not believe it—she looked so healthy, though delicate. I urged Monsieur Duplat to permit the marriage to take place, and I believe it would have been accomplished, had a sudden chill not taken the poor child off before another month was over her head.’

‘She is _dead_!’ I exclaimed, pity taking the place of all other feelings. ‘Oh, how you must have grieved for her!’

‘Yes, I was very inconsolable for a time, and it was this grief, mademoiselle, that led to all my subsequent misfortunes. Monsieur Duplat was a _littérateur_ whose very uncertain income was dependent on his humour for writing, and unfortunately his humour too often took the direction of drinking instead. In my sorrow for the loss of Corinne, I conceived the romantic idea of being a son to her father, and invited the old man to come and live with me in my hôtel. I had so much money, there was plenty for us both. Why should he not enjoy it also? Amidst all my former dissipations I had never been a gambler, and it was Monsieur Duplat himself who had on our first acquaintanceship introduced me to the gaming-tables of Paris. After he came to live with me, idleness and regret for his daughter’s death seemed to drive him to them oftener than before, and wherever he went I accompanied him. I felt reckless too at that time, and quite indifferent as to my future. I believed, like most young mourners, that I should never be happy again, and it did not signify what became of me. This is how I contracted the spirit of gaming. Two of us were drawing on my (apparently) inexhaustible fortune at the same moment, for you may be sure I paid all Duplat’s debts before my own. My uncle Beaupré was not long in hearing of my lavish expenditure, and remonstrated with me in his daughter’s name. But a devil seemed to have entered into me—and when I found that I had caused a large portion of my fortune to disappear, I attempted to remedy the evil by staking more recklessly than before. At last the crash came, and my eyes were opened. Monsieur Duplat had persuaded me to stand security for an extravagant sum of money by which, as he said, he was to be made independent for life, and the day after he got it he decamped, leaving me in the lurch to meet all his liabilities as well as my own. The creditors swooped down upon me like birds of prey. I found that Duplat had procured valuables all over the town in my name, besides forging it for a large amount of ready money from my bankers, and I was literally ruined.’

‘What an ingrate!’ I exclaimed. ‘Oh, monsieur! I am sure that, with your generous spirit, the ingratitude of it was the hardest part to bear.’

‘It was not calculated to raise my opinion of human nature, mademoiselle, and when I thought of poor little Corinne, and how it would have broken her heart to see her father’s conduct to me, I was glad that she was safe in heaven, and freed from it all. My uncle came to Paris as soon as he knew of my ruin, and informed me that all idea of a marriage between _mademoiselle ma cousine_ and myself was at an end, which I was not sorry to hear. It was found that twelve years’ income would only suffice to discharge the debts for which I was liable; my estates in Versailles and Lausanne being entailed and consequently not marketable. I had the choice, therefore, of two alternatives—to expatriate myself to this place and live upon a yearly sum of six thousand francs allowed me by my creditors, or to go to gaol. I chose the former, though there is but little to choose between them. St. Pucelle is like a prison to me, and I have only vegetated since I came here. Conceive if you can, mademoiselle, the change from the life I led in Paris, and the solitude I now enjoy.’

‘But it will not last for ever, monsieur. How many years have you lived at the château?’

‘Nine. I was thirty on my last birthday.’

‘Then the time of your probation will soon be up, will it not?’

‘There are three or four years more to run. _Three or four years! Mon Dieu!_ what an eternity it seems in prospect!’

I hardly knew how to answer him. I longed so much to give him comfort, but if he could not see the lesson this trial was calculated to teach him in the same light that I did, I feared my words might irritate instead of soothe him. So I only said:

‘Monsieur le Baron, don’t despair! There is one person feels very deeply for you, and that is myself.’

‘You do not despise me, then! You have heard all, and you can still be my friend.’

‘Most certainly! You have been very weak, but you have not been wicked. The money you wasted was your own. It was that base ungrateful creature Duplat that caused your ruin.’

‘Remember that I have told it you in confidence. Even Monsieur Beaupré does not know the extent to which he robbed me. He was Corinne’s father, and for her sake I wish, as far as possible, to spare him.’

‘I respect you for the wish; but, monsieur, now that the worst is over, will you not take courage and look forward to the time that is coming, when you will begin life anew, and be able to show the world that you are capable of upholding the honour of your name and of your family?’

‘These terrible years that must intervene,’ he groaned. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I shall live through them.’

‘Oh yes, you will! You are young and strong. Why should you fear otherwise? I wish you were married, monsieur! and had a nice wife at the château, to make it pleasant and cheerful for you. Then the time of waiting would not seem so long.’

‘Where am I to find a wife, mademoiselle, who will consent to bury herself in St. Pucelle, on six thousand francs a year, for the next four years? Tell me, and I will offer her my hand and heart upon the spot.’

Now, I thought, is the time to put in a word for Tessie. His eyes have but to be opened to see all her virtues for himself.

‘I know of several,’ I answered confidently: ‘sweet good girls, who would love you for your own merits, and care nothing about your money. There is Tessie Lovett, for instance. Where could you find a woman that would make a better wife than she?’

His face fell to about a yard long.

‘Miss Lovett! the very pale one, you mean, with blond locks. Why, she is like a statue, mademoiselle! She hardly ever opens her mouth. She has no spirit—no _chic_ about her. I don’t think she would brighten up the old château very much—nor me either, for the matter of that.’

Oh, the insolence of men! I really began to believe they were all alike, and never too miserable nor unfortunate to lose their self-conceit. Here was a young fellow, who had just acknowledged himself to be everything that was bad and wicked, and unworthy the regard of any woman, turning up his nose at one of the best and sweetest creatures God ever made, just because she had not got cheeks as red as peonies, and a tongue that clacked like a water-mill all day!

‘Why, she is all the better for not talking!’ I exclaimed indignantly. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you like a woman who chatters like a magpie?’

‘No, mademoiselle. But I like a woman who can converse with me and sympathise with me; who can scold me a little when I do wrong, and advise me for my good; and who is brave and unselfish, and has been brought up by a good mother in whose footsteps she will follow.’

I blushed at this eulogium, because it sounded so much as if it was meant for myself. But I was true to Tessie notwithstanding.

‘And how do you know, monsieur, that Miss Lovett is not all that you say?’ I inquired.

‘I do not know—but I have my opinions.’

‘I thought you liked her so much,’ I said disappointedly.

‘So I do. But I will not _like_ my wife, I will _love_ her.’

‘_Petite_ Ange is more sprightly and talkative than her sister,’ I observed.

‘_Petite_ Ange is a lovely child,’ he answered: ‘nothing more. She is open and innocent as the day. Any one might deceive her who had the mind to do so. She loves birds and flowers and the poor, and considers _monsieur son père_ to be a saint from heaven. _Voilà!_ that is _petite_ Ange.’

‘Do you think she will make the worse wife for being so sweet and innocent?’

‘Not for a good man, mademoiselle, who can guide her aright; but I am a bad man who requires guidance. And the woman who can do that must be something very much higher and better than the ordinary run of women.’

‘Oh, then you had better marry old Denise,’ I said, out of patience with his trifling. ‘She is old enough and steady enough to keep you straight, and as she whipped you when you were in petticoats, it will come quite naturally to her.’

How he laughed at the idea! I had never heard Armand de Nesselrode laugh before, but now his voice rang out sweet and clear along the deserted road, and woke the echoes in the hills beyond.

‘I am glad you approve of my proposal,’ I continued, fain to laugh with him, though I tried hard to prevent it.

‘Mademoiselle, you do me too much honour! I have never yet aspired to a Baronne de Nesselrode without a tooth left in her head. Now, have patience whilst I give you a description of the sort of woman I want to win for my wife.’

But something in his eyes alarmed me, and I would not let him speak.

‘No, no, no!’ I exclaimed hastily, as I jumped up from my grassy seat, and shook the dust from my skirts. ‘I don’t want to hear it, monsieur: I have not time. It is very late, and I must go home at once. What will they all say when they hear of my adventure?’

‘You must not come this way again alone, since you are easily frightened, mademoiselle. But if you will let me know—me only, you understand, it is not necessary we should tell our private affairs to all the world—when you intend to make your promenade upon the Piron road, I will take care to be within call—not to intrude upon your privacy, but to be ready in case you desire to appeal to me for assistance.’

Was he laughing at me, or did he imagine it possible I could permit him to follow at my heels like a dog or a lacquey, waiting to receive my orders? I glanced up at his face, expecting to see a twinkle in his eyes which should prove he was only in jest, but they were solemn as those of a judge. The Baron de Nesselrode, in his beautiful chivalry and devotion to the weaker sex, had been really in earnest in making this offer. But of course I rejected it.

‘It is impossible!’ I replied. ‘You must not dream of such a thing. You would set all St. Pucelle talking about me!’

‘You think I would be barbarous enough to take advantage of such a trust by forcing my conversation upon you! Ah, mademoiselle, you do me wrong! No saint in her niche could be farther removed from the annoyance of my presence than you should be, if you thought fit to accept my protection in your solitary rambles.’

‘But I shall not come this way again, monsieur, when I am by myself. And I could not think of putting you to all the trouble you propose. I am not used to be attended on, nor to have a _preux-chevalier_ at my heels, thank you all the same for thinking of it!’

We were walking back to St. Pucelle together now, through the field-path that I have mentioned. It was a very narrow way; there was scarcely room sometimes for us to walk abreast, and our conversation was necessarily impeded.

‘I have not touched a card since the evening that we spoke of it together,’ said the Baron presently.

‘I thought so, monsieur, and I am so glad to hear it. I am sure you will never regret your determination. How do you employ your evenings now?’

‘I read and write and smoke; but I am very lonely. Sometimes I almost think that I shall cut my throat.’

‘Hush! don’t say that! You hurt me.’

‘At first I considered the possibility of turning my talents, such as they are, to account, in any post of responsibility that a gentleman might accept. But whilst I remain under the black cloud of debt, there is no chance of my procuring a Court appointment such as my father held; and the De Nesselrodes have never stooped to anything lower.’

‘There is no “stooping” in honest labour, monsieur.’

‘I believe you; but caste has its prejudices. No member of my family has ever been a tutor or a secretary; and if I became so, I should cut off all hope of reconciliation with my relations when my term of penal servitude is ended.’

‘Cannot you write and employ your time in instructing or amusing others? You can see no degradation in that! Men of the noblest blood have been authors before now.’

‘Oh yes! and raised themselves by the distinction. But one must have talents to shine before the world, and I am not clever.’

‘Are you not? Mr. Lovett considers you have a mind of a very high order, and having been intimately associated with some of the first in Europe, he ought to be a good judge.’

‘He flatters me. But if I have a mind, or any gift for teaching others, I know how I should like to employ it.’

‘In what way?’

‘You will not be offended, nor say I am very presumptuous?’

‘I think not.’

‘Then I should like to teach you how to speak French.’

If the evening shadows had not fallen by this time, the Baron would have seen that his remark made me redden. I knew I spoke his language with a horribly Anglicised accent, but I was ashamed to be told so.

‘I am quite aware I pronounce it like a barbarian,’ I said bluntly.

‘Ah, mademoiselle, now I have offended you. You do not speak it like a barbarian. Your voice is very sweet, and makes every word that comes from your mouth sweet also. But there are certain little niceties, the lights and shades of our language, that it is impossible to acquire except from conversing with a Parisian; and it is on these points, unnecessary as they may appear, that I should like to see you perfect. There is so little to correct, it is but a word or an expression here and there that betrays you have not acquired the language abroad; and since I know you have the ambition to speak it well, I thought, if you would permit me, to aid you——’

‘Monsieur!’ I interrupted him, for my false shame had evaporated by this time, ‘pray say no more. I know that my accent and my grammar must set your teeth on edge every time you hear them, and it is very good of you to wish to correct them. I am infinitely obliged, but what am I to say about it? What would your relations think if they heard that a De Nesselrode had turned French tutor to a raw English girl?’

‘Let them say what they will! Only say yourself that I may give you a few lessons.’

‘But where am I to take them?’

‘Here—anywhere—so it be out in the beautiful country, with the blue sky over our heads and the flowers springing around us, and not shut up in a dull room in the house.’

This seemed so much like making appointments with him, that I hardly knew what to answer.

‘I cannot agree to meet you at any particular time, monsieur, without telling my guardian. It would not be _comme il faut_. We English girls are allowed more liberty than our French sisters, but to make appointments with gentlemen without the knowledge of our friends is going a little too far. If we meet by accident, however, I shall always be glad to take any hints you may be good enough to give me.’

‘I will walk about every day and all day till I _do_ meet you,’ he replied fervently.

I laughed, but I felt flattered. Why should Armand de Nesselrode take such an interest in my rough unmusical tongue?

‘And what are you going to charge for your lessons?’ I asked him jestingly; ‘I am not very rich, you know, so you must not lead me into extravagance.’

‘_What am I to charge for my lessons!_’ he repeated after me slowly. ‘Ah! mademoiselle, the price will be very, _very_ high, but you shall take your own time to pay me.’

I was just going to ask what he meant, when we came within sight of another couple advancing to meet us. Not really to meet us though, but creeping slowly along the pathway deeply engaged in talk, with their heads close together and their eyes cast on the ground. The Baron and I were walking one after the other, duck fashion, but our two friends were side by side.

‘It is Monsieur Charteris!’ exclaimed my companion, who had the eye of a hawk.

‘_Is_ it?’ I returned incredulously. ‘Are you sure? Who can the lady be?’

As I mooted the question, I thought of Miss Markham. I knew how silly and romantic she was, delighting in moonlight walks and secret assignations, and could imagine how she had waylaid Cave Charteris smoking under the garden wall, and dragged him out into the fields, with his will or against it. A man can hardly refuse a woman’s request point blank to her face.

Silly creature that she was! How could she possibly remain so blind to the fact that her attentions were not agreeable to him!

As I meditated somewhat in this strain, we came right upon the opposition couple before they were aware of our propinquity, and I almost ran into Mr. Charteris’s arms.

‘Here is an encounter!’ I said merrily. The woman by his side lifted her head, and, to my utter astonishment, I saw the beautiful face of Angela Lovett. ‘_Ange!_’ I exclaimed, ‘what are you doing here—where is Tessie? Why didn’t she come with you?’

There was such a ring of wonder and, I suppose, dissatisfaction in my voice, that Mr. Charteris at once took up the cudgels in defence of his fair companion.

‘I think we shall be justified in putting the same question, Miss Marsh. What are _you_ doing here, walking alone with Monsieur de Nesselrode?’

‘Oh! _our rencontre_ was a mere accident,’ I replied, with vexation. ‘I was on the Piron road when I met a horrid animal, half wolf and half dog, and I thought it was a real wolf and was terribly frightened, and the Baron happened to meet me, and so——’

‘Oh! did you see one of those savage-looking sheep-dogs, Hilda dear!’ exclaimed Ange, who appeared as ready as myself to drop the subject of the company she had been detected in keeping. ‘I do not wonder it alarmed you. I was very nearly bitten by one once. It flew out of a cottage and attacked me. Papa was so frightened, he wanted to have it killed; but it wasn’t mad, you know. The village children had been teasing it, and it took fright at a stick I carried in my hand. But I am surprised you have not seen one before. There are so many about St. Pucelle.’

She had left Mr. Charteris’s side and linked her arm in mine, and she leaned on me with a confiding pressure which seemed to say, ‘Don’t tell of me.’ I didn’t quite like it, and yet it would have been hard to say why I was annoyed, for Ange ran about St. Pucelle as she listed, and gave account of her proceedings to no one.

‘Where is Tessie?’ I reiterated, looking down into the soft violet eyes that were raised so confidingly to mine.

‘At home, dear, reading to papa. It was so hot indoors, I thought I should prefer the fields.’

‘Did you come this way to meet me?’

‘No! I didn’t know where you were. Tessie thought you had gone to see Mrs. Carolus. It is more than two hours since you left home.’

I started guiltily. Put upon my oath to guess the time of my absence, I should really have thought it had been about thirty or forty minutes.

‘Let us go back as fast as we can then, Ange, or they will begin to think we have eloped altogether.’

We were both so evidently anxious to have nothing more said about the companions of our pilgrimage, that we talked on every subject but that of our evening stroll, and left the gentlemen to amuse each other in the rear whilst we scuttled home together arm-in-arm, like two rabbits that had taken fright and were hurrying back to the warren.

But after I had retired to rest that night, I could not help thinking of dear little Ange, and wondering how she came to choose Mr. Charteris for her cavalier. I supposed it was very natural she should do so. I had left him smoking sulkily under the garden wall, and when she came out for her evening stroll, he had probably proffered the same request to her that he did to me, and she could hardly have refused him. What nonsense it was to think twice about such a trifle! Yet I did think of it, many more times than twice.

Ange was too good and pious to derive any harm from ordinary intercourse with Cave Charteris, whose opinions on most subjects would be more calculated, I thought, to shock than to charm her; but she was very young and unsophisticated, and her father was far too careless of her. Yet what business was it of mine? The fear of being thought meddlesome has more than once deterred me from doing what I considered right in life. It deterred me now.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]