The General escaped for this time, but his recovery was slow. He was weak, and both his arms and legs seemed as if they were paralyzed. I allowed myself to be easily persuaded to prolong my stay at the Werve, and I was able to render Francis many little services. One of us two had to be constantly at the side of the convalescent, for Rolf had better intentions than judgment. He let the General have just what he asked for, and would soon have brought on a relapse if we had not watched them both. Francis was very thankful to have me with her; and yet she could not be satisfied that it was possible for me to spare so much time from all my business. She little suspected that my most pressing and agreeable occupation was to remain at her side and win her affections. Her devotion to her grandfather was sublime; she forgot all the wrongs he had done her, and only reproached herself for having caused him pain by her plain speaking. Notwithstanding, as the old man gradually grew better, she was soon again convinced that a certain amount of firmness was absolutely necessary to manage him. During his illness he had requested me, in his first lucid moments, to receive and open all his letters. And in this way I became aware that he was engaged in “risky” speculations, and that he was making debts unknown to Francis. When he was well enough to talk on such a subject, I ventured to remonstrate with him, and to point out the consequences of persisting in such a course, both for himself and for Francis. He promised me he would give up all such speculations, and excused the past on the grounds that he wished to leave Francis something when he died. I was to make the best conditions I could for him in the sale of the Werve. It was time. Overberg consented to wait; but Van Beek, the executor of the will, a man as inflexible as the law itself, had lost all patience. And I was not yet sure of Francis. Weakness on my part, you will say; but no, it was delicacy—it was the fear of having to cut short my stay. I was afraid of the obstinacy of Francis—that she would not consent to a marriage even though I might have won her heart. I was constantly calling to mind that terrible sentence she had uttered in the garden: “You will not use such language to me again.” I shuddered at the very idea that a new attempt on my part might draw from her lips a definite and decided No.

The old General had discovered my intentions—of that I was convinced. He was continually insisting upon a reconciliation with my uncle the minister, and that I should prepare Francis for the sale of the Werve. On this latter point, I assured him Francis would listen to reason, and, armed with his power of attorney, I went over to Zutphen to arrange the preliminaries with Overberg. Van Beek was growing less and less manageable; he had sent in reams of stamped paper to Overberg, and the interest on several of the mortgages was six months over due; in fact the situation of affairs had become desperate. I charged Overberg to write to Van Beek that the Werve would be sold, in all probability, at the same time as my marriage with Francis took place; and I thought this would be enough to keep the lawyers quiet for a few days longer. I brought back some little presents for the General and Rolf, who were both highly pleased; and a plain set of earrings and a brooch for Francis, as the time had not yet arrived when I could offer her the diamonds I intended for my bride.

On my return, to my great surprise, I found Francis sadder and more anxious than I had left her in the morning. She accepted my present, but seemed to be little interested in it. She retired early, and I followed her example, as I did not find Rolf’s company particularly interesting. Most of the night I spent in reflection and conjectures as to this change in Francis; for I had observed tears in her eyes when she bade me good-night. Once more I made up my mind that the coming day should put an end to all my doubts. At breakfast, Francis, less depressed than the night before, told us she had received a letter from Dr. D., of Utrecht, who gave her very encouraging news of the invalid in whom she was so much interested. I wished to propose to her a long walk in the wood; but when I came downstairs from my room, where I had gone after breakfast to make a change in my dress, I met Francis in the hall, arrayed in her riding-habit. This time she had put on an elegant hat and blue veil, and was waiting for her beautiful horse Tancredo, which the son of the farmer led up to the door saddled.

“Give up your ride this morning, to oblige me,” I said to her, with a certain tone of impatience in my voice that could not escape her.

She looked at me in surprise and silence as she played with her riding-whip.

“You can take your ride an hour later,” I insisted.

“I have a long ride before me, and I must be back before dinner.”

“Then put it off until to-morrow. This is the first opportunity we have had to take a long walk since your grandfather fell ill. Don’t refuse me this pleasure.”

“You always like to disarrange my plans, Leo.”

“To-day I have good reasons for doing so, Francis; believe me, to-morrow it will be too late.”

“Really? Your words sound threatening,” she said, attempting to smile. “Well, you shall have your way,” and she threw aside her riding-whip pettishly. “You’ll have to wait until I change my dress; I cannot walk in my riding-habit.”

Tancredo was sent back to the stable, and in much less time than I could have imagined my cousin reappeared in a very neat walking-costume.

“And where shall we go?” she asked.

“Well, into the wood, I suppose.”

“That’s right, the weather is splendid: we can walk as far as the round point, and rest there on the rustic bench which you perhaps remember.”

And so we walked through the great lane towards the wood, silent, just because we had so much to say to each other. I had resolved to speak; but I could not decide in my own mind how to begin the subject. She herself seemed to have a thousand other things to talk about beside the one I wished to come to. At length I tried to change the subject by saying it would be necessary for me to fix a day for my return to the Hague.

“I was expecting it, Leopold.”

“And are you sorry I am going away?”

“I ought to say ‘No,’ by way of opposition, which is the only suitable answer to such a foolish question.”

“But I—will come back, if you would like it.”

“No, Leopold, I should not like it. And I still believe you would have done better to go away the day I first advised you to do so.”

“Have I been a burden to you, Francis?”

“You know better than that. You know I have much to thank you for: you have stood by me in days of suffering, and borne my troubles with me; you have been open, frank, and obliging with me; in a word, you have spoilt me, and I shall feel my loneliness doubled when you are gone.”

“Not for long, though, for I will come back soon—with—with a trousseau!”

“And, in the name of goodness, for whom?”

“For whom, indeed, but my well-beloved cousin Francis Mordaunt!”

“That’s a poor, very poor sort of jest, sir; you know very well that your cousin Mordaunt has no intentions of ever marrying.”

“Listen to me, Francis! When we first met on the heath, and you told me your intentions on this point, I had no reasons for trying to dissuade you from them; but to-day, as you yourself know, the case is different. You will recollect the freedom with which I have pointed out to you any defects which I considered a blemish on your noble character. Do you think I should have taken such a liberty if I had not conceived the idea, fostered the hope, of your one day consenting to become—my wife?”

The word, the all-important word, was at last said.

“Well, indeed, Leo,” she began with a profound sigh, “since you force me to speak seriously, I must remind you of my last warning, ‘not to use such language to me;’ it cannot, it may not be.”

“And why not, Francis? Did I deceive myself when I thought I was not altogether indifferent to you?”

She turned aside her face in silence, but I was sure I heard something like a suppressed sigh.

“Is it possible you are not disengaged?” I inquired, taking her hand gently and placing myself before her so that I could look into her eyes.

“Disengaged! Certainly I am disengaged,” she answered bitterly. “I have done my best to remain so; and I have all along told you I must be independent. It is necessary.”

“Ah, I comprehend, Francis!” I exclaimed, carried away by an absurd jealousy; “you are still waiting for your Lord William.”

“I?” she returned with passion; “I waiting for Lord William, who never loved me, who caused me to commit a thousand follies, who broke my heart, and who must now be nearly sixty! No, Leopold; don’t humiliate me by pretending to be jealous of Lord William. Could I have told you the history of his stay with us if I still loved him?”

“Is it then only a whim of Major Frank, who will surrender to no man, but prefers his savage kind of independence?”

“Don’t torment me in this way, Leopold. You can break my heart, but you cannot overcome my objections.”

“Then I will discover this mysterious power which enthrals you,” I cried, full of anger and pain.

“You already know the duties I have to fulfil, Leopold. Why should you throw yourself into this abyss of misfortunes and miseries, in which I am sinking? and I shall never be able to get out of it my whole life.”

“I wish to know your miseries, my dear Francis, to share them with you, and help you to bear them. We will overcome them together—be assured of that, my adored——”

Passion was getting the mastery over me; I caught her in my arms and pressed her to my breast. She made no resistance, but, as if wearied with the struggle, she rested her head on my shoulder—her head so charming in its luxuriancy of golden curls. Her eyes were closed and her cheeks were crimson. I thought myself in the seventh heaven.

Suddenly a croaking voice broke the profound silence of the wood—

“Don’t let me disturb you. Ah! Now Missy has a lover, it is not surprising she neglects the little boy.”

Such were the words we heard close to us, uttered by a hoarse voice and in the coarsest of country dialects.