MY DEAREST Henrietta,’ said the Consul as he entered, ‘who, think you, has returned? Lord Bohun.’

‘Indeed!’ said Henrietta. ‘Have you seen him?’ ‘No. I paid my respects to him immediately, but he was unwell. He breakfasts with us to-morrow, at ten.’

The morrow came, but ten o’clock brought no Lord Bohun; and even eleven sounded: the Consul sought his daughter to consult her—he was surprised to learn that Miss Ponsonby had not returned from her early ramble. At this moment a messenger arrived from the yacht to say that, from some error, Lord Bohun had repaired to the casino, where he awaited the Consul. The major mounted his barb, and soon reached the pavilion. As he entered the garden, he beheld, in the distance, his daughter and—Mr. Ferrers. He was, indeed, surprised. It appeared that Henrietta was about to run forward to him; but her companion checked her, and she disappeared down a neighbouring walk. Mr. Ferrers advanced, and saluted her father—

‘You are surprised to see me, my dear sir?’

‘I am surprised, but most happy. You came, of course, with Lord Bohun?’

Mr. Ferrers bowed.

‘I am very desirous of having some conversation with you, my dear Major Ponsonby,’ continued Mr. Ferrers.

‘I am ever at your service, my dearest sir, but at the present moment I must go and greet his lordship.’

‘Oh, never mind Bohun,’ said Mr. Ferrers, carelessly. ‘I have no ceremony with him—he can wait.’

The major was a little perplexed.

‘You must know, my dearest sir,’ continued Mr. Ferrers, ‘that I wish to speak to you on a subject in which my happiness is entirely concerned.’

‘Proceed, sir,’ said the Consul, looking still more puzzled.

‘You can scarcely be astonished, my dearest sir, that I should admire your daughter.’

The Consul bowed.

‘Indeed,’ said Mr. Ferrers; ‘it seems to me impossible to know her and not admire: I should say, adore her.’

‘You flatter a father’s feelings,’ said the Consul.

‘I express my own,’ replied Mr. Ferrers. ‘I love her—I have long loved her devotedly.’

‘Hem!’ said Major Ponsonby.

‘I feel,’ continued Mr. Ferrers, ‘that there is a great deal to apologise for in my conduct, towards both you and herself: I feel that my conduct may, in some degree, be considered even unpardonable: I will not say that the end justifies the means, Major Ponsonby, but my end was, at least, a great, and, I am sure a virtuous one.’

‘I do not clearly comprehend you, Mr. Ferrers.’

‘It is some consolation to me,’ continued that gentleman, ‘that the daughter has pardoned me; now let me indulge the delightful hope that I may be as successful with the father.’

‘I will, at least, listen with patience, to you, Mr. Ferrers; but I must own your meaning is not very evident to me: let me, at least, go and shake hands with Lord Bohun.’

‘I will answer for Lord Bohun excusing your momentary neglect. Pray, my dear sir, listen to me. I wish to make you acquainted, Major Ponsonby, with the feelings which influenced me when I first landed on this island. This knowledge is necessary for my justification.’

‘But what is there to justify?’ inquired the major.

‘Conceive a man born to a great fortune,’ continued Mr. Ferrers, without noticing the interruption, ‘and to some accidents of life, which many esteem above fortune; a station as eminent as his wealth—conceive this man master of his destiny from his boyhood, and early experienced in that great world with which you are not unacquainted—conceive him with a heart, gifted, perhaps, with too dangerous a sensibility; the dupe and the victim of all whom he encounters—conceive him, in disgust, flying from the world that had deceived him, and divesting himself of those accidents of existence which, however envied by others, appeared to his morbid imagination the essential causes of his misery—conceive this man, unknown and obscure, sighing to be valued for those qualities of which fortune could not deprive him, and to be loved only for his own sake—a miserable man, sir!’

‘It would seem so,’ said the Consul.

‘Now, then, for a moment imagine this man apparently in possession of all for which he had so long panted; he is loved, he is loved for himself, and loved by a being surpassing the brightest dream of his purest youth: yet the remembrance of the past poisons, even now, his joy. He is haunted by the suspicion that the affection, even of this being, is less the result of his own qualities, than of her inexperience of life—he has everything at stake—he dares to submit her devotion to the sharpest trial—he quits her without withdrawing the dark curtain with which he had enveloped himself—he quits her with the distinct understanding that she shall not even hear from him until he thinks fit to return; and entangles her pure mind, for the first time, in a secret from the parent whom she adores. He is careful, in the meanwhile, that his name shall be traduced in her presence—that the proudest fortune, the loftiest rank, shall be offered for her acceptance, if she only will renounce him, and the dim hope of his return. A terrible trial, Major Ponsonby!’

‘Indeed, most terrible.’

‘But she is true—truer even than truth—and I have come back to claim my unrivalled bride. Can you pardon me? Can you sympathise with me?’

‘I speak, then——-’ murmured the astounded Consul—

‘To your son, with your permission-to Lord Bohun!’