Why, man, she is mine own;

And I as rich in having such a jewel,

As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,

The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.

Shakspere.

Lester Vane, while he indulged his appetite for profligate pleasures or pursued with pertinacity a revengeful purpose, never lost sight of his personal interest, especially where that interest centred itself upon an object awakening his selfish desire.

He had a double motive in desiring to obtain the hand of Flora Wilton. He needed the income she would bring with her, and he coveted her beautiful self. He loved her, so far as he could love anything feminine apart from a lower emotion, intensely, and was, in fact, sufficiently fascinated by her charms to have married her had she been penniless, even if he had neglected and ill-treated her afterwards.

As she was circumstanced she was a valuable prize, for she had beauty and riches too. The combination was something rare; no one comprehended or appreciated that fact better than himself. How he would be envied when she was his—fortune and all. He never separated that consideration from the pictures his imagination sketched of the future. He dwelt upon the vision which saw him folding the fair creature to his heart, and placing the fortune she brought to his own credit at his own banker’s.

What he had learned and knew respecting Hal Vivian, he treated lightly—contemptuously; nevertheless, the figure of this young “pin-maker” would obtrude itself. Still he brushed the shadowy object from his sight with an impatient sneer, for he had faith in his own attractions; he thought it impossible that a gentle creature so simple, and certainly so impressionable, as Flora could resist him.

As yet he had not had a chance to play off upon her his attractions to win her. That odious Indian bore, as he deemed Mires, with his bright, tiger-like eyes, had always during his sojourn at Harleydale intruded himself just as he had brought up his artillery of glances, soft words, and tender empressement; and again, at the moment he had devised an excellent plan for flinging his Indian rival, the unexpected presence of Vivian, and the events it precipitated, drove him from the scene.

“Out of sight out of mind” was a favourite axiom with him. It was one he invariably acted upon in affairs of the heart, unless, as in the present instance, his personal interest was identified with his passion for the lady.

He, being thus banished from the object of his passionate and pecuniary hopes, reflected that the axiom he adopted as a principle might have a similar influence upon one whom he would rather have unconscious of the existence of the proverb, much less capable of its application.

To render such a contingency impossible, he addressed a letter to Mr. Wilton, penned with a full conviction that it would be laid before and perused by Flora.

It was well done, and admirably calculated to effect its object, if—ah, those “ifs!”—Flora’s love for Harry Vivian had been of a different complexion. He commenced by regretting that any event should have occasioned his premature departure from Harleydale; yet more did he regret the circumstances which had happened, because they were of a character to disturb the domestic peace of Mr. Wilton, and to inflict pain upon the gentle heart of his most charming daughter. He begged to be allowed to express the effect which those events had had upon himself. Here he grew elaborate and diffuse. He declared that he fully comprehended the position in which Flora stood with respect to Vivian. He was aware, he said, that the heart was not at the disposal, nor under the control of the will Love scorned common influences or restraint; he was himself an example of the fact. Until now he had not really understood the difference between loving and liking; until now he was not conscious how consummately predilection and admiration simulated love. In man’s nature this was an incontestable truth—he believed that it had its place in woman’s. He had witnessed and keenly appreciated the amiable sweetness of Miss Wilton’s disposition; he had discerned with pleasure her ready and generous gratefulness for any service tendered to her or actually rendered; he could, therefore, perfectly understand the influence a handsome youth would have upon her grateful sense of benefit received, in having saved her from death in a moment of frightful peril. This generous gratitude took the form of emotion very like love. Yet it was not love—oh, no! love was higher and holier in all its attributes. The emotion he had described was not ineradicable; nay, when its real nature was fairly and rigorously examined, its actual character would be detected. It was no desire of his that Miss Wilton should abate one jot of her gratefulness to Mr. Vivian for the daring act of gallantry by which he had rescued her from a most horrible death: nay, it would be his duty, as well as his pleasure, to respect and to share it even. He had no wish that Miss Wilton should be denied the society of Mr. Vivian whenever her father approved his visits. In short, he had only one desire, and that was to render her happiness, now and in the future, perfect and entire; and he had no fear of not accomplishing this, although Miss Wilton were not united with the present object of her choice.

More than this, indeed, he said, but enough has been given to show the purpose with which his communication was framed.

Mr. Wilton received the epistle upon the morning of the rencontre between Colonel Mires and Mr. Chewkle. He read it with feverish pleasure again and again. Then he rang his bell, and bade the servant who attended to request Miss Wilton to come to him immediately in his library.

Flora, with a beating heart, obeyed the summons. Interviews with her father in his library of late had not been pleasurable to her. He evidently regarded her as a rebel in captivity, himself being the stern judge before whom she was occasionally brought, in order that she might, with frowns, be lectured out of her contumacy. Unfortunately for the purpose he entertained, Flora’s nature was one not to be frowned either into or out of anything upon which she had decided a certain line of conduct was the proper path to pursue, and when he grew angry and wroth, and styled her stubborn, she felt an inward conviction that she was not obstinate, but firm in acting rightly.

On appearing before her father, he commanded rather than requested her to be seated. She obeyed; and then taking up Lester Vane’s letter, he handed it to her.

“Read that,” he said; and added, authoritatively, “attentively.”

She took the letter apprehensively, but felt relieved when she found the handwriting was unknown to her.

A few glances made her mistress of the name of the writer, and then it flashed across her mind that her father’s eyes would be bent keenly upon her face, and he would read every expression that her emotions raised during the perusal might place there. She set her teeth and lips closely together, contracted her brow and read slowly on to the end without losing a word or betraying any other sign than a slight curl of the upper lip. When she had finished its perusal, she returned it to her father without a word.

He waited for a minute expecting her to speak, but she continued silent. A flush mounted to his forehead, and his brow loured.

“What answer have you to make, Miss Wilton?” he asked, rather impetuously.

“I would rather be excused answering your question, sir,” she returned, in a low tone.

“No doubt you would,” he responded, promptly; “but I require you to answer me.”

“The letter is not addressed to me,” she said, coldly.

“No!” he rejoined, sharply; “but it makes most important references to you; it aptly describes the situation in which we are all placed, and appears to me to be conceived in the very noblest spirit.”

Flora’s lip curled most expressively.

“I say, in the very noblest spirit!” almost roared her father.

“And yet so transparent as to disclose the motives which originated and have governed its composition,” she observed, calmly.

“Motives—what motives?” repeated old Wilton, excitedly; “what other motive could Mr. Vane have than that of opening your—I had almost said wilfully—-blind eyes to your perverse error—to show you how mistaken you are in the insane impression you are fostering and cherishing in obstinate opposition to the wish nearest and dearest to my heart.”

“I do not acknowledge the correctness of Mr. Vane’s conclusions, in respect to the influences by which my conduct is controlled,” returned Flora, firmly. “I consider myself to be the best judge of the effect Mr. Vivian’s gallantry has produced upon my gratefulness.”

Mr. Wilton’s breath seemed taken away. He was something more than astonished, he was exasperated. He struck the library-table with his fist.

“You shall not decline Mr. Vane’s hand,” he cried, vehemently, “upon that subject I have made up my mind.”

“And I,” ejaculated Flora, decisively.

He rose up as these words fell from her lips. She rose up, too, and stood calmly and unshrinkingly before him. He looked into her clear, unwavering eyes, which bore his steadfast gaze without the smallest perceptible tremor in the lid. He saw written there in plain emphatic language the determination which would submit to death rather than yield to coercion. He saw there the unquailing spirit, glowing as in a garment of fire, though that eye still was soft and seemed so gentle in its blue loveliness.

He gasped twice or thrice—he did not sigh.

“Are you my daughter?” at length he uttered, hoarsely.

“I was,” she replied.

“Was!” he echoed, in a bewildered tone.

“When we were poor and struggling,” she continued, “and you were labouring—toiling for the bread we ate, you were my father, for then you were tender, kind, and thoughtful, in all that related to my welfare and to my happiness; then I was your daughter, your child, your own—own Flo’.”

She wiped the welling tears from her eyes.

“You smiled upon me benignly,” she continued, “you spoke to me in accents of soft lovingness, and you made my life, though poverty intermixed with our daily wants and wishes, one of quiet happiness, for you loved me then, and I—I—adored you.”

She paused for a moment. He listened with downcast eyes. She went on—

“Amid our trials, our toils, our sorrows, under our one great affliction—when—when my—my sainted mother——”

A sob burst from her quivering lips. The old man’s head bowed yet lower. Flora, with an effort, controlled her tears and went on.

“When she was taken from us, no sacrifice you could have asked of me I would have ever paused at to make you happy. I would have compressed my heart till it had been pulseless, rather than have interposed my happiness between you and your perfect content. I should have laid down my life with a cry of joy to have seen you without care. This, this, I would have done at a time when—if they would ever—selfish considerations would most have weighed with me, for any change out of our miserable destitution must have been productive of greater comfort at least. The scene, sir, has been changed; the rags of wretchedness have been flung aside, the poor abode has sunk in charred ruins. You are master of lordly domains, and revel in wealth, and—the relation previously subsisting between us has changed also. Almost immediately after our arrival here we ceased to be to each other as father and daughter.”

“Flora!”

“Or Miss Wilton—that name, sir, is more fitting from your lips now.”

“Do I dream?” cried Wilton, pressing the palms of his hands to his temples.

“No, sir!” she continued, in the same firm tone as before. “You are broad awake, the morning sun is now, at least, shining upon your eyes. You have seen me always passive and placid, yielding, and perhaps even, as the writer of yon well-dissembled epistle has flattered me by saying, displaying an amiable sweetness of disposition. In poverty, sir, you were gentle, yielding—oh, most amiable; but there you had an inner nature which has developed itself here at Harley-dale. I, too, sir, have an inner nature; it is developing itself now.”

“It is, indeed,” almost groaned Wilton, and then added, sternly, “to what end?”

“To this, sir,” replied Flora, as decisively as before.

“In this house, on these estates, you are the lordly patrician, lofty to me as to the beater of your game. I am received by you, addressed by you, retire from your presence as from that of the supreme head of the household alone.”

“Am I not?” he demanded.

“You are, sir; as such, I pay you homage,” she responded, “but you are my father no less, and in that capacity you have thought it proper to treat me as a stranger—would dispose of me as a lord of old would give in marriage the daughter of one of his serfs to a neighbour’s vassal.”

“Girl—girl, you are insane!” he cried, stamping his foot.

“If I were, sir, I should not see the change in you—-the bitter—bitter alteration. Oh, I have loved you so dearly, so truly, so fondly, when there were no trappings and riches to step in between our loving hearts. How I loathe this state which freezes our affections into ceremonious greetings; how I fling back Miss Wilton to your lips, sir, and how gladly would I take up poverty again, to be once more your own darling Flo’!”

She sank sobbing into a chair.

The old man felt a tugging at his heart-strings. He turned his eyes up to encounter those of his wife’s, looking down upon him from her portrait with a soft, sad expression, as though to remind him of her dying injunctions to cherish and make happy the little helpless innocent creatures she left behind her.

He tottered rather than walked to the side of his daughter. He placed his hand upon her shoulder.

“My sweet child, my own Flo’, there should be no division between us,” he said, in a voice quivering with emotion.

Flora flung herself upon his breast with a cry of joy, as the old tone of voice greeted her ears, and he bent over her, kissing her white forehead with his trembling lips.

Outwardly there was a reunion, and inwardly too, at least, so far as their true attachment for each other, uninfluenced by the particular cause of their recent estrangement, existed.

Flora had astonished her father; no wonder—she had surprised herself. The alteration in his manner since his return to Harleydale had been so remarkable that, while it pained her, it was incomprehensible to her. There was something so new in his hauteur and so bewildering in his grand patronising air, that she, whose memory of former grandeur was but a fleeting dream, and of their recent humble condition exceedingly vivid, felt distressed at the splendour by which she was surrounded so abruptly, and by homage which she was called upon to render as well as to receive. She wished to have been permitted to glide into her new position, and not at one bound spring from a child of poverty into the position of a duchess. She forgot that penury had been, as it were, her normal condition, that the change in her father was a resumption of his dignity, not a new manner founded upon a sudden accession of wealth. She had been uncomfortable in her isolation at Harleydale, for isolated she was. She had brooded over the changes which had occurred and those which threatened her. She had held self-communings and imaginary conversations, with what result we have seen.

Her inner nature had developed itself in one great explosion; it gave to both father and daughter a lesson.

Wilton, as he embraced his daughter, became conscious that her affectionate nature required something more tender in the mode of addressing her, and in the manner of acting towards her, than he had lately adopted. He perceived that gentle fondness would gain always the strongest influence over her, and he resolved on the instant to dispense with his loftiness in his interviews with her, and he hoped, in recovering the earnest affection she had always previously evinced, to steal from her a consent to wed the man he had selected for her husband.

She, too, at the moment had a thought that, with returning fondness, her father might be led to see Hal Vivian with, her eyes, and his strong opposition to their union might be made to pass away.

Neither, however, alluded to the subject; both knew it was not the time, yet each felt the impression strengthened that the resumption of their fond relations would tend to a result they both wished to see consummated, though so different in effect.

Wilton made no further remark upon Lester Vane’s epistle, nor did he hint that he still entertained a very high opinion of the spirit in which it was conceived, or that it was his intention to reply to it, and beg the writer to come down to Harleydale quietly, when, having the field to himself, he might endeavour, by gentle words and soft persuasions, to induce Flora to transfer her affection from young Vivian to him.

He addressed a few kind words to the yet tearful girl—endeavoured to chase away an impression that his restoration to his proper position lessened his natural affection for her—and dismissed her with a parental kiss, bidding her come to him again with brighter eyes and her own sweet smile, to cheer up the hours in which they were accustomed to meet, and which their late estrangement had made irksome and gloomy to both.

She quitted the library, her overcharged heart much relieved. She hastened to her chamber, but not to remain there. She quickly attired herself, for she wished to sit and think over the events of the morning, and the prospects they seemed to open up for her, at the spot where Hal had first poured the passionate words of love in her willing ears. There, and there only, could she find it in her heart to sit and think of him, and to fashion hopes of rosy aspect, and sigh forth tender aspirations for a union that was to be to her conception so happy—so very happy.

Flora was on her way to the little glen for this purpose when the baleful eye of Colonel Mires fell upon her. As she disappeared in the leafy opening, Mr. Chewkle followed her, according to the directions of his new employer, while the Colonel hurried away to set in action the train of arrangements he had with much cunning artifice devised, and now sought to bring to a successful issue.

Mr. Chewkle, following his instructions to the letter, turned into a shrubby alley, which Colonel Mires had omitted to tell him to pass, and instead, therefore, of directing his steps to the spot where Flora was sitting, he unconsciously hurried towards the village inn from which he had clandestinely bolted.

Colonel Mires, as he had arranged, appeared at the proper moment within the glen, but to his vexed surprise he saw Flora, with upturned face, sitting in a thoughtful attitude, and no Chewkle there.

He instantly surmised that a mistake had occurred, and he would have retired, but Flora heard his approaching step, and, on seeing him, she rose up suddenly, with the evident intention of hastily quitting the little fairy-like solitude.

Colonel Mires impulsively placed himself before her and intercepted her. He was conscious the moment had arrived for him to effect his plan, and make her compulsorily his bride or resign her for ever to the arms of another.

His heart, at the bare thought of the alternative, seemed to be plunged into the centre of a flaming furnace, and the sight of her exquisitely beautiful but certainly very much astonished features roused his worst passions, so as entirely to shut out the suggestions of caution, reason or justice.

“Pardon me, Miss Wilton,” he said, in a voice which actually trembled with excitement, “for appearing thus abruptly before you, as well as for desiring to detain you for a few minutes while I make a communication to you of an important character—at least to my future happiness.”

“Your pardon in return, Colonel Mires,” she interposed, frigidly; “any communication you may desire to make to me must be made at the Hall, and in presence of my father!”

“Ordinarily, Miss Wilton, such would be the proper mode, I confess; but there are occasions which override etiquette, and this is one of them.”

As Colonel Mires had always treated her with a profound and tender respect, no fear of him entered her mind. She disliked him because he had acted so rudely and contemptuously to Hal, and because his attentions to herself had become sufficiently marked to be offensive to her. She would not, therefore, have hesitated to remain if it had been a mere question of reliance upon his gentlemanly conduct; but the instinct of danger so quickly felt by women when there is real danger at hand raised in her a desire to be away from that lonely place, and, without replying to his observation, she moved on to depart. Once more he stayed her by intercepting her progress.

“Excuse me, Miss Wilton,” he said, “you must hear me.”

Her soft eye glittered, an angry expression appeared upon her fair face, so lovely, even in its ruffled aspect, as to make the heart of the Colonel ache with an intensity of passion.

“Colonel Mires,” she said, sternly, “you forget alike what is due to my position and your own.”

“Possibly, Miss Wilton!” he answered, rapidly. “I forget that—all, everything in the world, in your beautiful presence. You must have seen long since, Miss Wilton, how completely you have enslaved my heart, how entirely my whole being is absorbed by a devouring passion for you. In my words—in my looks—-in my manner, you must have observed how ardently I love you—you must perceive and comprehend that I cannot live without you. Oh, Miss Wilton, I am aware your imagination has been ensnared by a generous impulse in favour of another; but believe that he can never—would never perform one tithe of the devotions I will offer up at your shrine. He would not—no other being would so constantly and unceasingly worship you—so persistently consult your happiness and do so much to secure it as I; for, oh, no other can love you with the impetuous soul-worship which burns in my breast for you.”

“This language, in this place, is an insult to me, Colonel Mires. I demand to be allowed to depart,” cried Flora, as soon as she could recover from the bewilderment his torrent of passionate words occasioned her.

“I only ask Miss Wilton for one small word—tell me to hope—one kind look, and the displacement of that offended expression upon your face by a forgiving smile, for I do nought in offence but all in love.”

“I insist on not being detained, sir,” she cried, indignantly; “you must answer to my father, Colonel Mires, for this unmanly outrage.”

She sprang past him, and was about to rush from the spot, when Chewkle made his appearance, out of breath. He had been running; in his turn he intercepted her—“Beg pardon,” he said, almost inarticulately; “you are Miss Wilton, I b’lieve?”

“I am,” said Flora, readily, for even in this man she believed she should find a protector from the importunities of the now-detested Colonel Mires.

“That’s all right,” responded Mr. Chewkle, still panting. “I’ve been ’untin’ all over the grounds arter you, Miss, for I’ve a very pertikler dockyment to give into your ’ands alone.”

“A document into my hands—what do you mean, my good man?” she responded, with surprise.

“Yes, Miss, a letter,” he returned, with a kind of knowing nod.

Colonel Mires retired a few paces, as if animated by a well-bred desire not to play the part of an eavesdropper.

“Why did you not leave this communication at the Hall?” said Flora, with some misgiving. “Why take so much trouble to find me?”

“Because, as I told you, Miss, I was charged to give it into your ’ands only. You knows Mrs. Harper of Highbury, don’t you, Miss? aunt to poor young Mr. Vivian, poor fellow, poor fellow!”

Flora’s face blanched. His last sentence sounded like the sudden boom of a death-knell in her ear. She tried to speak but found it impossible to articulate a word.

Mr. Chewkle placed in her cold hand the letter he had received from Colonel Mires.

“That letter is from her,” he said; “she told me to give it to nobody but you, and I was to bring back your answer. Poor creature, she is distressed, she is!”

Flora had scarcely strength to tear open the letter. A terrible vision of something dreadful having happened, with which Hal was intimately connected, rose up before her, and it was not dissipated by finding the paper on which the communication was written was thickly bordered with black.

Her trembling eyes settled on the characters traced by a female hand. She read a few lines, uttered an agonized, suffocating cry, dropped the letter, staggered back a few steps, and fell into the ready arms of Colonel Mires lifeless.

“Fainted, by goles!” cried Mr. Chewkle.

“Quick, man, quick, assist me to bear her away from here,” cried the Colonel, in a state of excessive agitation—“quick, not an instant is to be lost.”

Mr. Chewkle complied, and together they bore her by a narrow avenue into a copse, and thence into a little country-lane, over which a canopy of trees arched from either side of the hedges that bordered it.

Near to a gap which had been purposely made in the hedge stood a close carriage, upon which was seated Colonel Mires’ Indian servant, and within it the man’s wife, an ayah, who had come over from India with a family at the same time Colonel Mires had returned to England.

Into this carriage Flora was placed, and Colonel Mires followed. There was a very brief conference between him and Mr. Chewkle—the rapid passing of a sum of money, and then, at a signal from Colonel Mires, who drew up the overlapping wooden blind, the carriage was driven swiftly away—a route through byways having been previously arranged; and Mr. Chewkle was left alone.

The commission agent looked at the money he had received with a smile, and then put it carefully away.

“Honesty’s a poor game after all,” he muttered, with a self-satisfied, half-triumphant air. “This sort of thing is the paying game,” he added, with a chuckle.

He forgot that the game had a heavy penalty attached to it, one indeed that he might be called upon to pay.

He sneaked back into the copse, and stealthily made his way to Harleydale Woods, remarking to himself—

“Now to make short work of old Wilton. The daughter is disposed of, the old man must foller, and I must touch some more of Grahame’s money. Business is business, and a ’ighly renoomerative business is pleasure—tip-top pleasure.”

At the moment that he, like a prowling wolf, was stealing beneath brake and covert, on an errand of murder, Mr. Wilton was preparing to take a walk alone to the very place where Chewkle was hiding, as though he knew the ruffian was secreting himself there, and it was his duty to place himself in his power.