A most uncommon courtship, a bit of jealousy, and a very plain declaration.

NOT long had Colin been at home before a message was sent up by Miss Wintlebury, begging the favour of a few minutes' conversation with him as early as it might be convenient to himself. Poor Colin blushed to the eyes as he heard the request, and in a manner so hurried that he scarcely knew his own words, replied that he would wait upon her immediately. He took some time, nevertheless, in adapting and adjusting his dress to his own taste, which he now discovered had suddenly become very particular; but, at length, when he grew ashamed of hanging back any longer, he summoned a desperate resolution, and, like the leader of a forlorn hope, went on to his mistress's door as though on an expedition of life or death.

For the fourth time he found Miss Harriet's appearance changed; though this fourth appearance seemed the most true one. She was yet young, and had been handsome; just as a primrose cropped a week since, and dangling its head over the side of a jar has been handsome, but is so no longer. Her cheeks were slightly—very slightly painted; for custom is custom still, even by the coffin side. Her countenance was naturally intelligent, and had been improved in expression by indulgence in the love of literature. The proportions of her figure were comely enough, and such as would not have matched ill beside even so well-formed an one as was Colin's.

“I am afraid you will think me very bold, Mr. Clink,” observed Miss Wintlebury, after the first forms of their meeting had been gone through; “but I wished to thank you personally for your exceeding kindness towards one who is a mere stranger to you. I feel it the more because, unfortunately for me, I have so rarely met with anything of the kind. I think my poor mother—and she has been gone these many years—was the only creature that ever loved me in this world!”

Here her voice grew tremulous, and her utterance half convulsive.

“I do not scruple to say so much now, because in the condition in which I am—I know I am—I am dying, and that is all about it;—in that condition, I say, no scruples prevent me uttering what otherwise I should be ashamed to own, because, with my feet almost in the grave, I feel secure against any imputations which else the world might bring against me. But, having almost done with the world, and feeling under no apprehension that anybody will look upon me in any other light than as a departing guest about to close the door upon her own back for ever, I am not ashamed to speak as a woman openly: for openly I must shortly speak before a far greater Being than any here.”

Colin sat, with his eyes fixed on the ground, mute and motionless,—striving to divert his feelings by counting the pattern flowers on the carpet; but he could scarcely see them, his eyes were full. With difficulty he swallowed his grief as Miss Wintlebury continued, “To-night, now, I am unable to go through the exertion of pleasing those drunkards yonder, as usual. Nor is this the first warning I have had that the poor concert of my life is close upon its finale.”

Accustomed as the young woman appeared to be to contemplate her own death within the little oratory of her own bosom, she yet displayed that feminine weakness of being unable to allude to it in words before another person without shedding tears.

“I hope, Miss,” began Colin, but he could not get on,—“I hope, ma'am———”

“It is not for myself!” she exclaimed resolutely, and as though determined to outface those tears,—“no, not for myself. That is very little worth crying for, indeed.”

She smiled with a ghastly expression of selfcontempt, and continued, “It is, sir, because I have it not in my power to repay you for your kindness to me. I must die in the debt of a stranger, for all help is now going from my hands. These few dresses and trinkets——”

And as she sobbed out the words she placed her hand upon a small heap of theatrical robes and decorations which lay beside her.

“These are all—and a very poor all they are—I have to repay you with, besides a buckle that I have here upon my band, which my mother gave me; and that I wish you to take off and keep when I am dead: but I must have it till then. I cannot part with it before.”

She paused, and gazed upon the trinket of which she spoke as though the thoughts it awakened congealed her into stone; for not a muscle of her countenance moved, and nothing showed she was alive save the rapid tears which dropped in painful noiselessness from her eyelashes to the ground.

“No, that is not quite all,” she resumed, almost in a whisper; “there is a necklace that was given me at school one Midsummer holiday: you shall have that, too. And I should like you to give it—I know you will forgive me saying so, won't you? Give it—if she be not too proud—give it—if there be any one in the world you love, give it her, and ask her to wear it for my poor sake!”

Colin was unused to the great sorrows of the world; his nature would have its way; he could contain his heart no longer, and burst into an agonizing and audible fit of grief. When his words came he begged her to desist; he refused to take anything from her as a recompense for what he had done; and, in as encouraging a tone as he could assume, he bid her cheer up, and hope for the best. He said she might yet recover, and be happy, why not? He would be her friend for ever, if she would but pluck her heart up, and look on things more cheerfully.

And, as he said this,—he knew not how he did it, or why,—but he kissed her forehead passionately, and pressed her hand within his own, as though those fingers might never be unclenched again.

At that moment the room door was very unceremoniously opened, and two persons stood before him.

Mrs. Popple had entered first, leading forwards Fanny Woodruff!

“Colin!” exclaimed the latter in a tone of mingled astonishment and reproach, and at the same time retreating precipitately from the room, while Miss Wintlebury sharply reproved her landlady for this rudeness, and Mr. Clink himself as suddenly assumed much more of the natural aspect of a fool than any person would have believed his features at all capable of. At length he spoke; and, rushing out after Fanny, exclaimed, “You shall not go! I have done no wrong! Come back—come back!”

“Sir!” replied Fanny, with the determined voice of a highly-excited spirit, “I have not accused you of anything, and, therefore, you need not defend yourself. But, indeed, Colin, I never expected this!”

“What—what have I done?”

“Nothing, perhaps, that you have not a perfect right to do if you think proper; but, however, I will not be troubled about it—I will not!” She applied her handkerchief to her eyes. “I am sorry for having interrupted you; but, since you are so much better engaged than with me, I will never trouble you again as long as I live!”

“Will you hear me?” demanded Colin.

“It is of no use. I am satisfied. You have a right to do as you think proper.”

“Of course I have, so long as I do right?”

“Right!”

“Yes, right. I have not injured you. I never told you I loved you—never!”

Those words startled Fanny as with the shock of an earthquake; shattering to fragments in one instant that visionary palace of Hope, which her heart had been occupied for years in rearing. She looked incredulously in his face, as though doubtful of his identity, and then burst into a flood of tears.

“True,” she murmured, “you never did—never! I have betrayed myself. But here, sir,” and she assumed as much firmness of manner as possible, while she held a small packet out for his acceptance. “Take this; for I came to give it you. It is all your mother and I——” Her breathing became heavy and convulsive. “We read your letter, and—Oh, save me! save me!” She fell insensible into the arms of Mrs. Popple, who instantly, at Colin's request, carried her into Miss Wintlebury's room, and placed her on the sofa.

The packet had fallen from her hand. It contained the three guineas which Colin had formerly given to her, besides two from his mother, and the whole amount of Fanny's own savings during the time she had been in service, making in all between eight and nine pounds.

Her unexpected appearance is readily explained. On perusing the melancholy news contained in that letter of Colin's, to which Fanny had alluded, she and his mother instantly formed the very natural conclusion that, bad as he had described his situation to be, he would endeavour to make the best of it to them; and that, therefore, to a positive certainty it was very much worse than his description would literally imply. A thousand imaginary dangers surrounding him, thronged upon their minds, which, they concluded, nothing short of a personal visit could modify or avert. Nothing less, indeed, could satisfy their feelings upon the subject; and hence it was agreed between them that, instead of writing to him, Fanny should undertake the journey, carrying with her all the money for his use which their joint efforts could procure.

The attentions of Mrs. Popple and Miss Wintlebury soon brought the young woman again to herself.

“Let me go!” said she. “I will return home to-night! I cannot stay here! I cannot bear it!”

“No, Fanny,” observed Colin, “that you shall not. You have mistaken me much—very much; when, if you knew all, you would be the first in the world to applaud me for what I have done.”

“I shall never be happy any more!” sighed Fanny almost inaudibly.

“I hope, young lady,” said Miss Wintlebury, addressing her, “that I have not been any cause of unhappiness to you? Because if so, perhaps it will be some comfort to you to know that I cannot continue so long. Look at me. Surely this poor frame cannot have excited either man's love or woman's jealousy; for no one could be so weak as to dream of placing his happiness on such a broken reed, nor any one so foolish as to take alarm at a shadow, which a few days at most—perhaps a few hours—must remove for ever.”

Fanny heard this discourse at first with indifference; but now she listened earnestly, and with evident surprise. Miss Wintlebury continued, “If—for so it almost seems—you foolishly imagine that I stand between that young gentleman and yourself, be assured you are deeply mistaken. Death, I too well know, has betrothed me; and I dare not, would not, accept another bridegroom. Now be at peace, and hear me but a moment longer. I know not who you are, though you and Mr. Clink are evidently acquainted; but if there be anything between you both,—if you love him, or he you,—all I say is, may Heaven bless you in it,—bless you! With one like him you could not fail to be blessed. A nobler, or a more generous and feeling creature never looked up to heaven.”

Overcome both by her bodily weakness and her feelings the poor girl sat down, and covered her face with her hands as she sobbed bitterly. During some minutes not a word was uttered; nor until the last speaker again rose, and took Fanny's hand, and led her across the room towards Colin, who stood by the fire-place, looking as grave and immoveable as though he were cast in lead.

“Come,” said she, “forget me, and let me see you friends.”

Suiting the action to the sentiment expressed, she placed Fanny's hand in Colin's. He gazed on her a moment, then clasped her in his arms, and kissed her a thousand times.

That night the three supped together, and were happy. And, as Fanny had not as yet taken any place of abode, she shared Miss Wintlebury's apartments; while Colin passed, amidst endless anxiety and excitement, an almost totally sleepless night.

Fanny did not choose to remain in town much longer than the occasion of her visit rendered absolutely essential; but during that time she related to Colin everything that could possibly interest him respecting the home he had left behind.

Amongst other matters of less importance, she surprised and astonished him with the information that, shortly after his own flight from Bramleigh, her father had been removed by Doctor Rowel from Nabbfield, and carried by night to a distant part of the country. But, as some particulars of this movement will require to be laid before the reader in the course of some subsequent chapter, I shall not trouble him with Fanny's statement, or Mr. Clink's remarks in reply, here; merely observing that the latter earnestly impressed upon her the necessity, both on her father's account, and his own too, of her applying at Kiddal Hall, and informing Mr. Lupton of the whole circumstances of the transaction at as early a period as possible.

All this Fanny promised to perform immediately on her arrival at Bramleigh. But when the period of departure came she returned thither with a heavy heart. The declaration made by Colin that he had never loved her (for so she interpreted it) still weighed heavily upon her bosom; nor did his subsequent kindness of behaviour, although it pleased for the moment, tend to any permanent alleviation of her feelings of sorrow derived from that source. The difference between her visit to town and this departure seemed to her like that to one who goes out in sunshine, with a glad day before her, but returns under clouds, and with no prospect but that of darkness at night. While, perplexed as Colin had partially felt between what he thought to be his duty, and his inclination, he so far discovered—if not to his positive satisfaction,—at least the entire absence of anything like real regret at Fanny's departure. In the mortification and agony of spirit consequent on her discovery of that fact, Fanny determined resolutely to banish Colin from her mind in every shape, save as a friend, for ever.