Perhaps in the course of a long and, till its very latter years, a most prosperous life, the Knight of Gwynne had never known more real unbroken happiness than now that he had laid his head beneath the lowly thatch of a fisherman's cottage, and found a home beside the humble hearth where daily toil had used to repose. It was not that he either felt, or assumed to feel, indifferent to the great reverse of his fortune, and to the loss of that station to which all his habits of life and thought had been conformed. Nor had he the innate sense that his misfortunes had been incurred without the culpability of, at least, neglect on his own part. No; he neither deceived nor exonerated himself. His present happiness sprang from discovering in those far dearer to him than himself powers of patient submission, traits of affectionate forbearance, signs of a hopeful, trusting spirit, that their trials were not sent without an aim and object,—all gifts of heart and mind, higher, nobler, and better than the palmiest days of prosperity had brought forth.

It was that short and fleeting season, the late autumn, a time in which the climate of Northern Ireland makes a brief but brilliant amende for the long dreary months of the year. The sea, at last calm and tranquil, rolled its long waves upon the shore in measured sweep, waking the echoes in a thousand caves, and resounding with hollow voice beneath the very cliffs. The wild and fanciful outlines of the Skerry Islands were marked, sharp and distinct, against the dark blue sky, and reflected not less so in the unruffled water at their base. The White Rocks, as they are called, shone with a lustre like dulled silver; and above them the ruined towers of old Dunluce hung balanced over the sea, and even in decay seemed to defy dissolution.

The most striking feature of the picture was, however, the myriad of small boats, amounting in some instances to several hundreds, which filled the little bay at sunset. These were the fishermen from Innisshowen, coming to gather the seaweed on the western shore their eastern aspect denied them,—a hardy and a daring race, who braved the terrible storms of that fearful coast without a thought of fear. Here were they now, their little skiffs crowded with every sail they could carry,—for it was a trial of speed who should be first up after the turn of the ebb-tide,—their taper masts bending and springing like whips, the white water curling at the bows and rustling over the gunwales; while the fishermen themselves, with long harpoon spears, contested for the prizes,—large masses of floating weed, which not unfrequently were seized upon by three or four rival parties at the same moment.

A more animated scene cannot be conceived than the bay thus presented: the boats tacking and beating in every direction, crossing each other so closely as to threaten collision,—sometimes, indeed, carrying off a bowsprit or a rudder; while, from the restless motion of those on board, the frail skiffs were at each instant endangered,—accidents that occurred continually, but whose peril may be judged by the hearty cheers and roars of laughter they excited. Here might be seen a wide-spreading surface of tangled seaweed, vigorously towed in two different directions by contending crews, whose exertions to secure it were accompanied by the wildest shouts and cries. There a party were hauling in the prey, while their comrades, with spars and spears, kept the enemy aloof; and here, on the upturned keel of a capsized boat, were a dripping group, whose heaviest penalty was the ridicule of their fellows.

Seated in front of the little cottage, the Darcys and Forester watched this strange scene with all the interest its moving, stirring life could excite; and while the ladies could enjoy the varying picture only for itself, to the Knight and the youth it brought back the memory of a more brilliant and a grander display, one to which heroism and danger had lent the most exciting of all interests.

“I see,” said Darcy, as he watched his companion's countenance,—“I see whither your thoughts are wandering. They are off to the old castle of Aboukir, and the tall cliffs at Marmorica.” Forester slightly nodded an assent, but never spoke, while the Knight resumed: “I told you it would never do to give up the service. The very glance of your eye at yonder picture tells me how the great original is before your miud. Come, a few weeks more of rest and quiet, you will be yourself again. Then must you present yourself before the gallant Duke, and ask for a restitution to your old grade. There will be sharp work erelong. Buonaparte is not the man to forgive Alexandria and Cairo. If I read you aright, you prefer such a career to all the ambition of a political life.”

Forester was still silent; but his changing color told that the Knight's words had affected him deeply, but whether as they were intended, it was not so plain to see. The Knight went on: “I am not disposed to vain regrets; but if I were to give way to such, it would be that I am not young enough to enter upon the career I now see opening to our arms. Our insular position seems to have moulded our destiny in great part; but, rely on it, we are as much a nation of soldiers as of sailors.” Warming with this theme, Darcy continued, while sketching out the possible turn of events, to depict the noble path open to a young man who to natural talents and acquirements added the high advantages of fortune, rank, and family influence.

“I told you,” said he, smiling, “that I blamed you once unjustly, as it happened, because, as a Guardsman, you did not seize the occasion to exchange guard-mounting for the field; but now I shall be sorely grieved if you suffer yourself to be withdrawn from a path that has already opened so brightly, by any of the seductions of your station, or the fascinations of mere fashion.”

“Are you certain,” said Lady Eleanor, speaking in a voice shaken by agitation,—“are you certain, my dear, that these same counsels of yours would be in strict accordance with the wishes of Lord Wallincourt's friends, or is it not possible that their ambitions may point very differently for his future?”

“I can but give the advice I would offer to Lionel,” said Darcy, “if my son were placed in similarly fortunate circumstances. A year or two, at least, of such training will be no bad discipline to a young man's mind, and help to fit him to discuss those terms which, if I see aright, will be rife in our assemblies for some years to come—” Darcy was about to continue, when Tate advanced with a letter, whose address bespoke Bicknell's hand. It was a long-expected communication, and, anxious to peruse it carefully, the Knight arose, and making his excuses, re-entered the cottage.

The party sat for some time in silence. Lady Eleanor's mind was in a state of unusual conflict, since, for the first time in her life, had she practised any concealment with her husband, having forborne to tell him of Forester's former addresses to Helen. To this course she had been impelled by various reasons, the most pressing among which were the evident change in the young man's demeanor since he last appeared amongst them, and, consequently, the possibility that he had outlived the passion he then professed; and secondly, by observing that nothing in Helen betrayed the slightest desire to encourage any renewal of those professions, or any chagrin at the change in his conduct. As a mother and as a woman, she hesitated to avow what should seem to represent her daughter as being deserted, while she argued that if Helen were as indifferent as she really seemed, there was no occasion whatever for the disclosure. Now, however, that the Knight had spoken his counsels so strongly, the thought occurred to her, that Forester might receive the advice in the light of a rejection of his former proposal, and suppose that these suggestions were only another mode of refusing his suit. Hence a struggle of doubt and uncertainty arose within her, whether she should at once make everything known to Darcy, or still keep silence, and leave events to their own development. The former course seemed the most fitting; and entirely forgetful of all else, she hastily arose, and followed her husband into the cabin.

Forester was now alone with Helen, and for the first time since that well-remembered night when he had offered his heart and been rejected. The game of dissimulating feelings is almost easiest before a numerous audience; it is rarely possible in a tÊte-À-tÊte. So Forester soon felt; and although he made several efforts to induce a conversation, they were all abrupt and disjointed, as were Helen's own replies to them. At length came a pause; and what a thing is a pause at such a moment! The long lingering seconds in which a duellist watches his adversary's pistol, wavering over the region of his heart or brain, is less torturing than such suspense. Forester arose twice, and again sat down, his face pale and flushed alternately. At length, with a thick and rapid utterance, he said,—

“I have been thinking over the Knight's counsels,—dare I ask if they have Miss Darcy's concurrence?”

“It would be a great, a very great presumption in me,” said Helen, tremulously, “to offer an opinion on such a theme. I have neither the knowledge to distinguish between the opposite careers, nor have I any feeling for those sentiments which men alone understand in warfare.”

“Nor, perhaps,” added Forester, with a sudden irony, “sufficient interest in the subject to give it a thought.”

Helen was silent; her slightly compressed lips and heightened color showed that she was offended at the speech, but she made no reply.

“I crave your pardon, Miss Darcy,” said he, in a low, submissive accent, that told how heartfelt it was. “I most humbly ask you to forgive my rudeness. The very fact that I had no claim to that interest should have protected you from such a speech. But see what comes of kindness to those who are little used to it; they get soon spoiled, and forget themselves.”

“Lord Wall incourt will have to guard himself well against flattery, if such humble attentions as ours disturb his judgment.”

“I will get out of the region of it,” said he, resolutely; “I will take the Knight's advice. It is but a plunge, and all is over.”

“If I dare to say so, my Lord,” said Helen, archly, “this is scarcely the spirit in which my father hoped his counsels would be accepted. His chivalry on the score of a military life may be overstrained, but it has no touch of that recklessness your Lordship seems to lend it.”

“And why should not this be the spirit in which I join the army?” said he, passionately; “the career has not for me those fascinations which others feel. Danger I like, for its stimulus, as other men like it; but I would rather confront it when and where and how I please, than at the dictate of a colonel and by the ritual of a despatch.”

“Rather be a letter of marque, in fact, than a ship-of-the-line,—more credit to your Lordship's love of danger than discipline.”

Forester smiled, but not without anger, at the quiet persiflage of her manner. It took him some seconds ere he could resume.

“I perceive,” said he, in a tone of deeper feeling, “that whatever my resolves, to discuss them must be an impertinence, when they excite no other emotion than ridicule—”

“Nay, my Lord,” interposed Helen, eagerly; “I beg you to forgive my levity. Nothing was further from my thoughts than to hurt one to whom we owe our deepest debt of gratitude. I can never forget you saved my father's life; pray do not let me seem so base, to my heart, as to undervalue this.”

“Oh, Miss Darcy,” said he, passionately, “it is I who need forgiveness,—I, whose temper, rendered irritable by illness, suspect reproach and sarcasm in every word of those who are kindest to me.”

“You are unjust to yourself,” said Helen, gently,—“unjust, because you expect the same powers of mind and judgment that you enjoyed in health. Think how much better you are than when you came here. Think what a few days more may do. How changed—”

“Has Miss Darcy changed since last I met her?” asked he, in a tone that sank into the very depth of her heart.

Helen tried to smile; but emotions of a sadder shade spread over her pale features, as she said,—

“I hope so, my Lord; I trust that altered fortunes have not lost their teaching. I fervently hope that sorrow and suffering have left something behind them better than unavailing regrets and heart-repinings.”

“Oh, believe me,” cried Forester, passionately, “it is not of this change I would speak. I dared to ask with reference to another feeling.”

“Be it so,” said Helen, trembling, as if nerving herself for a strong and long-looked-for effort,-“be it so, my Lord, and is not my answer wide enough for both? Would not any change, short of a dishonorable one, make the decision I once came to a thousand times more necessary now?”

“Oh, Helen, these are cold and cruel words. Will you tell me that my rank and station are to be like a curse upon my happiness?”

“I spoke of our altered condition, my Lord. I spoke of the impossibility of your Lordship recurring to a theme which the sight of that thatched roof should have stifled. Nay, hear me out. It is not of you or your motives that is here the question; it is of me and my duties. They are there, my Lord,—they are with those whose hearts have been twined round mine from infancy,—mine when the world went well and proudly with us; doubly, trebly mine when affection can replace fortune, and the sympathies' of the humblest home make up for all the flatteries of the world. I have no reason to dwell longer on this to one who knows those of whom I speak, and can value them too.”

“But is there no place in your heart, Helen, for other affections than these; or is that place already occupied?”

“My Lord, you have borne my frankness so well, I must even submit to yours with a good grace. Still, this is a question you have no right to ask, or I to answer. I have told you that whatever doubt there might be as to your road in life, mine offered no alternative. That ought surely to be enough.”

“It shall be,” said Forester, with a low sigh, as, trembling in every limb, he arose from the seat. “And yet, Helen,” said he, in a voice barely above a whisper, “there might come a time when these duties, to which you cling with such attachment, should be rendered less needful by altered fortunes. I have heard that your father's prospects present more of hope than heretofore, have I not? Think that if the Knight should be restored to his own again, that then—”

“Nay,—it is scarcely worthy of your Lordship to exact a pledge which is to hang upon a decision like this. A verdict may give back my father's estate; it surely should not dispose of his daughter's hand?”

“I would exact nothing, Miss Darcy,” said Forester, stung by the tone of this reply. “But I see you cannot feel for the difficulties which beset him who has staked his all upon a cast. I asked, what might your feelings be, were the circumstances which now surround you altered?”

Helen was silent for a second or two; and then, as if having collected all her energy, she said: “I would that you had spared me—had spared yourself—the pain I now must give us both; but to be silent longer would be to encourage deception.” It was not till after another brief interval that she could continue: “Soon after you left this, my Lord, you wrote a letter to Miss Daly. This letter-I stop not now to ask with what propriety towards either of us—she left in my hands. I read it carefully; and if many of the sentiments it contained served to elevate your character in my esteem, I saw enough to show me that your resolves were scarcely less instigated by outraged pride than what you fancied to be a tender feeling. This perhaps might have wounded me, had I felt differently towards you. As it was, I thought it for the best; I deemed it happier that your motives should be divided ones, even though you knew it not. But as I read on, my Lord,—as I perused the account of your interview with Lady Wallincourt,—then a new light broke suddenly upon me; I found what, had I known more of life, should not have surprised, but what in my ignorance did indeed astonish me, that my father's station was regarded as one which could be alleged as a reason against your feeling towards his daughter. Now, my Lord, we have our pride too; and had your influence over me been all that ever you wished it, I tell you freely that I never would permit my affection to be gratified at the price of an insult to my father's house. If I were to say that your sentiments towards me should not have suffered it, would it be too much?”

“But, dearest Helen, remember that I am no longer dependent on my mother's will,—remember that I stand in a position and a rank which only needs you to share with me to make it all that my loftiest ambition ever coveted.”

“These are, forgive me if I tell you, very selfish reasonings, my Lord. They may apply to you; they hardly address themselves to my position. The pride which could not stoop to ally itself with our house in our days of prosperity, should not assuredly be wounded by suing us in our humbler fortunes.”

“Your thoughts dwell on Lady Netherby, Miss Darcy,” said Forester, irritably; “she is scarcely the person most to be considered here.”

“Enough for me, if I think so,” said Helen, haughtily. “The lady your Lordship's condescension would place in the position of a mother should at least be able to regard me with other feelings than those of compassionate endurance. In a word, sir, it cannot be. To discuss the topic longer is but to distress us both. Leave me to my gratitude to you, which is unbounded. Let me dwell upon the many traits of noble heroism I can think of in your character with enthusiasm, ay, and with pride,—pride that one so high and so gifted should have ever thought of one so little worthy of him. But do not weaken my principle by hoping that my affection can be won at the cost of my self-esteem.”

Forester bowed with a deep, respectful reverence; and when he lifted up his head, the sad expression of his features was that of one who had heard an irrevocable doom pronounced upon his dearest, most cherished hopes. Lady Eleanor at the same moment came forward from the door of the cottage, so that he had barely time to utter a hasty good-bye ere she joined her daughter.

“Your father wishes to see Lord Wallincourt, Helen. Has he gone?” But before Helen could reply the Knight came up.

“I hope you have not forgotten to ask him to dinner, Eleanor?” said he. “We did so yesterday, and he never made his appearance the whole evening.”

“Helen, did you?” But Helen was gone while they were speaking; so that Darcy, to repair the omission, hastened after his young friend with all the speed he could command.

“Have I found you?” cried Darcy, as, turning an angle of the rocky shore, he came behind Forester, who, with folded arms and bent-down head, stood like one sorrow-struck. “I just discovered that neither my wife nor my daughter had asked you to stop to dinner; and as you are punctilious, fully as much as they are forgetful, there was nothing for it but to run after you.”

“You are too kind, my dear Knight,—but not to-day; I'm poorly,—a headache.”

“Nay; a headache always means a mere excuse. Come back with me: you shall be as stupid a convive as you wish, only be a good listener, for I have got a great budget from my man of law, Mr. Bicknell, and am dying for somebody to inflict it upon.”

“With the best grace he could muster,—which was still very far from a good one,—Forester suffered himself to be led back to the cottage, endeavoring, as he went, to feel or feign an interest in the intelligence the Knight was full of. It seemed that Bicknell was very anxious not only for the Knight's counsel on many points, but for his actual presence at the trial. He appeared to think that Darcy being there, would be a great check upon the line of conduct he was apprised O'Halloran would adopt. There was already a very strong reaction in the West in favor of the old gentry of the land, and it would be at least an evidence of willingness to confront the enemy, were the Knight to be present.

“He tells me,” continued the Knight, “that Daly regretted deeply not having attended the former trial,—why, he does not exactly explain, but he uses the argument to press me now to do so.”

Forester might, perhaps, have enlightened him on this score, had he so pleased, but he said nothing.

“Of course, I need not say, nothing like intimidation is meant by this advice. The days for such are, thank God, gone by in Ireland; and it was, besides, a game I never could have played at; but yet it might be what many would expect of me, and at all events it can scarcely do harm. What is your opinion?”

“I quite agree with Mr. Bicknell,” said Forester, hastily; “there is a certain license these gentlemen of wig and gown enjoy, that is more protected by the bench than either good morals or good manners warrant.”

“Nay, you are now making the very error I would guard against,” said Darcy, laughing. “This legal sparring is rather good fun, even though they do not always keep the gloves on. Now, will you come with me?”

“Of course; I should have asked your leave to do so, had you not invited me.”

“You 'll hear the great O'Halloran, and I suspect that is as much as I shall gain myself by this action. We have merely some points of law to go upon; but, as I understand, nothing new or material in evidence to adduce. You ask, then, why persist? I 'll own to you I cannot say; but there seems the same punctilio in legal matters as in military; and it is a point of honor to sustain the siege until the garrison have eaten their boots. I am not so far from that contingency now, that I should be impatient; but meanwhile I perceive the savor of something better, and here comes Tate to say it is on the table.”