This same evening two persons sat after dinner sipping their wine, in a hotel at the West End: these were Marmaduke Burton and Dalby. We must here introduce the latter as a totally different man to what we have seen him in Yorkshire; he was one of those who possess a serpent facility of slipping their skin, only that he performed the operation more than annually, and at will. He had crept into good society in town; there, where an honest, upright lawyer could not have met the views of his clients. Perhaps we are saying too much for some cases, for there were many men of the highest principle who employed Dalby; he was a very useful man, and being anxious to quit the country shortly, and practise in town, he lost no opportunity of increasing his connection. Here he was a perfectly different being; much of the formality of manner, necessary in the country, where levity might not have suited the homelier ideas of those seeking his aid, was thrown aside completely. He knew all the lessees, managers, English and foreign, of all the theatres, all the artists' studios, the actresses, models—all were familiar to him. Did Mr. —— want some fair one hastily summoned from Paris, to appear unexpectedly on the boards of his theatre, and take the town by surprise, Dalby was off, with just a carpet-bag, to France, and before any one imagined it possible, he had returned with the fair one, as in nine cases out of ten he succeeded. There was a bustling manner about him, yet not disagreeable when he pleased, which carried much before him. He took things for granted, and often left no room for a person to say "No." Had he entreated, it might have been otherwise; but he said—"Oh! you must do it, you know, my dear—it will be the making of you;" and thus many a good engagement was relinquished for an indifferent one, by some inexperienced, and often established actress, because it suited Dalby's policy to oblige his employer. He cared for no one but himself. Then he had a habit of loitering near the doors of theatres, and many a lady, distressed by the non-appearance of her carriage, was politely addressed by Dalby. More than once he had unceremoniously, in such a case, appropriated a bachelor friend's brougham, and, offering it as his own, received ten thousand thanks from some fussy dowager on a wet evening, and a cordial invitation to her house. A half-crown to the groom, and a—"If asked whose brougham it is, say Mr. Dalby's," made him perfectly tranquil; to the real owner he would say, (be it remembered, he always took care to select some man of Lord Randolph's mould—a quiet, easygoing person—for his instrument to be played upon,) "My dear fellow, a very particular client of mine, rich as Croesus, missed her carriage, I have lent yours for ten minutes—you don't mind?"

"Oh! not in the least; let's stand here, and watch the girls get into the carriages. By Jove! there's a pretty one, who can she be? Is it Lady This? or Miss That?" etc., etc., etc.

We give the reader a skeleton sketch of most conversations of the kind, just to show how Dalby had got on so well; and, by means such as these, he was factotum to half the needy of those kind of slaves in town, so no wonder he resolved to relinquish quiet country practice.

"Don't I tell you," said Burton, continuing a conversation, "that I had no idea the fellow was coming. Gray made his acquaintance in Florence, but I never imagined it would be continued in town; the fellow is making his way every where—curse him!" and he ground his teeth bitterly.

"We'll clip his wings," answered Dalby; "but it must be done through her—she is his guiding star in all. If he lost her—well; he would soon disappear from our path."

"I hate that man, Dalby, yet I would not seriously injure him; but why he, an artist, cannot return to Italy, seems astonishing to me—'tis his proper field."

"There are too many there; moreover, he has some scheme in hand I cannot fathom. I discovered Mary Burns. She is residing in a very humble cottage near Kentish Town; part of the house she lets furnished, and ekes out an existence for herself and blind mother, by morning lessons as governess. He has established her thus."

"And does—does"—he couldn't say Mrs. Tremenhere. "Does his wife ever call there?"

"I think so. I looked in at an hour when Mary was absent, having ascertained when this was the case. I called as a stranger about lessons for my daughter, and saw the old mother; but she is deaf, blind, and half childish. She gave me little information. All she said was, 'Kind friends—old friends, very kind; so Mary says.' I rely more on what I elicited, guardedly, from the servant. I think more may be done there. The girl has a downcast look and a fixed smile, which betoken one to be perhaps bought. Some of these blind fools to their interest, are faithful to their employers—what business has the hireling to look to any thing but money?"

"True—but don't trust her too soon."

"No, nor by myself. I will set another to work, who knows only what I tell him—one of the red waistcoat messengers. Tell him a woman's in the case, and he will be alert and faithful. This girl said, a sweet fair lady and tall gentleman called sometimes—these must be the man and his wife."

"Well, I leave it in your hands. Fancy my being obliged to leave Uplands! Fortunately, Gray, who is the most harum-scarum host in the world, let the name escape only the day he was expected. Of course, I could not stay and meet him; I told him we had had some discussion, and that the contact would be unpleasant to both. The fellow has nouse enough to keep a still tongue. No one seems acquainted with former facts; he is only known as a rising artist, of good family, they think;—well, so he is on one side. I hinted no relationship, and begged Gray to insinuate from himself, to the dozen assembled there, that we had been on unfriendly terms, and thus prevent my name being mentioned."

"Oh! that was best; it may be as well he should hear little of you, if he could be persuaded somehow to take her there. Lady Dora might arrange that, if she so pleased——"

"My dear fellow, the oddest thing is, no one knows he is married! Lady Ripley drew me aside, and asked as a personal favour, that I would say nothing about the scandalous marriage of her niece—this before his coming was known; how they got on, all of them, I know not."

"Whew!" ejaculated Dalby, as if a thought struck him; "a bachelor, eh! Then what do they suppose her to be?"

"Her existence is unknown to his mere acquaintances, for I sifted Gray; he is like a sieve of wheat. I got all the corn, and threw the dust in his own eyes. My amount of information is this—This Miles is a capital fellow, not caring for any woman, else he were dangerous let loose amongst them; so deucedly good-looking, even Lady Dora might notice that; up to any thing—the best shot, horseman—all; so he's always welcome at Uplands—every fellow likes him."

"That is," said Burton, "as every man likes the best shot, etc., who cuts him out in all ways. So with these qualities, and the friends they create for a man, get to work, Dalby, and let's hunt this impostor out of the country."

"We'll see," said the other, rubbing his hands. "I have an idea—crude, 'tis true; give me time. As your professional friend, I deem myself called upon to meet your natural wishes, and get rid of a nuisance. Poor fellow! we will award him Italy; why couldn't he go there?" and he laughed contemptuously.

These were the creatures Sylvia and Juvenal had selected for their niece! Poor Minnie! no wonder she ran away. Reader, did you ever feel a desire to be an atrocious villain for five minutes? To have all the sentiments, ideas, schemes, and infamies, engendered in the minds of such? Think how many thousand thoughts they have to which we are total strangers! What a peep into another world it would be—a world of novelties! Every spectre fancy, a mental Ethiop!

We must not make Dalby so black as Burton; the one looked upon the matter thus:—"Burton is my client; in my heart I believe Tremenhere legitimate; but we have no proof—'tis not for me to seek for it. In my client's interest I must try and get this fellow out of the country quietly; it can best be done by means of his wife—make him jealous, and he will carry her off to the antipodes. How may this be accomplished? I must devise some plan;" but in thus coldly calculating, he never once considered, that in raising a cause of jealousy in a man's mind, you destroy his happiness—you brush the bloom from the peach, and it quickly fades. A jealous man desecrates every thing by his suspicions; turning the mysterious and beautiful vapour around her he loves, to mist and gloom. Is she sad?—she is regretting some one; gay?—some secret cause for joy exists; thoughtful?—'tis of another. He feels, in short, like a man tied to a galvanized corpse; the form is there—the spirit fled.

Burton's motives were different to the others. He had a darker aim in view; he had to be revenged on both—how? he cared little, so he accomplished it. He well knew that Miles had suffered deepest wrong at his hands, but who had the proof? not himself even. He had destroyed every trace which might lead to it; he had been resolved not to seek it, thus to be enabled to say to his accusing spirit, "'Tis false, I do not know it." How many like Burton trample awhile on conscience!

We have shown the position of Mary Burns. When Minnie had been a short time in town, she implored Miles to let her visit this poor girl; his natural goodness of heart had been a little warped by the world. He had become stern from the galling chain it threw around him, in the fault it accused his mother of; he judged woman harshly;—this, even now, made him frequently wish that Minnie had become his otherwise than by an elopement. At first, he peremptorily refused to permit her to go there. Minnie, in her soul's purity, looked amazed. "Why not?" she asked.

"Why?—why? oh, because it is not a fitting place for you to go to," was the reply.

"Why not, dear Miles?"

"Minnie, though you acted like an angel in visiting this poor girl in the country, and supporting her in her sorrow, by leading her aright; yet you must not forget that she has turned from the straight road—though you may pity, you must not associate with her."

She looked down silently some moments, then raising her full eyes to his face said, laying one fair hand on his shoulder, "Miles, dear, don't you believe Mary Burns to be a truly penitent woman?"

"Most truly and sincerely so."

"My dearest husband does not need me to recall to his mind our highest example of pardoning in a like case, I am sure? Do not be worldly and severe, my own love; think well, and from your own good heart, where would unhappy woman be if every door and heart closed against her?"

"My Minnie, my child, you are an angel!" he cried, clasping her to his bosom. "What should I be without you?—a cold, worldly wretch like those I associate with. I feared, darling, lest the censorious, ever hearing of it, should class your imprudence in flying with me with her deeper error. Forgive me, dearest, we will go and visit poor Mary; it will cheer her."

Our readers will see how the remembrance of his wife's fault ever haunted him; 'tis true, even in his fondest moments it would steal like a spectre across his mind. His adoration of her made this regret the more intense, and weakened the entire confidence he otherwise would have felt in her prudence—a thought beyond, never entered his imagination: but, strange though it be, such is man, naturally a little self-conceited, and yet with all that, he cannot conceive that a woman may do for one from affection, what not all the world beside might win her to do for another! No, they cannot make this distinction; and thus Miles fancied Minnie too gentle, too little self-confident, to be perfectly relied upon, as he would have done on such a one as Lady Dora, or Minnie herself, had she suffered all sooner than have fled with him.

He was scarcely just; but this feeling was involuntary on his part, and, though happily unknown to her, was the thorn which rankled in his flesh. Together they visited Mary's neat little cottage, where a quiet, peaceful hope seemed to dwell; a faint blush rose to her pale cheek as they entered. She had been then living some few months respected by all, her fault unknown, and the meeting with Miles and his wife seemed like a momentary re-union with her error, and she blushed with shame and disgust towards herself. She had not forgotten her fault, nor the repentance due to it, but she had learned self-respect, and their presence for an instant degraded her again; but all was softened to peace in the kindness of both, and the deep interest evinced in her prosperity.

The first painful feeling passed, the interview was one of pleasure to all. Minnie had, even as a girl herself, upheld this sinking one; Miles had rescued her from shame, and placed her in comfort; and, as the girl looked from one to the other, her eyes swam in grateful tears. A lady and gentleman had been residing with her, and would return again shortly, meanwhile she hoped to let her rooms to others; then she had several pupils she visited at their own homes, and her poor dear mother had now every comfort. These words she could scarcely utter for her swelling tears of gratitude. With light hearts Tremenhere and Minnie quitted, promising to return soon. As they turned away he grasped his little wife's hand and said, "Thank you, dearest, for the happiness of to-day; when can I ever pay you my debt for all, my Minnie?"