In the morning, Mrs. Wilson, unwilling to have Emily present at a conversation she intended to hold with Denbigh, with a view to satisfy her annoying doubts as to some minor points in his character, after excusing herself to her niece, invited that gentleman to a morning drive.  He accepted her invitation cheerfully; and Mrs. Wilson saw, it was only as they drove from the door without Emily, that he betrayed the faintest reluctance to the jaunt.  When they had got a short distance from the lodge she acquainted him with her intention of presenting him to Mrs. Fitzgerald, whither she had ordered the coachman to proceed.  Denbigh started as she mentioned the name, and after a few moments’ silence, desired Mrs. Wilson to allow him to stop the carriage; he was not very well—­was sorry to be so rude—­but with her permission, he would alight and return to the house.  As he requested in an earnest manner that she would proceed without him, and by no means disappoint her friend, Mrs. Wilson complied; yet, somewhat at a loss to account for his sudden illness, she turned her head to see how the sick man fared, a short time after he had left her, and was not a little surprised to see him talking very composedly with John who had met him on his way to the fields with his gun.  Lovesick—­thought Mrs. Wilson with a smile; and as she rode on she came to the conclusion, that as Denbigh was to leave them soon, Emily would have an important communication to make on her return.

“Well,” thought Mrs. Wilson with a sigh, “if it is to happen, it may as well be done at once.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald was expecting her, and appeared rather pleased than otherwise that she had come alone.  After some introductory conversation, the ladies withdrew by themselves, and Julia acquainted Mrs. Wilson with a new source of uneasiness.  The day the ladies had promised to visit her, but had been prevented by the arrangements for the ball, the Donna Lorenza had driven to the village to make some purchases, attended as usual by their only man-servant, and Mrs. Fitzgerald was sitting in the little parlor in momentary expectation of her friends by herself.  The sound of footsteps drew her to the door, which she opened for the admission of the wretch whose treachery to her dying husband’s requests had given her so much uneasiness.  Horror—­fear—­surprise—­altogether, prevented her from, making any alarm at the moment, and she sank into a chair.  He stood between her and the door, as he endeavored to draw her into a conversation; he assured her she had nothing to fear; that he loved her, and her alone; that he was about to be married to a daughter of Sir Edward Moseley, but would give her up, fortune, everything, if she would consent to become his wife—­that the views of her protector, he doubted not, were dishonorable—­that he himself was willing to atone for his former excess of passion, by a life devoted to her.