“Peter? hem!  Peter, what do you think?”

“Why, your honor,” replied the steward, stealing a look at his master, “it does seem so indeed.”

“I remember,” said the master, “when Lord Gosford saw the marriage of the countess announced he—­”

Here the old gentleman was obliged to stop, and rising with dignity, and leaning on the arm of his faithful servant, he left the room.

Mrs. Wilson immediately took up the paper, and her eye catching the paragraph at a glance, she read aloud as follows to her expecting friends: 

“Married by special license, at the seat of the Most Noble the Marquess of Eltringham, in Devonshire, by the Right Rev. Lord Bishop of ——­, George Denbigh Esq., Lieutenant Colonel of his Majesty’s ——­ regiment of dragoons, to the Right Honorable Lady Laura Stapleton, eldest sister of the Marquess.  Eltringham was honored on the present happy occasion with the presence of his grace of Derwent, and the gallant Lord Pendennyss, kinsmen of the bridegroom, and Captain Lord Henry Stapleton of the Royal Navy.  We understand that the happy couple proceed to Denbigh Castle immediately after the honey-moon.”

Although Mrs. Wilson had given up the expectation of ever seeing her niece the wife of Denbigh, she felt an indescribable shock as she read this paragraph.  The strongest feeling was horror at the danger Emily had been in of contracting an alliance with such a man.  His avoiding the ball, at which he knew Lord Henry was expected, was explained to her by this marriage; for with John, she could not believe a woman like Lady Laura Stapleton was to be won in the short space of one fortnight, or indeed less.  There was too evidently a mystery yet to be developed, and she felt certain one that would not elevate his character in her opinion.

Neither Sir Edward nor Lady Moseley had given up the expectation of seeing Denbigh again, as a suitor for Emily’s hand, and to both of them this certainty of his loss was a heavy blow.  The baronet took up the paper, and after perusing the article, he muttered in a low tone, as he wiped the tears from his eyes, “Heaven bless him:  I sincerely hope she is worthy of him.”  Worthy of him, thought Mrs. Wilson, with a feeling of indignation, as, taking up the paper, she retired to her own room, whither Emily, at that moment returned from her walk, had proceeded.  As her niece must hear this news, she thought the sooner the better.  The exercise, and the unreserved conversation of Francis and Clara, had restored in some degree the bloom to the cheek of Emily; and Mrs. Wilson felt it necessary to struggle with herself, before she could summon sufficient resolution to invade the returning peace of her charge.  However, having already decided on her course, she proceeded to the discharge of what she thought to be a duty.

“Emily, my child,” she whispered, pressing her affectionately to her bosom, “you have been all I could wish, and more than I expected, under your arduous struggles.  But one more pang, and I trust your recollections on this painful subject will be done away.”