Mrs. Wilson now, for the first time, explained their real grounds for refusing his offers, which, in the morning, she had loosely mentioned as owing to a misapprehension of his just character, and recounted the manner of the book falling into the hands of Mrs. Fitzgerald.

The earl listened in amazement, and after musing with himself, exclaimed—­

“I remember taking it from my pocket, to show Colonel Egerton some singular plants I had gathered, and think I first missed it when returning to the place where I had then laid it; in some of the side-pockets were letters from Marian, addressed to me, properly; and I naturally thought they had met your eye.”

Mrs. Wilson and Emily immediately thought Egerton the real villain, who had caused both themselves and Mrs. Fitzgerald so much uneasiness, and the former mentioned her suspicions to the earl.

“Nothing more probable, dear madam,” cried he, “and this explains to me his startled looks when we first met, and his evident dislike to my society, for he must have seen my person, though the carriage hid him from my sight.”

That Egerton was the wretch, and that through his agency the pocket-book had been carried to the cottage, they all now agreed, and turned to more pleasant subjects.

“Master!—­here—­master,” said Peter Johnson, as he stood at a window of Mr. Benfield’s room, stirring a gruel for the old gentleman’s supper, and stretching his neck and straining his eyes to distinguish objects by the light of the lamps—­“I do think there is Mr. Denbigh, handing Miss Emmy from a coach, covered with gold, and two footmen, all dizened with pride like.”

The spoon fell from the hands of Mr. Benfield.  He rose briskly from his seat, and adjusting his dress, took the arm of the steward, and proceeded to the drawing-room.  While these several movements were in operation, which consumed some time, the old bachelor relieved the tedium of Peter’s impatience by the following speech:—­

“Mr. Denbigh!—­what, back?—­I thought he never could let that rascal John shoot him and forsake Emmy after all; (here the old gentleman suddenly recollected Denbigh’s marriage) but now, Peter, it can do no good either.—­I remember, that when my friend the Earl of Gosford “—­(and again he was checked by the image of the card-table and the viscountess) “but, Peter,” he said with great warmth, “we can go down and see him, notwithstanding.”

“Mr. Denbigh!” exclaimed Sir Edward, in astonishment, when he saw the companion of his sister and child enter the drawing-room, “you are welcome once more to your old friends:  your sudden retreat from us gave us much pain; but we suppose Lady Laura had too many attractions to allow us to keep you any longer in Norfolk.”

The good Baronet sighed, as he held out his hand to the man whom he had once hoped to receive as a son.

“Neither Lady Laura nor any other lady, my dear Sir Edward,” cried the earl, as he took the baronet’s hand, “drove me from you, but the frowns of your own fair daughter; and here she is, ready to acknowledge her offence, and, I hope, to atone for it.”