Sir Michael Audley was fifty-six years of age, and had married a second wife nine months before.  For seventeen years he had been a widower with an only child—­Alicia, now eighteen.  Lady Audley had come into the neighbourhood from London, in response to an advertisement in the “Times,” as a governess in the family of Mr. Dawson, the village surgeon.  Her accomplishments were brilliant and numerous.  Everyone, high and low, loved, admired, and praised her, and united in declaring that Lucy Graham was the sweetest girl that ever lived.  Sir Michael Audley expressed a strong desire to be acquainted with her.  A meeting was arranged at the surgeon’s house, and that day Sir Michael’s fate was sealed.  One misty June evening Sir Michael, sitting opposite Lucy Graham at the window of the surgeon’s little drawing-room, spoke to her on the subject nearest his heart.

“I scarcely think,” he said, “there is a greater sin, Lucy, than that of a woman who marries a man she does not love.  You are so precious to me that, deeply as my heart is set on this, and bitter as the mere thought of disappointment is to me, I would not have you commit such a sin for any happiness of mine.  Nothing but misery can result from a marriage dictated by any motive but truth and love.”

Lucy for some moments was quite silent.  Then, turning to him with a sudden passion in her manner that lighted up her face with a new and wonderful beauty, she fell on her knees at his feet.  Clutching at a black ribbon about her throat, she exclaimed: 

“How good, how noble, how generous you are!  But you ask too much of me.  Only remember what my life has been!  From babyhood I have never seen anything but poverty.  My father was a gentleman, but poor; my mother—­ but don’t let me speak of her.  You can never guess what is endured by genteel paupers.  I cannot be disinterested; I cannot be blind to the advantages of such a marriage.  I do not dislike you—­no, no; and I do not love anyone in the world,” she added, with a laugh, when asked if there was anyone else.

Sir Michael was silent for a few moments, and then, with a kind of effort, said:  “Well, Lucy, I will not ask too much of you; but I see no reason why we should not make a very happy couple.”

When Lucy went to her own room she sat down on the edge of the bed, and murmured:  “No more dependence, no more drudgery, no more humiliations!  Every trace of the old life melted away, every clue to identity buried and forgotten except this”—­and she drew from her bosom a black ribbon and locket, and the object attached to it.  It was a ring wrapped in an oblong piece of crumpled paper, partly written and partly printed.

II.—­The Return of the Gold-Seeker

A tall, powerfully-built young man of twenty-five, his face bronzed by exposure, brown eyes, bushy black beard, moustache, and hair, was pacing impatiently the deck of the Australian liner Argus, bound from Melbourne to Liverpool.  His name was George Talboys.  He was joined in his promenade by a shipboard-friend, who had been attracted by the feverish ardour and freshness of the young man, and was made the confidant of his story.