“Unless it might be your father,” said the third man, “who stood before you, according to the laws of primogeniture.  I dare say Rupert made love to his venerable cousin, if the truth were known, and induced her to overlook a generation, with his oily tongue.”

“Rupert did nothing of the sort; it is his glory to love Emily Merton, and Emily Merton only.  As my worthy cousin could not take her fortune with her, she left it among her natural heirs.  How do you know I have got any of it.  I give you my honour, my account in bank is under $20,000.”

“A pretty fair account, that, by Jove!” exclaimed the other.  “It must be a rapping income that will permit a fellow like you to keep up such a balance.”

“Why, some persons say my sister has the whole fortune.  I dare say that Drewett can satisfy you on this head.  The affair concerns him quite as much, as it does any other person of my acquaintance.”

“I can assure you I know nothing about it;” answered Drewett, honestly.  “Nor do I desire to know.  I would marry Miss Hardinge to-morrow, though she had not a cent.”

“It’s just this disinterestedness, Andrew, that makes me like you,” observed Rupert, magnificently.  “Depend on it, you’ll fare none the worse, in the long run, for this admirable trait in your character.  Lucy knows it, and appreciates it as she should.”

I wished to hear no more, but left the box and the house, taking care not to be seen.  From that moment, I was all impatience to get to sea.  I forgot even the intention of visiting my sister’s grave; nor did I feel that I could sustain another interview with Lucy herself.  That afternoon I told Marble the ship must be ready to sail the succeeding morning.

Chapter XI.

  “Go tenderness of years; take this key.  Give enlargement to the
  swain—­bring him festinately hither.  I must employ him in a letter to my
  love.”

  Love’s Labour Lost.

I will not attempt to analyze the feelings which now impelled me to quit America.  I had discovered, or thought I had discovered, certain qualities in Andrew Drewett which rendered him, in some measure, at least worthy of Lucy; and I experienced how painful it is to concede such an advantage to a rival.  Still, I must be just enough to add, that, in my cooler moments, when I came to consider that Lucy could never be mine, I was rejoiced to find such proofs of a generous disposition in her future husband.  On the other hand, I could not divest myself of the idea that perfect confidence in his own position, could alone enable him to be so liberal in his opinions of myself.  The reader will understand how extravagant was this last supposition, when he remembers that I had never given Lucy herself, or the world, any sufficient reason to suppose that I was a suitor for the dear girl’s hand.