Lucy had not spoken the whole time I was relating my story.  Her serene eye beamed on me in a way to betray the interest she felt; but not a syllable escaped her until her father had made the observation just given.

“It is of no moment, now,” she then said, “what may have been the motive of Mr. John Wallingford.  With Miles, I thought him a rough, but an honest man; but honest men may be pardoned for not foreseeing their own sudden deaths.  The question, now, my dear father, is, how Miles can be got out of this wretched place, in the shortest possible time.”

“Ay, Miles, my dear boy:  heaven forbid you should sleep in such a spot.  How shall we go to work?”

“I am afraid, sir, I shall sleep many nights here.  The debt I really owe is about thirteen thousand dollars; and the writ, I believe, is issued for the entire penalty of the bond.  As the motive for arresting me is, probably, to drive me into a compromise, by confessing judgment, and giving up my personal property to be sacrificed, as Clawbonny has been, it is not probable that bail for a less amount than the law allows the plaintiff to claim, will be received.  I do not know the man who will become surety for me in that amount.”

“Well, I know two.—­Rupert and myself.”

The idea of receiving such a favour from Rupert was particularly unpleasant to me; and I saw by the expression of Lucy’s face that she entered into my feelings.

“I am afraid, sir,” I said, after thanking Mr. Hardinge by a warm pressure of the hand, “that you are not rich enough.  The deputy sheriff has told me he has instructions to be rigid about the bail; and I apprehend neither you, nor Rupert, can swear he is worth fifty thousand dollars.”

“Bless me!—­bless me!  Is that really necessary, Miles?”

“If required, I believe the law insists on security to the amount of the judgment claimed.  Rupert lives largely, I see, and yet I doubt if he would be willing to swear to that.”

Mr. Hardinge’s face became very sorrowful; and he paused a moment before answering.

“I am not in Rupert’s secrets, neither is Lucy,” he then said.  “I hope all is right:  though the thought that he might possibly play, has sometimes crossed my anxious mind.  He is married to Miss Merton; has purchased and furnished a Broadway house, and is living at a large rate.  When I spoke to him on the subject, he asked me if I thought ’English ladies of condition gave empty hands in marriage?’ I don’t know how it is, my dear Miles, but I always fancied that the Mertons had nothing but the Colonel’s salary to live on.”

“Major Merton,” I answered, laying an emphasis on the brevet rank the worthy individual actually possessed, “Major Merton has told me as much as this, himself.”

Mr. Hardinge actually groaned, and I saw that Lucy turned pale as death.  The former had no knowledge of the true character of his son; but he had all the apprehensions that a father would naturally feel under such circumstances.  I saw the necessity—­nay, the humanity, of relieving both.