Madam Bernstein was willing to pay her nephew’s debts at once if he would break off his engagement with Lady Maria, but this the high-spirited youth declined to do.

Castlewood wrote frankly and said he had not got enough money for the purpose, and Lady Warrington sent a tract and said Sir Miles was away from home.  But for his faithful servant Gumbo, Harry would have wanted ready money for his food.

It was Colonel Lambert, of whom Harry had seen little since he left Oakhurst, who came to his young friend’s assistance.  But the same night which saw Colonel Lambert at the sponging house saw the reappearance of his brother George.

“I am the brother whom you have heard of, sir,” he said, addressing Colonel Lambert; “and who was left for dead in Mr. Braddock’s action:  and came to life again after eighteen months amongst the French; and live to thank God, and thank you for your kindness to my Harry.  I can never forget that you helped my brother at his need.”

While the two brothers were rejoicing over their meeting, “the whole town” was soon busy talking over the news that Mr. Harry Warrington was but a second son, and no longer the heir to a principality and untold wealth.

George loved his brother too well to have any desire for the union with Lady Maria, and lost no time in explaining to Lord Castlewood that Harry had no resources save dependence,—­“and I know no worse lot than to be dependent on a self-willed woman like our mother.  The means my brother had to make himself respected at home he hath squandered away here.”

To Harry himself George repeated these words and added: 

“My dear, I think one day you will say I have done my duty.”

That night after the two brothers had dined together Harry went out, and did not return for three hours.

“It was shabby to say I would not aid him, and God help me, it was not true.  I won’t leave him, though he marries a blackamoor,” thought George as he sat alone.

Presently Harry came in, looking ghastly pale.  He came up and took his brother’s hand.

“Perhaps what you did was right,” he said, “though I, for one, will never believe that you would throw your brother off in distress.  At dinner I thought suddenly, I’ll say to her, ’Maria, poor as I am, I am yours to take or to leave.  If you will have me, here I am:  I will enlist:  I will work:  I will try and make a livelihood for myself somehow, and my bro—­my relations will relent, and give us enough to live on.’  That’s what I determined to tell her; and I did, George.  I found them all at dinner, all except Will; that is, I spoke out that very moment to them all, sitting round the table over their wine.  ‘Maria,’ says I, ’a poor fellow wants to redeem his promise which he made when he fancied he was rich.  Will you take him?’ I found I had plenty of words, and I ended by saying ’I would do my best and my duty by her, so help me God!’