“Not exactly any particular person,” said the lawyer, lamely.

“Pshaw!  What do I want with a wife?  Do you mean to say that my father has told you that he intends to clog his legacy with the burden of a wife?  I would not accept it with such a burden,—­unless I could choose the wife myself.  To tell the truth, there is a girl—­”

“Your cousin?”

“Yes; my cousin.  When I was well-to-do in the world I was taught to believe that I could have her.  If she will be mine, Mr. Grey, I will renounce gambling altogether.  If my father can manage that I will forgive him,—­or will endeavor to do so.  The property which he can leave me shall be settled altogether upon her.  I will endeavor to reform myself, and so to live that no misfortune shall come upon her.  If that is what you mean, say so.”

“Well, not quite that.”

“To no other marriage will I agree.  That has been the dream of my life through all those moments of hot excitement and assured despair which I have endured.  Her mother has always told me that it should be so, and she herself in former days did not deny it.  Now you know it all.  If my father wishes to see me married, Florence Mountjoy must be my wife.”  Then he sunk back on his seat, and nothing more was said between them till they had reached Tretton.

The father and son had not met each other since the day on which the former had told the latter the story of his birth.  Since then Mountjoy had disappeared from the world, and for a few days his father had thought that he had been murdered.  But now they met as they might have done had they seen each other a week ago.  “Well, Mountjoy, how are you?” And, “How are you, sir?” Such were the greetings between them.  And no others were spoken.  In a few minutes the son was allowed to go and look after the rural joys he had anticipated, and the lawyer was left closeted with the squire.

Mr. Grey soon explained his proposition.  Let the property be left to trustees who should realize from it what money it should fetch, and keep the money in their own hands, paying Mountjoy the income.  “There could,” he said, “be nothing better done, unless Mountjoy would agree to marry.  He is attached, it seems, to his cousin,” said Mr. Grey, “and he is unwilling at present to marry any one else.”

“He can’t marry her,” said the squire.

“I do not know the circumstances.”

“He can’t marry her.  She is engaged to the young man who will be here just now.  I told you,—­did I not?—­that Harry Annesley is coming here.  My son knows that he will be here to-day.”

“Everybody knows the story of Mr. Annesley and the captain.”

“They are to sit down to dinner together, and I trust they may not quarrel.  The lady of whom you are speaking is engaged to young Annesley, and Mountjoy’s suit in that direction is hopeless.”

“Hopeless, you think?”