But what should he do with himself as to his future life?  To be persecuted and abused by these wretched men, as had this morning been his fate, would be intolerable.  Could he shut himself up from Mr. Samuel Hart and still live in England?  And then could he face the clubs,—­if the clubs would be kind enough to re-elect him?  And then there came a dark frown across his brow, as he bethought himself that even at this moment his heart was longing to be once more among the cards.  Could he not escape to Monaco, and there be happy among the gambling-tables?  Mr. Hart would surely not follow him there, and he would be free from the surveillance of that double blackguard, his brother’s servant and his father’s spy.

But, after all, as he declared to himself, did it not altogether turn on the final answer which he might get from Florence Mountjoy?  Could Florence be brought to accede to his wishes, he thought that he might still live happily, respectably, and in such a manner that his name might go down to posterity not altogether blasted.  If Florence would consent to live at Tretton, then could he remain there.  He thought it over as he stood there with his back to the fire, and he told himself that with Florence the first year would be possible, and that after the first year the struggle would cease to be a struggle.  He knew himself, he declared, and he made all manner of excuses for his former vicious life, basing them all on the hardness of her treatment of him.  He did not know himself, and such assurances were vain.  But buoyed up by such assurances, he resolved that his future fate must be in her hands, and that her word alone should suffice either to destroy him or to save him.

Thinking thus of his future life, he resolved that he would go at once to Cheltenham, and throw himself, and what of Tretton belonged to him, at the girl’s feet.  Nor could he endure himself to rest another night at Tretton till he had done so.  He started at once, and got late to Gloucester, where he slept, and on the next morning at eleven o’clock was at Cheltenham, out on his way to Montpellier Terrace.  He at once asked for Florence, but circumstances so arranged themselves that he first found himself closeted with her mother.  Mrs. Mountjoy was delighted, and yet shocked, to see him.  “My poor brother!” she said; “and he was buried only yesterday!” Such explanation as Mountjoy could give was given.  He soon made the whole tenor of his thoughts intelligible to her.  “Yes; Tretton was his,—­at least he supposed so.  As to his future life he could say nothing.  It must depend on Florence.  He thought that if she would promise to become at once his wife, there would be no more gambling.  He had felt it to be incumbent on him to come and tell her so.”

Mrs. Mountjoy, frightened by the thorough blackness of his apparel and by the sternness of his manner, had not a word to say to him in opposition.  “Be gentle with her,” she said, as she led the way to the room in which Florence was found.  “Your cousin has come to see you,” she said; “has come immediately after the funeral.  I hope you will be gracious to him.”  Then she closed the door, and the two were alone together.