Your faithful guardian, “ARTHUR TYRELL.”

On inquiry, I found that my faithful attendant was actually gone, and far on her way to the town of Galway; and in her stead there appeared a tall, raw-boned, ill-looking, elderly Frenchwoman, whose sullen and presuming manners seemed to imply that her vocation had never before been that of a lady’s-maid.  I could not help regarding her as a creature of my uncle’s, and therefore to be dreaded, even had she been in no other way suspicious.

Days and weeks passed away without any, even a momentary doubt upon my part, as to the course to be pursued by me.  The allotted period had at length elapsed; the day arrived upon which I was to communicate my decision to my uncle.  Although my resolution had never for a moment wavered, I could not shake off the dread of the approaching colloquy; and my heart sank within me as I heard the expected summons.  I had not seen my cousin Edward since the occurrence of the grand eclaircissement; he must have studiously avoided me; I suppose from policy, it could not have been from delicacy.  I was prepared for a terrific burst of fury from my uncle, as soon as I should make known my determination; and I not unreasonably feared that some act of violence or of intimidation would next be resorted to.  Filled with these dreary forebodings, I fearfully opened the study door, and the next minute I stood in my uncle’s presence.  He received me with a courtesy which I dreaded, as arguing a favourable anticipation respecting the answer which I was to give; and after some slight delay he began by saying—­

“It will be a relief to both of us, I believe, to bring this conversation as soon as possible to an issue.  You will excuse me, then, my dear niece, for speaking with a bluntness which, under other circumstances, would be unpardonable.  You have, I am certain, given the subject of our last interview fair and serious consideration; and I trust that you are now prepared with candour to lay your answer before me.  A few words will suffice; we perfectly understand one another.”

He paused; and I, though feeling that I stood upon a mine which might in an instant explode, nevertheless answered with perfect composure:  “I must now, sir, make the same reply which I did upon the last occasion, and I reiterate the declaration which I then made, that I never can nor will, while life and reason remain, consent to a union with my cousin Edward.”

This announcement wrought no apparent change in Sir Arthur, except that he became deadly, almost lividly pale.  He seemed lost in dark thought for a minute, and then, with a slight effort, said, “You have answered me honestly and directly; and you say your resolution is unchangeable; well, would it had been otherwise—­would it had been otherwise—­but be it as it is; I am satisfied.”