Jaspar was chagrined at this meeting, and his awkward attempts to be civil to Henry were entire failures.  This was an event for which he was not prepared,—­the consequences of which filled him with anxiety.  He knew that in Henry his wronged niece would have a zealous advocate;—­not a superannuated priest, but a young man whose blood was warm, and whose soul was full of energy.  True, he reasoned, the young officer was powerless as a diplomatist.  Ho as yet knew nothing of the will, or of Emily’s degraded position.  Henry knew the feelings and character of his brother, and would be the last one to believe the infamous statement of the will.  What the father might have said to him in regard to her he knew not.  As guilt always does, he imagined a thousand dangers, and saw with a clear vision the real ones besides.

At the tea-table there was little conversation beside the ordinary courtesies of the occasion.  Jaspar said but little.

The guilty never feel any security in the enjoyment of ill-gotten wealth.  The murderer is haunted by the ghost of his victim.  The cries of the widow and the orphan continually ring in the ear of the avaricious.  The fear of discovery haunted Jaspar.  Although he saw no probability of his villany being exposed, the fear of discovery troubled him day and night.  Revengeful and cruel, dauntless and bold, as he had ever been, the present seemed a crisis in his life.  He had accomplished the climax of villany, and as he had racked his powers of invention for the means of attaining his purpose, he now taxed them for the means of concealing it.  The insecurity of his position was so tedious, that he sought, as the tempest-tost mariner seeks the quiet haven, to fortify it, so that he might be at rest from the tormenting doubts which assailed him.  Vain hope! there is no rest for the wicked.  Plots and schemes ran through his mind; but they afforded no satisfaction.  There was only one event which promised the least mitigation of his mental sufferings, and this was the death of his niece.  Black as he was at heart, he shrank from her murder,—­not at the deed, but at the terrible consequences to him which might follow it.

Emily was conducted to the ladies’ cabin by Jaspar, who, by a dogged adherence to her side, seemed determined to prevent any further conversation between her and Henry.  But the black chambermaid, with an official dignity which is oftentimes necessary in her position, politely requested him to retire.  Jaspar left, satisfied she would be safe from intrusion for the present.

Jaspar’s disposition to prevent further conversation between Emily and Henry was not unperceived by the latter.  He was satisfied that her uncle’s close attendance at her side—­so foreign to his former manner—­was not without its purpose.  Love, which he had in vain attempted to stifle, pressed more vigorously at his heart.  In her recognition of him he had read that the sentiment in her heart was not abated by his absence.  Her melancholy aspect had awakened a new interest in him.  Disappointed in obtaining the interview he desired, he sought the hurricane deck to think of her, and to cherish the warm feeling in his heart.  But what was his surprise, on reaching it, to find Emily there, and alone!