“I grant you it’s an unfortunate condition to get into; and the worst of it is, that once you are in, it is next to an impossibility to get out.  Of course, you will take care to avoid it, for your own sake, and, if you have no objection, for mine.  Perhaps her ladyship may take a fancy to support the venerable peer against me in recommending the process of John Thrustout.  If so, Dunroe, whatever happiness your marriage may bring yourself, it will bring nothing but bitterness and calamity to me.  I am now so much accustomed—­so much—­so much—­hang it, why conceal it?—­so much attached and devoted to you—­that a separation would be the same as death to me.”

“Never fear, Norton,” replied Dunroe, “I have not yielded to my father on this point, neither shall I to my wife.  Happen what may, my friend must never be given up for the whim of any one.  But, indeed, you need entertain no apprehensions.  I am not marrying the girl for love, so that she is not likely to gain any ascendancy whatever over me.  It is her fortune and property that have attracted my affections, just as the title she will enjoy has inveigled those of the old father.”

Norton, in deep emotions of gratitude, ably sustained, had already seized the hand of his patron, and was about to reply—­but the effort was too much for him; his heart was too full; he felt a choking; so, clapping his handkerchief to his face with one hand, and the other upon his heart, he rushed out of the room, lest Dunroe might perceive the incredible force of his affection for him.

The next day, when Dunroe made his appearance in the drawing-room, Lucy, before descending, felt as one may be supposed to do who stands upon the brow of a precipice, conscious at the same time that not only is retreat from this terrible position impossible, but that the plunge must be made.  On this occasion she experienced none of that fierce energy which sometimes results from despair, and which one might imagine to have been in accordance with her candid and generous character, when driven as she was to such a step.  On the contrary, she felt calm, cold, and apathetic.  Her pulse could scarcely be perceived by Alley Mahon; and all the physical powers of life within her seemed as if about to suspend their functions.  Her reason, however, was clear, even to torture.  Those tumultuous vibrations of the spirit—­those confused images and unsettled thoughts of the brain; and all those excited emotions of the heart, that are usually called into existence in common minds by such scenes, would have been to her as a relief, in comparison to what she experienced.  In her case there was a tranquillity of agony—­a quiet, unresisting submission—­a gentle bowing of the neck to the stake, at the sacrifice that resulted from the clear perception of her great mind, which thus, by its very facility of apprehension, magnified the torture she suffered.  Whilst descending the stairs, she felt such a sinking of the soul within her, as the unhappy wretch does who ascends from those which lead to that deadly platform from which is taken the terrible spring into eternity.