Lucy, whose heart was affection itself, threw herself into his arms, and exclaimed, in a burst of grief: 

“Yes, papa, I feel that you will; and, perhaps, when I am gone, you will say, with sorrow, that it would have been better to have allowed Lucy to be happy her own way.”

“Come, now, you foolish, naughty girl,” he exclaimed affectionately, “be good—­be good.”  And as he spoke, he kissed her, pressed her hand tenderly, and then left the room.

“Alas!” exclaimed Lucy, still in tears, “how happy might we have been, had this ambition for my exaltation not existed in my father’s heart!”

If Lucy rose with a depressed spirit on that morning of sorrow, so did not Lord Dunroe.  This young nobleman, false and insincere in everything, had succeeded in inducing his sister to act as brides-maid, Sir Thomas having asked her consent as a personal compliment to himself and his daughter.  She was told by her brother that young Roberts would act in an analogous capacity to him; and this he held out as an inducement to her, having observed something like an attachment between her and the young ensign.  Not that he at all approved of this growing predilection, for though strongly imbued with all the senseless and absurd prejudices against humble birth which disgrace aristocratic life and feeling, he was base enough to overrule his own opinions on the subject, and endeavor, by this unworthy play upon his sister’s feelings, to prevail upon her to do an act that would throw her into his society, and which, under any other circumstances, he would have opposed.  He desired her, at the same time, not to mention the fact to their father, who, he said, entertained a strong prejudice against upstarts, and was besides, indisposed to the marriage, in consequence of Sir Thomas Goulray’s doubtful reputation, as regarding the disappearance of his brother’s heir.  In consequence of these representations, Lady Emily not only consented to act as bride’s-maid; but also to keep her knowledge of the forthcoming marriage a secret from her father.

At breakfast that morning Dunroe was uncommonly cheerful.  Norton, on the other hand, was rather depressed, and could not be prevailed upon to partake of the gay and exuberant spirit of mirth and buoyancy which animated Dunroe.

“What the deuce is the matter with you, Norton?” said his lordship.  “You seem rather annoyed that I am going to marry a very lovely girl with an immense fortune?  With both, you know very well that I can manage without either the Cullamore title or property.  The Gourlay property is as good if not better.  Come, then, cheer up; if the agency of the Cullamore property is gone, we shall have that on the Gourlay side to look to.”

“Dunroe, my dear fellow,” replied Norton, “I am thinking of nothing so selfish.  That which distresses me is, that I will lose my friend.  This Miss Gourlay is, they say, so confoundedly virtuous that I dare say she will allow no honest fellow, who doesn’t carry a Bible and a Prayer-book in his pocket, and quote Scripture in conversation, to associate with you.”