“There is no earthly probability—­nay, possibility of it—­which is a stronger word—­I know, my lord, she will die, and that very soon.”

“You know, madam!  How the deuce can you know?  It is all in the hands of God.  I hope she will live to enjoy her property.”

“My lord, I visited the girl in her illness, and life was barely in her; I have, besides, the opinion of the physician who attended her, and of another who was called in to consult upon her state, and both have informed me that her recovery is hopeless.”

“And what opinion does your son, Woodward, entertain upon the subject?”

“One, my lord, in complete keeping with his generous character.  He is as anxious for her recovery as your lordship.”

“Well, I like that, at all events; it is a good point in him.  Yes, I like that—­but, in the meantime, here are you calculating upon a contingency that may never happen.  The calculation is, I grant, not overburdened with delicacy of feeling; but still it may proceed from anxiety for the settlement and welfare of your son.  Not an improbable thing on the part of a mother, I grant that.”

“Well, then, my lord,” asked Mrs. Lindsay, “what is to be done?  Come to the point, as you very properly say yourself.”

“In the first place bring me the written opinions of those two doctors.  They ought to know her state of health best, and whether she is likely to recover or not.  I know I am an old scoundrel in entering into a matrimonial negotiation upon a principle so inhuman as the poor lady’s death; but still, if her demise is a certain thing, I don’t see why men of the world should not avail themselves of I such a circumstance.  Now, I wish to see poor Tom settled before I die; and, above all things, united to a gentleman.  Your son Woodward, Mrs. Lindsay, is a gentleman, and what is more, I have reason to believe Tommy likes him.  She speaks well of him, and there is a great deal in that; because I know that if she disliked him she would not conceal the fact.  She has, occasionally, much of her old uncle’s bluntness about her, and will not say one thing and think another; unless, indeed, when she has a design in it, and then she is inscrutable.”

“My own opinion is this, my lord:  let my son wait upon Miss Riddle—­let him propose for her—­and if she consents, why the marriage settlements may be drawn up—­at once and the ceremony performed.”

“Let me see,” he replied.  “That won’t do.  I will never marry off poor Tommy upon a speculation which may never after all be realized.  No, no—­I’m awake there; but I’ll tell you what—­produce me those letters from the physician or physicians who attended her; then, should Tom give her consent, the settlements may be drawn up, and they can lie unsigned until the girl dies—­and then let them be married.  Curse me, I’m an old scoundrel again, however, as to that the whole world is nothing but one great and universal scoundrel, and it is nothing but to see Tom the wife of a gentleman in feeling, manners, and bearing, that I consent even to this conditional arrangement.”