it with her, which he felt to be definitely binding.  He must go to Ardkill prepared to tell them absolutely the truth.  He would make any arrangement they pleased as to their future joint lives, so long as it was an arrangement by which Kate should not become Countess of Scroope.  He did not attempt to conceal from himself the dreadful nature of the task before him.  He knew what would be the indignation of the priest.  He could picture to himself the ferocity of the mother, defending her young as a lioness would her whelp.  He could imagine that that dagger might again be brought from its hiding place.  And, worse than all, he would see the girl prostrate in her woe, and appealing to his love and to his oaths, when the truth as to her future life should be revealed to her.  But yet he did not think of shunning the task before him.  He could not endure to live a coward in his own esteem.

He was unlike himself and very melancholy.  “It has been so good of you to remain here,” he said to Sophie Mellerby.  They had now become intimate and almost attached to each other as friends.  If she had allowed a spark of hope to become bright within her heart in regard to the young Earl that had long since been quenched.  She had acknowledged to herself that had it been possible in other respects they would not have suited each other,—­and now they were friends.

“I love your aunt dearly and have been very glad to be with her.”

“I wish you would learn to love somebody else dearly.”

“Perhaps I shall, some day,—­somebody else; though I don’t at all know who it may be.”

“You knew whom I mean.”

“I suppose I do.”

“And why not love him?  Isn’t he a good fellow?”

“One can’t love all the good fellows, Lord Scroope.”

“You’ll never find a better one than he is.”

“Did he commission you to speak for him?”

“You know he didn’t.  You know that he would be the last man in the world to do so?”

“I was surprised.”

“But I had a reason for speaking.”

“No doubt.”

“I don’t suppose it will have any effect with you;—­but it is something you ought to know.  If any man of my age can be supposed to have made up his mind on such a matter, you may believe that I have made up my mind that I will—­never marry.”

“What nonsense, Lord Scroope.”

“Well;—­yes; perhaps it is.  But I am so convinced of it myself that I shall ask my brother to come and live here—­permanently,—­as master of the place.  As he would have to leave his regiment it would of course be necessary that his position here should be settled,—­and it shall be settled.”

“I most sincerely hope that you will always live here yourself.”

“It won’t suit me.  Circumstances have made it impossible.  If he will not do so, nor my aunt, the house must be shut up.  I am most anxious that this should not be done.  I shall implore him to remain here, and to be here exactly as I should have been,—­had things with me not have been so very unfortunate.  He will at any rate have a house to offer you, if—­”