any sacrifice.  If wealth and luxury could make his Kate happy, she should be happy as a Princess.  But he did not believe either of her or of her mother that any money would be accepted as a sufficient atonement.  And he hated himself for suggesting to himself that it might be possible.  The girl was good, and had trusted him altogether.  The mother was self-denying, devoted, and high-spirited.  He knew that money would not suffice.

He need not return to Ireland unless he pleased.  He could send over some agent to arrange his affairs, and allow the two women to break their hearts in their solitude upon the cliffs.  Were he to do so he did not believe that they would follow him.  They would write doubtless, but personally he might, probably, be quit of them in this fashion.  But in this there would be a cowardice and a meanness which would make it impossible that he should ever again respect himself.

And thus he again entered Scroope, the lord and owner of all that he saw around him,—­with by no means a happy heart or a light bosom.

CHAPTER VI.

The Earl of Scroope is in trouble.

Not a word was said to the young lord on his return home respecting the O’Haras till he himself had broached the subject.  He found his brother Jack Neville at Scroope on his arrival, and Sophie Mellerby was still staying with his aunt.  A day had been fixed for the funeral, but no one had ventured to make any other arrangement till the heir and owner should be there.  He was received with solemn respect by the old servants who, as he observed, abstained from calling him by any name.  They knew that it did not become them to transfer the former lord’s title to the heir till all that remained of the former lord should be hidden from the world in the family vault; but they could not bring themselves to address a real Earl as Mr. Neville.  His aunt was broken down by sorrow, but nevertheless, she treated him with a courtly deference.  To her he was now the reigning sovereign among the Nevilles, and all Scroope and everything there was at his disposal.  When he held her by the hand and spoke of her future life she only shook her head.  “I am an old woman, though not in years old as was my lord.  But my life is done, and it matters not where I go.”

“Dear aunt, do not speak of going.  Where can you be so well as here?” But she only shook her head again and wept afresh.  Of course it would not be fitting that she should remain in the house of the young Earl who was only her nephew by marriage.  Scroope Manor would now become a house of joy, would be filled with the young and light of heart; there would be feasting there and dancing; horses neighing before the doors, throngs of carriages, new furniture, bright draperies, and perhaps, alas, loud revellings.  It would not be fit that such a one as she should be at Scroope now that her lord had left her.