“Alas!  I am afraid that it is only too true.”  And Mary burst into tears afresh.  “You do not love me as you did, Godfrey, when we first met and loved.  You used to sit by my side for hours, looking into my face, and holding my hand in yours; and we were happy—­too happy to speak.  We lived but in each other’s eyes; and I hoped—­fondly hoped—­that that blessed dream would last for ever.  I did not care for the anger of father or brother—­woe is me!  I never had a mother.  One kiss from those dear lips—­one kind word breathed from that dear mouth—­sunk from my ear into my heart, and I gloried in what I ought to have considered my shame.  Oh, why are you changed, Godfrey?  Why should my love remain like a covered fire, consuming my heart to ashes, and making me a prey to tormenting doubts and fears, while you are unmoved by my anguish, and contented in my absence?”

“You attribute that to indifference, which is but the effect of circumstances,” returned Godfrey, somewhat embarrassed by her importunities.  “Perhaps, Mary, you are not aware that the death of my father has left me a poor and ruined man?”

“What difference can that possibly make in our love for each other?” And Mary’s eyes brightened through a cloud of tears.  “I rejoice in your loss of fortune, for it has made us equals.”

“Not quite!” cried the young man, throwing her from him, as if stung by an adder.  “Birth, education, the prejudices of society, have placed an eternal barrier between us.  Impoverished though I be, I never can so far forget myself as to mate with a vulgar peasant!”

“Say that word again—­that word of misery!” cried the unhappy girl, clinging to his arm.  “Recall your many promises—­the awful oath you swore on that fatal night, when I first yielded to temptation, when you solemnly declared, in the name of Almighty God, that the moment you were your own master, you would make me your wife.”

“Mary,” said Godfrey, sternly, “do not deceive yourself—­I never will make you my wife!”

“Then God forgive you, and grant me patience to bear my wrongs!” murmured the poor girl, as she sunk down upon the ground, and buried her face in the dewy grass; while her heartless seducer continued his solitary walk to the Lodge.

CHAPTER XIV.

    My mind is like a vessel tossed at sea
    By winds and waves—­her helm and compass lost;
    No friendly hand to guide her o’er the waste,
    Or point to rocks and shoals that yawn beneath.—­S.M.

The day after his uncle’s funeral, as Anthony sat alone in the good rector’s study, pondering over his recent loss, painfully alive to his present condition, and the uncertainty of his future prospects, he was informed by the servant that a gentleman wished to see him.

Since Algernon’s death, he and Godfrey had not met except at the funeral, in which they had assisted as chief mourners.  He was very anxious to speak to his cousin, and consult with him about their private affairs; and he obeyed the summons with alacrity.  Instead of the person whom he expected to see, a well-dressed intelligent-looking young man advanced to meet him.