“To-morrow, I will do you justice if you come to me, at this hour, to-morrow;” and hope again shed a faint glimmer in his breast.  He repeated these words to Godfrey.  Had he noticed the glance which his cousin threw towards his partner in guilt, he would have been puzzled to read its meaning.  Mathews understood it well.

“Go, by all means, Anthony.  I have no doubt that his heart will relent; that he already feels ashamed of his barbarous conduct.  At all events, it can do no harm—­it may do good.  Take that infamous piece of writing in your hand, and reproach him with his treachery.  My father’s injured spirit will be near you, to plead your cause, and you must be successful.”

“Yes, I will go,” said Anthony.  “Either he or I must yield.  My mind is made up upon the subject.  Godfrey, good night.”

“He is ours, Mathews,” whispered Godfrey, as they left the house.  “The old man’s days are numbered.  Remember this hour to-morrow night!”

Glad to find himself once more alone, Anthony continued to pace the room, revolving over in his mind his interview with his father.  He felt convinced that the old man had repented of the cruel trick he had played him; that but for the entrance of Grenard Pike, he would have recalled the paper and given him the sum he desired.  At all events, he was determined to see him at the hour the miser had named, and tell him, without disguise, his thoughts upon the subject.

In the midst of all this tumult of passion, the image of Juliet glided into his mind, and seemed to whisper peace to his perturbed spirit.  “Oh, that I had a friend to advise me in this gloomy hour, into whose faithful bosom I could pour out my whole soul!  Shall I tell Clary?  Shall I confide to the dear child my guilt and folly?” He rang the bell.  Old Ruth, half asleep, made her appearance.

“How is your mistress, Ruth?”

“Better the night, sir.”

“Will you tell her that I wish very much to see her.”

“You won’t disturb the poor lamb, sure.  Why, Mr. Anthony, she has been in her bed these two hours.  She asked after you several times during the day, and was very uneasy at your absence.  Poor child!  I believe she is mortal fond of you.”

“Of me, Ruth?”

“Of you, sir.  I am sure Miss Clary is over head and ears in love with you.  Arn’t it natural?  Two handsome young creatures living in the same house together, walking, and talking, and singing and playing, all the time with each other.  Why, Master Anthony, if you don’t love the dear child, you must be very deceitful, after making so much of her.”

The old woman left him, still muttering to herself some anathema against the deceitfulness of men; while Anthony, shocked beyond measure at the disclosure of a secret which he had never suspected, threw himself upon the sofa, and yielding to the overpowering sense of misery which oppressed him, wept—­even as a woman weeps—­long and bitterly.