The Squire only lent too ready an ear to the base insinuations of his eldest son; and when Algernon returned from the field, he found his father’s manners yet more repulsive than his brother’s.  As Mr. Hurdlestone’s affection for his youngest born diminished, Mark’s appeared miraculously to increase.  He even condescended to give Algernon various friendly hints to lose no opportunity of re-establishing himself in his father’s favor.  But such conduct was too specious even to deceive the unsuspicious, kind-hearted Algernon.  He detected the artifice, and scorned the hypocrite.  Instead of absenting himself from the family circle for a few hours, he was now abroad all day, and sometimes for a whole week, without leaving any clue to discover his favorite haunts.

Mark at length took the alarm.  A jealous fear shot through his brain, and he employed spies to dog his path.  His suspicions were confirmed when he was at length informed by Grenard Pike, the gardener’s son, that Mr. Algernon seldom went a mile beyond the precincts of the park.  His hours, consequently, must be loitered away in some dwelling near at hand.  Algernon was not a young man of sentimental habits.  He was neither poet nor bookworm, and it was very improbable that he would fast all day under the shade of forest boughs, watching, like the melancholy Jacques, the deer come down to the stream to drink.

Where were his walks so likely to terminate as at the widow’s cottage?  What companion could the home-tired child of pleasure find so congenial to his tastes as the young and beautiful Elinor Wildegrave?  There was madness in the thought!  The passion so carefully concealed, no longer restrained by the cautious maxims of prudence, like the turbulent overflowing of some mighty stream, bore down all before it in its headlong course.  Several days he passed in this state of jealous excitement.  On the evening of the fourth, his mental agony reached a climax; unable to restrain his feelings, he determined to brave the anger of his father, the sneers of the world, and the upbraidings of his own conscience, declare his attachment to Elinor, and ask her to become his wife.

He never for a moment suspected that the orphan girl could refuse the magnificent proposal he was about to make, or contemplate with indifference the rank and fortune he had in his power to bestow.

Mark Hurdlestone was not a man to waver or turn back when his mind was once fixed upon an object.  His will was like fate, inflexible in the accomplishment of his purpose.  He thought long and deeply on a subject, and pondered over it for days and months, and even for years; but when he said,—­“I will do it,” the hand of God alone could hinder him from performing that which he had resolutely sworn to do.

Having finally resolved to make Elinor Wildegrave his wife (for in spite of all the revolting traits in his character, he had never for a moment entertained the idea of possessing her on less honorable terms, rightly concluding that a man’s mistress is always a more expensive appendage than a man’s wife,) he snatched up his hat, and walked with rapid strides to the cottage.