That horrid taunt! ah, how it stung his proud sensitive cousin to the heart!  Startled and alarmed at Godfrey’s demeanor, he was yet very doubtful of the truth of his statements, feared that he was but acting a part, until he saw the bright cheek of his companion turn pale, and the tears tremble in his eyes.  Then, all the kindness he had received from his uncle, all the love he had cherished for him from his earliest years, all the affection which he had lavished upon his hot-headed cousin, united to subdue the flame of passion which for a few moments had burnt so fiercely in his breast.  He recalled the solemn promise he had made to Algernon never to forsake his son, and, dreadful as the sacrifice was, which Godfrey now called upon him to make, the struggle was over, the victory over self already won.

“You shall never say, cousin Godfrey, that Anthony Hurdlestone knowingly destroyed your peace.  I love Juliet Whitmore.  I believe that she loves me.  But, for my uncle’s sake, I renounce my claim.”

Joy brightened up the handsome face of Godfrey.  He was not wholly insensible to his cousin’s generous self-denial.  He embraced him with warmth, and the idea that he had rendered Godfrey happy partly reconciled the martyr of gratitude to the sacrifice he had made.

“You spoke of two expedients which might avert the ruin which threatened my uncle.  Your marriage with Juliet Whitmore rests upon no broader basis than a mere possibility.  Name the second.”

“In case of the worst, to apply to your father for the loan of two thousand pounds.”

Anthony shook his head, and, without thinking a reply to such a wild proposition necessary, took up his hat, and tried to still the agitation of his mind by a stroll in the park.

Anthony tried to reason himself into the belief that, in giving up the object of his affections, he had achieved a very great and good action; but there was a painful void in his heart, which all his boasted philosophy failed to fill.

Unconsciously he took the path that led to the humble dwelling of Mary Mathews.  As he drew near the hawthorn hedge that separated the little garden from the road, his attention was arrested by some one weeping passionately behind its almost impervious screen.  He instantly recognised Mary in the mourner; and from a conversation that followed, he found that she was not alone.

“I could bear your reproaches,” she said to her companion, “if he loved me—­but he has ceased to think of me—­to care for me—­I never loved but him—­I gave him all that I had in my power to bestow—­and he has left me thus.”

“Did he ever promise you marriage?” asked the deep voice of William Mathews.

“Oh yes! a thousand and a thousand times.”

“Then,” and he uttered a dreadful oath, “he shall keep his word, or my name is not William Mathews.”

“Ah! if he did but love me as he once loved me, I would not care.  The shame would be joy, the disgrace happiness.  The world is nothing to me—­it may say what it likes—­I would rather be his mistress than another man’s wife.  But to be forsaken and trampled upon; to know that another with half my beauty, and with none of my love, is preferred before me; is more than my heart can bear.”