Anthony had appealed to Mary to vindicate his character from the foul aspersion cast upon him; but when she came he was so shocked by her appearance that he was unable to speak to her.

“Mary,” said her brother peremptorily, “is not this man your lover?”

Mary gazed upon Anthony sullenly, but returned no answer.

“Speak, Mary,” said Anthony, addressing her with a degree of compassionate tenderness.  “Did you ever receive wrong or injury from me?  Did I ever address you as a lover, betray, or leave you to shame?  Your brother has accused me of all these crimes.  Speak out, and tell the truth.”

Instead of answering his question in direct terms, the girl, who for the first time comprehended the degrading situation in which she was placed, and subdued by the kindness of Anthony’s look and manner, sprang towards him, and, following the reckless disposition which had led to her ruin, seized his hand and pressing it to her lips, exclaimed,

“Oh, Mr. Hurdlestone!  This from you?”

“It is enough,” said Juliet, who had witnessed this extraordinary scene with an intensity of interest too great to be described; and, turning the head of her horse homewards, she rode off at full speed, murmuring through her fast-flowing tears, “What need have I of further evidence?  Yes, he is guilty.”

“She is gone!” exclaimed Anthony, in an agony of despair.  “She is gone, and believes me to be a villain!”

Whilst he stood rooted to the spot, Mathew approached, and whispered in his ear, “Your mean subterfuge has not saved you.  We shall meet again.”

“I care not how soon,” returned Anthony, fiercely; “but why,” continued he, in a softer voice, “should I be angry with you?  Man, you have mistaken your quarry—­a matter of little moment to you, but a matter of life and death to me.”

“Death and hell!” exclaimed the ruffian, who at last began to suspect his error.  “If you are not Godfrey Hurdlestone, you must be his ghost!”

“I am his cousin; I never wronged either you or yours; but you have done me an injury which you can never repair.”

“Well, hang me if that is not a good joke!” cried the smuggler, bursting into a coarse laugh, which quickened the steps of his retreating foe.  “The devil had some mischief in store when he made those chaps so much alike.  I would not wish my own brother to resemble me so closely as all that, lest mayhap he should murder or steal, and the halter should fall on my neck instead of his.”

CHAPTER XI.

    Oh, human hearts are strangely cast,
      Time softens grief and pain;
    Like reeds that shiver in the blast,
      They bend to rise again.—­S.M.

“Come, Miss Whitmore, you must rouse yourself from this unwomanly grief.  It is quite improper for a young lady of your rank and fortune to be shedding tears for the immoral conduct of a worthless young profligate.”