That night Mr. Harry’s sleep was by no means so pleasant or sweet as it had been on the first two evenings after his arrival at Walcote.  “So the bright eyes have been already shining on another,” thought he, “and the pretty lips, or the cheeks at any rate, have begun the work which they were made for.  Here’s a girl not sixteen, and one young gentleman is already whimpering over a lock of her hair, and two country squires are ready to cut each other’s throats that they may have the honor of a dance with her.  What a fool am I to be dallying about this passion, and singeing my wings in this foolish flame.  Wings!—­why not say crutches?  ‘There is but eight years’ difference between us, to be sure; but in life I am thirty years older.  How could I ever hope to please such a sweet creature as that, with my rough ways and glum face?  Say that I have merit ever so much, and won myself a name, could she ever listen to me?  She must be my Lady Marchioness, and I remain a nameless bastard.  Oh! my master, my master!” (here he fell to thinking with a passionate grief of the vow which he had made to his poor dying lord.) “Oh! my mistress, dearest and kindest, will you be contented with the sacrifice which the poor orphan makes for you, whom you love, and who so loves you?”

And then came a fiercer pang of temptation.  “A word from me,” Harry thought, “a syllable of explanation, and all this might be changed; but no, I swore it over the dying bed of my benefactor.  For the sake of him and his; for the sacred love and kindness of old days; I gave my promise to him, and may kind heaven enable me to keep my vow!”

The next day, although Esmond gave no sign of what was going on in his mind, but strove to be more than ordinarily gay and cheerful when he met his friends at the morning meal, his dear mistress, whose clear eyes it seemed no emotion of his could escape, perceived that something troubled him, for she looked anxiously towards him more than once during the breakfast, and when he went up to his chamber afterwards she presently followed him, and knocked at his door.

As she entered, no doubt the whole story was clear to her at once, for she found our young gentleman packing his valise, pursuant to the resolution which he had come to over-night of making a brisk retreat out of this temptation.

She closed the door very carefully behind her, and then leant against it, very pale, her hands folded before her, looking at the young man, who was kneeling over his work of packing.  “Are you going so soon?” she said.

He rose up from his knees, blushing, perhaps, to be so discovered, in the very act, as it were, and took one of her fair little hands—­it was that which had her marriage ring on—­and kissed it.

“It is best that it should be so, dearest lady,” he said.

“I knew you were going, at breakfast.  I—­I thought you might stay.  What has happened?  Why can’t you remain longer with us?  What has Frank told you—­you were talking together late last night?”