An exceeding unwillingness to contemplate death, had prevented Mr. Ponsonby from making a new will.  By one made many years back, he had left the whole of his property, without exception, to his daughter, his first wife having been provided for by her marriage settlements, and now, with characteristic indolence and selfishness, he had deferred till too late the securing any provision for his Limenian wife; and only when he found himself dying, had he said to Mary, ’You will take care to provide for poor Rosita!’

So Mary had found herself heiress to a share in the miserably-involved affairs of Dynevor and Ponsonby; and as soon as she could think of the future at all, had formed the design of settling Rosita in a convent with a pension, and going herself to England.

But Rosita was not easily to be induced to give up her gaieties for a convent life; and, moreover, there was absolutely such a want of ready money, that Mary did not see how to get home, though Robson assured her there was quite enough to live upon as they were at present.  Nor was it possible to dispose of the mines and other property without Mr. Dynevor’s consent, and he might not be in a state to give it.

The next stroke was young Madison’s sudden disappearance, and the declaration by Robson that he had carried off a great deal of property—­a disappointment to her even greater than the loss.  Robson was profuse in compliments and attentions, but continually deferred the statement of affairs that he had promised; and Mary could not bear to accept the help of Mr. Ward, the only person at hand able and willing to assist her.  She had at last grown desperate, and, resolved to have something positive to write to Mr. Dynevor, as well as not to go on living without knowing her means, she had insisted on Robson bringing his accounts.  She knew just enough to be dissatisfied with his vague statements; and the more he praised her sagacity, the more she saw that he was taking advantage of her ignorance, which he presumed to be far greater than it really was.  At the very moment when she was most persuaded of his treachery, and felt the most lonely and desolate—­when he was talking fluently, and she was seeking to rally her spirits, and discover the path of right judgment, where the welfare of so many was concerned—­it was then that Fitzjocelyn’s voice was in her ear.

She had scarcely explained to Louis why his coming was, if possible, doubly and trebly welcome, when the negro admitted another guest, whom Rosita received much as she had done his predecessor, only with less curiosity.  Mary rose, blushing deeply, and crossing the room held out her hand, and said simply, but with something of apology, ‘Mr. Ward, this is Lord Fitzjocelyn.’

Mr. Ward raised his eyes to her face for one moment.  ‘I understand,’ he said, in a low, not quite steady voice.  ’It is well.  Will you present me?’ he added, as though collecting himself like a brave man after a blow.