Marquis, or a Viscount, I can’t say, but—­the offer was tempting to a tradesman.  “No,” says Mel; like a chap planting his flagstaff and sticking to it.  I believe that to get her to go with him, Burley offered to make a will on the spot, and to leave every farthing of his money and property—­upon my soul, I believe it to be true—­to Mel and his family, if he’d let the gal go.  “No,” says Mel.  I like the old bird!  And Burley got in a rage, and said he’d leave every farthing to the sailor.  Says Mel:  “I’m a poor tradesman; but I have and I always will have the feelings of a gentleman, and they’re more to me than hard cash, and the honour of my daughter, sir, is dearer to me than my blood.  Out of the house!” cries Mel.  And away old Burley went, and left every penny to the sailor, Admiral Harrington, who never noticed ’em an inch.  Now, there!’

All had listened to Mr. George attentively, and he had slurred the apologetic passages, and emphasized the propitiatory ‘before ladies’ in a way to make himself well understood a generation back.

‘Bravo, old Mel!’ rang the voice of Lady Jocelyn, and a murmur ensued, in the midst of which Rose stood up and hurried round the table to Mrs. Strike, who was seen to rise from her chair; and as she did so, the ill-arranged locks fell from their unnatural restraint down over her shoulders; one great curl half forward to the bosom, and one behind her right ear.  Her eyes were wide, her whole face, neck, and fingers, white as marble.  The faintest tremor of a frown on her brows, and her shut lips, marked the continuation of some internal struggle, as if with her last conscious force she kept down a flood of tears and a wild outcry which it was death to hold.  Sir Franks felt his arm touched, and looked up, and caught her, as Rose approached.  The Duke and other gentlemen went to his aid, and as the beautiful woman was borne out white and still as a corpse, the Countess had this dagger plunged in her heart from the mouth of Mr. George, addressing Miss Carrington: 

’I swear I didn’t do it on purpose.  She ’s Carry Harrington, old Mel’s daughter, as sure as she ‘s flesh and blood!’

CHAPTER XXIII

TREATS OF A HANDKERCHIEF

Running through Beckley Park, clear from the chalk, a little stream gave light and freshness to its pasturage.  Near where it entered, a bathing-house of white marble had been built, under which the water flowed, and the dive could be taken to a paved depth, and you swam out over a pebbly bottom into sun-light, screened by the thick-weeded banks, loose-strife and willow-herb, and mint, nodding over you, and in the later season long-plumed yellow grasses.  Here at sunrise the young men washed their limbs, and here since her return home English Rose loved to walk by night.  She had often spoken of the little happy stream to Evan in Portugal, and when he came to Beckley