Different feelings were disturbing Lord Kilcullen’s breast—­different from each other, and some of them very different from those which usually found a place there.  He had sought Fanny’s hand not only with most sordid, but also with most dishonest views:  he not only intended to marry her for her fortune, but also to rob her of her money; to defraud her, that he might enable himself once more to enter the world of pleasure, with the slight encumbrance of a wretched wife.  But, in carrying out his plan, he had disturbed it by his own weakness:  he had absolutely allowed himself to fall in love with his cousin; and when, as he had just done, he offered her his hand, he was quite as anxious that she should accept him for her own sake as for that of her money.  He had taught himself to believe that she would accept him, and many misgivings had haunted him as to the ruined state to which he should bring her as his wife.  But these feelings, though strong enough to disturb him, were not strong enough to make him pause:  he tried to persuade himself that he could yet make her happy, and hurried on to the consummation of his hopes.  He now felt strongly tempted to act a generous part; to give her up, and to bring Lord Ballindine back to her feet; to deserve at any rate well of her, and leave all other things to chance.  But Lord Kilcullen was not accustomed to make such sacrifices:  he had never learned to disregard himself; and again and again he turned it over in his mind—­“how could he get her fortune?—­was there any way left in which he might be successful?”

“This is child’s play, Fanny,” he said.  “You may reject me:  to that I have nothing further to say, for I am but an indifferent wooer; but you can never marry Lord Ballindine.”

“Oh, Adolphus, for mercy’s sake don’t say so!”

“But I do say so, Fanny.  God knows, not to wound you, or for any unworthy purpose, but because it is so.  He was your lover, and you sent him away; you cannot whistle him back as you would a dog.”

Fanny made no answer to this, but walked on towards the house, anxious to find herself alone in her own room, that she might compose her mind and think over all that she had heard and said; nor did Lord Kilcullen renew the conversation till he got to the house.  He could not determine what to do.  Under other circumstances it might, he felt, have been wise for him to wait till time had weakened Fanny’s regret for her lost lover; but in his case this was impracticable; if he waited anywhere it would be in the Queen’s Bench.  And yet, he could not but feel that, at present, it was hopeless for him to push his suit.

They reached the steps together, and as he opened the front door, Fanny turned round to wish him good morning, as she was hurrying in; but he stopped her, and said,

“One word more, Fanny, before we part.  You must not refuse me; nor must we part in this way.  Step in here; I will not keep you a minute;” and he took her into a room off the hall—­“do not let us be children, Fanny; do not let us deceive each other, or ourselves:  do not let us persist in being irrational if we ourselves see that we are so;” and he paused for a reply.