any sacrifice. If wealth and luxury could make
his Kate happy, she should be happy as a Princess.
But he did not believe either of her or of her mother
that any money would be accepted as a sufficient atonement.
And he hated himself for suggesting to himself that
it might be possible. The girl was good, and
had trusted him altogether. The mother was self-denying,
devoted, and high-spirited. He knew that money
would not suffice.
He need not return to Ireland unless he pleased.
He could send over some agent to arrange his affairs,
and allow the two women to break their hearts in their
solitude upon the cliffs. Were he to do so he
did not believe that they would follow him. They
would write doubtless, but personally he might, probably,
be quit of them in this fashion. But in this
there would be a cowardice and a meanness which would
make it impossible that he should ever again respect
himself.
And thus he again entered Scroope, the lord and owner
of all that he saw around him,—with by
no means a happy heart or a light bosom.
The Earl of Scroope is in
trouble.
Not a word was said to the young lord on his return
home respecting the O’Haras till he himself
had broached the subject. He found his brother
Jack Neville at Scroope on his arrival, and Sophie
Mellerby was still staying with his aunt. A day
had been fixed for the funeral, but no one had ventured
to make any other arrangement till the heir and owner
should be there. He was received with solemn respect
by the old servants who, as he observed, abstained
from calling him by any name. They knew that
it did not become them to transfer the former lord’s
title to the heir till all that remained of the former
lord should be hidden from the world in the family
vault; but they could not bring themselves to address
a real Earl as Mr. Neville. His aunt was broken
down by sorrow, but nevertheless, she treated him
with a courtly deference. To her he was now the
reigning sovereign among the Nevilles, and all Scroope
and everything there was at his disposal. When
he held her by the hand and spoke of her future life
she only shook her head. “I am an old woman,
though not in years old as was my lord. But my
life is done, and it matters not where I go.”
“Dear aunt, do not speak of going. Where
can you be so well as here?” But she only shook
her head again and wept afresh. Of course it would
not be fitting that she should remain in the house
of the young Earl who was only her nephew by marriage.
Scroope Manor would now become a house of joy, would
be filled with the young and light of heart; there
would be feasting there and dancing; horses neighing
before the doors, throngs of carriages, new furniture,
bright draperies, and perhaps, alas, loud revellings.
It would not be fit that such a one as she should be
at Scroope now that her lord had left her.
