influence of fear; while pride, that weakest and most enfeebling of all evil passions, gave him no support under affliction, no strength and vigour in the moment of danger.  In his heart Wilton could not respect him; but still he had nourished in his bosom feelings of affectionate regard towards him:  he knew that Laura’s happiness was not to be separated from her father’s safety, and he resolved once more to exert every energy of mind and body in the service of the Duke.

For about half an hour more their conversation was protracted in the same strain, and then Wilton took his leave, telling the prisoner that he feared he should not be able to visit him on the following day.  The Duke pressed him much to do so; but when he heard that every spare moment of Wilton’s time was to be devoted to his service, he readily agreed, for that object, to lose the consolation of seeing him.

According to his promise, Wilton sped as fast as possible to Beaufort House; and though the brief conversation which ensued between him and Laura was mingled with much that was sad, yet the very fact of being together—­of pouring out every thought of the heart to each other—­of consulting with each other upon the welfare of one who was now an object of the deepest interest to both—­was in itself a happiness, to Wilton powerful and intense; to Laura, sweet, soothing, and supporting.  During the short time that Wilton stayed, the conversation turned entirely upon the Duke.  At that moment, and with but little cheering hope to give, Wilton could not mingle the subject of his own feelings with the sadder ones which brought him thither.  Love, indeed, pervaded every word he spoke; love, indeed, gave its colouring to all his feelings and to all his thoughts; but that very love was of a kind which prevented him from making it the subject of discourse at such an hour as that.  Nor was his visit long, for it was now dark; and after one whole day, which he knew had been spent in anxiety, care, and fatigue, and after a night which he likewise knew had gone by in sorrow and anguish, he felt that Laura would require repose, and hoped, though but faintly, that she would obtain it.

He left her, then, in less than an hour, and took his way homeward, meditating over what might be done for the Duke, but seeing no hope, no chance, but in the exertions of the Earl of Byerdale, or the merciful interposition of the Duke of Shrewsbury.  He was not without hope that the Earl would exert himself; though when he asked his own mind the question, “Upon what motives, and to what effect, will the Earl exert himself?” he was obliged to pause in doubt—­ay, and in suspicion.  He could not divest his own heart of a conviction that the Earl was acting insincerely; that there was some object in view which it was impossible for him to divine; some purpose more than mere kindness to a relation whom he had never known or acknowledged for so many years of their mutual life.