“By this time, we had reached the door of the parsonage; its owner invited me in, but I had already loitered much, and could delay my departure no longer. Finding that I could return to my place of destination by crossing Arlingford Park, I gave my name at the lodge, and being admitted, although not without difficulty, I drove as near the house as I could venture. The hatchment darkened the windows of the principal room—many of the others were closed. How different the whole place looked from what it did only a few months back, when I met you there at the time of the large shooting party which Fitzhenry had collected! Poor fellow! I used to abuse him then for his strange unaccountable conduct and coldness towards his pretty, interesting little wife; but I believe others had worked upon him and done mischief there. The place seemed kept in good order as formerly; but all was silent, and had a look of desertion. I did not see a living creature, except some horses at grass, which I recognized to be Fitzhenry’s favourite hunters. They eagerly pricked up their ears when I past, and threw back their long-neglected manes, as if a carriage was now an unusual sight; but when I had driven by, they quietly returned to their food. “I travelled on many miles before I could get poor Lady Fitzhenry out of my head; pondering too with some compunction on a silly report to which I had carelessly given credence. The said report concerned her and you; for you must know, George, that the thoughtless, gossiping world, judging by its own unfeeling self, even while Lady Fitzhenry is still shaded by her weeds, and you are closely fixed at your political post at Vienna, have already married you to each other. “Remember, I am not so indiscreet as to ask how far this story comes home to yourself. That you admired Lady Fitzhenry was certainly very evident to my observation; but how far that admiration may lead you in forming wishes for the future, I can’t pretend to say. Indeed, I almost fear the account I have now been giving, may destroy, or at least throw the gloom of doubt over some flattering vision of connubial bliss. For, (I may be mistaken,) but if I can judge of woman’s countenance, and by it of woman’s constancy, I should say, the first could never beam with joy again, and that her every affection is for ever buried in the grave of her husband. “Time will prove whether I am right; for your sake, I hope I am not.” THE END. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ERRATA TO VOL. II. (See Transcriber’s Notes.) Page 5, _for_ her heart sunk, _read_ sank.