One of the guests in the house, a female relation of Lady Lansmere’s, had been taken suddenly ill about an hour or two before;—the house had been disturbed, the Countess herself aroused, and Mr Morgan summoned as the family medical practitioner. From him she had learned that Nora Avenel had returned to her father’s house late on the previous evening; had been seized with brain fever, and died in a few hours. Audley listened, and turned to the door, still in silence. Lady Lansmere caught him by the arm—“Where are you going? Ah, can I now ask you to save my son from the awful news, you yourself the sufferer? And yet—yet—you know his haste, his vehemence, if he learn that you were his rival—her husband; you whom he so trusted! What, what would be the result?—I tremble!” “Tremble not—I do not tremble! Let me go—I will be back soon—and then—(his lips writhed)—_then_ we will talk of Harley.” Egerton went forth, stunned and dizzy. Mechanically he took his way across the park to John Avenel’s house. He had been forced to enter that house, formally, a day or two before, in the course of his canvass; and his worldly pride had received a shock when the home, the birth, and the manners of his bride’s parents had been brought before him. He had even said to himself, “And is it the child of these persons that I, Audley Egerton, must announce to the world as wife!” Now, if she had been the child of a beggar—nay, of a felon—_now_, if he could but recall her to life, how small and mean would all that dreaded world have seemed to him! Too late—too late! The dews were glistening in the sun—the birds were singing over head—life waking all around him—and his own heart felt like a charnel-house. Nothing but death and the dead there—nothing! He arrived at the door; it was open: he called; no one answered: he walked up the narrow stairs, undisturbed, unseen; he came into the chamber of death. At the opposite side of the bed was seated John Avenel; but he seemed in a heavy sleep. In fact, paralysis had smitten him; but he knew it not; neither did any one. Who could heed the strong hearty man in such a moment? Not even the poor anxious wife! He had been left there to guard the house, and watch the dead—an unconscious man; numbed, himself, by the invisible icy hand! Audley stole to the bedside; he lifted the coverlid thrown over the pale still face. What passed within him, during the minute he staid there, who shall say? But when he left the room, and slowly descended the stairs, he left behind him love and youth, all the sweet hopes and joys of the household human life—for ever and ever! He returned to Lady Lansmere, who awaited his coming with the most nervous anxiety. “Now,” said he drily, “I will go to Harley, and I will prevent his returning hither.” “You have seen the parents. Good heavens! do they know of your marriage?” “No; to Harley I must own it first. Meanwhile, silence!”