“Your mamma has bad health, my dear,” said Lord Vargrave, a little discomposed. “But it is a fine thing to be a wife and have a carriage of your own, and a fine house, and jewels, and plenty of money, and be your own mistress; and Lumley will love you dearly.” “Oh, yes, I should like all that.” “And you will have a protector, child, when I am no more.” The tone, rather than the words, of her stepfather struck a damp into that childish heart. Evelyn lifted her eyes, gazed at him earnestly, and then, throwing her arms round him, burst into tears. Lord Vargrave wiped his own eyes, and covered her with kisses. “Yes, you shall be Lumley’s wife, his honoured wife, heiress to my rank as to my fortunes.” “I will do all that papa wishes.” “You will be Lady Vargrave, then, and Lumley will be your husband,” said the stepfather, impressively. “Think over what I have said. Now let us join mamma. But, as I live, here is Lumley himself. However, it is not yet the time to sound him:--I hope that he has no chance with that Lady Florence.” CHAPTER VI. “Fair encounter Of two most rare affections.”--_Tempest_. MEANWHILE the betrothed were on their road to London. The balmy and serene beauty of the day had induced them to perform the short journey on horseback. It is somewhere said, that lovers are never so handsome as in each other’s company, and neither Florence nor Ernest ever looked so well as on horseback. There was something in the stateliness and grace of both, something even in the aquiline outline of their features and the haughty bend of the neck, that made a sort of likeness between these young persons, although there was no comparison as to their relative degrees of personal advantage: the beauty of Florence defied all comparison. And as they rode from Cleveland’s porch, where the other guests yet lingering were assembled to give the farewell greeting, there was a general conviction of the happiness destined to the affianced ones,--a general impression that both in mind and person they were eminently suited to each other. Their position was that which is ever interesting, even in more ordinary people, and at that moment they were absolutely popular with all who gazed on them; and when the good old Cleveland turned away with tears in his eyes and murmured “Bless them!” there was not one of the party who would have hesitated to join the prayer. Florence felt a nameless dejection as she quitted a spot so consecrated by grateful recollections. “When shall we be again so happy?” said she, softly, as she turned back to gaze upon the landscape, which, gay with flowers and shrubs, and the bright English verdure, smiled behind them like a garden. “We will try and make my old hall, and its gloomy shades, remind us of these fairer scenes, my Florence.”