On such occasions Fitz-Ullin’s colour would come and go; yet, even with this affectionate friend, he continued silent. At length his spirits becoming evidently more depressed, he announced his determination of taking his departure immediately, as he wished, he said, to visit Ayrshire before the Euphrasia was ready for sea, that he might make one more effort on behalf of Arthur, though with scarcely a hope of success; Lady Oswald having already made every exertion. But, young Oswald having no title to show, it was found impossible to disturb the present possessors. If, however, the title-deeds could be found, it was the opinion of counsel, that there would be no difficulty in recovering the property, as the papers themselves would shew (what was well known, though it could not be legally proved,) that Sir Archibald had no power to dispose of more than his life interest in the estates. CHAPTER XLIII. “When the will’s at enmity with the task before us, we love to dally in performance.” Fitz-Ullin was now on the point of quitting Lodore. Yet he lingered. There seemed to be something that he wished to say, or do, before he went; still he did nothing, and said little. At length, finding Julia one morning alone in the library, he took a seat beside her. She trembled visibly; yet were her feelings not altogether painful: there was a strange mixture of hope. He remained for a long time silent, either mastering some emotion, or considering how to commence. “Julia,” he at last said, for, in his agitation, he forgot the title; “do not mistake me! do not suppose that I mean to speak of myself, or of my own feelings; I am too well aware what yours have been, to be guilty of conduct so indelicate. Have been, did I say? rather, what I must suppose they still are, though you have, Julia, so well, so wonderfully maintained the struggle, so successfully concealed every emotion. But surely, those sentiments, however tenderly cherished their secret remembrance may be, and I confess, though such a declaration from me may seem strange, I confess that, even I, who have had so much cause to mourn that ever they found a place in your bosom, even I should not like to see you capable of the levity, of casting them thence in a moment. But, as I was about to say, surely they need not deprive me of that sisterly regard, that calm, unimpassioned friendship, which is all I ask; and which you have even so often promised me should be mine for ever. If I, too, must resign every warmer feeling, need I be deprived, also, of this sweet solace, without which the burden of existence is intolerable! Julia, you look shocked, you look offended. I had not dared to have entered on such a topic—but—but—your surprising self-command deceived me: I thought you could have borne it better. And—and—I did suppose, that the bitterness of my own disappointed hopes might have been some apology; that—I might have been heard, with pity, at least.”