‘Yes, I know you have forbidden me to call upon you, and yet I dare to come, at this unseasonable hour, in defiance of your command. Forgive me, Mrs. Bertram, and for pity’s sake hear me. A man cannot go on living for ever betwixt earth and heaven. A time has come when I feel that I must either leave this place, and,’ with a faint tremble in his voice, ‘all that makes it dear to me, or remain to be happier than I am—happy, at least, in the possession of some sustaining hope. You remember my friend Davoren—’ Remember him! Her cheek blanched even at the mention of his name. ‘The doctor who came down to see your daughter?’ ‘Yes,’ she said, looking at him strangely; ‘I am not likely to forget Mr. Davoren.’ ‘You are too grateful for a trifling service. Well, Davoren, my dear old friend, the best and truest friend I have, is here again.’ ‘Here!’ she cried, looking towards the door as if she expected to see it open to admit him. ‘O, I should so like to see him again.’ ‘He will be only too proud to call upon you to-morrow; but in the mean time he—Mrs. Bertram, you must forgive me for what I am going to say. Remember, Davoren is my friend, as near and dear to me as ever brother was to brother. I have told him the story of my hopeless love—’ ‘O, pray, pray, not that subject!’ she said, with a little movement of her hand, half in warning, half entreaty. ‘I have told him all,’ continued Geoffrey, undeterred by that deprecating gesture, ‘and he has written to you, believing that his influence might move you a little in my favour. You will not refuse to read his letter, will you, Mrs. Bertram, or feel offended by his interference?’ ‘No,’ she said, holding out her hand to receive the letter; ‘I can refuse him nothing.’ She betrayed neither surprise nor anger, but read the letter, which was somewhat long, with deepest interest. Her countenance, as she read, watched closely by her lover, betrayed stronger emotion than he had ever yet seen in that inscrutable face. Tears gathered on her eyelids ere she had finished, and at the end a half-stifled sob burst from that proud bosom. ‘_His_ eloquence has more power than mine,’ said Geoffrey, with kindling jealousy. ‘He pleads well,’ she answered, with a slow sad smile—‘pleads as few men know how to plead for another. He urges me to be very frank with you, Mr. Hossack; bids me remember the priceless worth of a heart as true and noble as that you have offered me; entreats me, for the sake of my own happiness and of yours, to tell you the wretched story of my past life. And if, when all is told, wisdom or honour counsels you to leave me, why,’ with a faint broken laugh, ‘you have but to bid me good-bye, and go away, disenchanted and happy.’ ‘Happy without you! Never; nor do I believe your power to disenchant me.’