SIR ROBERT’S FORTUNE A Novel BY MRS. OLIPHANT AUTHOR OF “CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD” “HARRY JOSCELYN” “HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY” ETC. [Illustration: colophon] NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 1894 Copyright, 1894, by HARPER & BROTHERS. _All rights reserved._ _Printed by the Mershon Company, Rahway, N.J._ SIR ROBERT’S FORTUNE CHAPTER I “We are to see each other no more.” These words were breathed rather than spoken in the dim recess of a window, hidden behind ample curtains, the deep recess in which the window was set leaving room enough for two figures standing close together. Without was a misty night, whitened rather than lighted by a pale moon. “Who says so?” “Alas! my uncle,” said the white figure, which looked misty, like the night, in undistinguishable whiteness amid the darkness round. The other figure was less distinguishable still, no more than a faint solidity in the atmosphere, but from it came a deeper whisper, the low sound of a man’s voice. “Your uncle!” it said. There was character in the voices enough to throw some light upon the speakers, even though they were unseen. The woman’s had a faint accentuation of feeling, not of anxiety, yet half defiance and half appeal. It seemed to announce a fact unchangeable, yet to look and hope for a contradiction. The man’s had a tone of acceptance and dismay. The fiat which had gone forth was more real to him than to her, though she was in the position of asserting and he of opposing it. “Yes,” she said, “Ronald, my uncle--who has the strings of the purse and every thing else in his hands----” There was a moment’s pause, and then he said: “How does he mean to manage that?” “I am to be sent off to-morrow--it’s all settled--and if I had not contrived to get out to-night, you would never have known.” “But where? It all depends upon that,” he said with a little impatience. “To Dalrugas,” she answered, with a sigh; and then: “It is miles and miles from anywhere--a moor and a lodge, and not even a cottage near. Dougal and his wife live there, and take care of the place; not a soul can come near it--it is the end of the world. Oh, Ronald, what shall I do? what shall I do?” Once more in the passionate distress of the tone there was an appeal, and a sort of feverish hope. “We must think; we must think,” he said. “What will thinking do? It will not change my uncle’s heart, nor the distance, nor the dreadful solitude. What does he care if it kills me? or any body?” The last words came from her with a shriller tone of misery, as if it had become too much to bear. “Hush, hush, for Heaven’s sake; they will hear you!” he said.