“Yes, fate! it is just fate! and it is no use to struggle against it, dear lady! I would not try if I were you! I would just yield!” exclaimed Susan, who could never be brought to relinquish the hope that her lady might be persuaded to return to England, and to all the fancied advantages of her social position. “Be silent on that subject, Susan. Oh, angels in Heaven, how shall I meet this new demand on my firmness! Susan, where is his lordship?” “That is the wonderful part of it, my lady! I could easily guess that he might have followed us here, but that after landing, without coming near the house, he should take his servant and his guns, and go off to the woods for a day’s shooting, is what I cannot comprehend at all.” “And it is what his lordship would never do, if he knew of our presence, and had followed us hither! There is more mystery here, Susan! It is just possible that he has _not_ followed us—yet, even in that case, it is scarcely possible that he can escape discovering us.” “Ah! my dear lady, if he does not yet know of your presence here, it would be very easy to conceal ourselves from his knowledge, except for one thing.” “And what is that?” “Your name, dear lady—your name! Mrs. Estel! Ah! if you had only called yourself Mrs. Thompson or Mrs. Smith!” “Ah, but my girl, neither of these names was mine; while that by which I am known is my baptismal name, and the only one, that I am certain of having a claim upon, and the only one that in wearing, I shall do no injury to another!” said the lady, mournfully. Susan sighed, and looked into that troubled countenance with the wish—with the prayer that she herself could only bear a portion of her lady’s burden of sorrow. “Assist me to rise, my girl, and hand me my dressing-gown and slippers. There! thank you. Now go and give my respects to Miss Brande, and request her to come hither,” said Lady Montressor, as she slipped on her morning-gown, put her feet in her shoes, and sank into the one plain arm-chair. CHAPTER XXI. THE LAST STRUGGLE. “One struggle more, and I am free From pangs that rend my heart in twain; One long, last sigh to love and thee, Then back to dreary life again.”—_Byron._ As soon as Susan had closed the door behind her, Lady Montressor dropped her face into her hands, and sigh after sigh, and groan after groan, burst from her overcharged bosom.