the world; but to guide the fate of that child--no!" Lord
Castleton stopped, for he was affected. I felt my old jealousy return,
but it was no longer bitter.

"I say nothing," continued the marquis, "of this position, in which,
without fault of hers, Miss Trevanion is placed: Lady Ellinor's
knowledge of the world, and woman's wit, will see how all that can be
best put right. Still, it is awkward, and demands much consideration.
But putting this aside altogether, if you do firmly believe that Miss
Trevanion is lost to you, can you bear to think that she is to be
flung as a mere cipher into the account of the worldly greatness of an
aspiring politician,--married to some minister too busy to watch over
her, or some duke who looks to pay off his mortgages with her fortune;
minister or duke only regarded as a prop to Trevanion's power against a
counter-cabal, or as giving his section a preponderance in the cabinet?
Be assured such is her most likely destiny, or rather the beginning of
a destiny yet more mournful. Now, I tell you this, that he who marries
Fanny Trevanion should have little other object, for the first few
years of marriage, than to correct her failings and develop her
virtues. Believe one who, alas! has too dearly bought his knowledge of
woman,--hers is a character to be formed. Well, then, if this prize be
lost to you, would it be an irreparable grief to your generous affection
to think that it has fallen to the lot of one who at least knows his
responsibilities, and--who will redeem his own life, hitherto wasted, by
the steadfast endeavor to fulfil them? Can you take this hand still, and
press it, even though it be a rival's?"

"My lord! this from you to me is an honor that--"

"You will not take my hand? Then, believe me, it is not I that will give
that grief to your heart."

Touched, penetrated, melted, by this generosity in a man of such lofty
claims, to one of my age and fortunes, I pressed that noble hand, half
raising it to my lips,--an action of respect that would have misbecome
neither; but he gently withdrew the hand, in the instinct of his natural
modesty. I had then no heart to speak further on such a subject, but
faltering out that I would go and see my uncle, I took up the light and
ascended the stairs. I crept noiselessly into Roland's room, and shading
the light, saw that, though he slept, his face was very troubled. And
then I thought, "What are my young griefs to his?" and sitting beside