lf, did it not altogether turn on
the final answer which he might get from Florence Mountjoy? Could
Florence be brought to accede to his wishes, he thought that he might
still live happily, respectably, and in such a manner that his name
might go down to posterity not altogether blasted. If Florence would
consent to live at Tretton, then could he remain there. He thought it
over as he stood there with his back to the fire, and he told himself
that with Florence the first year would be possible, and that after the
first year the struggle would cease to be a struggle. He knew himself,
he declared, and he made all manner of excuses for his former vicious
life, basing them all on the hardness of her treatment of him. He did
not know himself, and such assurances were vain. But buoyed up by such
assurances, he resolved that his future fate must be in her hands, and
that her word alone should suffice either to destroy him or to save him.

Thinking thus of his future life, he resolved that he would go at once
to Cheltenham, and throw himself, and what of Tretton belonged to him,
at the girl's feet. Nor could he endure himself to rest another night at
Tretton till he had done so. He started at once, and got late to
Gloucester, where he slept, and on the next morning at eleven o'clock
was at Cheltenham, out on his way to Montpellier Terrace. He at once
asked for Florence, but circumstances so arranged themselves that he
first found himself closeted with her mother. Mrs. Mountjoy was
delighted, and yet shocked, to see him. "My poor brother!" she said;
"and he was buried only yesterday!" Such explanation as Mountjoy could
give was given. He soon made the whole tenor of his thoughts
intelligible to her. "Yes; Tretton was his,--at least he supposed so. As
to his future life he could say nothing. It must depend on Florence. He
thought that if she would promise to become at once his wife, there
would be no more gambling. He had felt it to be incumbent on him to come
and tell her so."

Mrs. Mountjoy, frightened by the thorough blackness of his apparel and
by the sternness of his manner, had not a word to say to him in
opposition. "Be gentle with her," she said, as she led the way to the
room in which Florence was found. "Your cousin has come to see you," she
said; "has come immediately after the funeral. I hope you will be
gracious to him." Then she closed the door, and the two were alone
together.

"Florence!" he said.

"Mountjoy!