any one.

Willoughby, by the manner of shaking hands, and a look which accompanied the action, implied a kind and even anxious enquiry into the state of his brother's feelings, which it cost Alfred an effort to parry. He did so, however, though with an air of rather overdone carelessness.

Willoughby, deeply interested in believing him sincere, and himself not a very keen observer, was more than satisfied—he was delighted. And by the time breakfast was concluded, so well had Alfred, aided by a feverish excitement, acted the part of cheerfulness and even gaiety, that Willoughby now looked forward to the coming evening with unmixed pleasure. It was the one fixed for a splendid ball at Lady Arden's, and Lady Caroline Montague was already engaged to open it with him.

The ball was so far a fortunate circumstance for our hero, for his sisters could think of little else, which prevented their bantering him in the unmerciful manner they might else have done about forsaking his post. Mrs. Dorothea Arden, who after being at the walks with the young people, always breakfasted with the family party, was so anxious on this particular morning to see that meal concluded—having many arrangements to recommend to her nieces, that she too made but one remark on the painful topic, merely saying, as she rose from table; "Well, I am glad, Alfred, you have returned in time not to allow your beautiful heiress to be run away with. Willoughby has been paying fierce love in that quarter I assure you. However, I should hope that with his ninety thousand a-year of his own, he has no serious intention of interfering with your making so desirable a match."

Mrs. Dorothea had effected her exit by the time she finished her speech, so that fortunately no answer was required. An awkward silence however followed; for though all the ladies had by this time departed in various directions, Geoffery's presence precluded any thing like confidential conversation between the brothers.

By our constant mention of Geoffery, it may be supposed he lived with the Arden family, and it must be confessed that he found it both convenient and agreeable to do so in a great measure; he had, however, a nominal home at a hotel. For the last few moments Alfred had yielded to a reverie of no very agreeable nature, the result of which was, a conclusion arrived at with inward dismay: namely, that if he would avoid calling down a universal clamour of remark both upon himself and Lady Caroline, he must continue on friendly, and apparently intimate terms both with Lady Palliser and her daughter, and for this purpose pay to both every polite attention which intimacy claims; and still more that the exertion, however painful, must be made at once.

Accordingly, with as much ease of manner as he could assume, he proposed to Willoughby and Geoffery that they should accompany him in a morning visit to Jessamine Bower.

"I suppose you forgot to ask Mrs. Dorothea's permission before you fall in love," murmured Geoffery aside to Willoughby, as they passed out; "how absurd it is of aunts and mothers to suppose that they are to dictate to young men in these matters; but women love to hear themselves talk."

CHAPTER III.

Lady Palliser not being at home, Alfred was spared the trial of this first visit, and felt that the respite, even till evening, was a sensible relief.

Geoffery, after a vain effort to draw Willoughby to the billiard rooms, repaired thither himself; and the brothers, thus left to each other's society, wandered on into a quiet walk, and naturally fell into confidential conversation.

So well had Alfred hitherto acted his part, and so successfully did he during this interview conceal his emotions, that Willoughby was gradually led to open his whole heart, to dwell with enthusiasm on his attachment, and even to speak of his hopes. He would not have approached this latter part of the subject had he not at length mistaken Alfred's fortitude for indifference, and persuaded himself that prudential considerations must have been chiefly influential in tempting his brother to seek the hand of Caroline.

"I cannot tell you how happy you have made me, Alfred," he said, "by returning among us, and in such good spirits. And remember," he added, "that whenever and wherever you may fix your ultimate choice, it will be my joy to forward your views to the utmost of my power. Whatever settlement the lady's family shall require, you may command at my hands; I speak without limit."

Alfred made an evasive, but affectionate and grateful reply.

"That we may be sometimes mistaken in the strength, or rather the reality and consequent durability of our feelings," continued Willoughby, "I am now fully aware from my own experience. I thought myself very sincerely attached to Lady Anne Armadale, and for a short time after her worthless breach of faith, I believed myself quite miserable; yet how deeply am I, in point of fact, indebted to her ladyship for giving me an opportunity of being undeceived before it was too late! You see, my dear Alfred," he added, smiling, and looking round in his brother's face, "that a disappointment is not always an irremediable misfortune." Alfred had not time to assume cheerfulness of countenance; and Willoughby sighed as he continued, "Not always, I say; for how widely different are my present feelings. I sometimes shudder when I think how little they are within my own control! Alfred," he added, suddenly standing still, and laying his hand on his brother's arm, "if the hopes to which I have now given up my whole soul prove less than true, I shall—become a madman!" he subjoined, after a moment's pause. "You can have no idea," he pursued, "of the wildness of my thoughts, when I give way to a doubt——" A long silence followed, which Willoughby at length broke by saying, "I am well aware that suicide is one of the greatest of crimes; yet without even visible or absolute insanity, I can imagine the balance of the mind being so entirely upset on one all-engrossing object, as to render us for the time no longer accountable beings."

"There are cases," replied Alfred, with mournful solemnity, "which certainly require a more than common exertion of fortitude to carry us through the hour of trial. Impulses, however, of a sinful tendency must not only be resisted, but from the first they must be dismissed from our very thoughts; they must not be dwelt upon even to be condemned, lest our minds become, as it were, familiar with crime, and one barrier be thus broken down."

"Fortitude!—reason!" repeated Willoughby. "Alfred," he added, laying both his hands on his brother's shoulders, "I fear I am already in a delirium! I have intoxicating hopes, yet I know not if they are rational; for there are times when I conjure up fears and calculate chances, till breathless and with beating pulses I could almost rush on self-destruction as a refuge from the mere possibility of ultimate failure!" While uttering the words self-destruction, he looked wildly round for a moment, as if in search of the means.

Alfred was indescribably shocked: the painful surmise which, on less important occasions, had frequently crossed his imagination, now struck him with redoubled force. His sympathy with his brother, mingled as it was with the strange circumstances of his own case, became a sort of agony. "Why should you, my dear Willoughby," he said, "who can command every means of enjoyment this earth has to offer—why should you give way to dreams, so wild, so incoherent? Banish all such thoughts, and let me have at least the happiness of seeing you happy." An anxious inquiring look was Willoughby's only reply to this. He shrank unconsciously from seeking any unwelcome confession—a selfish feeling, of which he was not aware, secretly urging him to believe without probing too deeply, that Alfred was comparatively indifferent. In silence, therefore, the brothers now bent their steps homewards, Alfred reflecting the while on the peculiar cruelty of his fate;