CHAPTER IV.

"THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH FOR THE STAR."

"I have never been so far out from the Marine Parade before--so far out at sea, I mean."

"But you are not uneasy--alarmed?" asked the young man, with great tenderness of manner.

"Oh, no; am I not with _you_?" answered the girl sweetly and simply, as she drew off a glove and let the water slip through her slender white fingers, as the boat, urged by the powerful hands and arms of a handsome and sunburnt young fellow of twenty-two or thereabout, clad in a white flannel boating costume, with canvas shoes and a straw hat, shot through the water of the bay in view of Finglecombe.

It was a summer evening. The sun was setting beyond the Bristol Channel, and seeming to light its waves with fire. The rocks, the gardens and orchards along the shore, and all the villas of "the rising watering-place" were bathed in ruddy light, blended with a misty golden haze; and the warm glow fell on two bright faces in particular. When the oarsman looked with wonder at the changes on the shore, as he sometimes did, the girl looked at him, not in a way she was wont to do, but with a soft expression in her tender eyes that he would have given the world to have seen.

Anon, when at some distance from the shore, he rested on his skulls, leaving them in the rowlocks, while the boat floated idly on the sunlit water.

"Please do not do any more of _that_," said the young lady.

"Of what?" asked her companion.

"This tatooing," said she, pointing with her parasol to his handsome bare arms, on which he had punctured, in sailor fashion, a ship in full sail, three choughs, and other insignia known to himself alone.

"Ah! Joe Grummet did all these one evening, when we were standing off and on under easy sail near Cuba," said Derval, for the speaker was he, and the beautiful girl who sat opposite to him in the stern-sheets, and on the dainty cushions of the pleasure-boat, was Clara, Lord Oakhampton's only daughter.

And now to explain how all this came about, and that these two were so intimate.

Derval was not long in discovering, from the visitors' lists, that Lord Oakhampton had taken, for the summer months, a villa in Bayview Terrace, Finglecombe, but had ignored the existence of the widow of his late namesake.

This was nothing to Derval, who immediately called at the villa and sent up his card, and was warmly received by Lord Oakhampton, who, we have said, was a tall and handsome man, with stately manners. He was elderly now, with silvery hair, but his fine aquiline features were unchanged in noble outline and honesty of expression. After a few mutual remarks and inquiries,

"I called," said Derval, "to do myself the honour of personally thanking your Lordship for the medal for which you so kindly recommended me."

"A medal most deservedly won by you, and my life-long gratitude went with it to you!" replied Lord Oakhampton, as did his daughter, who soon made her appearance, and saw that their visitor was a handsome and manly-looking young fellow. His brown hair was deeper in colour than it had been in Bermuda, and a slight moustache shaded a sensitive mouth. His tall and slender figure had all the strength and grace of manhood in it, and his manners were unexceptionable. His early training had made him grave in manner, thoughtful in expression of eye, courteous to men and deferential to women; in fact, he was all his mother could have wished him to be.

"Clara, my dear," said Lord Oakhampton bowing, with much of the old-fashioned courtesy which certainly did distinguish his manner when addressing her, or, indeed, any female of his household, "may I introduce an old friend to you--one to whom, indeed, you owe much!"

Clara Hampton looked up with something of surprise, and saw only a young man like a naval officer--but a very handsome one certainly--who answered her inquiring gaze by a bow and a smile.

"How unfortunate I am to have been forgotten by you, Miss Hampton," he said.

"Forgotten--oh, no, no," she exclaimed as sudden recognition flashed upon her, and lightened all her features; "I remember you perfectly, and the sharks' pool and the coral cavern in Bermuda--you are our namesake, Mr. Derval Hampton?"

And she frankly put both her hands in his.

"You are grown quite a woman, Miss Hampton."

"She will be eighteen on her next birthday," said her father; "but women are by nature older than men," he added laughingly.

And so it all came about thus.

Every detail of a beauty that seemed to have no peer, in his eyes at least, did Derval take in by one swift glance. In all the bloom of her age, the girl was radiantly bright and fresh. Her rich brown hair was darker now, and more luxuriant than ever; but the violet eyes were softer and more shy than in the girlish time, when she accorded to Derval that kiss over which he fondly pondered now. But perhaps she was remembering it too. On her delicate cheeks there was a soft flush, as of the rose-leaf; her mouth was perfect in shape, and sweet. Refined, proud, and lovely, and she looked--birth stamped on every feature--a peer's daughter every inch, and in every way a picture fair to look upon; and so thought Derval. Never before had he dreamed that a woman could be so fair.

He was invited to stay to dinner; the invitation was repeated for a second occasion and a third. Lord Oakhampton had evidently few friends in that part of the world, was the modest thought of Derval, and the Bermuda Isles formed a safe and easy topic for general conversation when other subjects failed; and the usually haughty peer thawed fast and easily towards his young friend--little dreaming that the latter was learning faster to love his daughter, and not the less that he deemed this love a midsummer madness, and too surely might be only like the desire of the moth for the star!

They met on the marine parade, on the shingly beach, and singularly enough in some of the shady green lanes, that had escaped recent improvements; but Miss Sampler was always with her, a companion now. Derval felt his heart leap when he saw her, and it trembled as she drew near him, and as it had never trembled under human influence before. He showed her the locket she had given him at Bermuda. She laughed at first, and then coloured deeply to find that he wore it attached to his neck by a ribbon.

Yet after this she neither avoided him, nor made any change in her demeanour towards him. What could he deduce from that, but that she favoured him, or received him as a means of passing the time in a stupid watering-place. It was bitter for him to think that she--secure in a position so far above him in many respects--might be doing thus; but from the soft, shy gentleness of her manner, it was impossible to adopt such a conviction.

Twice, when escorting her to the dinner-table, he thought that her hand--how little it was!--leant rather fondly on his arm, and the idea made his heart thrill. Is it a marvel that his head was turned and intoxicated by the opportunities offered by propinquity, and that the secret of his heart was daily trembling on his lips?

Was she luring him on to his own destruction? Her calm, gentle eye, and perfect quietude of manner, repelled this idea. Could he but have looked into the girl's heart! At that very time she was asking herself, what was this young sailor to her? Why should she feel so deeply interested in him, for such was indeed the case! Cold reason replied that he ought to be as nothing to her; yet her heart already told her that he was something, and more than something to dream of--to ponder on fondly--to be sorely missed when he departed--as if his life were already mysteriously linked with her own.

"His life linked with hers? What folly!" she whispered to herself, as she thought of her proud father and "society."

So now they had taken them to boating on the bay; but Miss Sampler who usually played propriety in their apparently casual walks, disliked aquatic excursions, and generally sat reading on the beach, while Derval pulled far enough out to be beyond the ken of anything but a powerful lorgnette, and of this Clara generally possessed herself "to see the coast."

On the evening mentioned, when Clara referred to the tatooing, and made Derval promise to disfigure his arms no more in that remarkable way, it may be inferred that their intimacy had made considerable progress--the result of the somewhat untrammelled life they led at Finglecombe--and seldom does the evening sun fall upon a pair of more attractive-looking lovers--for lovers they were undoubtedly--though no distinct word of love had passed between them.

It lingered, softly as Derval's own eyes, on Clara's graceful figure, her creamy dress and soft laces, on her shining hair, and pretty little feet encased in hose of bright cardinal silk and tiny _bottines_, the most perfect that Paris could produce--_bottines_ which the folds of her dress had kindly revealed for a time.

Seeing that Derval was resting, as we left him--resting dreamily on his sculls, and letting the boat drift with the current, while his soul was full of her beauty, and his heart seemed at his lips, she said:

"Of what are you thinking?"

"Of you," he replied, and he saw that she grew pale at the idea of what might follow, and the conviction that she had drawn it on herself; "I was thinking that you could be a friend good and true, if you chose; and heaven knows," he added with a sigh, and timidly fencing as he thought, "I want one."

"Have you not Rookleigh, your brother of whom I have heard, but, oddly, never seen?"

"To me he is a brother, and no brother!"

"I will be your friend," said she, coyly.

"Ever!"

"Ever and always. Think of all I owe you--that I am here to-day, alive and in the world, listening to you, and spared to Papa."

Bright ardour filled his eyes, and stooping he pressed her hand to his lips; but she snatched it away.

"I do not mean friendship of that kind!" said she, blushing with anger at herself for taking, as she thought, the initiative; then he too reddened, and a pause ensued.

Clara had not the least idea of flirting; and yet the most consummate coquette could not have been more fascinating in her charming frankness of manner.

"Of what are you thinking now?" he asked, as her white fingers played with the shining ripples.

"Of Bermuda," she replied, with a soft smile in her averted face.

"You were a child then--five years ago--and now----"

"What am I now?" she asked, laughingly.

"Look into the water where your face is reflected, and you will see."

"See--what?"

"A face, like no other in this world--to me, especially."

"Now you talk foolishly."

"God knows, I do--perhaps," said he, sadly; "it is pleasant to dream for the present, and to forget the coming future, for all this sweet companionship must end, and when I return to England again, you will be no longer Clara Hampton."

"What then--or who then?" she asked in a low voice.

"The wife of some happy man."

"Why are you so sure?"

"Of what?"

"That he will be happy."

"Could he be otherwise with you?"

All this was pointed enough; but both were fencing--he dreading a repulse, and she thinking of her father's pride. Yet both were very pale, and their hearts beat violently.

"And how came you to be so assured of all this?" she asked, looking down.

"You are beautiful, rich, noble, Clara!"

"You must not call me Clara. Rich? You think, then, that no one would love me for myself alone?" she asked a little bitterly.

"I have not said so."

"Did you think so?"

"Heaven forbid! but judging from my own heart, I wish, indeed--indeed----"

"What?"

"That you were as humble and as poor as the beggar-maid whom King Cophetua loved."

"Thank you, a very odd wish!" she said, with a low musical laugh.

"Oh, do not mock me!" he exclaimed bitterly--for no lover likes his heroics to be made a jest of; but no mockery was in the girl's heart; she felt as if dreaming; she only felt and knew that her lover was beside her, looking more manly and handsome, and more fascinating, than the first day they met; but she thought of her father and his lofty pride, and said with apparent firmness, yet with a gasp in her slender white throat,--

"I do not mock you--oh, never, never think that of me; but for pity's sake, talk no more in this strain; and do pull the boat in shore, for I see Miss Sampler is making signals of impatience."

Though her long lashes imparted a dreamy depth to the young girl's eyes, there were in the low, broad brow, firm lips, and clearly-cut nostrils, evidence of force of character and strength of resolution.

Derval understood the situation; he sighed, shipped his sculls, and pulled in silently, feeling that he had said enough to show that he loved her, and that she chid him not, he resigned her to her chaperone, and betook him, full of anxious thoughts, to the solitude of his room at the hotel; yet each felt that they must meet again, or that henceforward life would be a blank to them; and eye said this to eye as they parted on the shore.

It was rather a source of exasperation to Mrs. Hampton in her stately villa, that Derval should be so intimate with Lord Oakhampton and his daughter, while she and her son were not--were ignored, in fact; and this, with Derval's protracted residence at the hotel, caused no speculation among her friends and the gossips of the new settlement or watering-place; and, incited to mischief by his mother, Rookleigh Hampton began to scheme revenge; nor were Patty Fripp's ample and exulting expatiations on the rare beauty of Miss Hampton, and the great glory of Derval's boating expeditions with her, wanting as a spur on this occasion.

Lord Oakhampton remarked to himself that neither by word, act, nor hint, did Derval ever refer to his late father's dreaded claim to the coronet. This pleased with him with his young friend, yet it was not without annoyance and alarm that he discovered and viewed the growing intimacy between him and his daughter, and painfully, indeed, did the latter blush when he began to remonstrate with her upon the subject; and her pain was all the deeper by a knowledge that she had brought it upon herself.

Seated together with her father in an oriel window overlooking the bay, her mind, as evening darkened and the moonlight came upon the water, was full of what had passed between herself and Derval but a very short time before, and after a silence of some minutes she said, with the irrepressible desire to talk of what was nearest her heart and uppermost in her thoughts,--

"Have you ever remarked, Papa, what a handsome young man Mr. Hampton is?"

Lord Oakhampton started quickly, and looked at her, but Clara's face was hidden in shadow.

"Of course I have observed it," he replied; "he is not only handsome, but distinguished-looking, for a man of his class. He comes of a good family."

"Yes--is he not some relation of our own, Papa?"

"Has he ever said so--does he talk of such a matter?" asked Lord Oakhampton, in a changed tone.

"Oh, no, Papa, but he strikes me as so unlike the men I usually meet."

Lord Oakhampton was silent for a minute; then he said, with some asperity of manner,--

"Since when has this extreme intimacy with Mr. Hampton been in progress?"

"Extreme intimacy, Papa!" said Clara, in a tone of dismay, and colouring deeply in the twilight.

"Yes; you understand me, I presume?"

"I have known him since the day he sent up his card, and renewed the intimacy that began at Bermuda."

"That was but a casual, but very important episode; but what passed then, under the circumstances, temporarily, when you were but a child, cannot be continued or tolerated now. He is but a merchant seaman!"

"A mate, Papa, and a commissioned officer in the Naval Reserve."

"Pshaw!"

"And heir to a large estate."

"That is doubtful, Clara; his brother is the heir. I know there is much common sense in that little head of yours, and I wish you to bring it to bear upon the present question. This intimacy is unseemly. Good heaven! what would society say of it?"

"Society! how I do hate that word, Papa!"

"Indeed! You are young and inexperienced, and it is for me to consider that which may become insolence on his part, and folly on yours."

Never before had her father spoken with such severity of tone, and the soft eyes of Clara filled with unseen tears.

"Ours is a levelling age certainly; but this intimacy carries the game rather far. It is outrageous!" he continued, nursing his annoyance, and warming with it.

"But he bears our name, and why may we not know him? If he is a kinsman----"

"Kinsman!" exclaimed her father, with growing anger, as he recalled the visit of Mr. De Murrer; "the devil! don't speak thus; and as for the mere matter of a name, one would think you were an old Scotsman of a hundred years ago, rather than an English girl of the nineteenth century!"

"I only think of what I owe him, Papa," urged Clara, greatly apprehensive that Derval's name would now be struck off the visitor's list--but prudence forbade such an order as yet.

"It is possible you may think too much," continued Lord Oakhampton, greatly ruffled; "but remember, Clara, that this young man is as much out of your world as one of yonder boatmen in the bay!"

"Do not suppose, dear Papa, that I will ever do aught unbecoming your daughter. I have always done my best to please you," she added, as her graceful figure bent over him, and a white arm stole round his neck, while her sweet face grew almost softer in expression, as she caressed him.

But she now discovered the truth of the German proverb, "Speech is silver, silence is gold," and knew to her infinite mortification, that by her first remark on Derval's appearance, and her attempted defence of their friendship, she had thoroughly awakened the suspicions of her father, of whose old hostility to the Hamptons of Finglecombe she knew nothing; and the results were that her liberty was much more circumscribed than it had been. There was no more boating on the bay, and Miss Sampler was for ever on duty now. Forbidden to think of him, she cherished the idea all the more. To her, Derval, honest, manly, straightforward, and single-hearted, seemed worth all "the white-handed glittering youth" she had yet met with; and thus it was in vain that her father urged that he did not and never would belong to her class in society--even by thought, culture, and education; but, in some of the latter premises, his lordship was in error. Yet, too keenly aware of what the claims were that Derval, or interfering friends for him, might urge to the title he held, he could neither forbid him his house nor request that he would cease to address Miss Hampton.

To Derval the idea of these claims never occurred; he felt that there was a change now, that he saw Clara more seldom, and never alone. Whether this was her own desire, or that of her father, he could not tell; he only knew that the first stirrings of a deeply-absorbing love were quickening his pulses and thrilling in his veins. He had heard of the desire of the moth for the star, and felt himself somewhat akin to that foolish insect indeed. She was the daughter of a peer, and in the fulness of that thought, and the greatness of his passion, he forgot that he might yet be a peer himself!

Time was passing on--day followed day, and he missed the sweet companionship sorely. Her face was ever before him in all its soft beauty and variety of expression; her voice seemed ever in his ear, as he conned over her utterances, and recalled her attractive and pretty little modes of manner. He was never weary of watching the roof that covered her, the windows she might be looking from, or the walks where he might chance to meet, even to see her; and he resolved, that come what might, he would not go away without declaring how he loved her, without telling her the old, old story, that was first told in Eden; and that he would never forget her, and never love another.

The time for his departure was drawing near now, and thus he was a prey to the most terrible anxiety.

He felt that the relief of words he must have, or his heart would sink. So much had this strong passion become a part of himself, that he felt and thought that he would rather be dead and buried with her, than that she should become the wife of another. And yet such separations come to pass every day, and no one dies of them, so far as the world knows.

He had gathered courage from what he could read in her eyes, more than once, when he had met her and her chaperone, and they had lingered together, talking the merest commonplaces, but with their hearts very full indeed, and Miss Sampler keenly observant of their words and actions. Thus he had resolved that there should be no mistake when the opportunity came, and come it did one day, most unexpectedly, when he met her suddenly, alone too, and then, all the world seemed to stand still!

It was in one of the last places where he would have thought to meet her unattended--at the Nutcracking Rock, an ancient logan-stone, which rests, as it were, upon a keel, so that a push rolls it from side to side, at each vibration being arrested by a stone, against which it knocks. Hence its name, and it stands in a wooded and solitary place, near the shore of the bay, covered with golden moss and surrounded by dwarf oak-trees and hawthorns.

She was seated on a camp-stool, and so intent on her work of sketching it, that he drew near her unperceived, with his heart beating almost painfully, and every fibre tingling with love and joy. His step aroused her, she looked round; a faint exclamation escaped her, and she dropped her pencil.

"Mr. Hampton, you here?"

"Thank heaven that I find you as I do, alone, Clara," said he, picking up the fallen pencil, and kneeling on one knee by her side after he did so. They were eye to eye now, and both were greatly agitated.

"Alone, Clara," said he, taking her unresisting hand, "how are you here alone?"

"Miss Sampler has just left me; did not you meet her?"

"No, I came by the beach."

"And what were the wild waves saying?" she asked, smiling honestly and fondly down on his upturned face.

"They seemed to sing to me of love and you, Clara," he answered, in the same joyous manner, and drawing her towards him he kissed her tenderly, passionately, and there was no need for declaring the love that filled his heart and trembled on his lips, and yet he did so in words that filled her heart with mingled joy and fear--joy, for they were such as no young girl could have heard unmoved when addressed to herself--and a great fear, as she thought of her father, and all his words flashed on her memory. She grew pale, and even when Derval's kisses were pressed upon her cheek in that sequestered place, she glanced round her fearfully.

"And you love me in return, Clara, my own Clara?" he murmured, caressing her tenderly after their first incoherences were over.

"Yes, oh yes, Derval, I love you!" she replied.

"It is said to be fortunate for us, that the future is a sealed book," said he, drawing her head and face caressingly into his neck and his breast, "yet I should like to have known that the little girl whose life I saved in Bermuda was to be my wife--my own darling wife--in the years to come!"

_His wife!_

The sweet assumption made her tears flow fast, and hot and bitter tears they were. The intensity of his love had touched her, and delighted her heart; but these words recalled her father's remarks and injunctions, and even while Derval spoke and she responded, while joining with him in the delirious joy of the present, she had the chilling and terrible fear, that this great love and his suit would prove--all nonsense in the future, and never come to anything!

I was an awful conviction or fear to have at such a moment, and the intensity of her agitation, her sobs and tears, attracted the attention of Derval.

"My own darling," he asked, inquiringly, "why all those tears?"

"My father, Derval,"

"You dread his opposition--so do I; but I would not have him ashamed of me, if you are not--my own love!"

"Derval--we leave this for Paris to-morrow morning. In the joy of seeing you, I almost forgot it," she continued, sobbing heavily.

"To-morrow--oh heavens, Clara! And I! next day for a ship--a few days whole seas will be between us! We sail for the Cape."

"It is awful to think, Derval, that we may pass out of each others' lives, and be as if we never met--never known each other!"

"Why--how?" he asked regarding her anxiously.

"What can such a secret and forbidden love as ours, with such a separation, lead to? a separation without a place or period for meeting again, and without a means of hearing of each others' lives, safety, or happiness."

As she spake her pearly teeth were set, and there came into her face something of the expression that Derval had seen it wear in the boat on the last occasion, force of character and strength of resolution, young though she was.

As the reader may conjecture, the sketch of the famous Nutcracking rock was never finished.

"I shall ever thank heaven for the impulse that sent me to meet you to-day, darling Clara," said he, as they reached the spot at which they would be compelled to separate. "We must, and shall, meet again when I return, for I shall seek you out, wherever you are, and we must think of each other every day and every hour. Till then--oh, my love, till then!"

Much more was said, brokenly and incoherently, and they lingered so long, that at last she had to leave him, blinded in tears, and with one long and clinging kiss they parted, as so many lovers have done before, and will do so again.

They had exchanged rings and locks of hair in the most orthodox fashion. It was arranged that Rookleigh should be the medium through which their correspondence should be conducted, their letters being mutually, if necessary, sent under cover to him. There could be no harm in their hearing of each other secretly, they thought, and deemed such an institution necessary for their happiness--their very existence, indeed; for both were rash, young, loving, and enthusiastic, and both, too, were somewhat ignorant of the conventional ways of the world; and to Rookleigh now they both mutually looked for succour in the great love that bound their hearts together.

Though his heart was weary with the keen sorrow of their separation, Derval felt full of bright hope for the future--that hope which furnishes all our Chateaux in Espagne, or in the air--"hope that lends us alabaster bricks and golden mortar to build these castles withal; hope that turns the hue of the stalest loaf into the richest plum-cake, and the smallest of beer into the mellowest of Burgundy."

As if chance were already beginning to favour him, Derval, who did not, and never would visit the villa at Finglecombe, on returning to the hotel found his brother Rookleigh awaiting him there.

"You asked me the other day if I would do you a favour, Rook," said he, "and I promised to do it--though I was in a great hurry."

"Yes--Miss Hampton was waiting for you on the beach. I saw you meet--well?"

"You must in turn do a favour for me--and I am sure you will, old fellow!" added Derval, and he placed a hand affectionately on his brother's shoulder, feeling at that moment, in the great joy of being loved by Clara, that he forgave him everything, and could love him too.

He then related to Rookleigh much that had passed between himself and Clara--told of their secret engagement--secret, at least, as yet; showed her engagement-ring, but failed to see the sneer of Rookleigh's lip, as he kissed it with what the latter deemed idiotic ardour; and in the end, begged him to be the medium through whom their correspondence was to be conducted; and to this Rookleigh, affecting demurrage, ultimately consented, for which he was extravagantly thanked and well-nigh embraced by Derval, who said:

"And now, Rook, dear old boy, what is the favour you wanted of me--in what can I serve you?"

An unfathomable expression stole over the face of Rookleigh at that moment, and his pale green shifty hazel eyes perhaps never looked so shifty. Skilfully veiled hatred, malice, and anticipated triumph were mingling there; but Derval, whose heart and thoughts were utterly strangers to passions such as these, could little have conceived they were so near him.

We have said that both Mrs. Hampton and Rookleigh resented Derval's intimacy with Lord Oakhampton, and the revengeful feeling of the half-brother eventually took a very remarkable form.

Seeing that Rookleigh seemed embarrassed, Derval pressed him to say what favour he required of him.

"I want a thousand pounds sorely on loan just now," said Rookleigh, in a very measured voice, while avoiding his brother's eye; "I know you have more than double that sum lying at your bankers, as you have scarcely drawn a penny of what our good father left you."

"He left me so little and you so much, Rook, that I marvel greatly you can want any more, especially from a poor devil like me; but you are heartily welcome to the thousand; and as for dear Clara's letters--"

"They will be fully attended to. Thank you, dear Derval, I knew you would assist me if you could. My monetary annoyance is a very temporary one indeed."

"There you are--and welcome!" exclaimed Derval, as with a dart of his pen he filled up a cheque and handed it to his brother, who, after carefully placing it in his pocketbook, drew forth a document of somewhat portentous aspect.

"Why--what is this?" said Derval.

"Knowing that you would give me the money, and that it would be necessary to give you some admission or receipt for it, I had this prepared, as time is short."

"True, I must be off in twenty-four hours. But what is the meaning of all this, Rook? The cheque is a crossed one--and I can trust you--can you not trust yourself?"

Rookleigh's rather pale face was crossed by a blush as he said--

"We never know what may happen, and if you are to marry Clara Hampton, as I hope you will, all the money you can scrape together will be necessary."

"But, man alive! what is all this you have written here?" exclaimed Derval; "it looks like a title-deed--a marriage settlement--or a bill in chancery. Surely all this raggabash is not necessary between you and me!"

"For legal purposes it is--you, as a sailor, are ignorant of the ridiculous tautology of legal composition; but if you will affix your ordinary signature, witnessed by me, in these two places, without troubling you to read it, we shall post it to old De Murrer for security in his hands."

"All right, old fellow, I'll do anything you like but read over all that rigmarole," replied Derval, who dashed off his signature at the places indicated, and the document was enclosed in an envelope, addressed to their mutual agent at Gray's Inn for preservation, and placed in the usual receptacle at the hotel for letters to be posted.

There is no doubt that it was extremely culpable and negligent of Derval to sign that document as he did, without once troubling himself by an examination of its contents and nature--all the more so was he culpable, from the past knowledge he had of Rookleigh's general character; but his correspondence with Clara was uppermost then in his thoughts; and when the half-brothers parted for the night, there came into Rookleigh's face a diabolical smile, and he laughed, as he took his homeward way muttering to himself--

"How easily that fool allowed himself to be chiselled out of everything; but he is a sailor, ignorant of land life, for sailors go round and round the world but never into it!"

And again he laughed loudly.

On the morrow, the pretty villa at Bayview was tenantless; the shrine was empty, so Derval gladly welcomed the hour that took him from Finglecombe, and the change of scene and occupation that came with it.

Lord Oakhampton had seen of late the preoccupation of his daughter's thoughts, and knew the cause thereof. Hence this sudden Parisian trip; after which a season in London would, he hoped, find another whose presence might obliterate what he deemed to be a foolish, a girlish, and _outré_ fancy for Derval Hampton.

Ere the _Amethyst_ sailed, the latter wrote to her under cover to Rookleigh, who was to discover Lord Oakhampton's address, and contrive some means of having it delivered.

The letter, full of passionate love and longing, of the tender little incoherences in which all lovers indulge, and many prayerful hopes for the future, duly reached the hands of his brother; but it was fortunate for Derval's peace of mind that he did not see the strange and horrible smile that crept over the face of Rookleigh as he _perused_ it, and then tossed it into the fire.

The latter was the receptacle of most of its successors, and of Clara's too.