CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

MISS CARR HAS ANOTHER OFFER.

"Antony," said Miss Carr to me one day, "you are very young yet to think of marriage."

"But it is not to be yet for quite a year."

"I am glad of it," she said, laying her hand on mine; and as I took it and held it, looking up with a feeling akin to awe in her dark, far-off-looking eyes, I could not help thinking how thin it was, and how different to the soft, white hand that used to take mine years ago.

"We both think it will be wiser," I said, talking to her as if she were an elder sister, though of late there had grown up in me a feeling that she looked upon me as if I were her son.

"Marriage must be a happy state, Antony, when both love, and have trust the one in the other."

I looked at her, feeling in pain, for I dared not speak, knowing that she must be thinking of poor Hallett; and as I looked I could not help noticing how the silver hairs were beginning to make their presence known, and how much she had changed.

"You think it strange that I should talk like this, do you not?"

I could not answer.

"Yes, I see you do," she said, smiling. "Antony, I have had another offer of marriage."

"_You_ have!" I exclaimed. "From whom? Who has asked you?"

I felt almost indignant at the idea; and my indignation became hot rage as she went on.

"John Lister has asked me again to be his wife."

"The scoundrel! the villain!" I exclaimed.

"Hush, Antony," she said quietly, as she laid her thin white fingers upon my lips. "He says that he has bitterly repented the past; that he is a changed man, and he begs me not to blight the whole of his life."

"You? Blight his life!" I exclaimed hotly. "He has blighted yours."

She did not speak for a few moments, and then she startled me by her words.

"He is coming here to-day to ask for my answer from my lips. He begged that I would not write, but that I would see him, and let him learn his fate from me."

"But you surely will not see him?" I exclaimed.

"I have told him that I will. He will be here, Antony, almost directly."

I was for the moment stunned, and could do nothing but gaze helplessly in Miss Carr's face, for the question kept asking itself, "Will she accept him?" and it seemed to me like an insult to the dead.

She returned my gaze with a quiet look, full of mournfulness, and as the minutes flew on, I felt a kind of irritation growing upon me, and that I should be bitterly hurt if she should be weak enough to accept John Lister.

"She will consider it a duty, perhaps," I thought; "and that she does it to save him, now that he has repented and become a better man."

My ponderings were brought to an end by the servant bringing in a card, and I rose to go, but she laid her hand upon my arm.

"Going, Antony?" she said.

"Yes," I replied angrily, and I pointed to the card.

"Sit down, Antony," she said, smiling; "I wish you to be present."

"No, no, I would rather not," I exclaimed.

"I beg that you will stay, Antony," she said, in a tone of appeal that I could not have disobeyed, and I petulantly threw myself back in a chair, as the door opened, and John Lister was announced.

He came forward eagerly, with extended hands, as Miss Carr rose, but changed colour and bowed stiffly as he saw me.

Recovering himself, however, he took Miss Carr's extended hand, raised it to his lips, and then drew back as if waiting for me to go.

"I felt," he said, to put an end to our awkward silence, "that you would grant me this private interview, Miriam."

He emphasised the word "private," and I once more half rose, for my position was most painful, and the hot anger and indignation in my breast more than I could bear.

"Sit still, Antony," said Miss Carr quietly; "Mr Lister has nothing to say to me that you do not already know."

"But you will grant me a private interview, Miriam," said Lister appealingly.

"Mr Lister," said Miss Carr, after pointing to a chair, which her visitor refused to take, remaining standing, as if resenting my presence, "you wrote and begged me to see you, to let you speak instead of writing. I have granted that which you wished."

"Yes," he said bitterly, "but I did not ask for an interview in presence of a third party, and that third person _Mr_ Antony Grace."

There was something so petty in his emphasis of the title of courtesy _Mr_, that I once more rose.

"Miss Carr," I said, "I am sure it will be more pleasant for all. Let me beg of you to excuse me now," and as I spoke I moved towards the door.

"I wish you to stay," she said quietly; and as I resumed my seat and angrily took up a book, "Mr Lister, Antony Grace is my very dear friend and adviser. Will you kindly say what you wish in his presence?"

"In his presence?" exclaimed Lister, with the colour coming into his cheeks.

"In his presence," replied Miss Carr.

"Am I to understand, Miriam," he said imploringly, "that you intend to go by Mr Grace's advice?"

"No, Mr Lister; I shall answer you from the promptings of my own heart."

"Then for heaven's sake, Miriam," he cried passionately, "be reasonable with me. Think of the years of torture, misery, probation, and atonement through which I have passed. Come into the next room, I implore you, if Mr Grace has not the good feeling and gentlemanly tact to go."

He began his speech well, but it seemed as if, for the life of him, he could not refrain from being petty, and he finished by being contemptible in his spite against one whom he evidently looked upon as being the cause of his disappointment.

"I wish for Antony Grace to stay," said Miss Carr quietly; "Mr Lister, you have resumed your addresses to me, and have asked me by letter to forgive you, and let you plead your cause; and more, you tell me that you bitterly repent the past."

"Miriam," he cried, "why do you humiliate me before this man?"

"John Lister," she continued, "I am but repeating your words, and it is no humiliation for one who repents of the wrong and cruelty of his ways to make open confession, either by his own lips or by the lips of others. You do repent the ill you did to me, and to him who is--dead?"

"Oh yes, yes!" he cried passionately; "believe me, dear Miriam, that I do. But I cannot plead my cause now before a third party."

"The third _party_, as you term him, John Lister, has been and is to me as a dear brother; but I grant that it would be cruel to expect you to speak as we are. I will, then, be your counsellor."

"No," he exclaimed, holding out his hands imploringly, "you are my judge."

"Heaven is your judge," she said solemnly; and as she spoke I saw a change come over John Lister's face. It was a mingling of awe, disappointment, and anger, for he read his sentence in her tones--"Heaven is your judge," she repeated, "but I will not keep you in suspense."

He joined his hands as he turned his back to me, but I could not help seeing his imploring act in the glass.

"John Lister, I have pleaded your cause ever since I received your first