George’s recovery, when the doctors had given up all hope, was sufficiently marvellous to suggest the idea that a certain power had determined — on the hangman’s principle, perhaps — to give him the longest of ropes; but it could in reality be traced to a more terrestrial influence — namely, Lady Bellamy’s nursing. Had it not been for this nursing, it is very certain that her patient would have joined his forefathers in the Bratham churchyard. For whole days and nights she watched and tended him, scarcely closing her own eyes, and quite heedless of the danger of infection; till in the end she conquered the fever, and snatched him from the jaws of the grave. How often has not a woman’s devotion been successful in such a struggle!

On the Monday following the events narrated in the last chapter, George, now in an advanced stage of convalescence, though forbidden to go abroad for another fortnight, was sitting downstairs enjoying the warm sunshine, and the sensation of returning life and vigour that was creeping into his veins, when Lady Bellamy came into the room, bringing with her some medicine.

“Here is your tonic, George; it is the last dose that I can give you, as I am going back to my disconsolate husband at luncheon-time.”

“I can’t have you go away yet; I am not well enough.”

“I must go, George; people will begin to talk if I stop here any longer.”

“Well, if you must, I suppose you must,” he answered, sulkily. “But I must say I think that you show a great want of consideration for my comfort. Who is to look after me, I should like to know? I am far from well yet — far from well.”

“Believe me,” she said, softly, “I am very sorry to leave you, and am glad to have been of help to you, though you have never thought much about it.”

“Oh, I am sure I am much obliged, but it is not likely that you would leave me to rot of fever without coming to look after me.”

She sighed as she answered,

“You would not do as much for me.”

“Oh, bother, Anne, don’t get sentimental. Before you go, I must speak to you about that girl Angela. Have you taken any steps?”

Lady Bellamy started.

“What, are you still bent upon that project?”

“Of course I am. It seemed to me that all my illness was one long dream of her. I am more bent upon it than ever.”

“And do you still insist upon my playing the part you had marked out for me? Do you know, George, that there were times in your illness when, if I had relaxed my care for a single five minutes, it would have turned the scale against you, and that once I did not close my eyes for five nights? Look at me, how thin and worn I am: it is from nursing you. I have saved your life. Surely you will not now force me to do this unnatural thing.”

“If, my dear Anne, you had saved my life fifty times, I would still force you to do it. Ah! it is no use your looking at that safe. I have no doubt that you got my keys and searched it whilst I was ill, but I was too sharp for you. I had the letters moved when I heard that you were coming to nurse me. They are back there now, though. How disappointed you must have been!” And he chuckled.

“I should have done better to let you die, monster of wickedness and ingratitude that you are!” she said, stamping her foot upon the floor, and the tears of vexation standing in her eyes.

“The letters, my dear Anne; remember that you have got to earn your letters. I am very much obliged to you for your nursing, but business is business.”

She was silent for a moment, and then spoke in her ordinary tone.

“By the way, talking of letters, there was one came for you this morning in your cousin Philip’s handwriting, and with a London postmark. Will you read it?”

“Read it — yes; anything from the father of my inamorata will be welcome.”

She fetched the letter and gave it him. He read it aloud. After a page of congratulations on his convalescence, it ended,

“And now I want to make a proposal to you — viz., to buy back the Isleworth lands from you. I know that the place is distasteful to you, and will probably be doubly so after your severe illness; but, if you care to keep the house and grounds, I am not particularly anxious to acquire them. I am prepared to offer a good price,” &c. &c.

“I’ll see him hanged first,” was George’s comment. “How did he get the money?”

“Saved it and made it, I suppose.”

“Well, at any rate, he shall not buy me out with it. No, no, Master Philip; I am not fond enough of you to do you that turn.”

“It does not strike you,” she said, coldly, “that you hold in your hands a lever that may roll all your difficulties about this girl out of the way.”

“By Jove, you are right, Anne. Trust a woman’s brain. But I don’t want to sell the estates unless I am forced to.”

“Would you rather part with the land, or give up your project of marrying Angela Caresfoot?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you will have to choose between the two.”

“Then I had rather sell.”

“You had better give it up, George. I am not superstitious, but I have knowledge in things that you do not understand, and I foresee nothing but disaster in this plan.”

“Once and for all, Anne, I will not give it up whilst I have any breath left in my body, and I take my oath that unless you help me, and help me honestly, I will expose you.”

“Oh! I am your very humble servant; you may count on me. The galley-slave pulls well when the lash hangs over his shoulders,” and she laughed coldly.

Just then a servant announced that Mr. Caresfoot was at the door, and anxious to speak to his cousin. He was ordered to show him into the drawing-room. As soon as he had gone on his errand, George said,

“I will not see him; say I am too unwell. But do you go, and see that you make the most of your chance.”

Lady Bellamy nodded, and left the room. She found Philip in the drawing-room.

“Ah! how do you do, Mr. Caresfoot? I come from your cousin to say that he cannot see you today; he has scarcely recovered sufficiently from the illness through which I have been nursing him; but of course you know all about that.”

“Oh! yes, Lady Bellamy, I have heard all about it, including your own brave behaviour, to which, the doctor tells me, George owes his life. I am sorry that he cannot see me, though. I have just come down from town, and called in on my way from Roxham. I had some rather important business that I wanted to speak about.”

“About your offer to repurchase the Isleworth lands?” she asked.

“Ah! you know of the affair. Yes, that was it.”

“Then I am commissioned to give you a reply.”

Philip listened anxiously.

“Your cousin absolutely refuses to sell any part of the lands.”

“Will nothing chance his determination? I am ready to give a good price, and pay a separate valuation for the timber.”

“Nothing; he does not intend to sell.”

A deep depression spread itself over her hearer’s face.

“Then there go the hopes of twenty years,” he said. “For twenty long years, ever since my misfortune, I have toiled and schemed to get these lands back, and now it is all for nothing. Well, there is nothing more to be said,” and he turned to go.

“Stop a minute, Mr. Caresfoot. Do you know, you interest me very much.”