Not a word was said to the young lord on his return home respecting the O’Haras till he himself had broached the subject. He found his brother Jack Neville at Scroope on his arrival, and Sophie Mellerby was still staying with his aunt. A day had been fixed for the funeral, but no one had ventured to make any other arrangement till the heir and owner should be there. He was received with solemn respect by the old servants who, as he observed, abstained from calling him by any name. They knew that it did not become them to transfer the former lord’s title to the heir till all that remained of the former lord should be hidden from the world in the family vault; but they could not bring themselves to address a real Earl as Mr. Neville. His aunt was broken down by sorrow, but nevertheless, she treated him with a courtly deference. To her he was now the reigning sovereign among the Nevilles, and all Scroope and everything there was at his disposal. When he held her by the hand and spoke of her future life she only shook her head. “I am an old woman, though not in years old as was my lord. But my life is done, and it matters not where I go.”

“Dear aunt, do not speak of going. Where can you be so well as here?” But she only shook her head again and wept afresh. Of course it would not be fitting that she should remain in the house of the young Earl who was only her nephew by marriage. Scroope Manor would now become a house of joy, would be filled with the young and light of heart; there would be feasting there and dancing; horses neighing before the doors, throngs of carriages, new furniture, bright draperies, and perhaps, alas, loud revellings. It would not be fit that such a one as she should be at Scroope now that her lord had left her.

The funeral was an affair not of pomp but of great moment in those parts. Two or three Nevilles from other counties came to the house, as did also sundry relatives bearing other names. Mr. Mellerby was there, and one or two of the late Earl’s oldest friends; but the great gathering was made up of the Scroope tenants, not one of whom failed to see his late landlord laid in his grave. “My Lord,” said an old man to Fred, one who was himself a peer and was the young lord’s cousin though they two had never met before, “My Lord,” said the old man, as soon as they had returned from the grave, “you are called upon to succeed as good a man as ever it has been my lot to know. I loved him as a brother. I hope you will not lightly turn away from his example.” Fred made some promise which at the moment he certainly intended to perform.

On the next morning the will was read. There was nothing in it, nor could there have been anything in it, which might materially affect the interests of the heir. The late lord’s widow was empowered to take away from Scroope anything that she desired. In regard to money she was provided for so amply that money did not matter to her. A whole year’s income from the estates was left to the heir in advance, so that he might not be driven to any momentary difficulty in assuming the responsibilities of his station. A comparatively small sum was left to Jack Neville, and a special gem to Sophie Mellerby. There were bequests to all the servants, a thousand pounds to the vicar of the parish,—which perhaps was the only legacy which astonished the legatee,—and his affectionate love to every tenant on the estate. All the world acknowledged that it was as good a will as the Earl could have made. Then the last of the strangers left the house, and the Earl of Scroope was left to begin his reign and do his duty as best he might.

Jack had promised to remain with him for a few days, and Sophie Mellerby, who had altogether given up her London season, was to stay with the widow till something should be settled as to a future residence. “If my aunt will only say that she will keep the house for a couple of years, she shall have it,” said Fred to the young lady,—perhaps wishing to postpone for so long a time the embarrassment of the large domain; but to this Lady Scroope would not consent. If allowed she would remain till the end of July. By that time she would find herself a home.

“For the life of me, I don’t know how to begin my life,” said the new peer to his brother as they were walking about the park together.

“Do not think about beginning it at all. You won’t be angry, and will know what I mean, when I say that you should avoid thinking too much of your own position.”

“How am I to help thinking of it? It is so entirely changed from what it was.”

“No Fred,—not entirely; nor as I hope, is it changed at all in those matters which are of most importance to you. A man’s self, and his ideas of the manner in which he should rule himself, should be more to him than any outward accidents. Had that cousin of ours never died—”

“I almost wish he never had.”

“It would then have been your ambition to live as an honourable gentleman. To be that now should be more to you than to be an Earl and a man of fortune.”

“It’s very easy to preach, Jack. You were always good at that. But here I am, and what am I to do? How am I to begin? Everybody says that I am to change nothing. The tenants will pay their rents, and Burnaby will look after things outside, and Mrs. Bunce will look after the things inside, and I may sit down and read a novel. When the gloom of my uncle’s death has passed away, I suppose I shall buy a few more horses and perhaps begin to make a row about the pheasants. I don’t know what else there is to do.”

“You’ll find that there are duties.”

“I suppose I shall. Something is expected of me. I am to keep up the honour of the family; but it really seems to me that the best way of doing so would be to sit in my uncle’s arm chair and go to sleep as he did.”

“As a first step in doing something you should get a wife for yourself. If once you had a settled home, things would arrange themselves round you very easily.”

“Ah, yes;—a wife. You know, Jack, I told you about that girl in County Clare.”

“You must let nothing of that kind stand in your way.”

“Those are your ideas of high moral grandeur! Just now my own personal conduct was to be all in all to me, and the rank nothing. Now I am to desert a girl I love because I am an English peer.”

“What has passed between you and the young lady, of course I do not know.”

“I may as well tell you the whole truth,” said Fred. And he told it. He told it honestly,—almost honestly. It is very hard for a man to tell a story truly against himself, but he intended to tell the whole truth. “Now what must I do? Would you have me marry her?” Jack Neville paused for a long time. “At any rate you can say yes, or no.”

“It is very hard to say yes, or no.”

“I can marry no one else. I can see my way so far. You had better tell Sophie Mellerby everything, and then a son of yours shall be the future Earl.”

“We are both of us young as yet, Fred, and need not think of that. If you do mean to marry Miss O’Hara you should lose not a day;—not a day.”

“But what if I don’t. You are always very ready with advice, but you have given me none as yet.”

“How can I advise you? I should have heard the very words in which you made your promise before I could dare to say whether it should be kept or broken. As a rule a man should keep his word.”

“Let the consequences be what they may?”

“A man should keep his word certainly. And I know no promise so solemn as that made to a woman when followed by conduct such as yours has been.”

“And what will people say then as to my conduct to the family? How will they look on me when I bring home the daughter of that scoundrel?”

“You should have thought of that before.”

“But I was not told. Do you not see that I was deceived there. Mrs. O’Hara clearly said that the man was dead. And she told me nothing of the galleys.”

“How could she tell you that?”

“But if she has deceived me, how can I be expected to keep my promise? I love the girl dearly. If I could change places with you, I would do so this very minute, and take her away with me, and she should certainly be my wife. If it were only myself, I would give up all to her. I would, by heaven. But I cannot sacrifice the family. As to solemn promises, did I not swear to my unc............