‘I’m very glad, Sir, to have a few quiet minutes with you,’ said the doctor, making then a little pause; and Devereux thought he was going to re-open the matter of his suit. ‘For I’ve had no answer to my last letter, and I want to know all you can tell me of that most promising young man, Daniel Loftus, and his most curious works.’

‘Dan Loftus is dead and —’ (I’m sorry to say he added something else); ‘and his works have followed him, Sir,’ said the strange captain, savagely; for he could not conceive what business the doctor had to think about him, when Captain Devereux’s concerns were properly to be discussed. So though he had reason to believe he was quite well, and in Malaga with his ‘honourable’ and sickly cousin, he killed him off-hand, and disposed summarily of his works.

There was an absolute silence of some seconds after this scandalous explosion; and Devereux said —‘In truth, Sir, I don’t know. They hold him capable of taking charge of my wise cousin — hang him!— so I dare say he can take care of himself; and I don’t see what the plague ill’s to happen him.’

The doctor’s honest eyes opened, and his face flushed a little. But reading makes a full man, not a quick one; and so while he was fashioning his answer, the iron cooled. Indeed he never spoke in anger. When on sudden provocation he carried his head higher and flushed a little, they supposed he was angry; but if he was, this was all he showed of the old Adam, and he held his peace.

So now the doctor looked down upon the table-cloth, for Devereux’s breakfast china and silver were still upon the table, and he marshalled some crumbs he found there, sadly, with his finger, in a row first, and then in a circle, and then, goodness knows how; and he sighed profoundly over his work.

Devereux was in his mood. He was proud — he had no notion of apologising. But looking another way, and with his head rather high, he hoped Miss Lilias was better.

Well, well, the spring was coming; and Parson Walsingham knew the spring restored little Lily. ‘She’s like a bird — she’s like a flower, and the winter is nearly past,’ (and the beautiful words of the ‘Song of Songs,’ which little Lily so loved to read, mingled like a reverie in his discourse, and he said), ‘the flowers will soon appear in the earth, the time of the singing birds will come, and the voice of the turtle be heard in our land.’

‘Sir,’ said Dick Devereux, in a voice that sounded strangely, ‘I have a request; may I make it?— a favour to beg. ‘Tisn’t, all things remembered, very much. If I write a letter, and place it open in your hand — a letter, Sir — to Miss Lily — will you read it to her, or else let her read it? Or even a message — a spoken message — will you give it?’

‘Captain Devereux,’ said the doctor, in a reserved but very sad sort of way, ‘I must tell you that my dear child is by no means well. She has had a cold, and it has not gone away so soon as usual — something I think of her dear mother’s delicacy — and so she requires care, my little Lily, a great deal of care. But, thank God, the spring is before us. Yes, yes; the soft air and sunshine, and then she’ll be out again. You know the garden, and her visits, and her little walks. So I don’t fret or despair. Oh, no.’ He spoke very gently, in a reverie, after his wont, and he sighed heavily. ‘You know ’tis growing late in life with me, Captain Devereux,’ he resumed, ‘and I would fain see her united to a kind and tender partner, for I think she’s a fragile little flower. Poor little Lily! Something, I often think, of her dear mother’s delicacy, and I have always nursed her, you know. She has been a great pet;’ and he stopped suddenly, and walked to the window. ‘A great pet. Indeed, if she could have been spoiled, I should have spoiled her long ago, but she could not. Ah, no! Sweet little Lily!’

Then quite firmly but gently Parson Walsingham went on:—

‘Now, the doctors say she mustn’t be agitated, and I can’t allow it, Captain Devereux. I gave her your message — let me see — why ’tis four, ay, five months ago. I gave it with a good will, for I thought well of you.’

‘And you don’t any longer — there, ’tis all out,’ broke in Devereux, fiercely.

‘Well, you know her answer; it was not lightly given, nor in haste, and first and last ’twas quite decided, and I sent it to you under my own hand.’

‘I thought you were a friend to me, Dr. Walsingham, and now I’m sure you’re none,’ said the young fellow, in the same bitter tone.

‘Ah, Captain Devereux, he can be no friend to you who is a friend to your faults; and you no friend to yourself if you be an enemy to him that would tell you of them. Will you like him the worse that would have you better?’

‘We’ve all faults, Sir; mine are not the worst, and I’ll have neither shrift nor absolution. There’s some reason here you won’t disclose.’

He was proud, fierce, pale, and looked damnably handsome and wicked.

‘She gave no reason, Sir;’ answered Dr. Walsingham. No, she gave none; but, as I understood, she did not love you, and she prayed me to mention it no more.’

‘She gave no reason; but you know the reason,’ glared out Devereux.

‘Indeed, Sir, I do not know the reason,’ answered the rector.

‘But you know — you must — you meant — you, at least had heard some ill of me, and you no longer wish my suit to prosper.’

‘I have, indeed, of late, heard much ill of you, Captain Devereux,’ answered Dr. Walsingham, in a very deliberate but melancholy way, ‘enough to make me hold you no meet husband for any wife who cared for a faithful part............