“Man is ever overtaken by Death like a child by sleep — too soon, and with much lamenting,” George Hearst broke in. His spectral voice, emanating from a chair by the fire, fell upon my ears with all the heaviness of the grave. “We are formed from regret, and with regret we ever leave this earthly life.”

Fanny Delahoussaye rolled her eyes, for Tom Hearst's benefit, and at that gentleman's answering grin, she abruptly put aside her needlework and abandoned her chair. “I feel a trifle indisposed, Mamma,” she announced, with the most angelic of smiles and a curtsey for Isobel; “I believe I shall go to my room.”

“Fanny,” Madame Delahoussaye said, with a touch of warning in her tone, “Sir William has only just arrived. You forget yourself, my dear.”

“Indeed, I do not. Did I forget myself, I might remain in Sir William's company for hours, Mamma,” Fanny said plaintively. “It is because I cannot forget myself that I must bid Sir William adieu.”

“I should think a walk in the Park might improve your spirits,” Lieutenant Hearst observed.

“I am certain that it should.” Fanny turned without further ado and hastened from the drawing-room.

“Fanny—” Madame set down her needlework, her eyes on Tom Hearst, who had thrust himself away from the hearth.

“Do not disturb yourself, dear Madame,*’ the Lieutenant said, bending gallantly over her hand. “I shall make certain your daughter comes to no harm.”

“But it snows!” Madame Delahoussaye cried, Sir William forgotten. She snatched her hand from Tom Hearst's with a baleful look and hastened after Fanny.

The Lieutenant threw back his head and laughed aloud, much to Fitzroy Payne's dismay and, to judge by his countenance, Lord Harold Trowbridge's amusement. That gentleman had set aside his London journal, the better to observe Tom Hearst's tricks. But he rose now in Madame Delahoussaye's wake, and clapped the Lieutenant on the shoulder.

“You had much better play at cards with me, my good fellow,” Trowbridge told him. “Leave the chit to her mamma.”

“I must offer my apologies, Sir William,” Fitzroy Payne said, with a heightened gravity, as Trowbridge and the Lieutenant bowed and turned towards the hall. “I fear our household is in some disarray. The Earl's passing has made us all unlike ourselves.”

“Or perhaps,” George Hearst observed from his corner, “more truly like ourselves?” He closed his book and rose, of a mind to follow his brother. “I fear; Sir William, that Death has forced us all to reckon with mortality. And so you find us as we shall probably face our graves — with determined frivolity, indifferent tempers, and general regret.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Sir William replied. “I had always aspired to meet my Maker armed with a comfortably full stomach and a good night's rest.”

My old friend's good humour was lost upon Mr. Hearst.

“Then you would indeed be fortunate,” he gravely observed, “and in a measure but rarely accorded your fellows. I am sure my uncle wished for the same — with the added thought that Death, however inevitable, was better met on a more distant day. You see how little his hopes availed him. Not all the power and wealth the Earl of Scargrave might summon, could command him another hour of life.”

“Assuredly,” Sir William said, with an uneasy glance for the Countess. Isobel's brown eyes looked overly-large in her white face, and they were fixed dreadfully upon Mr. Hearst. “You have undoubtedly profited by your uncle's example.”

“The Earl loved to instruct, Sir William, however little his pupils warranted the lesson.” This last was spoken with an edge of bitterness, and George Hearst's mouth set into a hard line. I thought, as I gazed at him, how little he resembled his brother; where the Lieutenant's eyes were wont to dance, Mr. Hearst's were hollow; and the excellent moulding of the cavalryman's features was turned harsh and angular in the ecclesiastic's. An expression of abstraction swept over his face as I studied it, and with the briefest of nods for us all, Mr. Hearst left the drawing-room. Sir William expelled a heavy sigh, as though shifting a burdensome weight, and turned to Lord Scargrave with a smile.

“Well, my lord, if the spectre of Death has shown us your truest self, we may rest easy in the stewardship of the earldom. For in your own case, Lord Payne — or should I say, Lord Scargrave — only an increase in your usual sense, estimable self-restraint, and good breeding is evident. Rarely has a gentleman conducted himself with such dignity, in the midst of so much — distraction.”

Fitzroy Payne merely inclined his head, but I silently applauded my old friend; he had perfectly described the newly-titled Earl. The more I observe of Isobel's lover, the more I must commend him. Fitzroy Payne chose to suffer in silence rather than dishonour his uncle; and the strength of character required cannot fail to move me. I set aside all questions as to the propriety of his caring for Isobel in the first place; it is enough to know that he mastered the feeling when it proved most necessary, to the preservation of her honour as well as his own.

With the Earl departed this life, however and Isobel free — but all such thoughts must await Sir William's better understanding. A blackmailer is still at large, and the faintest air of scandal can blight a thousand tender hopes.

“Ah, a pot of tea,” Sir William said, as the footman, Fetters, appeared, bearing a tray before him; “exactly what an old man requires to throw off the chill.” He bent himself to his saucer, and all conversation ceased.

“Lord — Scargrave,” Fetters said to Fitzroy Payne, “I am asked by Mr. Cobblestone to tell you as the solicitors are come.”

“Again? And on the very day of my uncle's service? It is not to be borne.”

“I have put them in the libr'y, milord. “

“Very well, Fetters. I shall attend them presently.” Fitzroy Payne looked to Isobel for comfort, but my friend's eyes were on the fire, and if she had registered aught of the previous conversation, I should judge it a miracle.

The new Earl bowed to Sir William and silently withdrew; and at the closing of the door, Isobel started and looked about her.

“I fear I have presumed upon your attention, my lady,” Sir William said, and rose from his chair. “It is unjust to tax the patience of so much sorrow. Please accept my apologies and my adieux”

“Indeed, Sir William, you do not presume. It is I who must be faulted for calling you here so precipitately, and then lacking the courage to speak.”

“Is there some trouble in train, my lady?”

Isobel's beautiful eyes fixed upon the magistrate's shrewd ones, and she studied his countenance thoughtfully. Then she turned to me without a word in reply. “Jane,” she said, “I would speak with you.”

I followed her into the hall, where lately her husband's body had lain; the scent of dying flowers and beeswax hung heavy in the air.

“Since you are so well acquainted with the magistrate,” Isobel began, in a nervous accent, “could not you impart to him some sense of what has occurred? I should feel easier in my mind if one who knew his character were to speak with him; for I confess he is a stranger to me, Jane.”

“But of course, Isobel,” I said, reaching for her hand. I was shocked to find it remarkably chill. “I shall make a show of returning with him to Scargrave Close in his carriage, the better to pay my respects to Lady Reynolds.”

“Oh, Jane!” Isobel cried, her eyes filling with tears, “and in such weather!” She cast her gaze upon the window's bleak prospect of snow. “You are very good to me.”

“How is it possible to be otherwise?” I replied, and squeezed her cold fingers affectionately. “Do not trouble about a little wind and wet, Isobel. You may consider the matter as settled.”