her that my father only felt his losses so far as they affected me, and that nothing in Trevanion's power was likely to tempt him from his retreat, or calculated to compensate for a change in his habits. Turning at last from my parents, Lady Ellinor inquired for Roland, and, on learning that he was with me in town, expressed a strong desire to see him. I told her I would communicate her wish, and she then said thoughtfully —
"He has a son, I think, and I have heard that there is some unhappy dissension between them."
"Who could have told you that?" I asked in surprise, knowing how closely Roland had kept the secret of his family afflictions.
"Oh, I heard so from some one who knew Captain Roland – I forget when and where I heard it – but is it not the fact?"
"My uncle Roland has no son."
"How!"
"His son is dead."
"How such a loss must grieve him!"
I did not speak.
"But is he sure that his son is dead! What joy if he were mistaken – if the son yet lived!"
"Nay, my uncle has a brave heart, and he is resigned; – but, pardon me, have you heard anything of that son?"
"I! – what should I hear? I would fain learn, however, from your uncle himself, what he might like to tell me of his sorrows – or if, indeed, there be any chance that" —
"That – what?"
"That – that his son still survives."
"I think not," said I; "and I doubt whether you will learn much from my uncle. Still there is something in your words that belies their apparent meaning, and makes me suspect that you know more than you will say."
"Diplomatist!" said Lady Ellinor, half smiling; but then, her face settling into a seriousness almost severe, she added, "It is terrible to think that a father should hate his son!"
"Hate! – Roland hate his son! What calumny is this?"
"He does not do so, then! Assure me of that; I shall be so glad to know that I have been misinformed."
"I can tell you this, and no more – for no more do I know – that if ever the soul of a father were wrapt up in a son – fear, hope, gladness, sorrow, all reflected back on a father's heart from the shadows on a son's life – Roland was that father while the son lived still."
"I cannot disbelieve you," exclaimed Lady Ellinor, though in a tone of surprise. "Well, do let me see your uncle."
"I will do my best to induce him to visit you, and learn all that you evidently conceal from me."
Lady Ellinor evasively replied to this insinuation, and shortly afterwards I left that house in which I had known the happiness that brings the folly, and the grief that bequeaths the wisdom.
CHAPTER LXXV
I had always felt a warm and almost filial affection for Lady Ellinor, independently of her relationship to Fanny, and of the gratitude with which her kindness inspired me: for there is an affection very peculiar in its nature, and very high in its degree, which results from the blending of two sentiments not often allied, – viz., pity and admiration. It was impossible not to admire the rare gifts and great qualities of Lady Ellinor, and not to feel pity for the cares, anxieties, and sorrows which tormented one who, with all the sensitiveness of woman, went forth into the rough world of man.
My father's confession had somewhat impaired my esteem for Lady Ellinor, and had left on my mind the uneasy impression that she had trifled with his deep, and Roland's impetuous, heart. The conversation that had just passed allowed me to judge her with more justice – allowed me to see that she had really shared the affection she had inspired in the student, but that ambition had been stronger than love – an ambition, it might be, irregular and not strictly feminine, but still of no vulgar nor sordid kind. I gathered, too, from her hints and allusions, her true excuse for Roland's misconception of her apparent interest in himself: she had but seen, in the wild energies of the elder brother, some agency by which to arouse the serener faculties of the younger. She had but sought, in the strange comet that flashed before her, to fix a lever that might move the star. Nor could I withhold my reverence from the woman who, not being married precisely from love, had no sooner linked her nature to one worthy of it, than her whole life became as fondly devoted to her husband's as if he had been the object of her first romance and her earliest affections. If even her child was so secondary to her husband – if the fate of that child was but regarded by her as one to be rendered subservient to the grand destinies of Trevanion – still it was impossible to recognise the error of that conjugal devotion without admiring the wife, though one might condemn the mother. Turning from these meditations, I felt a lover's thrill of selfish joy, amidst all the mournful sorrow comprised in the thought that I should see Fanny no more. Was it true as Lady Ellinor implied, though delicately, that Fanny still cherished a remembrance of me – which a brief interview, a last farewell, might re-awaken too dangerously for her peace? Well, that was a thought that it became me not to indulge.
What could Lady Ellinor have heard of Roland and his son? Was it possible that the lost lived still? Asking myself these questions, I arrived at our lodgings, and saw the Captain himself before me, busied with the inspection of sundry specimens of the rude necessaries an Australian adventurer requires. There stood the old soldier, by the window, examining narrowly into the temper of hand-saw and tenor-saw, broad axe and drawing-knife; and as I came up to him, he looked at me from under his black brows, with gruff compassion, and said peevishly —
"Fine weapons these for the son of a gentleman! – one bit of steel in the shape of a sword were worth them all."
"Any weapon that conquers fate is noble in the hands of a brave man, uncle!"
"The boy has an answer for everything," quoth the Captain, smiling, as he took out his purse and paid the shopman.
When we were alone, I said to him – "Uncle, you must go and see Lady Ellinor; she desires me to tell you so."
"Pshaw!"
"You will not?"
"No!"
"Uncle, I think that she has something to say to you with regard to – to – pardon me! – to my cousin."
"To Blanche?"
"No, no – to the cousin I never saw."
Roland turned pale, and, sinking down on a chair, faltered out – "To him – to my son!"
"Yes; but I do not think it is news that will afflict you. Uncle, are you sure that my cousin is dead?"
"What! – how dare you! – who doubts it? Dead – dead to me for ever! Boy, would you have him live to dishonour these gray hairs!"
"Sir, sir, forgive me – uncle, forgive me: but, pray, go to see Lady Ellinor; for whatever she has to say, I repeat that I am sure it will be nothing to wound you."
"Nothing to wound me – yet relate to him!"
It is impossible to convey to the reader the despair that was in those words.
"Perhaps," said I, after a long pause, and in a low voice – for I was awestricken – "perhaps – if he be dead – he may have repented of all offence to you before he died."
"Repented! –
