ourselves, Hope speaks, and proffers worlds of emotion not yet exhausted. Disperse the last golden illustration in which the image of happiness cheats our experienced manhood, and Hope is silent; she has no more words to offer—unless, indeed, she drop her earthly attributes, change her less solemn name, and float far out of sight as "faith!"
Alban made no immediate reply to Lionel; but, seating himself still more confortably in his chair—planting his feet still more at ease upon the fender—the kindly man of the world silently revolved all the possible means by which Darrell might yet be softened and Lionel rendered happy. His reflections dismayed him. "Was there ever such untoward luck," he said at last, and peevishly, "that out of the whole world you should fall in love with the very girl against whom Darrell's feelings (prejudices, if you please) must be mailed in adamant! Convinced, and apparently with every reason, that she is not his daughter's child, but, however innocently, an impostor, how can he receive her as his young kinsman's bride? How can we expect it?"
"But," said Lionel, "if, on farther investigation, she prove to be his daughter's child—the sole surviving representative of his line and name?"
"His name! No! of the name of Losely—the name of that turbulent sharper who may yet die on the gibbet—of that poor, dear, lovable rascal Willy, who was goose enough to get himself transported for robbery!—a felon's grandchild the representative of Darrell's line! But how on earth came Lady Montfort to favor so wild a project, and encourage you to share in it?—she who ought to have known Darrell better?"
"Alas! she saw but Sophy's exquisite simple virtues, and inborn grace; and, believing her claim to Darrell's lineage, Lady Montfort thought but of the joy and blessing one so good and so loving might bring to his joyless hearth. She was not thinking of morbid pride and mouldering ancestors, but of soothing charities and loving ties. And Lady Montfort, I now suspect, in her scheme for our happiness—for Darrell's—had an interest which involved her own!"
"Her own!"
"Yes; I see it all now."
"See what? you puzzle me."
"I told you that Darrell, in his letter to me, wrote with great bitterness of Lady Montfort."
"Very natural that he should. Who would not resent such interference?"
