The Argosy — page 266: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

248 The Master of Greylands. “Yes. Itis much better so. Sir Richard, in the altered state of my fortunes, would never think me a sufficiently good match for his son.” ‘“‘ But the honour, Miss Mary! Orrather the ¢@:shonour of their break- ing it off! And your happiness? Is that not to be thought of?” ** All things that are wrong will right themselves,” she replied witha quiet smile. ‘At least, Sir Richard thinks so.” “ And Mr. Blake-Gordon? Is he willing to submit to the separation quietly? Pardon me, Miss Mary. If your father were alive, [ should know my place too well to say a word on the subject: but—but my heart resents all slight on you as 4e would have resented it. I could not rest until I knew the truth.” ‘Say no more about it,” breathed Mary. “Let the topic lhe between us as one that had never had existence. It will be for my happiness.” ‘* But can nothing be done?” persisted Thomas Hill. ‘Should nut your uncle go and expostulate with them, and expose their villainy— for I can call it by no other name.” | “Not for worlds,” she said, hastily. “It is J who have broken the engagement, Mr. Hill; not they. I wrote this morning and restored to Mr. Blake-Gordon his freedom: this afternoon I bade him farewell for ever.” | “And you ?—what are your plans for the future ?—And, oh, forgive me for being anxious, my dear young lady! I had you on my knee often as a little one, and in my heart you have been as dear to me and seemed to grow up as my own daughter. Where shall you live? ” “T cannot yet tell where. For the present I am going on a visit to my Uncle James. While there I shall have leisure to think of the future. My hundred and fifty pounds a year, and that much you all say will be secured to me———” “ And the whole of what I possess, Miss Mary.” “ My hundred and fifty pounds a year will seem as a sufficient in- come to me, once I have brought my mind down from its heights,” she continued, with one of her sweet sad smiles, as though unmindful of the interruption. ‘ Trust me, my dear old friend, the future shall not be as gloomy as, by the expression of your face, you seem to antici- pate. I am not so weak as to throw away my life in repining, and in wishing for what Heaven sees fit to deny me.” ‘“‘ Heaven?” he repeated, in an accent of reproof. “ Let us say circumstances then. But, in the very worst fate, it may be that Heaven’s hand may be working—over-ruling all for our eventual good, My future life can be a useful one; and’I, if not happy, at least contented.” But that night, in the solitude of her chamber, she opened a small box, containing nothing but a few faded white rose-leaves. Before they were again put away out of sight, tears more bitter than any shed in her whole life, had fallen upon them. ECoOMmicloooks (C(O) —_) in