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438 that she died, the old haunting look of fear, and I bowed my head as if in shame, and my heart was cold and hard.

She passed away, and breathed not a word of the secret. But it was needless. I knew the worst without being told—knew it long before. I found in desks and closets, under lock and key, a quantity of papers bearing on the Heirloom. I did not peruse them. I sealed them all up, unread, and sent them to my mother’s lawyer for safe keeping. I would have burned them, ay, and the house and pictures too, if in that blaze I could have annihilated all proof and memory of the taint. But what was the use of destroying miserable papers? Every gossip in farm or cottage, every knot of alehouse guests, all the county, knew the worst that could be known.

In the cabinet I spoke of before, veiled and muffled, was my father’s picture. His name was on it—Sir Percy, seventh baronet. I was the eighth. It was with a thrill of awe that I looked upon that face, the very likeness of which had been so carefully hidden from the day. Myself! and yet different. The brow, the mouth, the complexion, were the same; but there was a difference in the eyes. Mine were large, but thoughtful and sad; his were glittering and prominent, fraught with wild meaning; in them the secret was revealed. I could not bear to look at them. And yet, odd as it may seem, this picture I took with me when I left the house, never to return. The portraits of bygone Sherringhams remained in peace to moulder on the walls: I only cared to remove that one likeness.

For more than two years I travelled far and wide. On this portion of my life I shall not linger, nor does it bear upon the crisis of my fatal history. What I have hitherto told it was needful to tell, lest what followed should fail of being understood. The task has not been painless. That must be a singular nature to which the task of anatomising one’s own heart, of spreading one’s own weakness and failings before the world’s gaze, is free from pain. Let me hasten on.

The late summer of the year 185— found me at Ryde, where my yacht was lying. Of aquatic amusements I had ever been passionately fond, having caught the boating mania at Eton and at Oxford, and enjoyed several cruises in the Mediterranean. My new vessel, the Calypso, was one of the most superb in the Royal Yacht Squadron, and was backed at heavy odds to carry away the prize at the next races of that holiday flotilla.

But another attraction more potent than emulation had drawn me to the Isle of Wight; I knew that a family, whose acquaintance I had made, the winter before, at Rome, would be at Ryde during the gay yachting season. The name of this family was Digby,—it consisted of four persons. The parents were commonplace enough, worldly, pretentious people, who contrived to make a considerable display with a moderate fortune; a random, extravagant son, and a daughter,—Lucy. Despite the stern training which I have had in the school of misfortune, despite the self-discipline which has become a part of myself, it is hard to write her name calmly, and to discuss her attributes as I should do those of a stranger. How I loved her, and how fatal, to myself at least, that love has proved. But for her, I might still occupy a place of honour among my fellows. But for her, should I now be what I am? Who can tell! The mine was laid and ready long ago, and only a spark was needed to ignite it.

Lucy was in her twentieth year, and perhaps ought rather to have been called lovely than beautiful. I shall not describe her, suffice it that she was a fair and gentle girl, with something in her eyes of the placid softness of summer moonlight, and a nature as tender and good as mine was wayward and capricious. I loved her, how strongly I will not say, but it was a love that twined its roots among my very heartstrings. It is not, nay, it never was, a matter of surprise to me that my love was not returned. Lucy was utterly unfit for me. Her delicate, pliant character instinctively sought to lean for support on some powerful but honest mind, on some bold and affectionate nature. What sympathy was there between her and me? Her repugnance to me was perfectly reasonable; my temper, my cast of intellect, my very talents, were such as frightened and repelled, instead of attracting her.

And here let me put in a disclaimer. From the stern indictment I have drawn up against myself, the reader may probably think me a very odious individual; such, however, was not the prevailing opinion of society. A rich and titled bachelor is seldom harshly regarded. The club men with whom I lived voted me a good fellow, seeing that I neither won their money at cards nor refused a loan to an embarrassed friend, while my dinners disarmed criticism. Nor did ladies avoid me. Many bright eyes grew brighter at my approach; many musical voices described me to mutual friends as a dear, delightful, talented creature, so odd, and so fascinating. Few mothers would have objected to Sir Wilfred Sherringham as a son-in-law.

And yet, and yet! the one heart that I strove and cared to win was closed to me. I am convinced, now that I can take a calm retrospect of the past, that Lucy was actually afraid of me, and that she never felt happy when I was near her. I was wilfully blind to this; I chose to attribute her reserve to maiden coyness, and have often drawn false hopes from the timid drooping of her eyes before mine. Poor Lucy! she had much to endure, for those who should have been her protectors against my hateful suit were my devoted allies. Mr. and Mrs. Digby were resolved on securing so advantageous a settlement for their daughter as my courtship offered. The former, at once pompous and niggardly, dreaded nothing so much as that his child should wed a poor man, in which case the opinion of the world which he worshipped would compel him to make some sacrifices towards her comfort. Mrs. Digby was a hard managing woman, who valued station much and money more, and who had quietly made up her mind that the rich baronet should not woo in vain.

Did Mrs. Digby know of the Heirloom? was a question I many times asked of myself. She may have done so. She had made it her business, most prudently, to learn the amount of my rent-roll, and the fact of the property being clear of mortgages.