THE BARONET'S DAUGHTER. 459 



finger, and he stood immoveably, gazing upwards, " peace, the dead 

 can hear you if there be truth in mortal consciousness ; oh ! forgive 

 me, dear child, that I have suffered this man to behold thy poor 

 remains, once let it be, and but once." 



Yes, it was the daughter of the baronet that stood before them. 

 Her hair seemed to have newly fallen over her shoulders in profuse 

 tresses ; a hue, as of breathing life was upon her cheek ; her eyes 

 were closed, not as in sleep, but as though in resignation, and one 

 hand was laid softly upon her bosom. 



Willoughby endeavoured to withdraw his eyes from the sight that 

 appeared to grow before them, but in vain ; and as he elapsed his 

 forehead with his hands a violent convulsion shook his frame. "Take 

 her from me," he cried in agony, " I can no longer bear this ; oh ! 

 Sir Robert, have mercy upon me, I am faint, and sick." 



The baronet turned round, and approaching his son-in-law, tapped 

 him on the shoulder. "Have I not cause, think you?" said he, "have 

 I not cause ? Can I behold this object day and night, and consent to 

 die while you live? Stop, Sir, one moment," and as Willoughby 

 attempted to rise he held him down forcibly. " Hear me," and he 

 dropped upon his knees, before the lifeless presence of his daughter, 

 " I swear, as I have sworn, oh ! how many times, that never, until I 

 have avenged my child's murder, shall that body know the corrup- 

 tion of the grave. You may fly me, but I am with you ; wherever 

 you be, there also will I be ; never, never, never, Willoughby, shall 

 you escape me." 



" Oh, God ! that I could, that I might speak," groaned Wil- 

 loughby, " but I am dumb ; I must, I must be silent." 



" Enough !" said the baronet, as having breathed an inarticulate 

 prayer whilst the other was yet speaking, he arose from his knees. 

 " Pvise, Sir," and lifting Willoughby to his feet, he hurried him by 

 the arm to the door. " Go, Sir, we shall meet again, and soon," and 

 hastening along the passage, the baronet stopped at the parlour in 

 which he had left the priest. 



He knocked loudly at the door. "Come forth, Courtenay, and 

 behold I have returned your charge unharmed. He is not there," 

 he added, pausing for a moment. " No matter, your way is straight 

 before you, your carriage, I perceive, is ready. Now, Sir, your foot 

 once over the threshold, and beware. T give you warning. Begone!" 



"Oh! Sir Robert," cried Willoughby, as he turned round, and 

 looked with an almost piteous expression into the face of the baronet, 

 " take but my hand at parting, you have wronged me, but I forgive 

 you, indeed, you have wronged me." 



"Begone!" exclaimed the baronet, "lest I spurn you from me," 

 and flinging the hall door after him, he walked hastily to his own 

 room. 



The bell rang in about half an hour. A servant entered the 

 apartment. 



" Send Mr. Courtenay to me instantly." * 



"Mr. Courtenay, Sir?" said the servant. 



" Did I speak plain ? Mr. Courtenay ; tell him that I desire to see 

 him without delay." 



