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CHAPTER II.

Oh! que ceux qui aiment ont peu de force contre ceux qui sont aimés! LA COMTESSE DE BONNEVAL.

On the same afternoon that the Mordaunt family discussed the change in Mr. Cornwall's household with such lively interest, Mr. Cornwall himself reached his destination.

It was a bleak, bright day, and the mocking brightness of the sunshine only seemed to give greater keenness to the gusts of wind which swept round the corners of the Edinburgh streets. Susan herself, however she might refuse to distinguish between east and west in Berkeley Square, could not have crossed Princess Street that afternoon without obtaining some perception of the difference. Mr. Cornwall drove first to Douglas's Hotel, in Saint Andrew's Square, where he left his luggage, dismissed his brougham, and inquired the way to Frederick Street. He braced himself against the inclemency of the weather by setting his hat more firmly on his head, pulling up the collar of his coat, and burying his hands in his pockets, before he set out to run, rather than to walk. And the small spare man, whose scattered grey hair fluttered in the breeze, while the lines of his face were settled into anything but a happy expression,

might himself have served, aptly enough, for an impersonation of east wind.

He asked his way once or twice, and looked considerably irritated by the direction to go straight west, and then take the second turn north; but dogged inquiries whether he should turn to the right or the left, at last enabled him to reach Frederick Street.

The house was let in flats, and as he unwittingly rang the lowest in the tier of bells, the maid who obeyed the summons felt aggrieved by his inquiry after Mrs. Leigh.

"I culdna certify," she replied, with national caution; "ye behoved to read the name on the plate, an' if it's richt, ye maun step up the third stair, an' speer for yoursell."

On referring to the brass plate in question, Mr. Cornwall read the name of Mr. Buckingham Leigh, Surgeon and General Practitioner, inscribed at full length. With an additional shade of asperity in his tone, he thanked the maid for the information, and laboriously ascended three flights of the common stair, in order to reach the door which shut off the general practitioner's suite of rooms from the rest of the house. He rang again, and this time the door was opened without delay. Mr. Cornwall, prepared to encounter another slipshod maid, was rather disconcerted by the appearance of a small trim figure, plainly dressed, although with almost formal neatness. It was difficult to determine her age, since

her delicately regular features wanted the softness and undefined beauty of youth, and her manner was free from shyness.

"Have you come to see Mr. Leigh, Sir?" she asked, after pausing for Mr. Cornwall to speak first: "he does not see patients after four o'clock."

"No, thank Heaven! at least not professionally," Mr. Cornwall muttered between his teeth, adding aloud, "Are you, or are you not, my niece Miriam?"

"Yes, I am Miriam," said the girl, without evincing any interest in the discovery that this was her uncle Ralph.

Mr. Cornwall placed his hand on her head with a certain rough kindliness. "You need not be disappointed, Miriam. Perhaps an old uncle is more to the purpose than a new patient. And how is Mamma?"

"She is dead, she died yesterday morning," Miriam answered, with composure most shocking to Mr. Cornwall. Her eyelids did not quiver, nor her voice falter; she stood with folded hands, motionless as before. With a hasty revulsion of feeling, Mr. Cornwall brushed by her, as if her very presence was painful to him, and entering the ill-lighted passage, he pushed open the door of one of the rooms, which stood ajar. Miriam closed the outer door, and followed her uncle.

Mr. Buckingham Leigh, a tall man, with a profusion of black hair and whiskers, sat at a small table in the window, smoking, and sipping whisky and water; and

Uncle Ralph.

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the air of the room was sufficiently impregnated with these fumes to prove that they were not merely an occasional indulgence. Twenty years had elapsed since Ralph Cornwall last saw his brother-in-law, whom he had then designated as a "shallow, conceited coxcomb." But he now felt that harsher terms would not be misapplied. Youthful follies had darkened into vices, and the traces of a life of dissipation were indelibly stamped on that handsome, reckless face. And the thought that this was the husband of his dead sister, embittered, rather than softened, Mr. Cornwall's feelings towards him.

Mr. Leigh did not welcome the intruder on his afterdinner enjoyments, and in the quick glance of inquiry which he darted at Miriam, there was something also of reproof.

"It is Uncle Ralph, Papa," said Miriam; and her father changed countenance, as he rose, and pushed aside his chair.

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"Ralph Mr. Cornwall is it possible? So many years have passed, that I did not recognize you."

It seemed as if the recognition was now to be made on one side alone. His brother-in-law did not respond to the action when Mr. Leigh advanced with extended hand, but remained standing in the middle of the room, his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the carpet, and when he spoke, it was without raising them.

"Miriam tells me that I have come too late."

"Alas, yes! My poor Minny longed to see you, to

thank you for all your kindness, but it was not to be. She sank rapidly, yet, I am thankful to say, without suffering. It was a most peaceful end."

A suppressed sound, it might have been a sigh or sob, broke from Miriam; but when her uncle turned his quick eyes upon her, he could discover no trace of emotion. There was a ring at the outer door, and she turned to answer it,

"Do not admit any one," said Mr. Leigh hastily. "It is George, Papa."

"Very well, then, take him into another room. Your uncle and I must not be disturbed."

Miriam's ear had not deceived her, and her brother, older by three years, stood waiting for admittance. He was a tall, well-made stripling; but his eyes, although dark and deeply set, were uncertain in their expression, and there was the same want of decision in the lines of his well-shaped mouth; unlike Miriam, whose small and pretty features were almost rigid in their expression of passionless repose.

"Come in here," she said, leading the way into a bedroom. "Uncle Ralph is come."

"Uncle Ralph! and what is he like, Miriam? A cross old hunks, as Father always calls him?"

"He is a little, old man," said Miriam. "I suppose that he has thought and cared for nothing but himself all his life. If he had loved her, he would have come sooner, and I can see quite plainly that he does not like

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