“Go,” he said to the man that entered, “and request Mr. Mark Sutherland to favour me with his company here for a few moments.”
The messenger went out, and in search of the tutor.
Meanwhile, Mark Sutherland was in his own room, engaged in reading a letter that had arrived by the morning’s mail. It was from his old college friend, Lauderdale. It was a very long letter, being the first that he had written to Mark Sutherland for more than two years. He began by reproaching Mark for dropping the correspondence, and leaving him in ignorance of his whereabouts. He next informed his friend that he owed his knowledge of his present residence to a happy accident—namely, to information given him by a fair lady with whom he had been so fortunate as to maintain an epistolary correspondence; that he expected soon to arrive at Ashley Hall, on a visit to this fair friend, from whom he had received an invitation. (Here a jealous pang shot through the heart of the reader.) “A fair friend”—might that be Rosalie? Had she kept up a constant correspondence with Lauderdale? And had she even invited him to the house? He could not endure the suspicion for a moment. No, not even if it were only a cool, friendly correspondence. He could not endure that Rose should be on friendly terms with any man except himself. He read on. The letter proceeded to tell him all that had befallen the writer since he had last written; how he had settled in a Western country town; how, after some difficulty, he had been admitted to the bar, and how he had already got into a tolerably lucrative practice. Finally came the most startling news of all—viz., that two months previous, he—L. Lauderdale, Esq.—had come into the possession of an estate of sixty thousand dollars, by the demise of his godfather, a widower without children or near relatives, and who, dying, bequeathed to him the whole of his considerable property. “I do not fully realize this event, dear Mark,” he wrote; “I cannot realize my personal interest in it. All I do feel—but that is much, that is everything—is that now I may go to Ashley Hall, and lay myself and my fortune at the feet of my fair friend, the beautiful widow, Mrs. Vivian.”
Mark took a long, deep breath.
“What do you want, sir?” he said, looking up, and for the first time seeing Colonel Ashley’s servant standing in the room.
The man delivered his message, and Mark promised to attend Colonel Ashley soon, and dismissed the messenger.
He resumed his letter. There was little more to be read, but that little was full of fate.
“It matters not to me, now, dear Mark, what quarter of the country I live in. That shall be decided by the will of my fair queen, Valeria. One thing is certain—this ‘law shop’ and this village must be given up. My evacuation of the premises will leave a fair opening for any enterprising young gentleman who may choose to fill it. What say you? If you are still ‘seriously inclined’ to the ingenious profession of the law, let me know. If you are disposed to step into my shoes, you will find them not much worn, with not even the gloss off, only the creak and harshness taken out of them a little. Think this over, so as to be able to give an answer, by the time I see you. You may expect me soon.”
Full of thought, Mark Sutherland folded up his letter, and went to the study of Colonel Ashley.
The old gentleman received him with a degree of kindness almost paternal. He arose and took his hand, and requested him to be seated. Then, after some delicate hesitation, he said—