Mr. Stanmore was made their confidant in this affair also. He listened with great patience, and agreed that it appeared extremely probable that William Thornton was, in fact, Sir Oscar de Bracy’s son, at the same time taking down all the dates and names and particulars they both could give him. He then told them they must allow him time—a few days—to make inquiries.
During that period, Mabel Arden had become acquainted with Mr. Stanmore’s amiable daughters. Rose, the youngest, was just a year older than Mabel, and at once she took a great fancy to her. Mabel was charmed with the kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Stanmore and family. When informed of the conduct of Sir Godfrey Etherton, she only expressed her bitter regret that her dear, kind-hearted brother William should suffer such haughty treatment and indignity on her account. As to the contents of the casket, she was positive her mother had placed in it cases of valuable jewels, and many most important papers; but she still hoped her dear mother would yet arrive, and prove to the cold-hearted Sir Godfrey Etherton that he had cruelly wronged her.
Mrs. Samson’s establishment for young ladies, where the Misses Stanmore were to proceed in a few days with Mabel, was situated near Windsor.
Mabel burst into tears when she heard of William Thornton’s and Lieutenant O’Loughlin’s generosity. She felt their kindness deeply; it made a strong and forcible impression on her most affectionate nature.
Madame Volney and her daughters were most comfortably located, and promised not to lose sight of Mabel, and it was arranged she should spend her holidays alternately with them and the Stanmores.
Agatha Volney had really become attached to the handsome and generous O’Loughlin. She had studied English so successfully, and the French with such assiduity, that, before they left London, Patrick O’Loughlin declared French to be the most delightful language for making love in the world.
“I have tried love-making, my boy,” he exclaimed to our hero, “in Irish, in English, and without speaking any language at all; but, be the pipers of war! give me French from this night.”
“Ah!” replied the midshipman, laughing, “wait till you have a trial in Italian—that’s the sweet language for love.”
“Oh, bother!” returned the Lieutenant, “I’m settled for life. She’s promised to marry me when I’m a post-captain.”
“The deuce!” cried our hero, whistling. “Post-captain! Why, O’Loughlin, has the pretty Agatha taken a sudden fancy to grey whiskers?”