"Not at all. He breaks his word. He won't hear of going."
The cloud vanished.
"I take it ill of him; for I had relied on having him with me. He and I are old fellow-travellers. I have tried him in sunshine and rain, and know his metal." And he launched into an emphatic eulogy of his friend, to which Fanny Euston listened with a pleasure which she could not wholly hide.
"He best knows why he fails me. It is some cogent and prevailing reason; no light cause, or sudden fancy. Some powerful motive, mining deep and moving strongly, has shaken him from his purpose; so I forgive him for his falling off."
As Morton spoke, he was studying his companion's features, and she, conscious of his scrutiny, visibly changed color.
"Dear cousin," he said, with a changed tone, "if I must lose my friend, let me find, when I return, that my loss has been overbalanced by his gain. I will reconcile myself to it, if it may help to win for him the bounty that he aspires to."
The blush deepened to crimson on Fanny Euston's cheek; and without waiting for more words, Morton bade her farewell.
CHAPTER LXVII.
| Mais ai-je sur son ame encor quelque pouvoir, Quelque reste d'amour s'y fait il encor voir.—Polyeucte. |