"Do not turn from me—you can, you will serve me, I know. Stay, I forgot to finish my story. Only two months since, my old uncle died, and bequeathed me his whole fortune. He did not know I was in prison, or he might have cancelled this will. It found me there, wretched and desponding, and relieved me from its chilling influence. Once more free, I discharged every debt of honesty or honor, and then sought for my wife. I found that she had again taken her maiden name, which enabled me to trace her to this city. The rest you know."
"I don't," screamed Lucy.
"Good Heavens," cried Beauclerc, seizing her hand, "the bosom friend of Millie Foster, and not know—"
A hysterical scream, and another, and another, burst from the poor girl—she sunk fainting in his arms.
What was to be done—Lucy could not be left—yet Beauclerc felt the increasing awkwardness of the scene. In his interest in his own narrative, he had not had time to mark her rising agitation till too late to check its effects.
As he was bending over her, endeavouring, with trembling hands, to untie the strings of her bonnet, a hasty step struck upon his ear, and turning quickly, he confronted Captain Clair.
"Beauclerc," said the latter, sternly, "what does this mean?"
And, as he said this, he turned full upon him, with anger flashing in his eyes.
Beauclerc turned pale, and then red, as he answered his angry glance, saying, hurriedly—
"There has been some fearful mistake here: indeed, indeed, it has been no fault of mine."