"Bless my heart!" was all that Mr. Denison could ejaculate. "Conroy? Well, yes, I ought to have remembered that was the name you went by when you chose to go gallivanting about the world as a newspaper correspondent.--My dear, you are looking bewildered--and no wonder."
"I am bewildered," returned Ella.
Conroy turned to address her.
"My father brought me up to no profession," he began. "He thought that as he was a rich man there was no necessity for me to learn to work. With all deference to him I chose to think otherwise. Idleness was distasteful to me. Like Ulysses, I could not bear 'to rest unburnished, not to shine in use.' I wanted to taste the sweet pride of earning my bread by the labour of my own hands. I dropped my family name, and went out into the world; with what result you know."
"You made no such mighty splash after all," grunted Mr. Denison.
"I contrived to be of some use, sir, which was the end I had in view. And I have seen the world, and gained experience. I shall be none the worse for it in the long-run, father."
"And not much the better, I dare say," retorted Mr. Denison. "My dear, can it be true that you have promised to marry this scapegrace?"
"Yes," smiled Ella, with a blush.
"Very good. We'll hold a jubilee. But how was it, pray Mr. Frank, that you kept the secret from me? Is that your idea of duty?"
"Father, I will explain to you; and to you also, at the same time," he added to Ella. "The first time I ever saw this young lady--it was at Mrs. Carlyon's--I fell in love with her. I resolved that she should be my wife, good Providence permitting. Had I been what I then appeared only to be, a correspondent for the newspapers, I might have hesitated to cherish any such hope: knowing myself to be the probable heir of Heron Dyke, certainly of Nunham Priors, I felt the hope was justifiable. In a short while I followed her down here, and got admittance to the Hall, and to Mr. Denison, under the plea of wishing to take sketches of points on the estate: my incipient love for Miss Winter grew into an ardent passion, and I felt assured as to the future. Moreover I saw, or thought I saw, that Heron Dyke would never come to her, but to you; there was that in the Squire's aspect which convinced me he would not live to see his birthday. But now, I must ask you, father, to acknowledge what your course would have been, had I told you this. Should you not have hastened to open negotiations for the alliance with your cousin the Squire?"