"Just so," said I, finding now a degree of happiness in this candour; it was a kind of easing of my conscience to tell this man my story, absolute stranger as he had been to me but a few hours before. "Mr. Roscoe died, and Lady Amelia took a house in London. I met her niece at the house of a friend, and fell in love with her."
"So I should think," exclaimed Captain Parsons, "never saw a sweeter young lady in all my time."
"Well, to cut short this part of the story—when her ladyship learnt that her niece was in love, and discovered who her sweetheart was—this occupied a few months I may tell you—she packed the girl off to Boulogne, to a Mademoiselle Championet, who keeps a sort of school at that place, though Grace was sent there professedly to learn French. This mademoiselle is some sort of poor connection of Lady Amelia, a bigotted Catholic, as her ladyship is, and it soon grew clear to my mind, from letters I received from Miss Bellassys—despatched in the old romantic fashion—"
"What fashion's that?" called out the captain.
"The bribed housemaid, sir. It soon grew clear to my mind, I say, that Lady Amelia's main object in sending the girl to Mademoiselle Championet was to get her converted."
"Bad! bad!" cried Captain Parsons.
"Her letters," I continued, growing hot as I spoke, "were all about Mademoiselle Championet's devices and mean dodges—how Miss Bellassys was taken to mass—how she was allowed to read nothing but Catholic books—how she was left alone with a priest—"
"A d——d shame!" whipped out the captain. "And such a sweet young English woman too!"
"Do you need to hear more?" said I, smiling. "I love the girl and she loves me; she was an orphan, and I did not consider the aunt a right and proper guardian for her; she consented to elope, and we did elope, and here we are, captain."
"And you were bound to Penzance, I understand?"