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APRIL, 1874.

OPEN! SESAME!

BY FLORENCE MARRYAT (MRS. Ross-CHURCH), AUTHOR OF 'LOVE'S CONFLICT 'NO INTENTIONS,' ETC., ETC.

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CHAPTER IV.

" MY DAYS ARE NUMBERED, BULWER.'

FEW days after the occurrences described in the preceding chapter a young man is sitting in a thoughtful attitude before a writing-table, in a spacious but rather barely-furnished study, the dinginess and cheerlessness of which, however, is due less to the poverty than the age of its fittings and general adornment.

The faded velvet curtains, once crimson, now brown and streaked with yellow where the sun has caught them year by year, hang in ample folds before the diamondshaped windows; the carpet, which covers the centre of the room, beyond which the black oaken boards shine like ebony, although its bright colours have long since mingled in one neutral tint, is thick and yielding; the walls are hung with paintings of value, though their subjects are almost undistinguishable from neglect, whilst the carved oak furniture and the few pieces of rare china that adorn the high sculptured mantelpiece prove that whatever the present position of its owner there was a time when this apartment must have cost hundreds of pounds to decorate. Its faded

VOL. XXV.-NO. CXLVIII.

glories call out to us from the years gone by; it seems like the room of a disinterred palace-a remnant of vanished royalty; and the man who occupies it now, for the stamp of high breeding and high thought upon his brow, might be a king-for the look of suffering and purity, a saint. He is leaning back in his chair, his elbows resting on the arms, his hands clasped together, his eyes fixed upon the hearth, whence a few logs of wood send up a red, smouldering light.

In person he is about the middle height, extremely fair and delicate in appearance, with soft nut-brown hair, and a small much lightercoloured moustache; hazel eyes that seldom meet one's gaze, but seem to be looking into distance seen only by themselves; and a mouth too finely cut to betoken energy or much endurance. Altogether he gives one the idea of a man of a sensitive and highlyorganized imagination, an apathetic, languid disposition, and a preoccupied mind.

And this is Bernard, Earl of Valence, the bête noir of Miss WestNorman's fancy, the cousin whom,

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LONDON SOCIETY.

APRIL, 1874.

OPEN! SESAME!

BY FLORENCE MARRYAT (MRS. Ross-CHURCH), AUTHOR OF 'LOVE'S CONFLICT 'NO INTENTIONS,' ETC., ETC.

A

CHAPTER IV.

MY DAYS ARE NUMBERED, BULWER.'

FEW days after the occurrences described in the preceding chapter a young man is sitting in a thoughtful attitude before a writing-table, in a spacious but rather barely-furnished study, the dinginess and cheerlessness of which, however, is due less to the poverty than the age of its fittings and general adornment.

The faded velvet curtains, once crimson, now brown and streaked with yellow where the sun has caught them year by year, hang in ample folds before the diamondshaped windows; the carpet, which covers the centre of the room, beyond which the black oaken boards shine like ebony, although its bright colours have long since mingled in one neutral tint, is thick and yielding; the walls are hung with paintings of value, though their subjects are almost undistinguishable from neglect, whilst the carved oak furniture and the few pieces of rare china that adorn the high sculptured mantelpiece prove that whatever the present position of its owner there was a time when this apartment must have cost hundreds of pounds to decorate. Its faded

VOL. XXV.-NO. CXLVIII.

glories call out to us from the years gone by; it seems like the room of a disinterred palace—a remnant of vanished royalty; and the man who occupies it now, for the stamp of high breeding and high thought upon his brow, might be a king-for the look of suffering and purity, a saint. He is leaning back in his chair, his elbows resting on the arms, his hands clasped together, his eyes fixed upon the hearth, whence a few logs of wood send up a red, smouldering light.

In person he is about the middle height, extremely fair and delicate in appearance, with soft nut-brown hair, and a small much lightercoloured moustache; hazel eyes that seldom meet one's gaze, but seem to be looking into distance seen only by themselves; and a mouth too finely cut to betoken energy or much endurance. Altogether he gives one the idea of a man of a sensitive and highlyorganized imagination, an apathetic, languid disposition, and a preoccupied mind.

And this is Bernard, Earl of Valence, the bête noir of Miss WestNorman's fancy, the cousin whom,

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leading man in this county, and you are nothing but a stay-athome and a bookworm.'

You think it would be more intellectual of me then to follow the hounds or to get up a sporting battue.'

I am sure it would be more natural. What other young fellow of your age remains cooped up at home day after day with no better company than his writing-table and his library? Were there any meaning in it——

'How do you know there is no meaning in it?'

Had you to do it for your daily bread, I should have said; but you, the first nobleman in the county, the representative of a long line of earls, the father perhaps of a generation that shall--'

'Hold, Bulwer! you go a little too fast. No generation will come after me; I am the last of my race.'

• What do you mean?'

'I will tell you what I have never told to any one else, but it must be upon a promise of the strictest secrecy. My days are numbered, Bulwer. I shall not live to see another twelvemonth run its course. Perhaps now you will understand why I am not so very eager about making Everil West-Norman my widow.'

'But-good God! I cannot believe it! you must be mistaken. Who told you this, Dr. Newall?'

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is it, Bulwer? Sooner or later we must all go. A few years can make no difference.'

'But this is a chimera-an hallucination on your part, Valence. You have overworked yourself, and your brain is uneasy. I don't wonder at your conjuring up fancies, shut up alone day after day in this dark old castle. Dear old fellow, don't speak of it any more; Miss West-Norman will soon lay all these ghostly fancies to rest for you.'

You think I ought to marry her then, Bulwer?'

'Of course! Why not? Marriage is the very thing for you!'

'But, under the circumstances, will it be fair ?'

Valence, I will not have you mention such a thing; if you knew what pain it gave me.'

'Her father's will is burthened with so awkward a condition," continues the Earl, musingly, as though carrying out his own thoughts alone. 'If we do not marry one another her fortune comes to me, nor have I the option of refusing it, except by seeing it lapse to the State. cruel proviso for both of us. I must marry her, or see her pauperised. My uncle does not even leave me the opportunity to be generous.'

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'What should you have done if she had?'

Can you ask me? Do you think, knowing what I do, that I would wrong any woman sufficiently to ask her to be my wife? But, in this instance, it becomes almost a necessity. I shall, at least, leave her in the enjoyment of her own fortune and my title. Thank Heaven! we are indifferent to each other.'

That seems a strange thing to me for which to thank Heaven.' 'Does it? She might suffer otherwise. Women feel these

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