h lies,"
said the viscount, aloud, striking his heel into the grass in his angry
impetuosity; "such base, cruel lies!--to say that she had authorised
him, when he couldn't have dared to make such a proposal to her, and
her brother but two days dead. Well; I took him for a stiff-necked
pompous fool, but I never thought him such an avaricious knave." And
Fanny, too--could Fanny have agreed, so soon, to give her hand to
another? She could not have transferred her heart. His own dear, fond
Fanny! A short time ago they had been all in all to each other; and now
so completely estranged as they were! However, Dot was right; up to
this time Fanny might be quite true to him; indeed, there was not
ground even for doubting her, for it was evident that no reliance was
to be placed in Lord Cashel's asseverations. But still he could not
expect that she should continue to consider herself engaged, if she
remained totally neglected by her lover. He must do something, and that
at once; but there was very great difficulty in deciding what that
something was to be. It was easy enough for Dot to say, first write,
and then go. If he were to write, what security was there that his
letter would be allowed to reach Fanny? and, if he went, how much less
chance was there that he would be allowed to see her. And then, again
to be turned out of the house! again informed, by that pompous scheming
earl, that his visits there were not desired. Or, worse still, not to
be admitted; to be driven from the door by a footman who would well
know for what he came! No; come what come might, he would never again
go to Grey Abbey; at least not unless he was specially and courteously
invited thither by the owner; and then it should only be to marry his
ward, and take her from the odious place, never to return again.

"The impudent impostor!" continued Frank to himself; "to pretend to
suspect me, when he was himself hatching his dirty, mercenary,
heartless schemes!"

But still the same question recurred,--what was to be done? Venting his
wrath on Lord Cashel would not get him out of the difficulty: going
was out of the question; writing was of little use. Could he not send
somebody else? Some one who could not be refused admittance to Fanny,
and who might at any rate learn what her wishes and feelings were? He
did not like making love by deputy; but still, in his present dilemma,
he could think of nothing better. But whom was he to send? Bingham
Blake was a man