enzie, of Ballyriggan,
near Belfast, could surely be none other than his mother's Ulster
cousin, the nominal guardian of his boyhood! To be sure, it mattered
little enough to him, for the old lady had never been much better than a
stranger to him, and at present appeared only in that useless character
to an expectant, a person despoiled of her money; nevertheless, of that
identical money, certain sanguine friends had heretofore given him
expectations in the event of her death, seeing that she had nobody to
leave it to, except himself and the public charities of the United
Kingdom: clearly, this cousin must have been the defrauded bank
annuitant, and he could not help feeling more desolate than ever; for
John Dillaway's evil influences had robbed him now of name, fame,
fortune, and what hope regards as much as any--expectations. Yet--must
not the bank of England bear the brunt of all this forgery, and account
for its stock to that innocent depositor? Old Mrs. Jane was sinking
into dotage, probably had plenty of other money, and scarcely seemed to
stir about the business; therefore, legitimately interested as Henry
indubitably was, he took upon him to write to his antiquated relative,
and in so doing managed to please her mightily: renewed whatever
interest she ever might have felt in him, enabled her to enforce her
just claim, and really stood a likelier chance than ever of coming in
for competency some day. However, for the present, all was penury still.
Clements had been too delicate for even a hint at his deplorable
condition: and his distant relative's good feeling, so providentially
renewed, served indeed to gild the future, but did not avail to
gingerbread the present. So they struggled on as well as they could:
both very thankful for the chance which had caused a coalition between
sensitiveness and interest; and Maria at least more anxious than ever
for a reconciliation with her father, now that all his ardent hopes had
been exploded in son John.

CHAPTER XIV.

PROBABLE RECONCILIATION.

It was no use--none at all. Nature was too strong for him; and a higher
force than even potent Nature. In vain Sir Thomas pish'd, and tush'd,
and bah'd; in vain he buried himself chin-deep amongst the century of
ledgers that testified of gainful years gone by, and were now mustily
rotting away in the stagnant air of St. Benet's Sherehog: interest had
lost its interest for him, profits profited not, speculation's self had