This was a last hope, and Hardman hung upon it as upon life. He wrote
to the Admiralty, and, starting for Plymouth, made every inquiry
likely to settle the doubt. Alas! though press-gangs had been busy at
their oppressive work, no such name as Hardman had been returned as
having been one of their victims. The conviction slowly stole over
him, that some fatal accident or rash determination had ended
Herbert's term of life. The dislike of her son, of which Mrs Hardman
had been suspected, now melted completely away into the fondest
affection for his memory. She, however, did not entirely abandon the
hope of seeing him again.

What, however, of Catherine all this while? Alas! a misfortune had
overtaken her, in the midst of which the mysterious disappearance of
Herbert had not reached her. While in London, she, by some unknown
means, had contracted that fatal disease, then violently raging in
the metropolis--the small-pox. For months her life was despaired of,
and of course all knowledge of the absence of Herbert was kept from
her.

Mr Hardman grieved to that excess, that he gradually sunk into the
grave. His funeral was a melancholy spectacle, for all knew the cause
of his demise. His good easy disposition made him extensively
regretted. Mrs Hardman's native strength of mind, however, kept her
up amidst her double loss. She found a great consolation in
assiduously attending Catherine's sick-bed. Misfortune had schooled
every particle of pride from her breast, and she was a prey to
remorse. She accused herself--not indeed entirely without
justice--of having caused the miseries, the effects of which she was
now suffering. 'Would,' she exclaimed to Dodbury one day, 'I could
recall the past!'