 3 Mrs. Peck's Progress. All things continued favourable to Mrs. Peck's plans. She met with no disaster by sea in her voyage from Adelaide to Melbourne. The Havila brought her to her destination in three days, and she landed on the familiar shores with a light and hopeful heart. She was not long in discovering where Mrs. Phillips lived, which was in East Melbourne, and as no time was to be lost, she repaired to the house on the very day on which she landed, dressed decently and respectively, like the wife of an artisan, or perhaps with more of the appearance of a monthly nurse. The girl who opened the door asked her name when she requested to see Mrs. Phillips, and she announced herself, not as Mrs. Peck, but as Mrs. Mahoney, under which name she had taken out her passage, and begged to see the Mrs. by herself for a few minutes. Mrs. Phillips was then sitting in an easy chair in the drawing-room. The nurse was engaged with the baby, and Elsie was busy in Mrs. Phillips's room, so the stranger was introduced to have a quiet interview with her daughter. "'Well, Betsy, do you not recollect me?' said Mrs. Peck in a subdued but intensely earnest voice, whenever the girl was out of hearing. Have you forgotten your own mother?' Mrs. Phillips grew deadly pale, and was about to scream. "'Hush, Betsy, be quiet,' said her mother. "'I've only come to pay you a friendly visit. I've longed so to see you again all these years, and now I heard you was by yourself. I thought I must run all risk to get a look at you. Why, how handsome you've grown, and everything handsome about you, too! And Mrs. Peck gazed with wondering admiration at the beautiful, well-dressed, queen-like woman whom she had parted with when a mere girl, and had never seen since her marriage. Rings on your fingers and a gold chain round your neck, and everything you can wish for. Oh, Betsy, I made your fortune, and you never take a thought for me. I might be dead and buried, and you'd never care a straw. I have had a hard life, very hard life, tossed about from place to place, and often in want of many things at a time of my life I need to get, and you in such luxury. My pretty girl, my beautiful daughter!" Whatever might have been the resemblance between mother and daughter, there were but slight traces of it now. Mrs. Peck might have been beautiful at sixteen, but her life had not been so conservative of her charms as Mrs. Phillips's was. Besides, Mrs. Phillips resembled her father much more than her mother, and he had been of a much more lymphatic temperament, and was at the same time a remarkably handsome man. Mrs. Peck was not yet sixty, but she looked old for her years, and more like the grandmother than the mother of Mrs. Phillips, whose easy circumstances, indulgent husband, and indolent self-regarding life, with no emotion and little excitement, had kept her face free from a single line of care or anxiety. Her mother's face was plowed up with innumerable lines, and her features seemed to work with every varying passion, while her expression was hungry, eager, and wolf-like, without showing anything more intellectual than cunning, even in its calmest moments. Oh! said Mrs. Phillips, if Stanley was to find you here, he would never forgive me. Is it your fault that I could not rest till I saw you again? I never thought he'd be so cruel and unreasonable as to blame you for what I'd do. But I heard you was an Adelaide, and Mr. Phillips says that, as long as you stay in Adelaide, he will see that you know no want. Oh, mother, you had better go back to Adelaide, said Mrs. Phillips. Is that my girl as is talking? said Mrs. Peck, disdainfully. My girl as I loved so dear, and was so proud of, that now, when I've come all the way from Adelaide, and risked all I've got to depend upon, just to please my old eyes with the sight of her handsome face, and my poor old ears with the sound of her voice, would banish me the minute I come? That's a pretty husband you've got, that you're so afraid of him. You deserve that your children should turn against you when they grow up. Oh, Betsy, how can you talk so cruel? And the old woman caught her daughter's hand, and kissed it with much apparent, and no doubt some real feeling. You're not expecting of him home for a while, so let me come and let me go while he is away. My name is Mrs. Mahoney. Say is how I'm an old servant of your mother's, or an old servant you had at Wery Wilta, or the mother of someone you know. Call me what you like, but just let me have the liberty to come and see you and the baby, and then I will go back to Adelaide, and Mr. Phillips need never know nothing about it. Invention was not one of Mrs. Phillips's talents, but her mother reveled in it, as I've said before. She delighted to go amongst people who did not know her, where she could give out an entirely fictitious history of herself quite new. Even to her intimate acquaintances her narrations were singularly inconsistent. When her interest demanded that she should speak the truth she did so, but it was with an effort, when the balance lay the other way she had no hesitation and no scruple. I ain't good at these stories, mother, said Mrs. Phillips, and I don't just see what good it would do me to get into trouble with Stanley on your account. It's just the one thing he isn't unreasonable about. When he married me he said he made only one stipulation, and that was, that I should have nothing to do with you or with Peck, and I said I wouldn't. Mrs. Peck here began to sob, and Elsie, who was sowing in the next room, hearing a little noise, and afraid that Mrs. Phillips was not well, came in at this moment. Mrs. Phillips was quite at a loss to account for the emotion of her visitor, but her mother was equal to the emergency. I am sure, Mrs. Phillips, I cannot say what I feel, said she, but I know your goodness really overpowers me. To think as the little girl I knowed when she played with my poor Susan, is, is now no more, should recollect me now she's grown up so beautiful, and had such a fine house of her own, and should help me in my troubles. It is quite too much for me. But all I want is, just now, a little to start me in way of business, and I'll be sure to pay it back again if I get on, and I have a good connection, a capital connection, your liberality I can never forget. And Mrs. Peck fumbled with her purse, and looked very hard at Elsie. This was the person whom she had wished to see, even more than her ungrateful daughter, from whom she had expected a kinder reception. Elsie looked simple-minded enough. There was no doubt she would be easily dealt with, and much better by speech than by letter. This is your maid, I suppose? Mrs. Phillips assented. Mrs. Peck turned to Elsie and said, I think is how the Mrs. wants some salvoletil. She looks a bit faint. She don't seem to be strong yet. Elsie fetched the salvoletil, and gave Mrs. Phillips a little of it, and then returned to her work. She was puzzled at the stranger speaking of Mrs. Phillips' liberality, for she was not generally liberal, and at her fumbling at her purse as if she had received money, for she knew that Mrs. Phillips had left her purse in her bedroom. You must let me come and go for the few days I am to stay in Melbourne, Betsy, said her mother. Oh, I'd rather give you money if you need it, at least all I've got. I fear I will need money to take me back, for I made such an effort to get across, but I could not help it. But I won't hurt you, Betsy, and I may do you good. What sort of girl is it that you've got? Oh, a very clever milliner, and a handy girl enough. Stanley says he thinks her pretty, but I don't see it. He makes a great fuss over both her and her sister, but Jane is plain. If he says he thinks her pretty, I'd not keep her in the house if I was you. I know what men are," said Mrs. Peck. I don't think you know what Stanley is, said Mrs. Phillips, with some dignity. I did not like it at first, but I ain't frightened now, and besides they are both so badly off it's quite a charity to keep them. If she is a milliner, I know of a capital situation, said Mrs. Peck. Stanley would be in a pretty state if I let her go to a situation of your recommending, said Mrs. Phillips. Oh, I don't mean to meddle with your affairs, but young people are very unwary. You think it's how you're too handsome for your husband to think of looking at another woman, but I know the world better than that. Howsoever, that is neither here nor there. But you know I am risking my annuity for Mr. Phillips by coming here to see you. But I heard in Adelaide that for the first time since she was married I might have the chance of seeing you, without making dis-peace, which is the last thing I would wish to do. So Betsy, if you will be reasonable and let me come again as Mrs. Mahoney, an old neighbor in New South Wales, and help me, as you say, with money to take me away, I will be as quiet as a mouse. It is a pleasure to see you and to speak to you. Give me a little needlework and let me sit with your maid, and just have a look at you now and then, and at the baby. I ain't seen none of your children, Betsy, because you've been so well off and had no cares, you shouldn't turn off your mother in that unfeeling way. Oh, I wish I dared do it, but if Stanley was to come, he may come suddenly. I've sent him a message to hurry home. You can't think what a good, kind husband he is to me, mother. But he'd be furious if he found you here. Oh, if he comes home you do not need me to work any longer, and you can give the girl that message, and you can drop me a hint if I happen to be in the house. Even if he was to see me here I know I could find some reason. I am never without an excuse. Mrs. Phillips was not particularly fond of her mother, who had been very harsh and violent tempered to her in her childish days, while she was as fond of her husband as she could be of any one but herself, and she knew with what apporance he regarded this fierce, cunning old woman. She wished Mrs. Peck to be satisfied with this one visit and to come back no more, for she feared that Alice and the other servants might suspect something, and she had no confidence in her own powers of concealment. But Mrs. Peck had more ammunition in her chest, she again began to sob and showed symptoms of going into violent hysterics, and bewailed her own hard lot in the cruelty of her ungrateful daughter so loudly that she was glad to agree to her demands to make her keep quiet for the present. Mrs. Peck then saw the baby, which she admired exceedingly and accepted of some refreshments. Mrs. Phillips got her purse and really gave her some money, and shortly after her mother took leave, engaging to come back on the following morning to do some needle work, and uttering many blessings on Mrs. Phillips for her kindness and generosity in Alice's hearing. Mrs. Phillips looked greatly relieved when she was out of the house, but the apprehension of her return weighed considerably on her mind. VIII. Business interrupted by love. Mrs. Peck appeared on the following day, according to promise, carrying a little black bag, meaning scissors, yard measure, and a few other implements of needle work, all perfectly new, and after a short conversation with Mrs. Phillips and a little refreshment, she sat down beside Elsie to ingratiate herself with that young lady. Elsie thought she had never seen anyone so ignorant of the work she had been said about as Mrs. Mahoney appeared to be. She confessed that she was not skillful, and it showed all the more kindness in Mrs. Phillips to give her work when she had had so little practice and did it so badly. She had been accustomed to go out as a nurse, she said, but she had got too old for that and could not stand the sitting up of nights, and then she branched off into accounts of dreadful experiences in nursing and deathbeds and awful operations that were enough to make Elsie's hair stand on end. She found fault with Mrs. Phillips' nurse as being too much of the fine lady, and told Elsie what she considered to be a nurse's duties, which she would like to do if she was only fit for it. Then she threw herself on Elsie's good nature for a little lesson in needlework, admired her quickness and taste and skill, wished she could do anything half as well, and asked her to be good enough to cut out and place her work for her, and to lend her patterns and altogether behaved with the most insinuating affability. Although Elsie Melville looked simple-minded, she was by no means wanting in observation, and her situation with Mrs. Phillips and her sister-in-law had taught her a wonderful amount of prudence. She thought there was some inconsistency in Mrs. Mahoney's fluent narratives and something very peculiar in her relations with Mrs. Phillips, who appeared to be restless and uncomfortable whenever she was in the house. Elsie was, however, good-natured enough to give her some instruction, for which great gratitude was expressed. On the third day of her visits, when apparently occupied in learning how to do feather-stitch for trimming baby's pinafores, Mrs. Peck looked up from her work and asked Elsie if she did not come from Shire. "'That was my native county,' said Elsie. "'Do you know cross-haul at all?' asked Mrs. Peck. "'I was brought up there,' said Elsie. "'I come from that country, too,' said Mrs. Peck. "'I did not think you had been scotch,' said Elsie. "'I have been in these colonies for thirty-four years, and seen but few of my own country-folks, but the English say they'd know me to be scotch by my accent.' "'Well, perhaps your accent is a little like that of Shire, when I come to think of it, but the turn of your expressions is not scotch at all,' said Elsie. "'Thirty-four years is a long time, however. I may perhaps get rid of some of my own scoticisms by that time.' "'I knew Hogarth of cross-haul, very well, when I was young,' said Mrs. Peck. "'Do you mean to say you was brought up there?' "'Mr. Hogarth was my uncle,' said Elsie. "'Oh, you must be a daughter of his sister Mary's. I fancy there was only the one daughter that lived to grow up. But if cross-haul was your uncle, how came you to be in this situation?' said Mrs. Peck, with feigned astonishment. "'My sister and I were educated by him. He was exceedingly kind to us as long as he lived. But his property did not come to you. The air at last swallowed up all,' said Mrs. Peck, with a fierce glare in her eye, that she could not quite subdue. "'It is very hard on you.' "'We have felt it rather hard,' said Elsie. "'But still, things have been worse for us at one time than they were now. Jane and I can earn our own living, and that is the position of most people in the world.' "'What would you give now?' said Mrs. Peck, if you could get back to cross-haul and be just as you used to be.' "'I cannot say what I would give,' said Elsie. "'But it is impossible. Unless we could restore my poor uncle to life, things could never be again as they used to be. And the new man might have helped you and not have driven you to seek service at the ends of the earth. Would you not like to serve him out?' said Mrs. Peck, with the same subdued fierceness as before. Elsie's instinctive sincerity would have led her to justify Francis by explaining about the will, but she felt reluctant to say anything to this strange woman that she could help. Besides, though she knew nothing of the letter that had been sent by Mrs. Peck to her cousin and left unanswered at Mr. Phillips's earnest request, she was beginning to suspect something of the truth. Mrs. Peck's courting her so assiduously had puzzled her, and now the interest she felt in this story, which was all the more apparent to a keen observer from the effort she made to conceal it, showed that she knew more about the matter than she liked at once to disclose. Elsie had a good eye for likenesses, and could see family resemblances where no one else could, and it had always struck her as very remarkable that there was not the slightest resemblance between Francis and her uncle, nor between him and any other member of the family whom she had seen or whose portraits had been preserved. Not merely were the features in complexion unlike, but there was not a trick of the countenance or of the gate reproduced, as is generally the case with the sons of fathers who had such marked characteristics as Henry Hogarth. Though she had not heard of Mrs. Peck's letter, Jane had told her about Madame de Verre Courts to her uncle, and in her own heart she had fancied that the reason why it had been so cold to Francis was that he had been doubtful of the paternity, the very indifferent character of the woman he had married was not calculated to inspire him with confidence, and the absolute absence of all family likeness was an additional cause of distrust. He might have been satisfied on that point, however, in later years, or he would not have been so strong in his prohibition of his marriage with Jane or Elsie on account of his cousinship, but early in life he must, in Elsie's opinion, have had grave doubts on the subject. She looked again more careful than before at Mrs. Peck. She was of the age to be Francis's mother, but otherwise she was quite at fault. There was not any likeness there, either. A confirmation of the little finger was rather peculiar, but it was an exaggeration of a little defect on Mrs. Phillips, otherwise very handsome hand, but not of Francis Hogarth's. If Francis has no right to the property, and we have, of course we should like to have our rights, said Elsie. It was a scotch marriage, you know, said Mrs. Peck. Yes, but a binding one. He has received everywhere as my uncle's lawful son. Yes, as his lawful son, no doubt. Do you know if he has brought forward his mother at all, said Mrs. Peck? No, I suppose she is dead, or we should certainly have heard of her. Dead, you suppose, said Mrs. Peck, indignantly. That is the easy way of getting quit of relations that has got claims on you. Just suppose them dead? I do not know anything of the matter, except that she has not been heard of. If she were alive and heard of his inheriting the property, she would be sure to write claiming him, and probably asking for assistance, which I have no doubt she would at once receive, for he has ample means and has the character of being both just and liberal. And do you think she would apply, and you have no doubt she ought to have got it? Anyone would have thought that, said Mrs. Peck, between her set teeth. Yes, certainly, said Elsie, but perhaps she did not go the right way to work. She did, said Mrs. Peck, indignantly. I knowed her well and heard all about it. This was to throw Elsie off her guard, for she did not wish to be identified at once. But it had not the effect desired, for Elsie felt convinced that this was the person who claimed to be Francis's mother. Mrs. Phillips came in at this interesting poise in the conversation, and began to give Elsie directions as to some alterations in a dress. There's some buttons and trimmings to get to make it up with. Alice, you had better go to town and get them for me. You need a walk at any rate. I do not think you had your walk at all regularly of late, said Mrs. Phillips. Indeed, said Mrs. Peck, she's had no walk since here I've been, whatever she might have had before. It's trying work sitting here all day. I feel it myself and all the more that I'm not used to it. If you'd be so good as to excuse me for an hour or two, I'd take it as a great kindness if you'd let me go with Alice for a walk to do her bit of shopping and to show her around Melbourne a bit. If I don't know Melbourne well, I ought to. I don't think I ever saw so good a hand as Alice has. I think I could make her fortune if she'd only give me a little commission. Oh, I don't think Alice is inclined to leave me, said Mrs. Phillips, and indeed I am very well satisfied with her. But this ain't exactly her sphere. She was telling me as she was brought up with great expectations, said Mrs. Peck. She has got over her disappointment about that, I think, said Mrs. Phillips. I dare say you think it shabby in me to try to entice your maid from you, and really, after all, a comfortable home with a lady, as it might be a pleasure to serve and wait upon, is perhaps the best thing after all. But as I was saying, Mrs. Phillips, I would be glad to get out for an hour or two with Alice. I'll not do much work without her, for I'm sure to go wrong if she is not at my elbow. There's not many ladies so generous as you to pay me for my blundering work, and Alice is a wonderful patient, too. I don't know how to thank her for the pain she takes with me, and I can't help being very stupid. After being used to active life, one don't take well to this sitting still. So I'll just put on my bonnet and shawl and go out a bit with Alice. Mrs. Phillips did not at all like this proposal, for she had an idea that her husband would very much disapprove of it, and would be still more angry at that than at her having her mother in her house. But then Mr. Phillips was away, and her mother was there, and the present terror conquered the distant one. She never knew what her mother might or might not say if she thwarted her in anything. She had distant recollections of terrible punishments that always followed the slightest act of disobedience or even carelessness in her childish days, and though now she knew her mother would not strike her with her hands, she was in constant dread of her tongue. So that now Mrs. Peck took it for granted that she would be allowed to accompany her daughter's maid, she dared not refuse it. Alice scarcely liked the idea of going to walk to town with this strange woman, but at the same time her curiosity as to what she might have to say was very great. She felt that this Mrs. Mahoney had intelligence to give that was of great importance, and that she wished to be secure from interruption. Mrs. Phillips was constantly going in and out, for she was afraid to leave her mother long with any one, and always looked suspicious of what they might be talking about. Mary, the housemaid, and the nurse, too, seemed to be curious about this old needle-woman, and were often coming in unexpectedly. When Mrs. Peck had put on her bonnet in Shawl, and dropped her veil over her face, she looked sufficiently respectable for a companion to one so little known in Melbourne as Alice Melville, so she thought there could be no harm in going out for an hour or two with her for the sake of ascertaining if she had any light to throw on the dark subject of Francis's birth. When they got out of doors Mrs. Peck appeared at first to be rather anxious to resume the conversation which her daughter had interrupted, but as they were pretty closely followed by two other pedestrians all the way into town, she made up her mind to attend to Mrs. Phillips's business first, so they went to Collins Street and bought the trimmings. Then Mrs. Peck went to a bookseller's shop and purchased a shilling novel that she said she had been told was very interesting, but she appeared scarcely to know the name of it, and took the first one the shopman gave to her. Elsie thought she was a good deal more stared at than was agreeable, and also that the shopman in both establishments addressed her with a good deal of familiarity. She had heard Mrs. Phillips complain of the great freedom and the want of politeness of Melbourne tradespeople and the inhabitants generally, but this was her first personal experience of anything of the kind, and she rightly attributed it to the company she was in. She felt now that she had made a great mistake in going out with this Mrs. Mahoney, whose rather loud remarks and vulgar appearance seemed to attract general attention, and she could only wish fervently that, with or without her secret, she could get back safely to East Melbourne. As they returned Mrs. Peck proposed a detour by the Botanic Gardens which Elsie had never seen. Mrs. Phillips would not expect them home soon, for she had proposed to show Miss Melville all about Melbourne, and the gardens were well worth seeing. On a weekday they were quiet, and one could get a seat to have a little comfortable talk. Much as Elsie wished for the talk, she would not on any account lengthen her walk for it, so she declined the proposal. Then, said Mrs. Peck, let us go out of the regular road we came by, and go round Fitzroy Square, and have a look round at all the churches and chapels that are built on the eastern hill. Fitzroy Square was not at that time enclosed or planted. It was merely a vacant space, intersected by numerous footpaths in various directions, and covered where there was no beaten path with very dusty, withered-looking grass. Elsie had no objection to go out of the thoroughfare, but instead of pointing out the churches or anything else, as soon as Mrs. Peck had got safe out of any third party's hearing, she slackened her pace, and eagerly opened the subject which was nearest to her heart. I said, Miss Melville, that I could make your fortune if you'd only give me a handsome commission. Are you willing to drive a bargain? said Mrs. Peck. If I can see my way clear to the fortune, I should, of course, be glad to pay you for the information. But I must know what you have got to say before I can guess what it is worth, said Elsie. And I must know what you are willing to give before I can tell what I know. But I've really got nothing to offer, said Elsie. You know how poor I am. But suppose you and your sister was to get cross-haul through the means of me. What would you give me for that? asked Mrs. Peck. Elsie felt sure that this woman would not give the property to Jane and herself, for it had been left to Francis distinctly by will, by name and description. But yet she wanted very much to find out if he was really their cousin or not, so she said, I must consult with my sister on this matter, for it concerns her as much as myself, and also with Mr. Phillips, who has been to both of us the kindness and best of friends, before I could make you any definite offer. No, no, said Mrs. Peck. I want no interference of strangers, and I ain't got no time to waste here while you write up the country to anybody. I must go back to Adelaide in a few days, and surely your sister will see the advantages of your acting for her. What do you say to two thousand pounds? To be asked two thousand pounds for what Elsie knew to be worth nothing in a money-point of view appeared to her rather absurd. That is a very large sum, said she. A year's income is not too much for such a secret as I've got. Cross-hall must be worth two thousand pounds a year now, and more than that, and I must have something handsome to cover my risk. Then you put yourself under the grasp of the law by what you have to reveal, said Elsie. You must let me get clear off before you publish it, said Mrs. Peck. I have been treated with the greatest ingratitude by Frank, and I'd like a little revenge. I'd like to pull him down from his high horse, and set him working for as bread as you have had to do, but at the same time I am a poor woman and I must live. I cannot tell what we would give you, said Elsie, until I have something more distinct than these vague threats, but you may be sure that we will give you as much as it is worth. Trust to our honour for that. Trust to a fiddle-sticks end. I am too old a bird to be caught with such chaff as that. No, I must have it down in black and white. See, here is a paper that I want you to fill up and sign before I'll open my mouth on the subject. So Mrs. Peck drew out of her black bag a paper containing an agreement to pay her two thousand pounds on condition that the estate of Crossholes should be recovered for her and her sister through Mrs. Peck's information. She laid the paper open on the book she had bought, and then she took a pen and a portable ink bottle from the same repository, dipped the pen in the ink, and demanded Elsie's signature then and there. Her eager eyes watched the girl's countenance as she read the agreement and weighed the pros and cons of the bargain she was making, and neither of them were aware in their preoccupation that they were observed. When Elsie looked up, puzzled as to what she was to do, and Mrs. Peck was putting her pen in her hand, she saw the figure of Walter Brandon approaching her with the appearance of haste and agitation. Mrs. Peck snatched the paper from Elsie's hand and replaced it in the black bag, along with the other writing materials and the extemporary desk. Alice Melville, said Brandon, what in Heaven's name are you doing here in such company as this? Elsie turned as pale as death. She could not utter a syllable. Come with me. Let me take you home. I heard from Mrs. Phillips that you had gone out, but I could not have imagined you to have such a companion. Such a companion indeed, said Mrs. Peck indignantly. I have been in these colonies more nor thirty years, and I'm good enough company for any fine ladies made as ever walked on shoe leather. Oh, Mr. Brandon, said Elsie, who had recovered her powers of speech. She was doing needlework at Mrs. Phillips's, and I was sent out on an errand, and she would come with me. And we was just looking over a bill, and seeing as our money was all right, said Mrs. Peck in the most plausible manner. No, it was not a bill, said Elsie, who hated the idea of this woman telling lies for her. Did Mrs. Phillips actually send you out walking with this person, said Brandon, with a look of the most intense contempt and disgust at Mrs. Peck? She said nothing against it, but she did not send me. It was all my own fault, said Elsie, weeping bitterly. I rather wish to go with her. My dear Miss Alice, you must have seen that this was no fit person for you to associate with. You are an innocent girl, ignorant of the world, as all girls ought to be, but you are not so easily deceived in character as not to see in this woman's face, language, and manners that she is to be avoided as you would avoid death and destruction, said Brandon. Elsie only wept more bitterly than before. Brandon must despise her for ever now. She had been glad to come out to Victoria, because she thought if he still loved or cared for her she should hear of it. She had treasured his parting words and his parting looks in her heart, and now, to meet him again in this way, to feel that he must look down on her as in the old days of his pity he never could have done, was dreadful. How was he to guess that the almost irresistible temptation that had led her to compromise herself so far? You had better go home to your own dwelling, Mrs. Peck, said Brandon, for if Mr. Phillips were to know that you had been visiting his wife and his absence you would come by the worst of it. Needlework, indeed. Mrs. Phillips is a fool, certainly, but the idea of your doing needlework for her is very absurd. So you had better never show face there again. Perhaps you'd like to know where I live, Miss Melville, said Mrs. Peck, glaring angrily at Brandon. I lodge at Number Little Burke Street, and can be heard of there, either as Mrs. Mahoney or Mrs. Peck. You can come there to see me. Like to know where you live, go to see you, said Brandon, in towering indignation. Now, Miss Melville knows your real character, she will keep away from you for ever. So now go off with you as quickly as you can. Good-bye, Miss Melville, said Mrs. Peck, as she slowly went on her way to her own lodgings. She found she must go, but she would not be hurried by Brandon's wrath. He waited till she was out of hearing before he tried to soothe the feelings of the agitated girl she had left under his care. Now, where can I take you to? If Mrs. Phillips allowed you to do such a thing as walk through Melbourne with Mrs. Peck, she is not to be trusted with you. Oh, if only Peggy were here! But she is not. Your sister told me she had not left Edinburgh. Take me back to Mrs. Phillips. She will be as glad to get rid of this woman as you can possibly be, said Elsie. But she must have known there was something wrong, for she looked confused and ashamed when I asked for you, and when I settled down to await your return she seemed quite restless till I went away. Indeed, she sent me on an errand in quite a different direction, but I wished to come this way and thought there was no hurry about her commission. I always knew her to be a fool, but not so wicked and false as this proves her to be. I think this woman frightens her, said Elsie. She has some hold on her, no doubt. Poor Phillips! We had better say nothing to him about it. So you would really prefer going home to her, said Brandon. Yes, certainly, said Elsie, and she paused for a little. But, Mr. Brandon, I am in want of advice and assistance more than I ever was in my life. I must have it, and have it immediately. Can I rely on you as a friend? Yes, as a friend. Certainly as a friend, said Brandon, who wondered what revelation was about to be made. Surely no love affair with someone else. I believe this woman is the person who calls herself my cousin Francis's mother, said Elsie. I think she came to Mrs. Phillips's for the express purpose of ingratiating herself with me, in hopes of selling me a secret which she knows, which she declares will give to Jane and myself the possession of Cross Hall. Ah! said Brandon, slowly. And is this her little game at present? Now I have often thought that Francis was not my uncle's son. There is not the slightest family likeness, and she is capable of any fraud or deception. I really knew she was not good when I went out with her, but we had no chance to speak without interruption in the house, and I did not think she was so well known in Melbourne as she appears to be. I know I've done very wrong, but I really had some excuse. If she can prove this—and Elsie paused, in hopes that Brandon would say something to show that he felt for the greatness of her temptation. But, my dear Miss Alice, said Brandon, she cannot take the property from your cousin. Was it not left to him by Will, and left to him because he had proved himself worthy of it? At least, I believe that is what your sister and Peggy have told me. She tries this game of hers with a girl who knows nothing about business. It is of no use, whatever. She has no idea about the Will, and thinks that Francis got the estate as air at law. But my view of the matter is this, that if Francis has proved not to be our cousin he might marry Jane and not lose the property. That is what I aim at, for they love each other, I am quite sure. If they do, I wonder he did not throw up the fortune and set about earning one for himself. It was a good deal to give up, too, a seat in Parliament and such a career as appears before him. But what are wealth and fame compared to love, said Brandon, who had got rather into heroics. I do not like to say much to Jane about it, for it only distresses her. But I think, I am almost sure, that he offered to make the sacrifice, but that Jane would not accept of it. She rejoiced in his useful and honourable life. She would not consent to be his drag-and-sumbling block. She must have felt it very hard, too, for I feel she loves him dearly. It was for their sakes that I was so anxious to discover this woman's secret. She wants to be revenged on Francis, who has not answered her letters and has sent her no money. I am a little surprised at that, but yet I believe that he must have had good reasons for his conduct, for there never was any one more thoroughly conscientious and liberal than the cousin I want to lose, the brother I wish to gain. Would it not be a glorious revenge if this Mrs. Peck, in her spite, were to give him all he wants, the only thing missing in his cup of happiness? Perhaps, then, it is a pity I interrupted you so soon, said Brandon, admiring the generous enthusiasm of the girl. But you were too dear to me, too precious, to be left in such suspicious company a moment longer than I could help. I came to Melbourne with one purpose, and that was, to entreat you to reconsider the answer you gave to me in the railway carriage. I did not know you so well, then, said Elsie. I thought you only pitied me, and now I fear I have given you cause to despise me. Nothing of the kind, said Brandon, nothing of the kind. I love you far more now than I did then, and though I was stupid and idiotic as to fancy that Miss Phillips would suit me as well, whenever I saw you together her faults came out, and your virtues. I do not wish to take you at a disadvantage. Do not think it ungenerous in me to ask so much, just when you are in trouble and perplexity, and need advice and assistance. And just when I have appeared in such an unfavorable light, said Elsie, in her low, sweet voice, a little tremulous with the excitement of the scene. But I will give you the best help I can, and the best advice my poor head can supply, whether you return my love or not. Do not let that weigh with you for a moment. Nothing I can do can make me deserve you. If I am not bodily on my knees before you, for in a public place like this it would be absurd, and you would not like it, I am mentally on my knees, willing to accept whatever you may choose to give me, love, if possible, but if your heart is otherwise engaged, or if you cannot love such a commonplace fellow as myself, then I will try to be contented with friendship. Which shall it be, my dearest Alice? Will you have any objection to accepting of both? said Alice in the same tremulous tone. None, said Brandon, delighted. None whatever. Indeed, one implies the other, though the other does not imply the one. I cannot express myself distinctly, you see, but you know what I mean. I am not at all a genius, and even this happiness cannot inspire me with fine language. But what can I do for you? There is where I hope to show my sense of what I owe you. First, then, we must leave this place and walk home, for I think people are looking at us, said Elsie, trying to collect her thoughts. And then you must tell me what I am to do with Mrs. Peck, if that is her name. Mrs. Phillips calls her Mrs. Mahoney. The paper you saw in my hand, which she snatched away, was an agreement to pay us some of money if we were put in possession of Cross Hall. If I had signed it, it would have been of no value to her, but I hesitated about it, for I did not like cheating even her, and made her risk bringing herself to justice for nothing. I will go to see her myself and negotiate for you. I do not think I should have much scruple in outwitting her, for she really deserves it, and it is only letting her overreach herself. Will you give me full powers to act for you? Oh, yes, said Elsie, if she will only deal with you, it will be so much better. Upon the footing on which we stand together at present it is quite right and proper that I should do so, said Brandon, accepting the responsibilities of his position with great satisfaction. You did not get my letter. Emily and your sister told me you sailed before the mail come in, which contained that painful work of composition. I wrote to you whenever I got out to Barragang, and saw that I had really not been so nearly ruined as I thought. I determined to do it on the occasion when I parted with you in the nursery. Shall I say, like Miss Harriet Phillips, that I conquered you by making a ballad in your praise? For these men can be led by nothing so well as vanity and selfishness. No, I will not say it, for I do not think you are either vain or selfish. I should not like you if you were, said Elsie. Say, love, Alice, it sounds so much sweeter and goes more to my heart. You like your cousin, or no cousin, Frances, but you must love me. Well, love be it, said Alice, but I really love Frances a good deal too. Not as I love you, or as I intend to love you, for I really don't know how I feel just yet. But still, not mere liking. I am not at all jealous, said Brandon, though all his literary talents and tastes should make me feel my own inferiority. Even Jane never would allow me to say that you were inferior to Frances. She said your talents lay in a different direction. She was sorry that I refused you, and when I came to know you better, I was very sorry myself. When did you begin to soften to me? asked Brandon. When you said Peggy had taught you so much. When you expressed yourself so warmly and truly about her. Had she not prejudiced you against me in the first place, said Brandon, hesitatingly. Yes, she had, said Elsie, with still greater hesitation. By something that she said of me. It was too true I deserved it. But the lesson she taught me has never been forgotten. I do not say that I deserve you, but I mean to try my best to deserve you. But was that your only reason for refusing me? No, I had several. I thought myself a very unfit wife for you, and that you would be cruelly disappointed to get a low-spirited, strictly useless girl who did not love or esteem you. I really thought I was dying, and it would have been wrong to have thought of marrying under such circumstances. And besides, you could not have cared much about me, or you would not have transferred your affection so easily to a woman so very different in every way. Well, it does appear very inconsistent, said Brandon. When my letter is returned from England you will see two pages of apologies, and reasons why I was so foolish. But I really thought there was somebody whom you liked better, until that very moment when I caught your eye and your expression when I praised our excellent old friend. Your glance at that time restored me to my allegiance. But the bad news of my affairs next day put love and marriage out of my head, till I came depart from you, and I felt how hard it was. But I am glad to see that I have not seriously injured Miss Phillips by trifling with her affections. She has met with her match at last. I never thought she could have been so well suited. I really think they will get on very comfortably. How could I ever fancy that woman amiable, said Brandon. I thought her really and exceedingly agreeable and clever woman in Derbyshire. When I went out shopping with her on that memorable day, I saw spots in the sun, and the day before yesterday at Wiry-Wilta she appeared to be quite insufferable. I cannot think enough of my own good luck. I might have been her husband by this time instead of being your lover, which is much pleasanter. What an insipid, slow life it would have been, though, grand, I dare say, looks forward to it with complacency. He always used to look down on the colonial girls that our neighbors married, and threatened to go home for a thoroughly accomplished wife. And now one of that stamp has come out to him and saved him time and money. And Miss Phillips looks far more kindly on him than she ever did on me. I do not call it merely good luck, said Elsie. I think our affairs are in wiser hands than our own. And that I should be grateful for that wise guidance instead of idly congratulating myself on things that have turned out so well, said Brandon. I only know that I feel grateful, though I am in want of words to express it. A man living alone, as I have done for so many years, feels at a loss to speak about these matters. I need a dear good woman like you by my side to teach me to open my heart, for I know I never will be a shame to speak to you as I feel, though I might stand in some awe of a poetess, too. Don't speak about my poetry, said Elsie. Am I never to hear that song of worry-wilta, in which I play such a conspicuous part, said Brandon. Oh, I have forgotten it, for the children got tired of it, and asked for new songs and stories. It was never written down, and I never can recollect my own verses. It shows that they are not genuine poetry, for I have a tenacious memory for anything good of other peoples. So, as it is lost for ever, you may imagine it to have been as beautiful as you please. CHAPTER VIII. Mrs. Phillips had been much alarmed at the sight of Mr. Brandon almost immediately after Elsie and Mrs. Peck had gone out. He asked for Miss Alice Melville as soon as he entered, saying he had a letter from her sister and messages from the children for her, so that he would stay with Mrs. Phillips until she returned, and sat down by the window looking steadily out to catch the first sight of her. Not having her mother's inventive turn, she was at a loss how to get rid of him. Brandon must not see Mrs. Peck, and Elsie must be warned to say nothing about her to him. She sat in torture for some time, and at last, in despair, she asked him in an awkward, embarrassed way to be good enough to go for a nose-gay for her, that she had been promised by a mutual friend at Richmond that she wished very much to have. He could not help thinking something was wrong. Mrs. Phillips had always been very inconsiderate to Alice, and no doubt she had been sent to town on some errand that she was ashamed he should know about, probably to fetch a heavy parcel. So, instead of going to Richmond, he took the road on which he would be most likely to meet her, so as to assist her if possible. And as he come up to the square where Mrs. Peck and Elsie were talking, he met with a bush acquaintance, who, after the usual greetings to the return to Brandon, pointed to the two female figures, and remarked, There is Mrs. Peck back again to Melbourne, and a very pretty girl with her. I wonder if she brought her from Adelaide. I thought Melbourne had lost that ornament for ever, but here she is as large as life again. Being in the attitude and form of the girl in the distance reminded him of a person he had seen. He was sorry for the poor thing, and walked quickly towards the place where they were standing engrossed with their important business. To his surprise and horror he found she was really the person he thought she slightly resembled, and he lost no time in coming forward to stop the conversation. Mrs. Phillips was astonished and distressed to see Elsie returned with Brandon without Mrs. Peck. Where they had met, and how they had got rid of her she could not imagine. Elsie went to take off her bonnet and return to her work, and Mrs. Phillips was left alone with Brandon. At his first word, his first question, how could she let Alice Melville go out of her house with a woman so well known in Melbourne as Mrs. Peck, Mrs. Phillips, burst into tears. I could not help it, indeed, I could not help it. Stanley will be so angry if you tell him, and I am sure I did all I could do to keep her away, but she would come, and she would take a fancy to Alice, and sit with her, and then when I send Alice out for buttons she would go with her. But why have you had her here at all, Mrs. Phillips? said Brandon gravely. You must know that she has no fit person to be in your house, particularly in Mr. Phillips's absence. Confide in your good husband. If there is any part of your past life that you are afraid of her telling, believe me, you will not better yourself by keeping in her power. Tell your husband everything and shake yourself free of this dangerous woman. Stanley knows everything, everything about me, but he said I never was to speak to her again, and I am sure I never wished to, but how can I help it when she will come, and she is my own mother? But don't tell anybody, for Stanley would be so vexed. I don't keep anything from him. Don't blame me with that, Mr. Brandon. Your mother, said Brandon, oh, that alters the case. I know that she is not good, and not respectable, and all that, but she went on so that I was terrified to refuse her leave to come here to do some sowing. If Stanley had not thought she was in Adelaide, he would never have left me here. Everything goes wrong when he leaves me. There, when he went to America, we had the scarlet fever, and I lost my dear little Eva, and now there is all this trouble. Oh, I wish I had gone up to Wery Wilta. I would have done just as well there. But don't tell Mr. Phillips about this. I would rather tell him myself. He has been good to me, so very good to me. You cannot think how good he has always been to me. I do not keep things from him. Indeed I don't, Mr. Brandon. Brandon felt more liking to poor Mrs. Phillips in her distress and in her tears than he had ever felt before. With such a mother and such training as she had had in her early years, much could not be expected from her, and now her expressions of gratitude to her good husband touched him greatly. He had always thought her too insensible of her extraordinary good fortune, and in a general way, so she was. But during these last few days, seeing her mother and shrinking from her, had made Mrs. Phillips have some idea of what her life might have been if Stanley had not been so fond of her, and so generous as to marry her, and take her away from what was likely to be her fate in such hands as those of her mother and peck, and keep her so quiet and comfortable, and give her every luxury who could afford, and bear with her temper, her ignorance, and her stupidity, for in a vague way she knew that she had these faults. Was there ever a wish of hers that he could grant that he had refused? Even this unlucky stay in Melbourne had been at her own earnest request, and it had turned out so miserably just because he was away. Never had she loved her husband so much as at this time when she had been displeasing him so grievously, how she had longed for courage to drive away the invader, and now, though humbled before Mr. Brandon, she was grateful to him when she thought that he could stay with her till her husband came, and that, so protected, her mother could not again visit her. No doubt Phillips will forgive you, readily, when you tell him the truth, and I forgive you too under the very distressing circumstances in which Mrs. Peck placed you, though I did feel very indignant at your allowing the girl whom I love, and whom I mean to marry, to go to Melbourne with such a person, said Brandon. You mean to marry Alice, said Mrs. Phillips. Yes, and she is consented to have me. Well, she is a good girl, said Mrs. Phillips, and I am sure I wish you happy with her. I know you will get on better with her than with Harriet, for she has always so much taken up with herself, and never thinks about other people. The way she treated me when I was left here with her was shameful, but I will not tell Stanley about it if I can help it, for I have got enough to vex them about without grumbling at his sister that he thinks so much of. But I like both of the Melvils, and they were both very good to my poor little baby as died in scarlet fever, you know. We'll never get a husband for Miss Melvile, for the gentlemen are all frightened of her, but it is just as well for she has a capital governess, Stanley says, and the children like her, but they like Alice best. And Miss Phillips and Dr. Grant appear to be making it up as fast as possible, said Brandon, if I may judge from what I saw and heard at Weary Wilta. I am sure, Mr. Brandon, you never saw such goings on all the time he was in town. They were together continually, and when he left Melbourne, she said she would like to go up the country, too. I really don't think Stanley would have liked it. Perhaps they are engaged, suggested Brandon. Perhaps they were, but I think Harriet would have told me that, for she'd have been so proud of it, and I really think it was my dues to hear the first thing besides. I have told you the first thing, said Brandon. I have not been more than half an hour accepted. Well, I am glad you have told me. I will miss Alice dreadfully, though. I suppose it will be soon, said Mrs. Phillips. As soon as I can persuade her to take me for better or worse, said Brandon. Oh, she won't need much persuading. Such a good marriage for her as it is, said Mrs. Phillips, who fancied she knew something of human nature. Emily will want to be bridesmaid. She is so fond of both Alice and you. Of course she will wish it, and of course she will have her own way, as usual. But with regard to Mrs. Peck, will you or shall I tell Alice the relations between you and her? I should like you to be justified to her. Oh, I'll tell her. I must wish her joy, and then I will tell her. And Mr. Brandon, will you be good enough to stay in the house as much as you can till Stanley comes down from Rewilta? And then you will be able to send Mrs. Peck away, for I am too frightened of her to do it myself. I'll go and speak to Alice now. Do, and send her in to speak to me, for I've got some business of hers that I must attend to, and I must have some directions from her. Business, said Mrs. Phillips incredulously. I dare say you've got plenty to say to her, but I don't think as it's business. At the side of Alice Mrs. Phillips' tears burst forth afresh, and for the second time in her life, the very first was on the occasion of Ava's death, when she had felt Alice so very kind, she threw her arms around one of her own sex for sympathy and consolation. My dear Alice, forgive me. I could not help it. I was so frightened. You must not tell anybody, even your sister, about it. But that woman is my own mother, and I could not get her to go away. I did not like your being so much with her, but I could not help it, for she would do it. Do forgive me." "'Certainly. I forgive you from my heart,' said Elsie." "'And Mr. Brandon has told me all about you and him, and I really wish you joy. You are going to have a good husband. Not so good a one as mine, but still a very good one.' "'Thank you, Mrs. Phillips. I hope to be able to make him happy. At least I will try my very best to do so,' said Elsie. "'And you must make allowances for me, for you can see now how I was brought up. I know I have been very often cross with you, but you must forgive all these old things. And I suppose it had better be before we leave Melbourne. We must write for Emily to come down, for she will want to be bridesmaid, and Mr. Brandon says she shall, and we must set to get your things all in a hurry. There's time enough to talk of all these matters,' said Elsie. "'I have scarcely begun to believe that I'm engaged yet.' "'Oh, but Mr. Brandon wants to speak to you on business, and what other business can there be. So go into the drawing-room, and he will perhaps show you that there is some need to think of these things.' "'But Mr. Brandon did not bewilder Elsie with asking her to fix any time, though he was determined to be married before going out of town, if possible. But he had to get from her extracts from her uncle's will, which she recollected nearly word for word, and instructions as to how to proceed with Mrs. Peck. Also, as much as she knew of Mr. Hogarth's letters to Madame de Veracourt, to show the relations between him and Elizabeth Ormestown, so far as she knew of them. There was also a good deal of other talk to go through on subjects personal to themselves, which they both thought exceedingly interesting, and Brandon would not believe till he looked down at his watch that he had kept Mrs. Phillips out of her own drawing-room for two hours." CHAPTER IX Mrs. Peck was surprised and a little disconcerted when, on the evening of the day on which she had so nearly confided her secret to Elsie, Mr. Brandon walked into her lodgings unannounced, but she concealed her chagrin with her usual duplicity. Though she was desirous of further communication with Elsie, she preferred it to be with herself, and not through a person who had spoken so uncivially to her. "'You did not think it was worthwhile for me to give Miss Melville in you my address, but I see that you are making use of it without delay,' said she. "'Yes, I am, for I want to know if I cannot transact the business which I interrupted,' said Brandon. "'You? No, certainly not. I only deal with principles. Miss Alice Melville empowers me to act for her in this manner, and this letter from her to me should satisfy you of that. It will not do for a girl to treat personally with a woman who compromises her by her company.' "'Oh, is that it?' said Mrs. Peck, who disliked the exchange of a simple young girl for a man of the world and the bargains she wished to make. "'Well, if I must deal with you, what do you offer?' "'If you can give the inheritance of Cross Hall to Jane and Alice Melville, a thousand pounds,' said Brandon. "'Say two thousand,' said Mrs. Peck. "'I will not take less than that. Are you a sweetheart of that girl's or of her sister's? If you are, you can easily see that Cross Hall is worth far more than that.' "'I do not think you can give information that will be worth the money I offer,' said Brandon. "'Even supposing you were married before your irregular marriage with Mr. Hogarth, you will have difficulty in proving that marriage, and after so many years spent in New South Wales and Victoria under another name, it will be almost impossible to prove your identity.' "'I can prove that,' said Mrs. Peck, taking out of her black bag several letters of old date, generally with remittances, signed H. Hogarth. There had been an annuity paid regularly after she had gone to Australia, but the last payment had been of a large sum, fifteen hundred pounds, which she had accepted in lieu of all future annual remittances, and that had been sent more than thirteen years before. I was a fool and an idiot to take the money, for it went as fast as my money always did, but Peck wanted to start in the public line and persuaded me to ask for that sum, and then in a year and a half it was all gone and I had no annuity to fall back on,' said Mrs. Peck. "'Were you married to Peck or to Mrs. Phillips's father?' asked Brandon. "'No, not exactly married. I kept out of bigamy. I always kept that hold on Cross Hall. I would not marry anyone right out, you know.' "'He might have had a divorce from you,' said Brandon. "'If he had known, perhaps he might, but nobody made it none of their business to tell him, and I said nothing about it.' "'It is rather difficult to tell when you are speaking the truth and when you are not,' said Brandon. "'But I believe that you really are Elizabeth Ormestown, and I believe also that Francis Hogarth is not the son of old Cross Hall, as you call him, but I fear you cannot prove it, and without that the information is of no use to us and worth no money. If I can prove it, how much is it worth? How much have you had already on the strength of it? You are first handsomely paid for the lie, and now you want to be bribed into telling the truth. I myself think one thousand pounds far too much, for if the case were taken to court there would be very heavy law expenses before possession could be obtained. I offer, on Miss Melville's behalf, a thousand whenever they get the property. Far too little. I'll not speak a word for the chance of a sum like that. I must have two thousand pounds. What is one thousand pounds? Why at your years it would buy you a very handsome annuity, or you could lend it out at interest and get ten percent for it, and have the principle to leave to any one you liked, or you might start in business with such a capital. Many handsome fortunes have been made in Melbourne on a smaller beginning, but if you think it insufficient I can go away. My clients are not so very anxious about the property as to a seed to such a demand as yours, and Francis Hogarth may be left in peaceable possession of the estate," said Brandon, coolly. He must not be left with it. I must not let him sit there in the place he ain't got no rights to, after the way he has served me," said Mrs. Peck. I believe it is more a piece of spite than anything else, said Brandon. Well, here is the agreement for the payment of a thousand pounds. Will you accept it or shall I go? You are too sharp for with me, a great deal too sharp on a poor old woman like me. But I'll take your offer in the meantime. Miss Melville said I was to trust her honour to pay me as much as it is worth, and if she finds out as it's worth more I'll expect she'll keep that saying of hers in mind and act accordingly. Mrs. Peck signed the paper, and Brandon signed it also, as agent for Jane and Alice Melville. Now, for your part of the bargain, Mrs. Peck, and stick to the truth if you can. I know that your imagination is apt to run away with you, but here it will be a disadvantage to have any flights of fancy," said Brandon. Mrs. Peck had, for more than a week, thought of nothing but this disclosure of her past life, and now that the opportunity had arrived she really enjoyed telling it as much as if it had been wholly fictitious. It was quite as romantic as any of her fabrications, and it was a subject on which her lips had been sealed for thirty-four years, except to give vent to some occasional illusions to Peck. It was interesting in itself, it was damaging to Francis, and it was likely to be lucrative to herself, in addition to the thousand pounds which their agent offered on their behalf. She had thought a good deal over the story she had to tell, and gave a more consecutive and consistent narrative than was usual with her, for she felt the importance of making it appear to be a perfectly true story. Well, said she, it's an old story and a queer one, but I do keep it in mind, and I will tell you the truth, for as you say, it is what will answer us both best. My name, as you know, was Elizabeth Ormestown, and I was born in the next county to Shire, where Cross Hall is. I have never seen Cross Hall myself, but I have heard of it. We had seen better days, for my father was a small shopkeeper, and my mother was a schoolmaster's daughter, but my father was the simple man, who is the beggar's brother, and he was caution or security, as they call it here, for a brother of his own, for two hundred pounds, and lost it, and then we all went downhill together. Mother was always very furious at him for his being such a fool, and even on his deathbed she never forgave him for bringing her down so low. She was very greedy of money, was mother, and never forgot any ills she had done her. We was living in the country very poor, for I could not bear to go to service among folk that knew about us, when I fell in with a young man as I liked better than most. But as he was poor as a rat, and only a working joiner, mother would have nothing to say to him, and she made up her mind to take me to Edinburgh, where she lived with a cousin, and I was to go to service. I had wanted to go before, but it was all mother's pride as kept me at home. I wanted to be well-dressed, as all girls do, and I liked to be seen and to be talked to. I had grown up handsome enough. You have seen Mrs. Phillips. She is the very moral of what I was, and I didn't like to be always wearing old things. And mother, she wanted Jamie Stevenson driven out of my head, so she made no objections to my going to a house where they took lodgers, mostly young men, in for the college. The work was hard, and the wages no great matter, but the chance was worth twice as much as the wages, for the lads was free-handed, particular if you would stand any daffing, as we called it then. Harry Hogarth was there the second winter I was in Edinburgh, and though he was not like to have cross-haul then, for he had two brothers older than him, he was just as free of his money as if he was a young lard. He had been in Paris before that, but his father had grumbled at his spending so much there, and said he must hold with Edinburgh for the future, and Harry was maybe trying to show the old man that as much might go an old Reiki as in France. He was said to be the cleverest of the family, and the old man was fond of him and proud of him too, but he was very hard to part with the gear. Harry was my favourite of all the lads in the house, for he had most fun about him and was the softest-hearted too. The old lord changed his mind in the middle of the winter. I mined well his coming to our place one day, and he gave me a very sour look when I opened the door, as if my cap and my clothes was too good for my station, and my looks too, maybe. But he said that Harry had better go to Paris, as his heart was set on it, and he gave Harry a sum of money that made him think his father was not long for this world, though he looked all right. So he behooved to have a spore, as they call it. He entertained all his friends to the hotel to supper, where they had a night of it, drinking and singing and laughing, to bid him farewell. When he came back it was grew daylight, and I was up to my work, and when he went past me he saw me crying, as he thought, for grief at the thought of his going away. And really I was sorry, for I liked him the best of the lot, but my greeting was more with the thought of his giving me something handsome at parting, than that he should take it up so serious. But he in his conceit thought I was breaking my heart for the love of him, and he tried to dry my tears. So instead of going away that day he stopped another week, and then he went to Paris. I said I would go with him, and he would refuse me nothing. So we went in separate ships, and met together in Paris, and I stopped with him at his lodgings, as is common enough in that queer town. And well I liked the place, and the sights, and the presents he gave me, and the clothes I had to put on, and he was good enough to me, though he laughed at me whiles, and many a day he called me greedy, but I got what I wanted out of him. Well, we had been three months in Paris when he got word that his eldest brother had broke his neck when he was hunting, and that his father had taken the news so sore to heart that he was ill and not like to recover, so Harry had to go home with all speed. I would not stop in France without him, so we both came back again, and Harry went to cross-hall and meet in my mothers. I was not over-willing to go to her, for I knew how angry she would be at me, but Harry said it was the best place for me in the meantime, and he promised to send me money so that I would be no burden. As I dreaded, my mother was terrible angry at me, but when I told her how soft Harry was, she thought he might be brought to marry me, and she said her heart on managing that by hook or by cook. Her contrivance was that I should pretend to be very ill, and send for him to bid me good-bye, and then she would manage the rest. So by her advice I took to my bed and coughed very bad, and she made my cheeks look deadly white and my lips too, and when Harry came he was shocked to see me. His father was dead by this time, as well as his eldest brother, so his heart was especially soft, and he looked sore and distressed at my being in such a bad way. Oh, Bessie, says he, what can I do for you? What can I get for you? Deed, it's not much that she wants now in this world. I'm thinking we'll lose her soon, said Mother. No, no, says Harry eagerly. Let me feel your pulse, Bessie, says he. Mother forgot about his being a doctor, and did not like his going about in such a skillful way. But I was roused and excited myself that my pulse was at a gallop. Quick but strong, says he, not the least like death. Cheer up, Bessie, said he, it's just a bad turn you've got, a chill, perhaps, but you'll very soon get over it. You ought to know that you're safe against fever at the present time. It's on her mind, said Mother. It's her mind as is so disturbed. She eats nothing and she sleeps none for coughing and takes such spasms at the heart. I know she'll never get better, and she thinks just the same. And for my part I'd rather have later head in the grave than let her live to be such a disgrace to us all. To think of such a thing happening to a daughter of mine and all through you. Well, Mrs. Ormestown, it is a pity, but it was quite as much her doing as mine, and maybe a little more, says he, looking at me with a half laugh, but I only sighed and groaned and would not speak to him. I'm sure, Bessie, when we were in Paris, says he, you did not take it much to heart, and I'll do what I can to make you comfortable. Don't mock us with talking about comfort, said Mother, sternly. If Bessie did not feel her sin and her shame when she was in that sink of iniquity with you, I trust I had been able to convince her of her position since she returned to me. Indeed, Harry, says I, morning, noon, and night Mother is preaching to me, and I really wish I was dead to have a little quiet. Tutt, Tutt, says he, if you were really ill you would not speak so briskly about dying. And he tried to soothe me down, but I kept very sulky. But yet, when he went away, he did not believe there was much to matter with me. We must make you really ill, says my Mother, when he was gone, so she got some stuff for me to take, and I swallowed it, and I really did think as I was dying. I never felt as bad before or since, and even Mother was frightened that she had made it too strong, but she sent for Harry and he was frightened too. She said that I had poisoned myself, and was going to die with the scorn of every one. Oh, if you would but acknowledge yourself or husband, it would be enough, quite enough, to let her die with her mind easy and her name cleared, says Mother to him. Harry had no notion I took things so serious, but he supposed that my Mother had driven me to desperation by her reproaches, so he said he would do as she wished, and Mother fetched violent Strahan, our cousin, and a woman called Wilson, from next door to be witnesses, and he said he was my husband, and I said I was his wife in their presence. Harry thought that was enough, but Mother wanted to make it sure still, for she wrote it out and we all signed it, and here it is. Then Mrs. Peck drew out this document from her bundle of papers. This is a marriage in Scotland. Without the paper it was a marriage, but Mother liked to see things in black and white. Harry never could get out of it, though he said afterwards that he did not know what he was about when he signed it. Of course, after Mother had carried her point I was allowed to get well, but slowly, for the stuff had really half poisoned me. Harry was in London with his brother when my boy Frank was born, but he came to me as soon as he could, and by ill luck it happened that the very day he came, my old sweetheart Jamie Stevenson was paying me a visit, and Harry heard something that was not meant for him, and off he set without seeing me or the child either. He sent me a letter saying I had cheated him first and last, and he would never look at me again. Then your boy was not Henry Hogarth's son, said Brandon eagerly, who thought he had got hold of the important part of the story. But this man, Stevenson's? You're quite out in your guesses, Mr. Brandon, for as clever as you think yourself it does not concern my story a bit. But I will say this, that my Frank was Harry's own son. Then were you married in this irregular way to Jamie Stevenson in the first place? said Brandon, who saw no prospect of proving the desired non-cousinship. No, I wasn't, but Jamie was doing better in the world then, and he was saying, thinking that I wasn't married, that for all that had come and gone, if the father would provide for the barn any way handsome, he'd marry me yet, and I did not see much good in being the wife of a gentleman that would always be ashamed of me, and never bringing me forward. Mother thought he would do that, but I knew the man better by this time. So I was telling Jamie that if I had only thought he'd have made me so good an offer I'd never have followed mother's counsel, but have taken him that I like twice as well as Harry, and may be it would have been better for me if Harry had not been so soft and mother so positive. This was what Harry Hogarth heard that angered him so terribly, and he said I had cheated him. He sent me money, but he vowed he would never look me in the face again. Well, when Frank was about fourteen months old Harry's other brother died. There was an awful mortality in the family at that time, three within two years, and then he came in for the property. Mother was in an awful passion at my having had anything to say to Jamie, and losing hold on my rich husband through my stupidity. But I was his wife, and must be provided for at any rate. So he wanted to make terms with me, and propose that I should go out of the country altogether, to Sydney, where he would give me a decent maintenance for myself and the child. Mother at first would not listen to this, and neither would I, but I wanted to go to law for my rights. But when he said he would expose everything about the marriage if we did, we gave in, and agreed to go to the ends of the earth to please him. And after we had made up our minds to it, we rather liked the notion of getting out of Scotland. He would not trust us going unless he saw us off, so he appointed to meet in London, where the ship was to sail from, and he would arrange all things for our going off quiet and comfortable, and then we was to part for ever. Mother and me and Frank went to London and took lodgings in a very crowded lodging-house, full of people just ready to sail for America or some other place, here to-day and away to-morrow, and there Frank fell ill. He had looked a strong enough child, but I think the stuff Mother gave me had hurt him, for he had every now and then bad convulsion fits. Being used to them we did not take much notice of them, but now, when it was of such moment to us that the child should be alive, and that his father should see him, then by ill luck, just an hour before the appointed time for our meeting, Frank took a worse fit than ever and died in my arms. I was very vexed indeed, and sorry, for I liked the little child, and he was a very pretty little fellow, but Mother was furious. It's a good hundred a year out of our pocket, said she. If he had only lived to get on board, we need never have told Cross Hall about his dying afterwards, and he looked the picture of health only yesterday. I wish someone would lend us a child. Maybe the woman in the next room will. He never saw it, and he'd not know the difference between one child and another. So Mother went into the next room. It was led to a woman with one child, and she was to sail for America the next day to join her husband, who had written for her. She seemed to be poor, and Mother had no doubt that for a pound or so she would lend us the child. But when she went into the room the Mother was out, and the child was lying on the bed asleep. Mother was very quick and clever. Our boy was so changed with the convulsions that I would never have known him again, and this boy was much the same size and age, and not very unlike him. So she slipped off the child's nightgown and put poor Frank's clothes on it, and dressed my dead child in the nightgown she took off, and put it on the bed. She would not give me time to cry, but got into a hackney-coach and rode off to where we were to meet Harry. She told me afterwards that she meant to take back the woman her child, if possible, but in case of not being able to do it, she got all our luggage which was ready packed into the hackney coach, and paid the woman of the house all we owed her. When I saw Harry again he looked changed, far graver and duller. I was full of sorrow about Frank, and I cried sore when I saw his father. But then he thought I only cried out of cunning to get something more out of him. Harry took the child in his arms and looked at it all over. Poor thing, says he, poor thing, and I saw a teardrop on that stranger's face. My own boy, his own boy, he had never touched, and never looked at. I was jealous and fierce at both of them, in my grief and my rage, but mother was pleased to see him so taken up with the child, for she thought it would be all the better for us. Well, says he, are you ready to go on board this afternoon? For the ship will get off to-night with the tide, and I will see you all right. Yes, says mother, we are all ready, but we want to know what allowance you are willing to make. You must take into consideration that we are banished, and have to leave everybody we know. What will you allow for Elizabeth, and what for little Frank? I think, said Harry, speaking slow, that I will arrange differently about the child. As he is my son, I think he would be better in other hands than yours. Will you leave the boy with me? I was just on the point of saying that it was none of mine nor of his neither, but mother saw her own interest in this, as she did in most things, and so says she, it's cruel to part Elizabeth from her child, very cruel. Will you, that has treated her so bad, be good to the boy? Do you mean to acknowledge him? Harry spoke slow again. I don't know if I will be good to him, but I will try. I will put him in as good hands as I can, educate him, and acknowledge him, if he deserves it, and I fear if you bring him up he is not likely to do so. It is for the child's own good, Bessie, said mother, eagerly. You must sacrifice your own feeling and leave him with his father, if he promises so fair. How are we like to get him educated, where we are going? It is very hard on you, Bessie, said mother, coaxingly. I stood sulky, not knowing what to do or what to say. And so Mr. Hogarth will no doubt consider the hardship of your case, and make it up in some other way to you. Mother went on to say. Harry looked at my mother very sharp, and then he looked at me. Though he did not believe in my tears, he did not like to see them, for they reminded him of how I had served him before. He is quite innocent now, poor boy, quite innocent, said Henry. We must keep him so if we can, and he offered as much to me for my life as we had expected him to give for me and the child, too, and it was so tempting that we closed with it at once, for it cost me nothing to part with a baby as was not my own. I had a mind to tell him, but then I knew how enraged he would have been at my trying it on with him. Another cheat would have driven him wild, so I bat him good-bye in the child, too. He took us on board, and we sailed that night, and I never saw him or the child again. He sent me money regular till I asked him for the fifteen hundred pounds, and signed a quittance for the annuity like a fool, as I told you. VIII. Mrs. Peck's Disappointment Brandon had listened to this strange story of Mrs. Peck's without interrupting her. After she had concluded, he thought for a minute, and then said, Did you ever hear if the mother of the child you still missed it? How should I hear? We sailed that day for Sydney, and we never heard nothing about it. What was her name? asked Brandon. I don't know at all, for certain. There were so many people in the house, and though she had been there three days, I had not asked nor had mother. But yet we must have heard it. I fancy it was Jackson, or Johnson, or Jones, or it might have been Brown, but it was a common name as there's no recollecting. When mother took the child first, she thought she'd never know the one from the other, but afterward she used to say that the mother might find out the difference. Both was much of a size, and my boy was much changed. But, said Brandon, there might be more or fewer teeth, or a difference in the color and length of the hair, or in the shape of the limbs, though the features and complexion might be changed by the convulsions. Your child was probably more emaciated than the other. A mother's eye might have seen differences that you and your hurried examination did not. Oh, the other appeared to be teething, too, but as you say, I think it is most likely she did see the difference, but being out of the country I heard nothing about it. When did this happen? asked Brandon. Thirty-four years ago and more we sailed from London dots for Sydney. Where did you lodge in London when this affair took place? At a lodging-house in Street, near the docks. I think the number was thirty-nine, but I am not quite sure. Can you tell me the name of the ship the mother of the present proprietor of Cross Hall went to America in? asked Brandon. No, but we sailed, as I told you, on the fourteenth May, eighteen in the Lysander, and the other ship was to sail for New York on the next day. Are you sure this woman was going to America? Yes, for the landlady told us so, and I could see when we was in her room that she was making preparations for a voyage. I think there's no doubt of that. Was there no mark on the child's clothes? no name on the boxes you must have seen when you were exchanging the two children? asked Brandon. Not as I recollect of, nor mother either, for we have sometimes talked over it and wondered about it. Our time was so short that we took no notice of such things. And how did you two precious colonists like Sydney? asked Brandon. Oh, well enough. We held our heads high there, for we was free people, you know. Though you had both done what you deserved hanging for, said Brandon, under his breath. Where did Phillips meet with you and your daughter? For I suppose Mrs. Phillips is your daughter, though your first experiment in child-stealing had been so successful it might have tempted you to another of the same kind. Oh, Betsy is my daughter, and an ungrateful one she is. We met with Phillips in Melbourne, just when we came first to Port Phillip. Peck had run through the fifteen hundred pounds that we got from Cross Hall, and we was hard up and obliged to leave Sydney under a cloud. But Peck, he said, such a handsome face as she should be a fortune to us. It's been a fortune to herself, but as for me she never thinks of me. And there's Frank, when I wrote to him after I had read in an old newspaper at the diggings that he had come into the estate, and I asked him for a little help, he never condescended to send me an answer or to take the least notice of me that has done so much for him. If it had not been for me, where would he have been now? His mother was a poor woman. If he'd seen the poor old nightgown I took off of him. And there he has been educated like a gentleman, and getting Cross Hall, and being a member of Parliament too, and never to take trouble to write me a line or send me a penny. I said I'd be revenged on him, and so I shall. Well, Mrs. Peck, said Brandon, I will just write down the particulars of this curious story, and you will sign it if you think I have put them down correctly. So with clearness and brevity Brandon sketched the facts, if facts they were, which Mrs. Peck had narrated, and then he read what he had written. I don't see as there's any call to put in about how I got Henry Hogarth to marry me. That has nothing to do with the case in hand, said Mrs. Peck. I think, said Brandon, that if the young man is to lose the property through this confession he has a right to know what sort of mother he loses with it. I think you had better sign this as it stands. I have signed something for you, and you must do the same for me. Mrs. Peck signed her name rather reluctantly as Elizabeth Hogarth, known as Elizabeth Peck, and was proceeding to give some account of her relations with Peck, of rather a romantic character. Perhaps after so long a stretch of trying to tell the truth she needed some relief to her imagination, but Brandon soon stopped these revelations and sent her thoughts in quite another channel. Now, said he, I believe this to be a true statement, a perfectly true statement, but it is of no use whatever to be used against Mr. Hogarth. The property was left to him by Will as distinctly as possible. By Will, said Mrs. Peck, looking aghast, my newspaper said he was the heir-at-law, but it would never have been left to him if Harry had not thought Frank was his son. It was left to Francis Ormestown, otherwise Hogarth, for fifteen years clerk in the Bank of Scotland, said Brandon, reading from Elsie's memorandum. But he is neither Ormestown nor Hogarth, nor Francis neither, said Mrs. Peck triumphantly. He can claim nothing. Francis Ormestown or Hogarth is dead. Dead thirty-four years ago, this man has no name that anyone knows. I will swear that the child Harry Hogarth took out of my arms was neither his child nor mine, and that he had no right to inherit Cross Hall. The nieces must have it. They were his nearest relations. None of his brothers left no children, and the Melville should get the estate, and I should get my thousand pounds. I wish your oath was worth more, said Brandon regretfully. I wish you could prove what you state is a fact, but all you have told me is absolutely worthless in a court of law. You say you told a parcel of lies to one whom you should have kept faith with, for a pecuniary advantage, and now you want to contradict them in hopes of getting a thousand pounds from the Mrs. Melville, and in order to revenge yourself on the boy whom you so cruelly injured. I am sorry to say nobody would believe a word of this story except myself, and I do. But could you not look up in old newspapers to see if there was any stir made at the time about a changed child, said Mrs. Peck, trembling with excitement and disappointment? She had been so long accustomed to look on this secret as capital to herself, her mother, and Peck, and herself had always thought that in case of Mr. Hogarth's death a good deal might be got out of the air, and she had not parted with the certificate of her marriage, or of her child's baptismal register, in case he had left no will, and the air at law had to be found. She had sent copies of these documents very admirably executed by a Sydney friend who had been sent across the ocean for a similar instances of skill to Mr. Hogarth, so that he did not think she had any proof to bring forward to support her claims to be Francis's mother, but it was only recently that she thought of making more favourable terms with regard to her other secret, with the disinherited nieces than with the ungrateful air, and their coming so near just when she was exasperated at Francis's neglect had made her overlook the want to prove. She had now fatally injured herself with Francis, with a very faint chance of success with the Melvilles. She therefore repeated nervously, look over the old newspapers, the mother must have known the difference, there must have been some inquiry about it that would prove my statement, which is all true every word of it, as I hope for salvation. Yes, that might be of some use, that might be seen to, said Brandon doubtfully. Our data are meager enough, your mother is dead, I suppose, and she is the only person besides yourself who knew of the crime you both committed. She is dead and gone a dozen years ago, and it was her as committed the crime, as you call it, and not me. I won't answer for it to nobody. Well, we must make inquiry in the house, though I fear that it is hopeless, and in the newspapers. If you had had the sense to have got the mother's name, we might advertise in America, but I suppose you thought then that the less you knew about it the better, though you cannot expect the thousand pounds. But you promised it, said Mrs. Peck. I'll say nothing more unless I can get something first. You have basely deceived me. I never heard of a more scoundrely action than getting me to tell you all that old story, and put myself into such a wrong box on the pretense that I was going to get a thousand pounds, and now you say what you signed is a waste paper. I'll get my own statement from you back again before you leave this. And Mrs. Peck, with eyes of fury, planted herself at the back of the door. The next thing you'll do will be go and give information, I fancy. Be cool, Mrs. Peck, I do not mean to injure you. As I said, though there is no chance of our depriving Mr. Hogarth of property left to him so clearly as this, I think I may take it upon me to say, as his friend— His friend, interrupted Mrs. Peck, oh, how you have deceived me! And you call yourself a gentleman, I suppose, and serve an old woman like that. Yes, as his friend, said Brandon, firmly, I think I may say that he would be disposed to reward you if you can prove that you are not his mother. I do not hesitate to say that he would give you five hundred pounds for such information as would hold in a court of law that he is not your son. Mrs. Peck brightened up a little at this offer, though she could scarcely imagine any valid reason for it. I think I could prove that—I really think I could prove that. There was my cousin that we lived with in Edinburgh, Violet Stratchen, one of the witnesses to my marriage. She saw a great deal of my child, for till we went to London we lived in her house, and Frank was born there. She knew that he took convulsion fits very badly, and that he had a brown mole on his shoulder that this boy cannot have. I don't know of any other birthmarks, said Mrs. Peck. And this woman lived in Edinburgh. Do you think she is alive? Was she older or younger than you? Older by ten years, said Mrs. Peck, feeling the ground give way under her. I hope she is not dead. She lived in Number Fifty-Seven, New Street, leading down to the Canon Gate, up three pairs of stairs. Her husband was a sadler, and she kept lodgers. His name was George. He would recollect something about Frank. Peck could swear that I have told him over and over that my boy was dead, and that the boy cross-haul brought up was none of mine. But Peck's word is worth nothing, said Brandon. Betsey could say something of the kind. I am sure she must have heard his hint at it often, but she is not sharp. Perhaps she did not notice. Does no one else know anything about it? said Brandon in despair. No one. But surely I ain't got no cause to take such blame on myself if it was not true. said Mrs. Peck, sulkily. You unfortunately had a motive, two strong motives. A death-bed confession, for no hope of gain or revenge, might have carried weight, but this carries none. The only accomplice of your crime is dead. The mother from whom you stole the child is probably dead also, and at any rate gone out of England. You do not even know her name, or the name of the ship she sailed in. The witness who you think could prove the non-identity of the present possessor of cross-haul is most likely dead also, and if alive must be an old woman who has probably forgotten the trifling circumstance of the existence of a mole on a child after thirty-five years and more, and people outgrow these peculiarities. You have not the ghost of a case for the Melvils. Hogarth might give you something for the chance that you are speaking truth, to get rid of your claims for ever, and the satisfaction of feeling that you are nothing to him. That's what I ought to have done. Peck always said I was too hasty, and his words has come true, said Mrs. Peck. I might have got something handsome out of the air, but for your interference I might have got something out of the Melvils. Nonsense, said Brandon, they have nothing to give unless you gave the property to them, and you cannot do that. I'm glad you're to get nothing with your sweetheart, said Mrs. Peck, maliciously. My daughter's maid, I suppose, is the person. Half of cross-haul would have been a good fortune, but you're not to get it. You must not come to Mrs. Phillips's again. I am going to stay in the house till her husband returns, and we'll protect her from you, said Brandon. Protect her from her own mother, said Mrs. Peck. Let them hold their heads as high as they like. They can't get out of that. I am her mother, and if I like I will publish it. Her father was a gentleman. I was in clover when I lived with him, but he married, and then he died and left no provision for us, and then I fell in love with Peck, and have stuck with him ever since. He is an Adelaide now, where I wish I had stopped with him with all my heart. Do you think, as Phillips would overlook this if I went back quiet, and keep sending me the poor little allowance as I need to keep soul and body together, for I'm an old woman now and past working? I do not know. I will speak with him on the subject, and will probably see you again in a few days. If you think of any collateral evidence in the meantime, it will be as well that you tell me. In the meantime, I must go to communicate to Miss Melville what you have told me. Elsie was sadly disappointed at the doubtful nature of the evidence which Mrs. Peck had to give. She had had such brilliant visions of the happiness which Jane and Francis might have together if it could only be proved that they were not cousins, and she could not help seeing with Brandon that the chance of establishing it was very small. Brandon told Mrs. Phillips the reason why Mrs. Peck had so assiduously courted Elsie, and then asked if she could recollect anything which she had heard from her mother, her grandmother, or Peck, which would corroborate these unsupported statements. I cannot say anything. I will not say a word till Stanley comes home, and then I will tell him. He would not like my mixing myself up with her in any way while he was gone, and I never will keep anything from him, said Mrs. Phillips. You're quite right, said Brandon, who nevertheless was rather impatient for any information she might give, and thought it might be valuable from her hesitation about the matter. He had not long to wait, however, for Mr. Phillips came down on the following day, and heard all his wife had to say, and all Brandon had to say. You know, Brandon, that it would be horrible to me to have my wife's name brought into a court of justice as the daughter of that woman. Cognizant, even in a very vague way of such a serious crime, said Mr. Phillips. And what purpose can it serve? You can neither enrich Jane or Alice Melville by proving that the crime was committed. Mr. Hogarth is as worthy a successor as the old man could have found, and neither of the Melvils grudge him as good fortune. Alice will be as comfortable as you can make her, and I wish you both joy from all my heart, and I believe you will be happy. Miss Melville will be as comfortable and happy as we can make her till she chooses a home for herself. Why wish to rake up old stories for no good whatever? I dare say the story is true. I said to Hogarth when he and Miss Melville consulted me about the first letter she wrote, that for the very reason she claimed to be his mother I believed she was not. I advised him not to write to her or send her money, and requested Miss Melville never to mention her name. Out of consideration for you then he did not answer her letter, and this has been the result of it. But we have no wish to deprive him of his property, and the only end we aim at is to prove that he is not Miss Melville's cousin. Alice tells me they love each other, but the marriage is forbidden by the will, unless at the sacrifice of the property, which in that case goes to some benevolent societies. Ah! said Phillips thoughtfully. In that case, if I thought Miss Phillips' evidence could establish it, I would perhaps be right to give it. But it cannot. I see it cannot. Mere vague hints, half recollected, now that the subject has been brought prominently forward, though they may convince you and me, could not stand before a court of law. I think when you hear what Miss Phillips has to say you will confess that it would be wrong to put her and me to such distress, or so little good. I am sure Miss Melville would be the first to dissuade you from such a course. It is for the sake of our children that I am so anxious to conceal the connection. I can trust to you and to Alice. I hope, never to mention it. Brandon felt the justice of Mr. Phillips' reasoning, and yet was very sorry that he could not gratify his promised wife by anything satisfactory in the way of collateral evidence. Now Elsie, said Brandon, who now took the privilege of love and called her by her pet name. What do you mean to do with this information? I think it quite useless for the end you wish to gain. Is it worthwhile to disturb Hogarth's mind, to lead him to make fruitless inquiries, to wear himself out in attempting to prove what I fear cannot be proved, to make him feel that he has robbed you with even less semblance of justice than before? Can you not leave him to his own life, which will be a useful and distinguished one? Let us keep this vexatious confession, at least till you consult Jane. No, no. I think as we have done everything without consulting Jane, we will make up our minds on this matter, too, for ourselves. I know Jane will say with you that we should not communicate the news to Francis. For anything that appears to sacrifice herself and to save other people is what she thinks she ought to do. I don't think she can be very fond of Hogarth, after all. But she is, said Elsie, in her own quiet, deep way. She could give her own life for his, but she could not feel that she was worth the sacrifice he offered to make. I feel I could throw up everything for you, Elsie, said Brandon. But I should not like to see you do it, so I am very glad you have not got to do it. Poor Francis! Well, I suppose he will marry someone else, and she will do the same, and they will always be excellent friends, said Brandon. But then the wrong is to the somebody else, said Elsie. It seems quite wicked to think of such a thing. Can they not keep single for a purpose, as Peggy Walker did? Francis may immerse himself in politics to his heart's content, and Jane, she will be very happy in my happiness. You must love her. You must not be jealous of her. She has been everything in the world to me. My sister, my mother, my friend. And if she cannot have a home of her own, let her always be welcome to ours. Always, said Brandon, we must try to do our best to make up for what we cannot give to her. But you say that Jane would be disposed to keep back this? Yes, but I will send it, and write to him besides. If I were in his circumstances I should think I had a right to know. I would rather hear the truth so far as it can be ascertained about my parentage than have it concealed for fear of hurting my feelings. He may act upon the information as he sees fit, so I will send him a certified copy of this confession and write him a few lines besides. I want to tell him how happy I am. He was a friend to us in our sorrows, and he ought to know when any prosperity or pleasure or happiness comes to either of us. I must tell him I can confide in you now. That is a very pleasant piece of news, I am sure, said Brandon. Jane will write to him from where he will to, but she cannot know of our engagement till too late for the mail. I think Jane formed a very shrewd gassest to my intentions, and if she writes fully to Hogarth will mention them. But, by the by, you must write a few lines to my mother. She will be delighted to hear this good news, and as for Fanny, the idea that there will be some one at Barragong to take a motherly care of Edgar, and make him change his clothes when he gets wet, and see that he wears flannel in winter will be very soothing to her maternal anxiety. End of Volume 3, Chapter 11 of Mr. Hogarth's Will. Francis Hogarth had devoted himself to public life even more assiduously after the departure of Jane than before, and had made himself more prominent in Parliament as practice strengthened his powers of debate and study increased his stock of information. He was invaluable on a committee to those who really wanted to elicit the truth, while those who had anything to conceal dreaded his searching questions and careful weighing of conflicting testimony. His own peculiar crotchet, the reconstruction of electoral districts so as to secure the rights of minorities, to increase the purity and diminish the expense and the bitterness of elections in the meantime, and to pave the way for the elevation of the masses by the gradual extension of the suffrage, by securing that the new voters should not have all political power in their hands, was one that, of course, found little sympathy within the walls of Parliament. There never has yet been, says Mr. J. S. Mill, among political men in England any real serious attempt to prevent bribery, because there has been no real desire that elections should not be costly. Their costliness is an advantage to those who can afford the expense by excluding a multitude of competitors, and anything, however noxious, is cherished as having a conservative tendency if it limits the access to Parliament to rich men. This is a rooted feeling among our legislators of both parties, and is about the only point on which I believe them to be really ill-intentioned. They care comparatively little who votes, as long as they feel assured that none but persons of their own class can be voted for. They know that they can rely on the fellow feeling of one of their own class with another, while the subservience of new-own-reaches, who knocking at the door of the class, is a still-surer reliance, and that nothing very democratic need be apprehended under the most democratic suffrage, as long as democratic persons can be prevented from being elected to Parliament. But outside of the walls of the House of Commons, Francis had found many who agreed with him as to the necessity for some great change. All accounts from America, and even those from Australia, proved that the wide extension of the suffrage without some precaution to secure the minorities from extinction tended to political degeneration, even in counties where there was great material prosperity, abundance of land, considerable advantages of education, and greater equality of condition than Britain. The march of affairs was all steadily towards more democratic institutions, and Francis was not deceived by temporary and partial reactions. The extension of the suffrage must come, and England ought to be prepared to meet it. He was willing to take advantage of every suggestion and every discovery that might be made, and went a scheme more comprehensive than that of Sir Roland Hill, for our first Adelaide Corporation, and incomparably better than Lord John Russell's, was first launched into the world, amid many sneers that it was utopian, crotchety, and un-English. He adopted it with an enthusiasm which he knew Jane Melville would approve of. The criticism and the ridicule only strengthened his conviction of the feasibility of the scheme, and his hopes of its success. Jane was sure to be proud if he could be the means of bringing about so great a reform. They had often talked on the subject, but had never been able to devise anything comparable to this. Mr. Sinclair, with whom the matter had been gone over most carefully, was quite as enthusiastic about it as the discoverer himself, and Francis wished more than ever that the entrance to Parliament was less expensive and less difficult, so that he might have so good a co-ajuter. Old Thomas Lowry was dead, and Peggy and her young folks were all full of preparation for the outward voyage to Australia. Tom hoped to serve out his time to as great advantage in Melbourne as in Edinburgh, and he really was as clever and as skillful as if he had been seven instead of less than two years at the engineering. Francis had visited much at Miss Thompson's and had seen a great deal of Mary Forrester, but not with the result that Jane had anticipated, and now, before she had made any impression on him beyond the conviction that she was an exceedingly amiable girl, the plans of the whole family were changed, and they too were going to Australia. As Mary had said, they had cost Aunt Margaret a great deal of money first and last. Mr. Forrester had been indolent, and perhaps unlucky. Mrs. Forrester had been occupied with the cares of a very large family, and had not the force of character of her single sister. Her eldest son had gone to Australia some time before, and though he had not made a fortune, he had done pretty well, and he was perhaps ashamed that so much had been done for his family by his aunt and so little by himself. So he wrote, advising them to come out to Melbourne, at least all but John, who was now of service to Miss Thompson, and James, if he thought his business worth staying for. If Margaret and Mary were inclined to take situations as governesses, he had no doubt they could obtain them. Robert and Henry could work for themselves, and with his help could assist their parents to better advantage than in Scotland. The family council met on this proposal, and it was ultimately acceded to, and the family were busy with their preparations to go in the same ship as Peggy in the Lowries. It seemed to Francis as if everybody was going to Australia. He had dined out one day, and had brushed against some of the greatest men of the age, and felt himself brightened by the collision. He sat beside the most benevolent, the most enlightened, and the most sober-minded of political economists, on the one hand, on the other by the most brilliant of French conversationalists. He, Francis Hogarth, the obscure bank clerk, who had had no name, no position, and he used to think, no ability, was admitted on equal footing with such men as these. He had not felt so much on the occasion of his dining with the Earl, and meeting with people there of title and political influence. After an evening passed in conversation on the subjects which especially interested him, Francis returned to his club. He sat down before going to bed with his cigar, and took up his letters. An Australian male was in, and a letter from Jane and from Elsie. Janes was first taken up in red. It described her life at Wury Wilta, the house, and the scenery, so far as she could do it justice. Miss Phillips's relations with Dr. Grant, and Jane's hopes that Brandon and Elsie would come to an understanding, for his manner had been very much like that of a man in love. How cautious, how affectionate were her expressions to himself, how she seemed to live in others, and to care for the happiness of everyone in the world, while regardless of her own and of his. Ah, Jane! he said, half-allowed. How different it would be to come home after such an evening as this, to you, and see your dear eyes brighten at the recital of all I've seen and all I've heard! To hear your beloved voice inspiring me to more exertion and more patience. After sitting through so many party debates, so much transparent self-seeking, and so much ungenerous opposition, as I cannot help seeing in Parliament. How refreshing to see, among such men as I have met to-day, the pure, genuine public spirit which Jane first showed me the example of in the midst of her hardest trials. This reform does not bring personal advantage to one of these people, and yet they are as enthusiastic about it as if their lives depended on it. It may bring fame, but as Mr. says, the laurels will be late, and we will have lost the care for them by the time they fall on our heads. The pleasure is in the work, the disinterested work itself, as Jane used to say. There is one half the globe between us. I cannot fancy that she is sitting over the fire thinking of me at this moment. It is morning with her, and she is up and busy. But in my business and in my pleasure, or my trouble, she is always in the background, if not in the foreground of my thoughts. But then she does not love me as I love her. And a long fit of silent musing, with the letter in his hand, followed these half-spoken regrets. But I must read Elsie's letter, too. It appears to be long, and the first she has written me, later in date than Jane's, which is posted in the country, and I suppose, asking for congratulations. Well, she shall have them. As he opened the envelope, he saw the curious legal-looking document enclosed, containing the certified copy of Mrs. Peck's confession. His curiosity was strongly aroused. He read it through first with surprise and agitation. Elsie's own letter was not long. It ran as follows. My dear Frances, I enclose you this, because I think you ought to know that Mrs. Peck is not your mother. I think you must have had good parents, though you may never be able to find them out. You are still as much entitled across Hall, and all that my uncle left you, for you know it was given to you because you deserved it, and I am sure he could have found no worthier heir. I had hoped very much that the evidence would have been sufficient to prove that you are not Jane's cousin, because you might then have done as you pleased without losing the property, and the position and the opportunities you make such good use of. But I fear, and Mr. Brandon fears, that it cannot be conclusively proved. We have sent you all the information we can get from Mrs. Peck. You will observe a few additional memoranda at the end of the confession. I am quite convinced that what she says is true, for I have often remarked that you were not at all like my uncle or any of his family, and you are still more unlike Mrs. Peck. Once your own judgment about making inquiries, I know that you will do rightly and well. You will be very glad to hear that I am engaged to Mr. Brandon, who has taken all the trouble about this affair, and I think elicited all that Mrs. Peck knows. It is most unfortunate that she is so little to be believed, and that she wanted to get money for her information, as well as revenge on you for not answering her letter or letters. I believe I am going to be very happy, and I only wish I could make everybody as happy as myself. Give my love to Peggy when you see her, and say that I should have liked to have been married from her house rather than from any other, but I do not think Mr. Brandon will let me wait so long. Jane will be writing to you all the very will to news, and about Miss Phillips and Dr. Grant. Mrs. Phillips has been very kind to me, kinder than ever she was before, and as for Mr. Phillips you know how good he has always been to both Jane and myself. We both like Australia, even more than we expected, and I am going to try to make a good Bush wife to one who loves me very much. He desires me to send his kindest regards to you, and believe me, always, your very affectionate friend, Elsie Melville. Well, said Francis, here is one person who cares about my happiness. If I cannot prove that Jane is not my cousin, I can at least give up the property, which never would have been left to me unless Henry Hogarth had believed me to be his son. Jane must love me, her sister must know it, or she would never have written to me thus. I will have her after a time. If I can combine the public duty and the career I have entered on with happiness so much the better, if not, farewell ambition, she cannot blame me for such a course. Henry Hogarth wronged his nieces to enrich me, supposing me to be his son. He must have supposed it, or he would not have forbidden our marriage on account of the cousinship. If I can restore it to Jane by marriage, well and good, but otherwise I cannot keep it. Tomorrow for inquiries. First a file of the Times for eighteen. The police reports, the coroner's inquests, the passenger list of the Sydney ship, and of the American ship, inquiries at the lodging-house near the wharf, then to Edinburgh to inquire at the house in New Street, and to consult with McFarlane and Sinclair. I surely can work through it. At least I will try. End of volume three, chapter eleven.