 Chapter 6 This shall be an exceedingly short chapter merely destined to wind up that preliminary matter, with which it was absolutely necessary for the reader to be made acquainted before perusing the real business of the tale. Another long lapse of nearly ten years must intervene before we take up any of the characters afresh, and the reader will soon see how the preceding events connect themselves with those that follow. The characters, indeed, were sadly diminished in number between the time at which the story opens, and that to which I have now to proceed. Of the four children of the elder Mr. Scriven, only two survived—Lady Fleetwood and Mr. Scriven. Lady Moncton survived her husband just ten years, and then died very suddenly, leaving her daughter Maria the heiress of great wealth at the age of about twenty. She was indeed a few months more when her mother was taken from her, and Mr. Scriven's guardianship had not long to run, a fact with which that gentleman was not well pleased, for besides the authority which the guardianship conferred, and all men like authority, the whole of the fortune which his sister Isabella had received and the accumulated surplus of the rents of Sir Edward Moncton's estates, making together a very large sum, remained in his hands, and he found them exceedingly convenient, nay, more, somewhat lucrative. He clearly accounted for the interest upon every penny at a moderate rate, but he did not think it at all necessary to state to Maria, or to calculate in any way, except for his own private satisfaction, and I do not know that he even did that, or that he gained by turning and returning the funds of hers at his disposal. That went under the general head of profits of business. I am not aware whether this would be considered right, fair and honourable in the mercantile world or not. There is a good deal to be said on both sides of the question, but certainly while he allowed, as I have stated, interest upon every penny that he received, at the exact rate which that penny would have produced if invested in the public funds, on the day that he received it, he made sometimes twice, sometimes three times that amount by the use of the money. Maria, however, knew nothing about this. When she did come of age, she passed the accounts as a matter of course, and begged her uncle to continue to manage her affairs for her as he had been accustomed to do. And when this source of anxiety had gone by, Mr. Scriven had another. Maria inherited all her mother's beauty. She was a gay, gentle girl, with a natural cheerfulness of character generally predominating over and subduing occasional clouds of melancholy, which might well be produced by the early death of parents deeply beloved. Lovely, wealthy, graceful, engaging, with a heart full of warm affections and a kindest disposition, it was more than probable that she would marry early, indeed only wonderful that she had not already married. Then again she chose to reside during a great part of the year with her aunt, Lady Fleetwood. In London her aunt's house was the only proper place for her, but still it made Mr. Scriven somewhat uneasy, for Lady Fleetwood was the kindest and best-intentioned woman in the world, and though by no means what is called a matchmaker, she had a very strong conviction, which her own experience had not shaken in the least, that marriage was the only state in which a woman could be really happy. On this point Mr. Scriven differed with her entirely, and it was not at all pleasant to him to know that she was continually dinning her own system into Maria's ears. However, there was no help for it, and his only consolation was that his niece was fond of going down alone, from time to time, to Bolton Park, which was kept up exactly in the same state as at Lady Moncton's death. It was generally, too, at the time when London was fullest engaged, that Maria chose to make her retreat, and at Bolton she saw no one but her neighbour, Lady Anne Mellon, the similarity of whose situation to her own drew closer the bonds of early affection, though their characters were very different. It may be said in passing that Lady Anne had been longer an orphan at this time than Maria, for Lord Milford had not survived the death of his father many years, and Lady Milford had died the Christmas before her husband. Lady Anne, gay, lively and decided in character, had been left to the guardianship of mere men of business, and soon set a defiance that tramples they endeavoured to impose upon her. At eighteen she was as much mistress of her own house as if she had been eight and forty, and although her old governess continued to live with her at the earnest request, rather than the positive command of her guardians, yet the very idea of governing anything never seemed to enter the good lady's head. Yet whether in resistance or compliance, in the display of her independence, or the exercise of her strong good sense, there was so much good humour and even fun in Lady Anne Mellon's manner that neither guardians nor relations could be angry. There was one indeed of the former, an old gentleman with a pigtail and powdered pole, who would sit and laugh at her till the tears ran over his cheeks, ever and anon putting on a grey face and proposing something to which he knew she would never consent, merely to excite her resistance and always beginning, now my dear young lady, you really ought, etc. But whether serious or ingest, Lady Anne always had her own way, and her guardians often came to the conclusion that her own way was generally the right one. There was an old maiden aunt of her mother's, the only near-female relative she had, whom one of her father's executors thought fit to propose as a suitable person to live with her and keep up her establishment. But Lady Anne at once replied, indeed she shall not, in the first place all the wine in the cellar would be turned sour in a fortnight. In the next place she would spoil all my prospects of establishing myself a life, as she herself calls it, for by her own account she is a most dangerous rival, and has had more proposals than ever I hoped to have, and in the next place she would attempt to control me, which neither she nor any other person ever shall do, except my lord or master, if I should some day happen to have such a thing. In short Lady Anne Mellon was a very pretty, nice, clever, independent girl, who many people considered completely spoiled by fate, fortune, and her relations, and who might have been so if a high and noble heart, a kind and generous spirit, and a clear and rapid intellect would have permitted it. She loved and respected Maria Moncton, who was a little older, would often take her advice when she would take that of no other person, frequently in conversation with others, get her immeasurably above herself, and yet would often call her to her face a dear, gentle, lovable, poor-spirited little thing. Her last vagary before she came of age was to take a tour upon the continent with her old governess, a maid and three men-servants. Her guardians would here certainly have interfered had she ever condescended to make them acquainted with her intentions, but the expedition was plotted, all her arrangements were made, and she herself was in the heart of Paris before they knew anything of the matter. In writing to the old gentleman with the pigtail she said, You will not be at all surprised to learn that I am here on my way to Rome and Naples, and I think as I have nobody with me but Mrs. Hughes and my maid and the other servants I shall enjoy my tour very much. Charles Marston, my old playfellow, was here the other day, and very delightful, nearly as mad as myself. He intends to go heaven knows where, but first to Damascus, because it is the only place where one can eat plums. If anybody asks you where I am, you can say that I have run away with him, and that you have my own authority for it. Then none will believe a word of it which they otherwise might. Send me plenty of money to Milan, for I intend to buy all Rome, and set it up in the great drawing-room at Harley Lodge, as a specimen of the true antique. Enough however of the gay girl and almost enough of the chapter, there is only one person I believe whom I have not mentioned sufficiently. Mr. Haley's fate was sad, but not undeserved. In vain fortune made a perverse effort to befriend him. In vain matters turned out favourable, which had once looked very dark. The worm that perisheth not was in his heart, and it consumed him. He strove to establish a prosperous business for himself, separated from Mr. Scriven, and he succeeded to a certain extent, but he had no spirit to attend to anything long. He neglected everything, himself, his affairs, the affairs of others, his friends, acquaintances, his own person. He became slovenly in habits and appearance. People said he drank, business fell off, correspondence would not trust him, and after a struggle of eight years he retired upon a pittance, gave himself up to intemperance, went mad, died. Such was the end of one to whom not twenty-four years before had been opened a brighter career than his hopes had ever pictured. The reader may not exactly see how several of the characters and events which have passed across the stage in this phantasmagoria can have any influence upon the story that is to follow, but let him wait patiently, and he will see that not one word which has been written could have been properly omitted, and for the present let him remember that just four and twenty years and a few months had passed since the death of the elder Mr. Scriven, so that his son was now a man of middle age, and his only surviving daughter approaching her grand-climate Terek, and his grandson Charles Marston was now twenty-four, and his granddaughter Maria Moncton not quite twenty-two. CHAPTER VII A fine but yet a solemn evening trod upon the steps of a May day. There was a red light in the west under deep purple clouds, overhead always blue, intense, and unbroken even by a feathery vapour. A star, a planet, faint from the sun's rays still unrecord, was seen struggling to shine, and a lingering chillness came upon the breeze as it swept over a wide heath. The road from London to Southampton might be traced from the top of one of the abrupt knolls into thousands of which the heath was broken, winding on for four or five miles on either side, and dim plantations bounded the prospect. Nothing caught the eye but the desert-looking, wavy expanse of uncultivated ground, except where in a little sandy delt through which poured a small white line of water appeared a low thatch and four ruinous walls. At first one thought it a cow shed or a pig-sci, but a filmy wave of smoke showed it to be a human habitation. The nest of the wild bird, the whole of the fox, the lair of the deer, is more warm and sheltered and secure than it was. A carriage came in sight from the side of Southampton, dashing along with four horses. At first it looked in the distance like a husk of hemp-seed, drawn by four fleas. But as it came rattling on, it turned out a handsome vehicle and a good team. The top was loaded with boxes, imperials and all sorts of leavened contrivances for holdings, superfluities, towering to the skies. Underneath was a long, square, flat basket of wicker, likewise loaded heavily. The carriage dashed on over one slope, down another, across a sharp channel left by a stream of water which had flowed down two or three days before after heavy rains, up part of a hill, and there it suddenly stopped, toppled, and went over. The axle had broken, and a hind wheel had come off. The servant flew out of his leavened cage behind, lighted in a huge tuft of heat, somewhat like his own whiskers, and then got up and rubbed his shoulder. Then a gay, joyous, mellow voice was heard calling out from the inside. Spilt upon my life, water, crash, are you hurt, Mr. Winkworth? Venus and all the graces smashed to pieces for a thousand pounds. Ha! Ha! Well, this is a consummation. Here, boy, open the door and let us out. I always lie on my right side. I think, Winkworth, you'll be glad to get rid of me. Uncommonly, said a voice from below, I thought you light-headed and light-hearted, but something about you, boy, is heavy enough. By this time the post-boys were out of their saddles, and the servant was hobbling up. The door was opened, and forth came a tall, good-looking young man, dressed in gay, travelling costume, who instantly turned round to assist somebody else out of the broken vehicle. The next person who appeared upon the stage was a man of sixty or more, spare, wrinkled, yellow, with very white hair, and a face close-shaved. If he were ugly, it was from age, and perhaps bad health, the colour of his skin being certainly somewhat sickly. But his features were good, and his eye was clear, and even merry, though a few testy lines appeared round the lips. He stooped a good deal, which made him look short, though he had once been tall, and in no other respect did bodily strength seem decayed, for he was as active as a bird. No sooner was his younger companion out of the shays than he was seen issuing four, four legs and arms together in the most extraordinary manner possible, and the whole process was accomplished in a moment. Pish! cried the elderly man, peevishly. Pretty reception to one's native land, after seven and twenty years' absence. It is had time to forget you, said the younger, laughing. To break down on the first road I come to, went on the other. It is all because you overloaded the carriage, so I would have done better to have travelled by this stage, or any other conveyance, instead of taking a seat in your mud-loving vehicle. The stage might have been overloaded and broken, too, rejoined the other. Take all the rubs of life quietly, Mr. Inkworth. Something must be done, however. One of you fellows, ride on and get the first blacksmith you can find. It is a shame, too, to meet us. We'll walk on. You, Jerry, stay with the carriage, and when it is mended, bring it on. You're not hurt, are you?" My shoulder, sir, has suffered from too close an intimacy with Mother Earth, replied the servant in an affected tone, and my leg, I take it, is of a different figure from the ordinary run, but I dare say all will come straight with time. Puppy grumbled the old gentleman, and began walking on as fast as his legs would carry him. He was soon overtaken by his young companion, and as they walked on together the post-boy overtook and passed them. They said little, but Mr. Inkworth looked about him and seemed to enjoy the prospect, notwithstanding the accident which had forced it upon his contemplation. The post-boy trotted on, and the two gentlemen walked forward. The prospect was falling fast, and just when the messengers sent for the shays had disappeared on one side, and the carriage with its accompaniments on the other, a bifurcation of the road without a finger-post presented itself. Now, Mr. Charles Lovell-Maston, what is to be done, said the old gentleman. You and I are too fools, my dear sir, or we should have mounted the two posters and let the post-boys get themselves out of the scrape they had got themselves into. It's just as bad to gull up along a wrong road as to walk along one. Replied his young companion with a laugh, only one goes farther and faster to the devil. The old gentleman laughed heartily. There is something on there that looks like fellow humanity, he said. It may be a stunted tree or a milestone, but we may as well ask it the way. And putting on his spectacles, he walked forward, with his head raised to see the better. Charles Marston followed, and for a minute or two both were inclined to think the form they saw would turn out a mere stump after all, so motionless did it appear. On an era-approach, however, a human figure became more distinct. It was that of a woman, old and evidently very poor, sitting motionless on the top of a little hillock, her hands supporting her chin and her eyes bent upon the ground. The short cut grey hair escaped from under the torn cap, her face was broad especially about the forehead, the eyes were large and black, the skin naturally brown, was now yellow and wrinkled, and the hand which supported the head, while the other lay languidly on the lap, was covered with a soiled and tattered kid-glove. Round her shoulders was an old dirty shawl, mended and patched, and the rest of her garment shoe was in a dilapidated state. She took not the least notice of the two travellers, though they stood and gazed at her, for a full minute ere they spoke. At length Mr. Winkworth raised his voice and asked, Can you tell us which is the London road, my good woman? The poor creature lifted her eyes and looked at them with a scared, wandering expression. They shaved his head, she said, in the most melancholy tone in the world. Indeed they did. They thought he was mad, but it was only remorse, remorse. He never held up his head after he was quite sure the boy was dead, he whom he had wronged and blighted and killed. She paused and began to weep. She's mad, poor thing, said Mr. Winkworth. She should not be left on this common alone. He saved his own life at the boy's expense, said the woman again. But what a heart he had ever after. Wine would not quiet it, spirits would not keep it up. But when he found the boy was dead, then was the time of suffering. And they thought he was mad when he raved about it. But remorse will rave as well as madness. And they shaved his head and put a straight waistcoat on him. And one of the keepers knocked him down when he struggled. And he died in the night, you know. It was no fault of mine, she added, looking straight at the old man as if he had accused her. I could not leave him in his misery because he was sinful. He was my own brother, you know. No, no, I could not do that. Of whom are you speaking, my good woman, asked the younger gentleman in a commonplace tone. Why, my brother to be sure, said the poor woman, looking at him with an expression of bewildered surprise. Whom else should I be talking of? Ah, ah, he was a rich man once till he took to gambling. Say, here is someone coming, said the old gentleman. This is a sad sight, Charles Marston. The poor woman has seen better days. This is a bit of a real cashmere shaw she has over her shoulders. I should know one when I see it, I think. We cannot leave her here alone. We'll ask this boy who comes trudging along if he has ever seen her before, honors anything about her. Come, Bessie, come in. I have got one and ninepence for the eggs, so I bought a loaf and an ounce of tea. Don't sit moping there, it's cold, Bessie. His tone was very kind and affectionate, and the two gentlemen examined him as well as they could by the failing light. He was a lad of fourteen or fifteen years of age, short, but seemingly strong and well made, and his countenance, as far as they could see, was frank and intelligent. His clothing was both scanty and poor, but it was well patched and mended, and he had a pair of stout shoes on his feet. I'm coming, Jim, I'm coming, my dear," replied the old woman in quite a different tone from that in which he had been speaking to the strangers. I just went out to get a little fresh air, and I found another nest and put all the eggs on the shelf, my man. The two gentlemen called the boy to them, and in a low tone asked several questions about the poor creature whom he called Bessie, especially the younger one who seemed a good deal interested. The elder inquired whether she was his mother or any relation. The boy replied that she was not, and his little history was soon told. She had come about their cottage, he said, three or four years before, and had slept one night upon the heath. His mother, who was then living, had been kind to her, and had taken her in. We had two cows, then, said the boy, and used to feed them on the common, and it was a good year, and poor Bessie used to do what she could to help. She's a famous hand with her needle and mended all the clothes. My mother had a little washing, and we got on well enough, what between the butter and the washing, and a few vegetables out of the garden. But a year ago, last Christmas, mother died, and I and Bessie have lived here alone as well as we can. She's not at all dangerous and at times quite bright, and she helps me to find plover's eggs, and to watch wheat tears, and all that she can. She mends the clothes and does many little things, and she has taught me to read and write in her well-times. When she's at the worst, she can always read the Bible of a night. I'm sure I don't know what I should have done without her since mother died. Was she better dressed when she first came to your cottage, asked Charles Marston? Oh, to be sure, replied the boy, but our clothes are worn out now, poor thing. Well, we'll come and rest at your cottage, said Mr. Winkworth. Our carriage has broken down on the common, and we've sent for a she-se. The boy seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then said, It is a poor place. The gentleman, however, persisted, and again rousing the poor old woman, who had once more fallen into a fit of gloomy thought, the had led them to the hut of which mention has been made in the beginning of this chapter. It was a poor place, as he had said, as poor as it could be. The unmended windows, in spite of rags and paper, let in the winds of night. The door leaned back upon its heels, like a drunken man trying to stand sobly. The fetch was worn through in many places, and it was a happy time when it did not rain. In short, it had been originally but a hovel of clay of the poorest kind. Now it was still poorer, and when the boy, and old woman together, for she helped him, had lighted a fire with some bundles of dry heat, and the flame rose high and flickered round the broken walls, the two men, accustomed to luxury and ease, and comfort of every kind, felt a shuddering impression of the evils to which their fellow creatures are often subject, which was likely to do both their hearts no harm. The boy was communicative enough, and told all that he knew with quiet intelligence, but they could get the old woman to speak no more. She answered every question with a monosyllable, and then fell into silence again. They did not leave the hovel as destitute as they found it. They had with them neither provisions nor furniture, nor suitable clothing to give, but they had the most malleable of metals which, when properly hammered out, spread into meat, drink, and clothing. Nor were they satisfied with this, when they reached the little town the old gentleman with the yellow face sent for a brick layer, gave him some orders in a low tone, and wrote down an address upon a piece of paper. The younger one talked for half an hour with the landlady in the bar, and next morning paid her four pounds nine shillings more than his own bill. That was a happy day for the poor people of the cottage on which Charles Marston and his old companion broke down upon the heath. CHAPTER VIII. There is a small house in the perluse of fashion surrounded on every side by mansions five times as big as itself. You know it quite well, dear reader. You have passed it a dozen times or more, and looked up and wondered what it did there surrounded as it is by the mansions of ancient aristocracy. For the part of the town in which it is situated is not one of the new rookeries of new people which have risen up to the south-west and north-west of the capital, upon spots that were fields within these thirty years. It is tall and thin and brown, like a spinster of a certain age at a county ball, amongst a row of bland and brilliant dowagers, quite the sort of house, in short, which the wonderful George Robbins would have advertised for sale as a unique bachelor's residence, situate in the very heart of the fashionable world, commanding advantages rarely met with singly, but never, perhaps, united, except in this most charming abode. Nevertheless, it was not the residence of a bachelor at all, nor of a married man, nor of a spinster, old or young. It was the townhouse, and indeed the only house, of a very excellent and respectable widow-lady, with a moderate income and the best intentions in the world, but not the best wits to guide them. Having spoken of her income, I must make that matter quite clear. She had just seven hundred a year, and would not, indeed, have had that, had it not been for the care and circumspection of a very prudent brother, who had interfered to see the affairs of her marriage settlement properly conducted. I need not add after this, that there dwelt Lady Fleetwood. When she was alone, her household consisted of a footman, well-powdered and laced, a cook, a housemaid, and her own maid, a somewhat extravagant establishment considering her income, but in all other things she was very economical, at least, she thought so, and Maria Moncton fully agreed in her opinion. She did not pamper any of the appetites, nor indeed any of the vanities of the flesh, except in the instance of the powdered footman. Her table was always regulated with great exactness, and her certain number of glasses of wine was never exceeded. Her dresses, by the skill of her maid, appeared in various forms with very great success, and when Maria was with her, there was always a carriage at her command. Nor, in truth, when Maria was at Bolton Park, did Lady Fleetwood go without, for a chariot and a pair of horses were always left at the stables, with a particular request from the niece that her aunt would use them every day, lest the horses should grow frisky for want of exercise. When Maria was in town, however, the case was different. Three or four servants were always in the hall. The whole establishment was increased. The little house had more occupants than it seemed capable of containing, more, indeed, than it really did contain at night, and then, as this was all for Maria Moncton's convenience, Maria Moncton insisted upon paying the whole expenses. Now, as, upon an average, Maria was eight months out of the twelve with her aunt, and two or three of the remaining four Lady Fleetwood passed at Bolton Park, the fact of her income fully meeting her expenditure, and leaving her a little surplus at the end of the year may be accounted for. Lady Fleetwood, it is true, did not understand it altogether, and would sometimes run up her accounts with a somewhat bewildered air, and in the end give up the task acknowledging that she never had a head for figures. It might be a little wrong of Maria thus to mystify her aunt, but she was a dear good girl, notwithstanding, and accustomed to Pet Lady Fleetwood from her own childhood, she well knew there was only one way of managing her, and what that way was. She even went farther than saving her good aunt's income for her by taking the greatest share of all her expenses upon herself. She calculated that one or two events, one very common and one universal, might occur to herself, that she might die, or that she might marry, and, to put it out of the power of anyone to leave her aunt in embarrassed circumstances, her first act on coming of age was to settle upon her without her knowing a word of the matter, a sufficient sum to make her income a very comfortable one. In the month of May, then, about the middle of the day, Lady Fleetwood was seated in her drawing-room, writing little notes, an occupation of which she was rather fond. Maria was out of town but expected to return on that day or the following morning, and all was duly prepared for her reception. The curtains of the room were partly drawn to keep out too much light, for the house was on the sunny side of the square, and in the mitigated glow Lady Fleetwood, though her hair was now very grey, and the wrinkled impress of Time's claw was on her fair skin, showed many traces of that great beauty which had once distinguished her. She had just sealed one small b.a., and begun a second when she heard the near rush of wheels through the roll of many others more distant, and a carriage stopped at her own door. It was too early for ordinary visitors, who, with a due economy of time, always choose the hour to call when they are likely to find their dear friend's absent. It is Maria," said Lady Fleetwood to herself. She has come up early. The next instant the door was flung open, but not by a servant, and without announcement a young and good-looking man entered, with a light and gaze step, and threw wide open his arms before the good lady. Here I am, my dear aunt, here I am," cried Charles Marston, safe and sound from perils by land and perils by water, perils by robbers, perils by cooks and perils by chambermaids. Come to the nepotal arms, and banish all anxieties upon the bosom of kindred love. Charles, Charles, you mad boy, cried Lady Fleetwood, embracing him tenderly. How can you startle me so? You know how nervous I am. Why you have come back six months before you intended, and three days," answered Charles, laughing, which means to say, my dear aunt Flea, that you think I have come back six months too soon. I'll be affronted, I'll pout, really. Well I never, as the kelner in at brickson said when I kissed her before company. This is the coolest reception of a returned prodigal that I ever heard of. How can you be so absurd, Charles, exclaimed his aunt. What is a kelner in? Where is brickson? Do you mean brickson? Charles burst into a shout of laughter, patted his aunt's cheek in the most paternal manner, and led her back to her seat by the tips of her fingers. Having time, my dear aunt, having time, he said, I'll tell you all about kelnerins and bricksons by and by, if you're a good girl. Just now I've got a particular friend and travelling companion in the carriage with me, Mr. Winkworth, the most extraordinary piece of yellow skin and dried bones you ever saw. He comes from Egypt, and I have brought him over intending to present him to the British Museum or the Zoological Society, either as an extraordinary and almost unique specimen of the fossil man, or the only instance in Europe of the living mummy. I must bring him upstairs and introduce him to you, and you must ask him to dinner. I've invited him already in your name. Was not that a kind, considerate nephew? Impossible, my dear Charles, exclaimed Lady Fleetwood in a great flutter. I'm really not prepared. You forget, my dear boy, my small means. I'm not always ready to receive people at dinner. A stranger, too. There's no turbot, nothing but some slices of cod, and... Never mind, never mind, my dear aunt. It will do quite well. Cod is excellent, exclaimed Charles Marston. I have not tasted cod for a year and a half, and I'll answer for it. My mummy has not seen such a thing, since he was cooked to one of the Ptolemies. Oh, I forget which, but he'll tell you all about it. I'll go and bring him. Heaven on earth, I do believe the carriage is driving off. And downstairs he ran as fast as possible, but only to see his carriage and four driving round the square at a very rapid rate. Why, where are they gone? What the devils are mad at with them? cried Charles. The gentleman inside told the boys to drive him to Lloyd's hotel, sir, said Lady Fleetwood's servant. Just on the opposite side, sir. The carriage will be back in a minute. Well, the old gentleman must have his own way, I suppose, said Charles Marston, and so I'll go up to my dear aunt again. Well now, my dear aunt, he's gone, continued the nephew, in a mock, reproachful tone. I'm quite sure he heard all you said and thought it very inhospitable. Nonsense, Charles, he could not hear me, I'm sure. replied Lady Fleetwood, going to the window to see if it were open. Is that your carriage? Why, it is loaded like a wagon. Well, it may be, answered her nephew, or more like a stagecoach licensed to carry twelve outside, for there are the nine muses and the three graces. I'm afraid it would come under the penalties of the act, however, for there are moreover two or three apollos, half a dozen venuses, to say nothing of Seneca, and Aristides, Osiris, and Asis, and Galatia. I intend, my dear aunt, to have them all arranged here in this very drawing-room. Your room will look like a Valhalla, or a studio, or a Greek temple, or Spode's manufacturing, or a stone mason's shop, and you shall have a helmet and a shield and an owl and path for Minerva. Indeed, Charles, you are mad, I think, said Lady Fleetwood. The room is small enough as it is without being loaded with graces and muses and all sorts of things. Tell my servant to open the cases when he comes back, cried unpitying Charles Marston, as Lady Fleetwood's footman entered with a note, and bid him get seven men to help him and bring up the statues. I always have my own way, my dear aunt. I will see your room classically decorated, and then, if you do not like your marble palace, you can throw the statues out of the window, or get in a number of porters to do it for you. They will be capital metal for macadamising the roads. Then the people will say you have been playing at marbles, you know, and it will all pass off as a joke. Charles, Charles, do let me have one moment's peace to read what Maria says, exclaimed Lady Fleetwood. Really, I had forgotten what a wild creature you are, or else you are worse than ever. Mirics, you berants of spirits, my dear aunt, are seeing you and England once more, replied Charles Marston, but I'll be serious. Nay, I am quite serious. What does Maria say? Where is she? When shall I have the pleasure of giving her a kiss? It is not every man who has the privilege of kissing such a lovely girl, Gratis. I long for it, I assure you. Nay, I am quite serious. I have several very serious things to talk to you about, most profound. But somehow, my dear aunt Flea, when I see you, I get quite boyish again. You're so charming. It's a pity the prayer book says we must not marry our mother's sister. You are the only woman who would suit me in the whole world. Indeed, you are. There, I must grave as a judge, read your note, read your note, and tell me all about Maria afterwards. And sitting down, Charles bent his head, gazed at his clasped hands and fell into a fit of thought. To all appearance, much more deep than his rattling manner would have led one to suppose his mind capable of sustaining for two minutes. There, Maria does not return till tomorrow, said Lady Fleetwood, finishing the reading of her note. Then I shall have you and the cod all to myself, replied Charles Marston, looking up with one of his gay laughs, but instantly resuming a more serious tone, he said, and now, my dear aunt, I have three very grave subjects to talk to you about. Indeed, exclaimed Lady Fleetwood, putting on an important look, what may they be, Charles? I am sure I am ready to give you any advice in my power. Dear creature, called Charles Marston, as if she thought I ever took anybody's advice. But to the point, has a gentleman of the name of Frank Middleton called to inquire for me within the last week or two? Oh, dear, yes, exclaimed Lady Fleetwood. He called yesterday, and I forgot to tell you, as if she had had time to tell me anything, said Charles. His card is in the dish, continued Lady Fleetwood. There is no address on it, or I would have written to him to say you were not expected for some months. That would have been kind, said her nephew. Now, have a ducer might have find him out. Oh, he will call again. He said he would call in a day or two, replied his aunt. Why, is Frank Middleton? exclaimed Charles. He seems to have divined you, my dear aunt. Lady Fleetwood looked bewildered. And now, continued her nephew, can you tell me what my mysterious uncle Scriven wrote to me for, to come back directly, as he wanted to see me on particular business? Oh, it's like to meet my excellent uncle prepared, with full forethought of what is to come next. And he was as dark in his communication as the Sphinx's mouth. No, did he send for you? exclaimed Lady Fleetwood. He did not tell me a word about it. How strange. I saw him only yesterday and he was talking about you, but he did not say a word. He was always very close and discreet, you know, Charles. Wise man, said Charles Marston. And he fell into thought again for a moment or two. Pray, my dear aunt, what was he saying about me? he inquired after this pause. Oh, I don't recollect, nothing particular, I believe, replied Lady Fleetwood, the colour growing a little deeper in her cheek. Oh, ho, a secret, said Charles to himself. And then continued aloud. Well, my dear aunt, I know you have a short memory and I know my uncle never tells you anything of importance, but he says you forget it as soon as you hear it. He is very wrong there, said Lady Fleetwood, who rather peaked herself upon her powers of recollection, for I never forget anything. Then what was it he said, inquired Charles abruptly. Oh, I do not know it was intended for your ears, replied Lady Fleetwood, or that Maria would like such a thing to be talked about. Then it was about Maria too, said Charles with a laugh. Now I know all about it. It was that Maria was dying with love for me and that I was wondering all over the world, flirting with every pretty woman I met. Well, I daresay she will not be much obliged to him for saying that. He did not say that at all, my dear Charles, replied Lady Fleetwood in a little alarm. He only said what a good thing it would be if you and Maria were to marry. And I thought so too, for you are very fond of each other and you are both only children and poor orphans, exclaimed Charles Marston, laughing heartily. Well, matrimony is as good as any other orphan asylum. I don't think it will do, my dear aunt. We are more like brother and sister than lovers. However, to my third profound problem. Now, tell me, dear Lady Mine, do you recollect a certain Mr. Haley, who was once my uncle's partner? To be sure, answered Lady Fleetwood. Don't you, Charles, why his son, poor Henry? I recollect him perfectly, dear aunt, replied Charles gravely. My head is not such a colander nor my heart either, that people can slip out of either one or the other, even in ten years. But what I want to know is this. Had not Mr. Haley a sister? Yes, to be sure he had, replied Lady Fleetwood. A nice, quiet, good sort of creature, devoted to her brother and the poor boy. She used to play beautifully upon the piano and sing. I don't care a pin about that, said Charles. I never saw her more than two or three times. But what I wish to know is what was her name? Her name, her name, said Lady Fleetwood. Her name was Rebecca, I think. Which in the Hebrew means plump, said Charles Marston. Well, when I last saw her, she was thin enough. No, indeed, Charles, she was quite the contrary, said Lady Fleetwood. I do not mean to say that she was fat, but... Oh, say she was fat if you like, dear aunt, replied Charles Marston, laughing. She's not here to listen, and I won't betray you, so it will not pain her. I would not pain a fly willingly, Charles, answered his relation. I'm sure you would not, said her nephew, laying his hand upon hers affectionately. But now the case is, my dear aunt, how can we rescue this poor thing from a situation of great misery? You must know that I should have been in town last night, but that my carriage broke down on a miserable, wild common. It had to be mended, and while a blacksmith was being sent for, Winkworth and I wandered on, and met with a poor, crazy woman in rags and wretchedness, who we found had been living there in a dilapidated hovel for some years with an orphan boy whose mother had been very kind to her as long as the poor thing lived herself. As soon as I saw her, I thought that her face was not unknown to me. You remember Miss Haley had very peculiar, large, black eyes, but six or seven years had passed since Haley gave up business altogether and went to live over at Highgate, and I have not seen his sister since. Some words that she dropped, however, led my mind back to the past, though all she said was rambling and incoherent. And the more I think of this, the more I am convinced that it is poor Henry Haley's aunt. Good gracious, cried Lady Fleetwood, that is very sad indeed. I am so sorry that I did not go again to see them at Highgate. I went twice, but never found her, and she did not return my call, and your uncle was so angry I have been at all that I did not go back. I heard that Haley himself was dead some time ago, and I always intended to inquire for his sister, but just then came poor Isabella's death, you know. Nobody who knows you, my dear aunt, can suppose you will be unkind to anyone, replied Charles Marston, but something must be done for this poor thing. Certainly, certainly, replied Lady Fleetwood, I will talk to your uncle about it, and I'm sure he will do nothing at all, said Charles almost sharply, or at best put her into a cheap madhouse where she will be dieted upon gruel and mal-cheated by keepers, worse off than she is now. I will go down to-morrow or the next day and see about the matter myself. In the meantime, both Winkworth and I have done something to make her and the boy more comfortable. And who is this Mr. Winkworth, asked Lady Fleetwood, whose mind was of that peculiar species, which may be called the collateral, one of those minds that are always carried away to one side by the slightest possible circumstance, to which a word or a sound or a look is ever one of Epomani's apples, and sets the wits running after it with all the speed of an Atalanta. Who is Mr. Winkworth? He seems to have become a great favourite of yours, Charles. He has laid me under the greatest possible obligation, replied her nephew, smiling. Indeed, how was that? inquired his aunt. Why, he was kind enough to permit me to save his life, answered Charles. You must know, as I was riding along, not a hundred miles from a place called Antioch, which I dare say you never heard of. Oh, dear, yes, said Lady Fleetwood, it's in the Bible. Yes, and in Syria, into the bargain, continued Charles. But as I was saying, as I was riding along, not a hundred miles from Antioch, with servants and Arabs, and all manner of people with me, I came to a place under the high rocks, when I suddenly heard half a dozen shots fired. My guide thought it would be better to wait a little till the firing was over, but I judged it proper to ride on and see what it was about. So, when we turned the corner of a great black overhanging rock, like Westminster Abbey turned topsy-turvy, I saw two or three unfortunate servants upon the ground, rather silent and quite still, with about a dozen other fellows with blackish faces, long guns, and a great deal of white cotton about them, two of whom were taking aim at the only one of the travellers left alive. In other words, Mr. Winkworth, who for his part was trying to cover his angles, which are many, by the way, with his horse. He had got a long pistol in his hand, but that was nothing against guns, you know, my dear aunt. And besides, twelve to one is not fair play. So I spurred on, and my fellows being obliged to spur after, though a little unwillingly, did very well when it came to fighting, and we drove the Banditi up into the hills, shooting one or two of them. We then came back and found my poor countryman mourning over his dead. He was wounded himself, so I was obliged to stay and nurse him, and we have travelled together ever since. But who is he? What is he? demanded Lady Fleetwood, after she had exclaimed upon her nephew's peril, and praised heaven for his escape. Well, my dear aunt, as to who he is, I never thought of inquiring, answered Charles, and as to what he is, I can but answer, he is certainly a gentleman, a very well-informed, amiable, clever person, a little testy, very eccentric, and old bachelorish, but kind-hearted, generous, and benevolent, and moreover evidently very rich, though he has his own particular ways out of which he does not choose to be put. Well, if he is rich, that does not signify, said Lady Fleetwood. Now would not anyone who heard that think you the most mercenary old creature in the world, exclaimed Charles, you who would give away your last nightcap to a beggar? But, my dear, you know there are so many impostors, said his aunt, with a very sagacious air. Everyone of whom would take you in in a moment, replied her nephew, however, to set your mind at rest, Mr. Winkworth would not consent even to take a place in my carriage, until he had stipulated that he was to pay one half of all the expenses. This satisfied Lady Fleetwood's first doubts, doubts which she entertained merely upon abstract theory, for she was, or chose to be, supposed, the most suspicious person in the world at a distance, but at close quarters she was soon overcome. Charles Marston's carriage had by this time returned, and an hour was spent in unpacking an imperial. The nephew assuring his aunt that in ten minutes her drawing-room would be full of statues, and she, poor lady, begging pitifully, but in vain, to be excused from receiving the three graces and the nine muses. Merciless Charles Marston would not relieve her mind, in the least, till at length twelve beautiful small alabaster figures, none of them a foot high, were brought in and found easy accommodation upon consuls and chiffonniers. Much to the delight of the good lady, who declared that they were the most exquisite things ever seen, and thanked him over and over again for the gift. When all this was done, Lady Fleetwood pressed her nephew to go at once and see his uncle. But Charles had a fit of restiveness upon him. No, my dear aunt, I won't, he said. My uncle has something disagreeable to tell me, or he would not have sent such a way, and I am resolved to stay one day at peace in the midst of the great capital. So here I remain, unless you absolutely want to get rid of me. Not at all, Charles, of course, replied Lady Fleetwood, but only I think it would be a great pity for you to offend your uncle. You know that he has no other male relation, and he must be enormously rich. I really do not care whether he is rich or poor, answered Charles. I am as rich as, or indeed richer than he is. But thanks to my father's generosity, I have as much as I want, and I am quite sure my uncle Scriven could not say that. So there he sat, discussing many things with his aunt, telling her strange stories of his adventures in foreign lands, all true, indeed, but tinged in the telling with a gleam of the marvellous, for the purpose of exciting Lady Fleetwood's astonishment. In that endeavour he was very successful, for the organ of wonder was quite sufficiently developed in her head, and the day passed over very pleasantly, till it was time for Charles to seek a lodging for the night, which he easily found at the hotel opposite, where his friend Mr. Winkworth had already taken up his quarters. Before he bade his aunt farewell, however, he gave directions to her footmen, if Mr. Middleton called, to inquire particularly where he was to be found in London, and to let him know that his two friends, Mr. Winkworth and Mr. Marston, were at the hotel, and then came inquiries from Lady Fleetwood as to who this other crony of her nephews could be. I will not stop to tell you all, my dear aunt, replied Charles, who by this time had his hat in his hand. Suffice it that he is the most charming man you ever saw. Take care you do not find him too charming. He is quite a Don Alonso-ish sort of man. Pale, dark, wonderfully handsome, more than six feet high, with a sabre cut across his face, sufficient to win the hearts of all the women in London. He is a colonel in the Spanish service, and has all sorts of orders and chains, though he is not above seven or eight and twenty. I believe his mother was a Spanish lady. I think indeed somebody told me so, but at all events he is quite the person to fall in love with, if you are inclined, my dear aunt. My dear Charles, how can you be so absurd? exclaimed his aunt. But now you have not told me how you met with him. I'll keep that for a bon bouche," replied Charles, and walked away to his hotel. End of chapter eight. Chapter nine of The Forgery by George Payne Rainsford James. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter nine. It is my full and firm belief that if, on any given day of any given year, you were, dear reader, to take the accurate history of any five square miles, not exactly a desert, upon the solid surface of the earth, and examine with a microscope the acts and deeds, the circumstances, the accidents, and the fate of the people upon it, you would find strange romances enough going on to stock a library. Look into a cottage, what will you find? Perhaps a romance of love and tenderness struggling with sorrows, difficulties, and penury. Perhaps a broad, farce of a quarrelsome wife, and a drunken husband. Perhaps a tragedy of sin, crime, and misery. Look into that stately mansion, the house of a great merchant. What is there? It may be the comedy of a purse-proud affectation. It may be the tale of the tendrest affections and highest qualities, or it may show that agonising struggle which the falling man makes to sustain himself upon the edge of the precipice at the foot of which he is soon to lie, dashed to pieces. A romance is but a microscopic view of some half-dozen human hearts. The above observations may apparently be wide of the subject, but still there must be some link of association between them and what is to follow, as they naturally occurred to my mind when considering how I could best tell the events which are about to be related. Perhaps it was that I thought it somewhat strange that, at the very moment when the conversation took place which has been detailed in the last chapter, one of the personages therein mentioned was up to the neck, if I may so express it, in an adventure which, though trifling in itself, was destined, like many another trifle, to work a great effect on the destinies of many. It was a beautiful evening, then, about the twenty-seventh of May. The spring had been somewhat rainy and boisterous, and the few preceding days, though clear, had been cold, especially towards the afternoon, but it would seem that winter had puffed forth his last blast, for the summer had got full possession of the day and held it to the end. The birds, which had been nearly silent on the twenty-sixth, were now in full song. The wildflowers starred the woodwalks and the banks, and if a cloud came over the blue sky, it was as soft and fleecy as a lamb's first coat. Under the summer heaven there was a very beautiful lane, an English country road running between two banks, on the top of each of which, keeping parallel with the road, was a pailing, above which again spread the arms of tall trees, holding their broad leafy fans over the head of the traveller below. By the distance of the bowls of the old alms, and beaches from the fence which guarded them, it appeared as if there was a good broad walk within the boundary, and when the banks, at the end of a quarter of a mile, slanted down so as to bring the pailing nearly to a level with the lane, that walk might be seen, together with a view over the well-rolled gravel, to a green and shady park dotted with fallow deer. Coming down the lane was a carrier's cart with the drag on, for there was a somewhat steep descent, and the road was as smooth as a ballroom floor, and at the bottom of the hill where the carrier stopped to remove the shoe was a gentleman who also paused and asked him some questions. In the meantime somewhat higher up and within the enclosure, as if taking an evening walk was a lady, a young and very beautiful lady, with some traces of mourning about her apparel, although its general hue was light. There was a certain harmony between her dress and her air, and expression, for though the dark haze lies and the rich glossy brown hair, the warm healthy cheek, and the arch-lips of the small mouth, had altogether a cheerful look, yet there was a shade of melancholy thought in Maria Moncton's fair face as she walked through the scenes, where every object that she saw, every step that she took, was full of memories of early days and childhood's joys and friends departed. There are always melancholy pleasures, those of memory, for they are the rays of a star that has set. With her eyes bent down then, and a slow step, she walked on, took a little path to the left through the trees till it led her to the more open part of the park, and then stopped to gaze over the scene. The broad lands which she saw were all her own. The herds of dear were hers. That was her mansion, an angle of which peaked over the old oaks, which at the sight and the knowledge were not altogether pleasurable, though it might seem that they ought to have been so. There was a feeling of loneliness in it all, of the heart's loneliness. It was quite a woman's sensation. She would rather have had all she saw, and others, and herself too. Yet it was by no means that craving after marriage which some women feel, for she certainly had not been without many an opportunity of gratifying it, had she been so inclined. But she wished that all she saw had been of fathers still, or mothers, anybodies but her own, and that she had not been a solitary being on the earth with so much wealth, such great responsibilities, and so little kindred sympathy. Her thoughts were of her father and her mother, of the companions and friends of her childhood, and of everyone who had shared those happy hours which, like the flowers of spring, are far more beautiful than the fruits of summer, and in the scenes where she had known so much happiness, the very memory of those whom she had loved seemed dearer to her than the presence of any whom she still knew. She felt that her mood was not for the wider scene, and she turned back into the narrower paths, the green, soft shades of which suited better with the humour of the moment. She had gone on for about a quarter of a mile, still buried in thought, when she heard a step and looked up. The path wound a good deal in its course, so that, seeing no one upon it, and being within ten or twelve yards of the lane, she fancied that the footfall must have been upon the road. The next instance, however, just at the turn, within a few feet of her, she beheld a stranger. Maria was not by nature cowardly, nor what is vulgarly called nervous. She had no bad habit of screaming at trifles or jumping at the banging of a door. But she certainly did start at this sudden apparition, and for a moment hesitated whether she should go on or turn back. An instance's consideration, however, was sufficient to make her resolve to follow the former course. It is ridiculous to be frightened, she thought, remembering that there was a style and one or two gates into the lane. He has probably come to see the steward or some of the people at the house. And after a just perceptible pause she walked on, merely glancing her eye over the stranger's form as she did so. That glance showed her nothing to be frightened at, for there is certainly something in air and mean, and general appearance which, although devils will take angels' forms at times, has a powerful effect upon that very unreasonable thing, human reason. Only as her eyes were turned towards the person before her they had no time to scan him very accurately. But still she saw at once three very important facts, that he was very well dressed, that he had the bearing and look of a gentleman, and that he was a remarkably handsome man, though very dark. In the meantime, what was the stranger about? He too had suddenly paused and he looked for a moment irresolute. The next instant, however, he advanced straight towards the beautiful girl before him, and, raising his hat with a graceful inclination of the head, he said, I fear I am trespassing, may I ask if these are the ground of the Earl of Milford? Or Maria's little tremor was at an end, and she looked up frankly, replying, No, these are mine, Harley Lodge is on the other side of the road, but, and she stopped and hesitated, not knowing whether to tell the stranger abruptly of Lord Milford's death or not. You are going to add something, said the stranger, after having waited a moment for the conclusion of the sentence. I was merely about to ask who it is you wish to see, replied Maria, for I fear you will find nobody there but servants, and she blushed a little as she spoke. It is strange, said the gentleman, a carrier I met just now told me that on this side was Harley Lodge, and that the opposite property belonged to Miss Moncton. He was mistaken, I assure you, answered Maria, with a smile at the doubt he seemed to entertain. I am Miss Moncton, this is Bolton Park. I do not doubt you, of course, said the stranger. The man was very stupid, so to mislead me. But to answer your question, it was the Earl I wish to see, and if not himself, Lady Milford or Lady Anne. Maria's brow grew dark. It is long, I imagine, she said, raising her eyes to the stranger's very handsome face. It is long, I imagine, since you have seen any of the family, sir, and many sad changes take place in a few years. The stranger started evidently alarmed. The Earl, he asked, is the Earl? I am sorry to pain you, said Maria, much struck by the agitation he displayed. But he has been dead some years, and Lady Milford also. How they go out, said the stranger with a deep sigh. How they go out. What go out? asked Maria in some surprise. Hopes, said the other, in a tone of such deep melancholy that she felt there must be some very painful feelings awakened by the words she had spoken, and she gazed at her companion's face attentively, as he remained with his eyes bent upon the ground. A sudden fit of trembling seized her, but the next moment he looked up and their eyes met. I beg your pardon, Miss Moncton, he said, I will not detain you longer, if you will merely tell me which is my best way to reach Harley Lodge, for I must go up to the house at all events. I will show you if you come with me, said Maria, in an agitated tone, but there is no one there. Lady Anne is in London. I should like to go at all events, said the other, turning to walk on by her side. I suppose you were well acquainted with the late Earl, said Maria, after a pause, and I am afraid the news I have had to give you is very painful. I knew him well, replied the stranger, and have met with many acts of kindness at his hands. I should be most ungrateful, were I not deeply grieved at hearing of his death, but let me speak of a pleasanter subject, Miss Moncton. In a few days I shall have the honour of claiming your acquaintance upon a better foundation than at present. At least, if I am not mistaken, he added hurriedly, in supposing you the daughter of the late Sir Edward Moncton. I have a letter for you from my friend Charles Marston, and one also for Lady Fleetwood. Am I right? Oh, yes! replied Maria. I shall be very happy to hear from my cousin. It is seldom he does any one the favour of writing. Have you seen him lately? About six months ago, answered her companion, but I must explain the cause of my long delay in delivering his letters. I then intended to visit England directly, but other affairs intervened which called me back to Spain, and I only arrived in this country the day before yesterday. Have you resided long in Spain? asked Maria. Very many years, was the reply, ever since I came from Mexico when I was a mere boy. Maria looked down upon the path and fell into deep thought, while the stranger went on to say, I have travelled in many countries, it is true, but Spain I look upon almost as my native land. She made no answer, but still walked with her eyes bent down, and the stranger gazed at her unobserved, with evident admiration, and well indeed he might, for in whatever lands he had rambled, he could not have seen anything more lovely. After a brief pause, however, as she still remained silent, he said, By the way, I have Marston's letter in my pocket book, and may as well deliver it at once to prove to you that your kind courtesy, Miss Moncton, is shown to a gentleman. Oh, I do not doubt it in the least, replied Maria, looking up brightly, and then she added in a very marked tone, I never doubt, I never have doubted or suspected in my life. The stranger looked full into her eyes, and then he in turn fell into a fit of thought. An instant after he roused himself with a start, and taking out his pocket book produced the letter he had mentioned. Maria took it and read merely the address. Miss Moncton, by the hands of Colonel Francis Middleton, I will read his epistle by and by, Colonel Middleton, said Maria, stumbling a little at the name. Have you known my cousin Charles Long? Yes, he answered at once, and then correcting himself added, that is to say, eighteen months or more. But there are some men easily known, and Marston is so frank and open that we became intimate for a very early period of our acquaintance. I wonder, said Maria, that he did not tell you the history of your friends here, which would have spared me the pain of giving you evil tidings. There was again something peculiar in her tone, and her companion's cheek, grew somewhat red, showing more distinctly a scar across his cheek, which was visible. But that was all, while his face retained its ordinary dark brown hue. It did not occur to me to ask him, you replied with some degree of embarrassment, and both he and Maria fell into silence again for a few minutes. At length Maria asked, Do you intend to visit London soon? I return to town to-morrow, and I am sure Lady Fleetwood will be most happy to see you. I go to-night, replied Frank Middleton, and Maria fell into a reverie once more. A minute or two after they reached a little summer-house at the top of the bank overhanging the fence. Beside it was a small gate in the park pailing with stone steps descending to the road, and Maria laid her hand upon the latch, but paused ere she raised it, as if irresolute. The next moment, however, she opened the gate and pointed up the road, saying, About a hundred yards farther on, you will find a style which will lead you, by a little path, straight to Harley Lodge. You cannot mistake the way. Her companion gazed at her earnestly while she spoke, and for a moment or two after, and then thanking her for her kindness, and apologising for his intrusion, in words of course, but with tones that spoke much more, passed out of the gate, drew it after him, gave her one more look, as if he would feign have impressed her features on his mind forever, and descended the steps. Maria stood like marble where he had left her, and her cheek had become like marble too. She trembled, and her eye was strained eagerly, but sightless, upon the ground. She raised her hand to her head, as if to still the agitated thoughts within. And then, the next instant, she stretched out her hand to the gate, and threw it open, exclaiming, Henry, Henry! The other turned, gazed at her, sprang up the steps, and taking both her hands in his, replied, by the one word, Maria, oh Henry, sobbed Maria Moncton overcome by agitation, I must speak to you, I must talk to you before you act so rashly, for your own sake, for heaven's sake, think of what you are doing. Angel, said her companion, gazing at her with deep tenderness, and do you still remember me, do you still take an interest in me, in me the outcast, the exile, the friendless, the forlorn, in me whom you must, whom you do, believe criminal? No, Henry, no! exclaimed Maria, a generous glow spreading over her face, I do not believe you criminal, I never did, neither did my dear mother, we knew you better, I'm sure you are as innocent as I am. Thank God for that, said Henry Haley. There were then some who did me justice, and they the noblest and the best, oh Maria, the most painful part of a terrible situation has been to think that those whom I loved and esteemed the most would cast me from their affection, and look upon me as criminal and dishonoured. Oh, no, cried Maria, few did, of those who knew you, but I must do an imprudent thing, Henry, and ask you to go back to the house, for I am too much agitated to talk to you calmly here, and yet indeed I must reason with you as to what you are going to do. Henry looked at her with a smile, but he accompanied her without reply, for it was an invitation that he would not refuse, and yet he knew that her arguments in regard to his future conduct will be in vain, for he had made up his mind and was not one likely to change. Through the fair scenery amidst which they had so often walked and played in childhood, those two took their way, some object at every step awakening memories of the hours when they were the happiest, and more than once Maria looked up to her companion's face and asked, do you remember this, or do you remember that? And he ever did remember right well, and added some incident which showed how clearly the whole was in his recollection. Oh, it is very pleasant when two old and dear friends, long parted, are reunited, to talk over old times and scenes and let butterfly memory flit from flower to flower in the past, but doubly sweet when the recollections are those of happy childhood, without a stain upon their white garments, which regret might vainly wish to clear away. Soothing and cheering are such themes, and by the time they reached the house Maria felt that she could talk to her companion of almost anything, without fearing that agitation which had made her seek the shelter of her own dwelling. Nevertheless she thought it better to follow her first plan, and though the door was not locked, she rang the bell and led the way for her visitor into the library. The first object which struck his sight was a large picture of Lady Moncton, and walking up to it he gazed at it eternously for a minute or two. When he turned round there was a tear in his fine dark eye, and taking Maria's hand he kissed it, saying, she was ever kind to me, and to all Henry, said Maria, her own eyes running over, but to me especially, he replied, she left you very much, answered Maria with a sigh, but now tell me she continued seating herself, what you are going to do, for indeed I feel so terrified at seeing you in this country, that I could not let you go away without expressing my fears for your safety. At first I felt so bewildered at finding one living whom I had long believed dead that I did not know how to act. I do not think anyone but you will recognise me, said Henry Haley, how you came to do so I cannot conceive for your cousin Charles has associated with me for months without showing the slightest remembrance of me. That is strange, replied Maria, he was your school fellow and friend too. It is true, yet I was much more frequently here or at the lodge than with him, said her companion. We were in different forms at school, and moreover I believe women's eyes are quicker and their memory of friends better than men's. Would you not have remembered me, asked Maria, a little unfairly perhaps, anywhere, instantly, replied Henry eagerly, but you are very little changed comparatively. This gash upon my cheek, those large whiskers and this tanned skin I thought would have concealed me fully. Maria shook her head and he went on to ask if she had recognised him directly. No, she answered, but very soon, your height and figure being so much changed, together with the other circumstances you have mentioned, as well as the conviction that you have been long dead, blind in me at first. But after a few words you looked at me as you sometimes used to do when we were boy and girl, and then a sudden feeling, for I cannot call it anything else, came over me, that it must be Henry. For a little time I dared not look at you again, but when I told you of Lord Milford's death and you stood gazing at the ground, with the eyelids drooping over the eyes, I became quite sure, and trembled, so that I could hardly support myself. They were pleasant words to the ear of Henry Haley. They were, indeed, very sweet. To any man, and under almost any circumstances, they might well be so, for the deep interest of a beautiful and amiable being, like that, could surely never be a matter of indifference, and such emotions as those words betrayed could not exist without a deep interest. But in Henry they excited very peculiar feelings. In long, homeless wanderings, in strange turns of fate and struggles with the world, in sorrows and reverses, in prosperity and distress, he had still asked himself, do those loved so dearly still remember me with affection, or do they hate and contend me, or have they forgotten me as amongst the dead? Amongst those he thought of when he put such questions to his own heart, certainly Maria Moncton had ever been prominent. As I have shown when he fled from England, though not yet sixteen, he was much more manly in thought and feeling than most boys of his age. He had loved Maria almost as a brother might love. He had thought her the most beautiful, as well as the most amiable of creatures, it is true, and perhaps he might have gone on only loving her with brotherly love, if he had never been separated from her. When, however, in after years he had suffered his mind to rest upon the past, when he had asked himself, does Maria remember me still, and when he had wondered what she was like then, there had mingled with such thoughts tenderer and more imaginative feelings. He had thought, perhaps if I had remained and all gone well, Maria might have become my wife, and then the beautiful eyes that he remembered and the sweet smile and the many affectionate looks of the past would return to the sight, almost as distinct and clear as if her face was still before him. He knew not when to save a father he abandoned his country and encountered danger, sorrow and despair, how much he really loved the girl who now sat beside him again, but he had discovered it afterwards, and now how sweet, how very sweet it was, to find that her bosom could thrill with such emotions on his account. He gazed on her face while she spoke, but when she paused he bent down his eyes again and let the mind plunge into a sea of memories. Maria suffered him to think for a few minutes, believing that his mind was busy with the circumstances of his present situation and future fate. She had none of that grasping vanity which makes many a woman believe that each male companion must be thinking only of her. She had never asked herself one question as to what might have been Henry's feelings to her, or hers to him, had he remained in England. She had only thought of him during his long absence as the dear companion of her childhood and her early youth, as one excellent, amiable and noble, who by some strange mysterious fate which she did not try to scan, have been destined to sorrow, undeserved disgrace and early death. A whole crowd of tender regrets, it is true, had gathered round his memory, like flowers showered upon a tomb, and it is likewise true that the character of Henry Haley, as she had conceived it and decorated it with her own fancies, had served her as a touchstone to try that of other men, but still she never fancied that she had loved him otherwise and merely as a brother. She let him think then for a short time, but at length she said, Well, Henry, what do you intend to do? It's not your presence in this country dangerous to you, for you must now see that many may recognize you. None but you, said Henry. No, none but you. Oh, yes indeed, replied his companion. There is at least one who will do so, I am sure. I mean, Lady Anne, we have often talked of you together, and I am quite sure she will at once remember you. Perhaps indeed you intended to tell her as you were going to her house. No, certainly not, answered Henry. There were only two to whom I proposed to acknowledge my own name unless I acknowledged it at once to all the world. Her father and yourself, to her father because, as the kindest friend I ever had, I intended to ask and follow his advice as to my conduct. To you, Maria, because I would not have acquitted England again without telling you how I have thought of you, how I have remembered you, how I have blessed you for all the kindness you once showed me, for all the happiness you poured upon my happiest days. Maria's cheek turned somewhat pale, and after pausing for a moment, Henry went on, saying, Lady Anne Mellent will not remember me, depend upon it. Maria shook her head. You are mistaken, she said. I am quite sure she will. She has your portrait, and it is still very like. My portrait!" exclaimed Henry Hailey. Impossible, dear Maria! I only sat for my portrait once, and that was to saunters for a miniature for my poor father. She has it at all events, replied Maria, with something like a sigh. Perhaps she bought it at poor Mr Hailey's sale. That is very odd, said Henry. Under such circumstances I had better not call at all. Yet even if she did recognise me, it could do no harm. No one now living, dear Maria, knows who I really am, but yourself. No one can prove it, but you, to whom I have acknowledged the fact. And with you, he added, laying his hand gently upon hers, I know I am as safe as if the secret still rested in my own breast. People might suspect, people might feel sure, but yet no one, I repeat, could prove that I am any but Frank Middleton, an officer in the service of Spain, and I can prove that I am what I am not, beyond all possibility of refutation, the son of an English gentleman and a Spanish lady brought up in Italy and serving long in the Spanish army. Maria looked bewildered. This is very strange, she said. I do not comprehend it. Everyone here certainly thinks you dead, and indeed I now remember the officer saw you lying apparently, a corpse, and a certificate of your death was sent over by the consul. I do not wish, Henry, to inquire into anything that you may wish to conceal, but still I can have nothing to conceal from you, he answered. The strange part of my history is very soon told and explained. First, as to my innocence, Maria, a few words will clear that up at once. And he lowered his voice to a sad tone. My father forged your uncle's name. In a moment I believe I trust of madness. He sent me to get the money for the draft without my knowing anything of the deed. He then dispatched me on a long journey to seek the means of paying the sum he had so wrongfully obtained before the draft came due, furnishing me with several of the notes which have been given him for the draft, and which were doubtless used to prove my guilt. On my return from the north he told me all, and left me the choice of seeing him executed as a felon, or flying from the country and bearing the load of suspicion myself. I hastened on to Ancona, but having caught a fever by the way I was carried almost insensible not to the hospital, but to the Franciscan monastery in the town. There were several Irish monks in the brotherhood, and one of them nursed me with the utmost tenderness. I told him all under a solemn promise of secrecy, and proved to him my innocence. When the officer arrived in search of me I was rapidly recovering, but in the same monastery was the son of a Spanish lady, the wife of a Mr. Middleton, who had separated from her husband and who, fearing on her deathbed that her son would be brought up as a Protestant, had placed him in concealment with the monks. He had caught the same fever, for it was then and on the very night the officer first applied to the gates in order to have me delivered up the poor boy died. The monks consulted together and agreed to shelter me against pursuit, in the hope I believe of ultimately converting me. They removed me from the cell where I had been placed, carried the dead body of the poor lad Vither, and passed it for mine, both upon the officer and the consul. Thus I escaped pursuit, and in the cemetery Tancona stands a little tomb inscribed with the name of Henry Haley. Ah, but tell me more Henry explained Maria what became of you then. Does it interest you? he asked with a sad smile. Well then I will sketch out all. I remained in that monastery three months longer, the good monks instructing me diligently in the Roman Catholic faiths. Maria's countenance fell but Henry came a letter from the uncle of Mrs. Middleton in Spain demanding his niece's child should be sent to him with a promise that he would provide for it. The monks accordingly sent me with instructions to personate the poor boy but I had resolved what to do for although their ideas did not permit them to see any evil in the deceit which they said would confer much happiness on the uncle as well as to benefit by a cheat. The old man received me most kindly but was surprised to find how little Spanish I knew for I had learned only the mere rudiments in the convent and as he could speak no other tongue I was obliged to wait for more than six months ere I could tell him the whole as I had resolved to do. During that time he conceived the greatest affection for me sent me to a college treated me as his heir for me. It was all terribly painful but at length finding myself sufficiently master of the language to tell my tale I took an opportunity when he was alone brought him every present he had made me money jewels trinkets all and then informed him of the facts he was struck and very much affected and for some minutes seemed not to know how to act but at length he threw you shall not suffer for your honesty say not a word of this to anyone and be still to me a son and did you become a Roman Catholic? asked Maria somewhat sadly Henry gazed at her for a moment with a look which she found difficult to interpret there was something almost reproachful in the expression and yet something joyful too it might perhaps have been interpreted do you doubt me and yet your very doubt shows that I keep interest in my fate no Maria no he answered had I done so I might have been now one of the wealthiest men in Spain almost the first question asked me was regarding my faith you are not perhaps aware that no very strict religious notions of any kind have prevailed in my poor father's house and I had obtained but little religious instruction there neither was my new my adopted father he was a Roman Catholic and when I told him that I had been brought up as a Protestant he like the good monks insisted that I should receive instruction in his own faith of course to that I could not object but the instruction was interrupted he was obliged to go to Mexico and took me with him but I had learned to inquire for myself and my inquirers left no doubt I hadn't first a difficulty in obtaining books for any side but one but in Lima with a we afterwards went I found several Englishmen from whom I got all that was needful I took the Bible and common sense and I could not be a papist South America was at that time in a state of great confusion and we returned to Spain when I was about 18 years old or a little more my adopted father reached his native land but with shattered thoughts that he was dying at that last solemn moment he required me to tell him whether in sincerity and truth I could now embrace and keep the Roman Catholic faith I answered him sincerely and though grieved he was not offended he pointed out to me however that he could not leave the bulk of his fortune to a heretic in fact that he's doing so might prove dangerous to myself by calling opinions which had hitherto passed unnoticed he made his will the same night great wealth thereby passed to very distant relations who had every right to it and a more humble but still an ample share of his fortune came to me why he did not explain but probably in order to gain me good repute amongst the ecclesiastics of his own church Drid and Toledo and as I took care to comply with his instructions in a liberal spirit after his death no inquiries were made at the time as to my religious views nor any observations upon my neglect of the forms of the romish religion I had entered the Spanish army before my kind friends death and ever since have been actively employed till political changes and some used me to go to Italy where my first visit was to the monks of Ancona I found that the good brother John who had been so kind to me was dead but he had left with another of my countrymen in the monastery the papers necessary to prove my real name and birth should it be necessary I have them safe but there is no copy of them unless there is no one living but yourself and experience said Maria thoughtfully but yet I cannot feel so well assured as you seem to be Henry and oh how I wish that you could boldly proclaim and clearly prove your innocence and take once more your place amongst us all free from even a suspicion I have had thoughts of attempting it he replied and upon that very subject it was that I should be captured which I believed would be sufficient to exculpate me fully but I have looked at it often since and doubt that it would have the effect he therein takes the guilt upon himself and solemnly declared that I was perfectly ignorant of the whole transaction but the paper once form and drawn up at a moment of terrible agitation the handwriting has little resemblance to his usual clear and business like hand with ten counsel of the earl willingly willingly would I she replied if I had judgment and knowledge enough to render my advice worth having but I shall see you again soon in London I suppose there we may have no sweet private moments such as we have here he answered with a voice shaken by some strong emotions in the record of ten long years I have much in the world to whom the thoughts and feelings and actions I and fancies and dreams of all that period can be told oh Maria you can form no idea of what has been mid solitude of my heart during these long long ten years I have mingled with the world I have taken an active part therein I have associated with many with all around me there has been no one link of sweet association no memory in common no interchange of early sympathy I could never refer to the sweet hours gone by I could never talk of those I had loved it was if I were a creature of two existences one for the world in which I moved active eager bustling full of enterprise and danger and adventure but cold hard inanimate gather for myself alone still silent motionless confined to my own bosom but full of memories and visions kindly sympathies aspirations hopes loves all still living but entombed Maria was very pale and her bright eyes were cast down but over her cheek as he ended a drop like a diamond rolled slowly she would not wipe it away but he did and it was hard to restrain himself from kissing it off that fair cheek Huck cried Maria starting up there is a carriage coming who can it be compose yourself dear girl he answered be calm Maria be calm remember I have brought you a letter from your cousin and oh Maria remember also that you have given me an hour of uncolyster sad feelings which the sight of Henry Haley has awakened but she said holding out her hand to him they are not all sad Henry he pressed his lips upon the hand she gave and then she suddenly opened Child's Master's letter and wiped the tear from her cheek the next moment the door was opened CHAPTER 10 Time, the great wonder-worker, had done much in his own particular way with Lady Anne Mellent during the last ten years. When Henry Haley had quitted England, she was a gay, decided, clever little girl, somewhat spoiled by her mother, but more reasonably treated by her father, for whom she had a deep and devoted affection and much respect. She had then been very small for her age, and being a year or more younger than Maria Moncton, had looked at least four or five years her junior, for Maria at thirteen had been not much less in height than she was at two or three and twenty. Lady Anne indeed had not at that time taken her start. Everything has its start in the world, and very few things go on with quiet progression. But especially in boys and girls, there is generally a period at which they make a great and sudden rush towards manhood or womanhood, and that period is often preceded by one of great inactivity of development. Much greater, then, was the difference in Henry's eyes between the Lady Anne of the present and the past than between the Maria of the present and the past, and when the former entered as he sat beside Miss Moncton, he was surprised to find so little that had any hold of memory in the young and graceful woman who appeared. Lady Anne Mellent was not very tall indeed, but still she was somewhat above the middle height of woman. She might be five feet four or perhaps a little more, but formed with great delicacy, small in the bones, and slight rather than thin. She seemed less in height than she really was. Nevertheless, her figure was, of course, greatly changed since Henry had last seen her. The child had become a woman, and the features, then round and barely developed, were greatly altered. For those still delicate and beautiful, they were now clearly defined and chiseled. Her dress was somewhat peculiar, for over the ordinary morning habit of the time she wore a light silk tunic bordered with rich and beautiful fur, and on her head, instead of a bonnet, was a sort of Polish cap trimmed with the same skin. On her hands were thick-dose skin gloves or gauntlets, with flaps almost to her elbows, and her tiny foot was lost in a fur chew. Ushered in at once, she paused the moment after she had crossed the threshold, in surprise at the sight of a gentleman seated tet-a-tet with her fair friend. But the next moment she advanced to Maria and kissed her with sisterly affection. Maria was somewhat embarrassed, and the trace of tears was still upon her cheek. But she gracefully introduced Colonel Middleton to her fair visitor, and Lady Anne, turning towards him, surveyed him with a rapid glance from head to heel, bowing her head as she did so, and merely saying, Oh! There was something rather brusque in her tone, which did not altogether please Henry, and served further to embarrass Maria, whose bosom was too full of emotions to suffer her to exert that command over her demeanour, which she usually possessed, and in order to carry off the appearance of agitation, and to account for the presence of a stranger, she proceeded to explain to Lady Anne that Colonel Middleton had brought her a letter from her cousin Charles. And none from me, exclaimed the fair lady in a gay and gesting tone, on my word, that is too bad. But Charles Marston and I are certainly the two rudest people in the world. Do you not think so, Colonel Middleton, now that you know us both? No indeed, replied Henry, I do not think the term applicable in either case. Marston is certainly not a man of ceremonies, and I have not yet— Oh! fine speeches, fine speeches! exclaimed Lady Anne. When will men have done with fine speeches? But to fix you to the point, first, do you not think, when a gentleman has promised to a lady to write to her every month, giving her the whole account of his travels, and does not write, that it is very rude? Well, Charles Marston promised me to do so when we parted in Rome, and I have not heard a word of him since. You never told me you had seen him in Rome, said Maria, with some surprise. A slight blush fluttered over Lady Anne's cheek, as she answered. Did I not? Well, love, I dare say something prevented me. I do not know what, and shall not stop to inquire. Now, for my second point, Colonel Middleton, do you not think it very rude for a lady, and a young lady, too, who should, of course, be full of prim propriety, to stare at a gentleman for full two minutes, when she is first introduced to him? Maria dear, will you order me a cup of coffee, or a glass of wine, or something? For I am either quite mad, or very ill, or very happy, or very something. And she sank quietly and gracefully into a large armchair near, and covered her eyes with her gloved hands. You are indeed very wild, said Maria, ringing the bell. But Lady Anne did not answer till the servant had come and gone, while Henry and Maria exchanged looks of doubt and surprise. Some wine and some biscuits were brought, and the servant again retired. But Lady Anne did not rise, speak, or uncover her eyes, till Maria, really alarmed, lest she should be ill, touched her gently on the arm, saying, Dear Anne, here is the wine. Pray take some. Are you ill? No, no, no. said Lady Anne, I will not have any. I will do better. She withdrew her hands from her eyes as she spoke, and there were evident marks of tears upon her cheek. You have not answered me, Colonel Middleton, she said, and I will answer for you. It was very rude, or rather it would have been very rude had there not been a cause. But do you know, sir, you are so very like a dear friend whom I have lost, a friend of childhood and of early days, a friend of all who were most dear to me, one whom I loved as a brother, though I often used to tease him, sadly, and who loved me in the same way, too, though he used to love this dear beautiful girl here better, that in a moment when I saw you, the brightest and the sweetest part of life came back, and then I remembered his hard fate and shameful treatment, and I thought I should have gone mad. She paused for a moment and gazed at him earnestly again, and then, starting up, she cried, but what is the use of all this? Do you not know me? Do you pretend to have forgotten me? I am Anne Mellon. Henry, Henry, did you think you could hide yourself from me or her? And she held out her hand to him warmly. Henry Haley took it and pressed it in his own, saying, I cannot and will not attempt to deceive you, dear Lady Anne. But yet I must beg you to keep my secret faithfully for some time at least till I have resolved upon my course. Be sure of that, Henry, replied Lady Anne thoughtfully. Your course must be well thought of, but I will be one of the counsel, as well as Maria, nay, more, she added, with a sparkling look, as she has had one long conference with you all alone. I will have one also. It shall be this very night, too, in my own house here. There, do not look surprised, Maria. You know my reputation is not made of very brittle materials, or it would have been broken to pieces long ago. Yours is a very different sort of thing. You have spoiled it by over-tenderness, like a child, and made it so delicate that it will not bear rough handling. I was resolved that mine should be more robust and therefore set out with the customing it to everything. I do believe that half the mad-headed things I have done in life were merely performed to establish a character for doing anything I pleased. They could but say that Anne Mellent was mad, and I took care not to go the length that is shut-up-able. What were Maria Moncton's sensations it would be hardly fair to inquire? She had often talked with Lady Anne of Henry Haley, and had often heard her express the same feelings towards him, which were now so openly displayed. But perhaps she had listened with more pleasure while they both thought him dead, than she did now. I do not say that she was in love with him. That would be a very serious assertion, not to be made without proof. The little prince of God some men does not always wing his way in a direct course, and if he was at all busy with fair Maria's heart, she was quite ignorant of the fact. She had thought all her life a good deal about Henry Haley, it is true. She had liked him better, remembered him with fond regard than anyone whom she had ever known. She had pitted him, wept for him, and within the last hour she had felt more and stronger emotions on his account than she had ever felt for anyone on earth. But still all this might be without love. The sensations the most decidedly like that passion which she experienced, were certainly those which Lady Anne Mellon's affectionate greeting and frank, unfearing invitation, called up in her bosom. She felt inclined to think her friend odder than ever, to wish that she was not quite so odd. But Maria was a frank and generous character, and though she could not banish some of women's weaknesses entirely, yet whenever she found them out she felt ashamed of them, and tried to repress them. Why should I be vexed with her conduct just now, she asked herself, is she not always the same, and are not all her eccentricities amiable? Whether Lady Anne perceived what was passing in her friend's bosom from the varied expressions which flitted over her countenance, or whether she only suspected it from the intuitive knowledge which almost every woman had of woman's heart, I cannot tell. But after an instant's pause she went on with a slight toss of her hence, saying, After all, you know Maria, at the worst, they could but say I was in love with him, and he with me. And besides knowing ourselves that it is no such thing, we could soon proved to them that there was not a word of truth in it. So now, Henry, you will come to the lodge will you not, after dinner I mean, about nine o'clock? But intended to return to London to-night, replied Henry, hesitating, without seeing me at all, exclaimed Lady Anne, that is unpardonable. I could punish you if I would, Henry, I could punish you if I would. But I will be generous. You are mistaken indeed, answered Henry, eagerly. I intended to see you as Miss Moncton can tell you. Indeed, my first visit was destined to Harley Lodge, but she thought I should find no one there but servants. Miss Moncton, exclaimed Lady Anne with a gay laugh, do you intend to let him go on calling you that name, Maria? Oh, those prim proprieties! I hate them! The ten years should make such a difference between people who have been like brothers and sisters all their lives. But I suppose that the human heart is like that stone which is soft enough and easily formed when first dug, but hardens by exposure to the air. He was indeed going to the lodge when I met him accidentally, said Maria, and I did tell him that he would find no one there, for I thought you were in London. Whether you were right or wrong depends upon how long he has been with you, answered Lady Anne, with a malicious twinkle of her eyes. The truth is, I drove down with my beautiful ponies about an hour ago, lodged my dear old governess at the rectory where she is going to die, stopped at the lodge for two minutes to tell them to get something ready, and then came on here with a sort of second sight, I suppose. And now I will return, insisting upon your coming at the time stated, and giving me a full account of yourself, Henry. I cannot ask you to dinner, not because it would be improper, for that I should like beyond everything, but because there is nothing in the house, I believe, but three or four eggs. I must go, however, for it is growing dusk, and those wild young things of mine are as fresh as if they had come out of the stable a minute ago. Henry rose to conduct her to her carriage, but before they reached the door of the hall, Lady Anne stopped, saying, Go on, Colonel Middleton, I want to speak one word more to Maria. And running back into the library she threw her arms round her beautiful friend, saying, Oh, is not this joyful, Maria? I trust it may prove so for him, poor fellow, replied Maria with a sigh, but I have many fears. And I none, said Lady Anne, but you have thought me stranger than ever, dear girl. I have seen it all the time, but never fear it will all come right. I love him very much, Maria, but I am not in love with him. I care not what the world says, for the world will find itself a fool, as it so often does, when it sees me his wife's sprites made as I intend to be. But mind I warn you I intend to do everything that is odd in the meantime, so that everyone will think, but you, Maria, but you, that I am making love to him in open day. You will not mistake me, I think. And away she went again with a gay, light step, leaving Maria mucked and with her eyes ready to run over under the influence of emotions, strange and new. What am I feeling? What am I doing? were questions that flashed through her mind with the rapidity of lightning. But before she could answer them Henry was again by her side. There was a look of hope and light in his eyes which agitated her more than before, and she was about to sit down, to hide as far as possible her emotion. But Henry took her hand, saying, Dear Maria, it is growing dark and I do not think you would wish me to stay longer with you at present. But yet, before I go, for we may not easily perhaps find such a moment of happy privacy for a long time. Let me say that, which some words which have been spoken today induce me to say sooner than I otherwise would have done. Oh, we shall easily find moments to converse, replied Maria, catching at the first pause, and making a great effort to delay what she was sure would overcome her. Nay, not so, answered Henry, I must not leave you now doubtful as to any part of my conduct. He gazed at her for a moment, earnestly, tenderly, and as by the faint light he saw her eyes cast down, her glowing cheek and trembling form, he went on rapidly. You know me too well, Maria, you judge me, and have ever judged me too nobly, to suppose that I would seek to bind you to the fate of an exile, an outcast, or even a suspected man. I ask you not to tell me any of your own feelings towards me. I ask you not even to say a word of your own situation. Your heart, your hand even, may be engaged to some happier man. Oh, no, no, she cried, no! The words rushed from her heart burst from her lips without the act of her will, but she felt that she had never loved till then, and they would be spoken. Thank God! said Henry, in a low voice, and then I did. Well then, dearest Maria, my mind is made up. I will cast this load from me. I will clear myself of all doubt, if it be in human power to do so. And if it be done, if I stand before the whole world exculpated from all charges but of deep, perhaps too deep, devotion to a father, then I will tell you how Henry Haley has loved and thought of you from boyhood till now, how he loves you still, how he will love you till his last hour. You will find that his course has not been dishonourable or inglorious, and you shall decide whether he is to be as happy as his boyish dreams once pictured. And now, farewell for the present. He pressed his lips upon her hand and was departing, but a soft, low, musical voice caught his ear ere he reached the door. Henry, it said, oh, not yet, Henry, do not leave me yet. Henry Haley turned at once and seated himself beside her. He took her hand and it remained in his, and when he at length departed the sky was quite dark, but his heart had daylight in itself.