Her World Against a Lie
Author: Florence Marryat
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

HER WORLD AGAINST A LIE.

A Romance in Three Books.

by

FLORENCE MARRYAT,

Author of
"PHYLLIDA," "A BROKEN BLOSSOM," Еtc.

IN ONE VOLUME.

LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
14, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1895

PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO. LIMITED, 182, 183 AND 184, HIGH HOLBORN, W.C., AND MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.

CONTENTS.

————

BOOK THE FIRST.

THE LIE.

chapter
I. | 'HAVE YOU GIVEN HIM REASON TO BE JEALOUS?'
II. | 'HE WILL DRINK HIMSELF TO DEATH BEFORE LONG'
III. | 'WHO HAS TAKEN MY BOY AWAY?'
IV. | 'YOU HAVE MADE ME DESPERATE'
V. | 'GIVE ME THE KEY!'
VI. | ROBBERY AND INJUSTICE
VII. | 'HERE'S A PASS FOR A WOMAN TO BE BROUGHT ΤO!'
VIII. | 'THE MOTHER IS SURE TO FOLLOW'
IX. | 'HE HAS THE LAW, BUT YOU HAVE THE MONEY!'
X. | 'HE SHALL NEVER TAKE HIM FROM ME!'
XI. | 'IF SHE WERE ONLY OUT OF THE WAY'
XII. | 'I WAS NEVER MARRIED TO HIM'

————

BOOK THE SECOND.

THE CONSEQUENCES.

chapter
I. | 'I SHOULD LIKE TO SPEAK WITH YOU AGAIN'
II. | 'HAS HE EVER BEEN TRIED?'
III. | 'GOOD-NIGHT'
IV. | 'I WILL NEVER GIVE YOU GABRIELLE'
V. | 'ASK YOUR MOTHER'
VI. | 'WERE YOU MARRIED TO MY FATHER?'
VII. | 'YOU ARE MY BITTEREST ENEMY'
VIII. | 'I WANT TO GO AWAY FOR EVER'
IX. | 'I CANNOT BE YOUR WIFE'
X. | 'I WILL FIND MY MOTHER'

————

BOOK THE THIRD.

THE ATONEMENT.

chapter
I. | 'I WOULD GO WITH YOU ALL OVER THE WORLD'
II. | 'A PLEASANT ENGLISH HOME'
III. | 'YOU ARE A COUNTRYMAN OF MINE'
IV. | 'THEN YOU HAVE SUFFERED TOO'
V. | 'HE IS NOT A NATIVE OF CLOVERFIELD'
VI. | 'WHAT DOES HE KEEP IN THAT PARCEL?'
VII. | 'MAY I ASK YOU A FAVOUR IN RETURN?'
VIII. | 'HE'S GONE'
IX. | 'ADELA! IS IT YOU?'
X. | 'I AM THE HAPPIEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD'

Inscribed in Friendship

ΤΟ

ELIZABETH GUPPY-VOLCKMAN

AND

WILLIAM VOLCKMAN.

HER WORLD AGAINST A LIE.

————

BOOK THE FIRST.

THE LIE.

'O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure!'

Shakespeare.

————

CHAPTER I.

'HAVE YOU GIVEN HIM REASON TO BE JEALOUS?'

Mrs. Ηephzibah Horton has just come in from a weary trudge through the mud and the grease of the city on a foggy November afternoon; from standing in dingy offices until pert clerks shall have thought fit to deliver her messages to their masters; from fighting her way into omnibuses over a chevaux de frize of damp umbrellas and dirty petticoats, and she thinks she has earned the right to make herself comfortable.

'Making herself comfortable,' in Mrs. Hephzibah's dictionary of terms, means stirring the fire into a blaze, lighting the gas, exchanging her muddy boots for a pair of easy slippers, and sitting down in the armchair with the newspaper in her hand, whilst the kettle boils upon the hob, and she waits the advent of the servant with the tea-things. And many people will be inclined to agree with her that there are worse companions to be found upon a foggy night than a warm room, a good light, and the day's news.

Mrs. Hephzibah Horton is great at newspapers. If she had only twopence left for her dinner she would spend half of it upon a 'daily' and devotes the greater part of Sunday, whilst properly-conducted people are confessing their sins, to making herself thoroughly acquainted with the events of the past week. For Mrs. Hephzibah is a keen politician and a dangerous opponent with whom to argue, for she has a strong brain as well as strong opinions, and can handle the subject for which she fights with no unequal grasp.

Miss Hephzibah Horton is her legal denomination, for no man has yet persuaded her to enter into bondage to his will, but she stands out for the 'Mistress' before her name on the plea that no woman has a better right to bear it than she who has never been a slave. And since she has turned the corner of the forties, nobody dreams of disputing her right to do as she thinks best in the matter.

As she lies back in her armchair, conning diligently the account of some political meeting, it is easy to see from her face what an intelligent energetic mind she possesses. The keen, deep-set eyes glowing with perceptive faculty; the mouth, with its long upper lip and large square teeth, indicative of promptness and decision; the somewhat heavy chin and nose, and the broad forehead, all tell the same tale, that here is the spirit of a man cased in a woman's body. Her dark hair, streaked with grey, is arranged with a view more to comfort than elegance, whilst her costume, plain, substantial, and somewhat quaint, is not calculated to lend any extra graces to her person.

The description is not inviting, but the woman does not entirely lack attraction. There is a power apparent both in her mind and her body that draws weaker folk to her for protection and advice, and a kindliness mixed with humour in her piercing grey eyes that betrays her sex, spite of herself.

At the present moment, however, Mrs. Hephzibah is thinking of nothing but politics, and, to judge from her closed mouth and severe expression, things are not going entirely to her satisfaction. Twice has the servant entered the room, first with the teapot and then with the buttered toast, but her employer has not moved from her position. The debate which took place in the House last night is far too interesting. It has even made Mrs. Hephzibah forget that unpleasant interview she held with her solicitor, Mr. Bond, this afternoon, and at which he broke to her the unpalatable truth that there was not the remotest chance of her ever getting that twenty pounds owed her by Johnson. For herein lies the secret how Mrs. Hephzibah, who is one of a family of twelve, and has no private means of her own, can live where she pleases and how she pleases, without asking leave of any one.

She supports herself. She is proud to write down her name in the census (in which she would scorn to represent her age as one year less than it really is) as a free-born, independent, self-supporting Briton. From a girl the desire of liberty and independence was strong upon her. She longed to make money as her brothers did, and be indebted for her provision to no one.

Perhaps it was the existence of this ambition, so antagonistic to the qualities which most endear her sex to men, that made the natural bread-winners pass her by in favour of women far less fitted to be their life-companions. For in the days that we first meet Mrs. Hephzibah Horton her sex had not pushed its ways to the front as it has since done, and it was the exception for women to do any work at all, far less to make any marketable use of their labour.

Anyway, she was left to pursue her desire unmolested, and she has accomplished it. From little beginnings she has risen to solid, if not great ends; and now, at the age when most women if not married have become soured through disappointment, Mrs. Hephzibah's days are employed in a continuous round of duty, which leaves her no time for discontent. She does not realize large sums for her work. She is not a fashionable novelist, able to command a thousand pounds for a thousand pages of bad grammar and worse taste: she is obliged to be as careful of her diction as of her subject, for she writes chiefly for the press, and there are too many competitors entered for that race not to render it necessary to keep one's eye fixed upon the winning-post.

But it is Mrs. Hephzibah's pride to know that, however limited her means, she can always command them, and that in a moment of emergency the thoughts of editors and publishers turn to no name so often as they do to hers. They know they can depend upon Hephzibah Horton, that what she undertakes she will do, and that they will get no 'scamped' work nor illiterate criticisms from her pen.

Many a 'slating' article that has made those that sit in high places writhe in their uneasy chairs, that has caused authors and politicians to swear, and occasionally even higher personages of the realm to feel uncomfortable, has issued from the couple of furnished rooms in the Strand which have served Mrs. Hephzibah as home for the last twenty years. And many a carefully written and thought-out novel, but which bears no stamp of talent or originality upon its pages, has been returned upon its weeping owner's hands because she has pronounced it to be unmarketable.

So, slow and sure, like the tortoise in the fable, has won the race; and whilst many a brilliant story-teller, whose meteor-like popularity made the fagging press-writer feel very envious, has dropped behind, and is 'nowhere,' she still works on, never rising in her prices, but never falling, and always able to keep up the appearance and position of a gentlewoman.

There is a probability looming in the future indeed, which has the power to make even brave Mrs. Hephzibah's cheek pale and her lip quiver; the 'skeleton in the cupboard' of all who live by their wits—the dread lest brain and hand should fail, and old age be cast upon the mercy of the world. But when the thought intrudes itself she shakes it off courageously.

'Pooh, pooh!' she thinks; 'so long as one has a head left on one's shoulders, there must be something in the world that a woman can do. When all other trades fail, I'll become a pew-opener, or a box-keeper, or a crossing-sweeper. I'm sure they sweep crossings up to the last day of their lives, because I've seen them. And after all, I've not so bad a prospect before me as one of those wretched men with a wife and family to support, and only their own empty heads to look to for it. Thank Heaven! whatever ills may be in store for me, I shall bear them alone.'

By which it will be seen, that Mrs. Hephzibah is no great admirer of the other sex, nor of the holy estate of matrimony. But that is due, perhaps, to the great pride she feels in working for herself, and her love of independence.

Even to-day, although it is the evening on which to write her letter on home topics for the Australian papers, Dodson would insist upon Mrs. Horton taking back half-a-dozen books for review in his next issue.

'But I've no time to do it, Mr. Dodson,' she urged.

'Then you must find the time, Mrs. Horton,' was his reply.

It is flattering, but it is inconvenient.

There they lie, in dangerous contiguity with the buttered toast, some dozen handsome volumes in smart red and blue and purple covers, and Mrs. Hephzibah ought to put down that paper and go to work at once, if she intends to do business this evening.

But she will not even look at them. She is buried in her news.

'A fine speech!' she thinks, as she finishes a long discourse on the injustice of taxing landowners who are ineligible for representation in Parliament. 'I wonder what the Ministry will say to it! Ah! if the time had only come for them to give us a voice in such matters, I would move heaven and earth until I had seen some of these radical wrongs set right. But what's the use of talking, when the greatest wrong of which they are guilty—the position of our unfortunate sex—is right under their noses, and they will not even notice it! For eighteen centuries they have cramped our minds as the Chinese have cramped their women's feet, and for the same reason—the fear that we should prove as strong a body as themselves—and it will be a hard fight to get the swathing-bands off now. But I see it coming in the distance—the hour when we shall assert our right to stand side by side with the other half of creation, and be heard in our own cause. Heaven grant I may live to see it come!'

A low tapping has been going on at the door during Mrs. Hephzibah's soliloquy; but it is not until she returns to the discussion of her paper that she notices it.

'Come in,' she calls out rather impatiently, adding, 'If it's the boy from the Aurora office, Sarah, just tell him that the copy is not ready, and it won't be ready till to-morrow morning, so it is of no use waiting. I'll send it by the first post.'

'It's not Sarah, Mrs. Horton; it's me,' replies the low voice of somebody who has partially opened the sitting-room door.

'It is I, you mean,' corrects Mrs. Hephzibah; but as she catches sight of the intruder all her sharpness vanishes. 'God bless my soul, Delia Moray, you don't mean to say it is you! Whatever brings you round here on such a night as this?'

'I wanted to see you, to speak to you,' says the stranger, in a hesitating manner; 'and I don't mind the fog. Besides, it is in my way to the theatre.'

'What time is it?' demands Mrs. Hephzibah, as she consults a large old-fashioned watch on the mantel-shelf. 'Ah! six o'clock. You've got a full hour to spare, haven't you?'

'Yes! a full hour,' replies the other vaguely.

'That's right! Now you must take off your things and have some tea with me. It will warm you before your walk to the theatre. How cold your hands are! Come nearer to the fire! I've been dipping into the papers and forgot the tea; but it shall be ready in a minute. Why, my dear!—my dear!—what's this?'

For Delia Moray has sunk on a footstool at Mrs. Hephzibah's feet, and laying her head upon her lap commences to sob bitterly.

'Oh! Mrs. Horton, I am so very very miserable!'

All the hardness fades out of the elder woman's face as she lays her hand upon her friend's head, and pats it soothingly.

'I'm sorry to hear it, Delia Moray, but I could have told you as much long ago. What else can you expect, when you put yourself in the power of a man? Don't you know that their tender mercies last just as long as their admiration of you, and that a worn-out woman is much the same to them as a worn-out suit of clothes—only fit to be chucked away.'

'I was so young,' pleads Delia. 'I knew so little of the world. I never thought that it could come to this.'

'So every poor fool says, who has made a trial of them.'

'But I feel as if I couldn't stand it any longer. I wouldn't mind his cruelty to myself, Mrs. Horton! I could bear that——but it is the child!'

'What of the child? How can he harm him?'

'He uses him as a tool to exact my submission, and if I rebel in the least thing, he makes my poor Willy suffer for it. I can hardly describe to you the pass things have come to. He is hardly ever sober, night or day. I have worked (you know, Mrs. Horton, how I have worked) to supply him and the child with the necessaries of life; but he takes every farthing I earn for drink, and when I remonstrate with him and show him that Willy has not sufficient food or clothes, he insults and ill-uses me. Last night he threatened to turn me out of doors in my night-dress, and did lock me out upon the landing until the woman of the house came upstairs and said she would have the door forced if he didn't open it; and to-day'—here the wife's tears choked her utterance,—'to-day, he has beaten my poor child till he is black and blue, and pushed me from the top of the stairs to the bottom. Look at my arm!' she exclaims suddenly, as she pushes up the sleeve of her thin alpaca dress, and shows the angry red and blue mark of a fresh bruise.

She is a pretty woman, of five-and-twenty, this Delia Moray, or she would be pretty if she were not so thin and worn. Her Irish breeding is evinced by her blue orbs, black hair, and rose-leaf complexion; but all trace of the national archness and espièglerie has deserted her countenance. Her sorrowful eyes are surrounded by dark rims—the effect of constant weeping—and there is a sad droop about her pretty quivering mouth. Yet the inherent fire of her race is only sleeping in her. It has nearly been extinguished by ill-usage, but the embers smoulder still, and only need a helping hand to fan them into a flame.

'And that scoundrel can make a beast of himself upon your hard-earned wages, and then treat you like that,' says Mrs. Hephzibah meditatively. 'Now, be frank with me, and tell me the whole truth. Have you ever given him reason to be jealous of you?'

'Never! so help me Heaven!'

'Look me in the face, Delia Moray, and say those words again.'

The girl, she is but a girl compared to Mrs. Hephzibah, raises her mournful eyes and regards her friend steadfastly.

'Never, Mrs. Hephzibah, as God will judge me at the last day!'

'I believe you. But come now, let's forget all this for a few minutes and have our tea. When that is over, you can tell me as much more as you please.'

Mrs. Moray rises, and takes her seat at the table; but her breast is still heaving with emotion, and she cannot do more than drink feverishly the cup of tea her friend presents to her. Mrs. Hephzibah is sympathetic, but she can still eat. And as she crunches her buttered toast, and watches poor Delia's unsuccessful efforts, she thanks God she is not as other women are.

'What made you marry this man?' she demands abruptly, as the slight meal is concluded.

Delia Moray looks up with a startled, flushed face.

'Didn't you hear my question? I don't ask it without a purpose. I want to learn all you can tell me about your former life. Perhaps I may be able to help you.'

'How can you help me?'

'Never you mind! We'll talk of that by-and-by. Tell me now about your marriage. Where did you meet Mr. Moray?'

'Miles away from here, at a little town in Scotland where I was playing.'

'Was he on the stage as well?'

'Oh no! He was a clerk in a bank, or some house of business in Glasgow; but he got into trouble, and had to leave.'

'He was kicked out, you mean! Did he embezzle money?'

'I am afraid so; but he never told me the entire story, and I did not think it of much consequence then. I was only sixteen. James saw me first upon the stage at Greenock, and when he proposed to me, I thought it a grand thing to be married to him. I had no parents, nor relations, that I knew of, and his people were thought a great deal of in Glasgow. But I have never seen any of them, except his brother.'

'Was your marriage with him a secret one?'

'He kept it a secret from his family. They were very proud, he said, and he was afraid if they heard he had married an actress, they would refuse to help him any further. So we waited till we could cross the border, and were married in Berwick.'

'I'm sorry for that! If it had been done in Scotland, we might have proved it to be an irregular marriage. What is the name of the place at which you were married?'

'Chilton. Oh! I shall never forget that day, Mrs. Hephzibah. There was such a fearful thunderstorm. I was frightened out of my senses; and the horrible old man who married us was so tipsy, he could hardly get through the service. And the very same night the little church in which we were married was burned to the ground.'

'Burned to the ground, child! What! entirely destroyed?'

'I believe so. They said it was struck by lightning, but some people thought the clergyman had set fire to it himself; and I am sure he was tipsy enough for anything.'

'Delia Moray!' exclaims Mrs. Hephzibah suddenly. 'Have you got your marriage certificate?'

'Yes! I have a copy of it. It was given us before we left the church. But why do you ask, Mrs. Horton?'—with a distressed countenance—'surely you do not suspect that I am not married to him?'

'No, child! No! It would be much better, may be, if you were not. But the man is a villain, and may turn round upon you any day. Keep the certificate safe. Don't let it go out of your own hands, or you may find your name ruined before you know where you are. Burned to the ground! I never heard of such a thing before! And what became of the drunken parson?'

'I have heard nothing of him since. For a few months we lived near Glasgow, and then James was unfortunate, and lost his situation, and I had to go on the stage again, and have been there ever since.'

'While he does nothing!'

'No! nothing. He says he can't get anything to do.'

'An idle excuse, because he prefers to live upon your salary. But it appears to me that things have come to a crisis, and that you ought to do something to free yourself from the clutches of this scoundrel. Your friends can't help you, because you've got none, and his friends won't. Nothing remains for you therefore, Delia Moray, but to take the law into your own hands and help yourself.'

————

CHAPTER II.

'HE WILL DRINK HIMSELF TO DEATH BEFORE LONG.'

At these words the younger woman's face became a picture of despair.

'How can I help myself?' she cried.

'As other wives have done before you. Have you never heard of such a thing as a protection order?'

'Never!'

'Really, the ignorance of our sex upon matters of general information is astounding! I should have thought it was the interest of every married woman in Christendom to make herself acquainted with the relief the law contains for her. It's little enough, my dear, I can tell you, and would burden no one's brains to get by heart. A protection order, obtained from a magistrate, would render you safe from the assaults of that man to-morrow, and enable you to live in peace, and support yourself and your child.'

'Oh! Mrs. Horton! can it really be true? I thought that a woman, once married, was bound to remain with her husband till his death. I thought he could force her to live with him.'

'So he can, if he supports her—not if she supports him. Thank goodness! we are not quite such slaves as that! though, in my opinion, marriage is a one-sided contract, under the best of circumstances.'

'But couldn't they compel me to support Mr. Moray?' says the wife, trembling at the prospect of deliverance. 'He has a bad cough, you know, and he says he's too ill to work. Who would keep him if we were to separate?'

'Let him keep himself, the idle hound, or go on the parish!' exclaims Mrs. Hephzibah indignantly. 'He is not too ill to throw you downstairs and otherwise ill-use you, and no one can compel you to work for his bread. It's not your business to do it. The non-liability of the female sex is the only set-off it possesses against its woeful lack of independence. But I hope to live to see the day when full justice shall be done us—we don't ask for more than justice, mind you—when we shall have liberty to use the brains God gave us, in the way that shall best conduce to our own temporal welfare. By the way, why do you call yourself Delia "Merton" in the playbills? Are you ashamed of the other name? You have good cause to be!'

'Oh, no! but James is ashamed that I should be known to be his wife. He comes of a Scotch family, and they are very proud of the name of Moray. Most Scotch people are proud, I think.'

'You needn't tell me, my dear. I know the national peculiarities. They preach more than any other nation upon earth, and practise less. A canting, psalm-singing, drunken lot! Your husband seems to be a very good specimen of the race. He's not ashamed to embezzle money, and drink like a fish, and ill-treat his wife, and live upon her earnings, but he is too proud to let his precious name be paraded in a playbill. A pretty sort of pride indeed! And I shouldn't be surprised to hear he says his prayers every night as bold as brass. Faugh! It makes me sick! And is "Delia" an assumed name also?'

'No. That is my real name.'

'Who ever gave you such a name as that? Why didn't they call you "Dahlia" at once?'

'I don't know, I'm sure,' replies the girl, with a faint laugh, some of her native humour roused by Mrs. Hephzibah's quaint look of disgust. 'Old Biddy, my nurse, used to call me "Miss Dalia" in the happy days before poor mother died and left me to look after myself.'

'It's nonsense to say "What's in a name?" ' continues Mrs. Hephzibah. 'There's everything in a name. Do you suppose I should ever have got on in the world as I have done, if I had had "Delia Merton" tacked to my back? There's weakness in every syllable of it. Now, I like my own name: as a rule, few people do; but I am the exception—"Hephzibah Horton." It sounds strong, doesn't it?'

'It's a very uncommon name,' says Delia Moray.

'I don't care if it's uncommon or not! "Hephzibah" is a good old Scriptural name; but that's nothing to the purpose. I say it sounds strong. It's the sort of name that if a man owed me money, and was told that Mrs. Hephzibah Horton was waiting to speak to him, would make him feel more inclined to jump out of the back window than to come downstairs and have the matter out. And though I don't care about boasting, it's a fact, my dear, that the thing has happened. Joseph Williams, of the Aurora, did it once, and sent me a cheque by the next post. But I'm certain he would have come down as bold as brass and palavered for an hour, if he had heard Miss Delia Merton wanted to see him.'

'It's nearly seven,' says Delia Moray, rising; 'and I must go.'

'Well, look here, child! I am very glad you've told me all this; and if I can help you, I will. I must write my Australian letter to-night, and just run through those books for Dodson; but I expect to see Bond—that's my solicitor—to-morrow, when I'll lay your case before him, and get his opinion. He's an awful old fool; but I fancy he knows as much about his trade as most of them.'

'You won't mention any names,' urges her listener anxiously.

'Won't mention any names!' is the sarcastic rejoinder. 'No, of course not, if you don't wish it; but that is the way with all you women! You want Justice, but directly she approaches you, you tremble. Instead of saying outright, "Such and such are my complaints," you double and circumvent, and whisper in corners, as though you were the injurers instead of the injured. I tell you, Delia Moray, if women had but ventilated their wrongs from the commencement, instead of hiding them in their own breasts, they would have been emancipated before now! However, I suppose it is of little use talking. We have suffered in silence too long not to be afraid of our own voices. But I wish you well through it, my dear, and a speedy escape from him, one way or another. Should the worst come to the worst, I suppose he will drink himself to death before long; and the sooner it happens, the better for you.'

'Don't say that!' responds Mrs. Moray, with a shudder. 'It seems so wicked, I dare not think of it!'

'Delia Moray! you can't help being a fool, but you can help being a humbug. Don't talk nonsense to me! Here is a brute of a man who makes your life a curse to you, and from whom you should pray each night to be delivered; and when I speak of the natural ending to him, that, sooner or later, must come to us all, you cry out it's wicked! What is there "wicked" in it? Don't all men die—the good as well as the bad? If you were in prison, you wouldn't think it wicked to pray to be set at liberty, would you? But this bondage you have brought upon yourself, you consider you are bound to suffer all your life long.'

'I thought he loved me once!' sobs poor Delia, with her face hidden on her friend's shoulder.

'There, go along! I have no patience with you!' exclaims Mrs. Hephzibah, as she pushes her towards the door. 'But mind you look in again to-morrow evening, and hear if I have been able to extract any sense out of that stupid old Bond.'

But long after Delia Moray, with her bruised body and sick heart, has crept away to her evening's occupation, Mrs. Hephzibah sits motionless, staring into the fire, and wondering what she can do to alleviate her position.

'A pretty kettle of fish!' she ruminates. 'I guessed how miserable that poor girl was months ago. And now he's taken to beating the boy too! A wretched, half-starved looking little creature. And the brother stands by, I suppose, and sees it all, and doesn't interfere. A nice lot! I'd like to talk to them. But if I can get that unhappy girl out of their clutches I will—— I don't believe a word about the church being burnt down. It's a trumped-up lie, invented by that coward Moray to serve his own purposes. He'll live on the woman as long as it suits his convenience, and when an opportunity occurs for bettering his position, he'll cut the rope that binds them, and send her adrift. Well, I must try and knock the whole business into Bond's head to-morrow, and see what he says about it. He's an old idiot, but he knows the law. But if I don't go to work at once, I shall have no time for play.'

And thereupon Mrs. Hephzibah subsides for the evening.

————

CHAPTER III.

'WHO HAS TAKEN MY BOY AWAY?'

Meanwhile, Delia Moray, drawing her woollen wrap closely about her mouth, to prevent the thick November fog finding its way down her throat, traverses the sloppy streets to the stage entrance of the Corinthian Theatre, where she has been employed on and off for the last three years. She fills upon the stage much the same position as Mrs. Hephzibah does in the literary world; that is, though she will never come to the front and be applauded as a star of magnitude, neither the manager nor the public could get on without her, and others of the same degree of capability. She can sing a little, just enough to give a ballad so as to please the gallery; and she can dance a little, sufficiently to fill in the pauses whilst the greater luminaries are resting from their labours; and she can speak her part well, and is thoroughly au fait at the business of the stage.

She will do everything, in fact, that the big stars disdain to do, and the very small lights are unable to accomplish. Were she a horse, you would call her a good hack; as it is, however, she is only Miss Delia Merton ('Little Merton,' as the gods irreverently term her), who is willing to undertake any part that falls in her line, for a salary of two pounds a week. She has proved herself to be so painstaking and obliging, and looks, moreover, so ladylike when she steps upon the stage, that the manager of the 'Corinthian' has been glad to keep her on from one season to another; and in the intervals whilst the theatre has been closed for redecoration, Delia has sung at concerts over the water; has even been recognised, it is said, on the platform of a music hall; has done, and doubtless would have done, anything to procure food for the child who is her sole earthly possession, and for whom the idle, good-for-nothing husband and father refuses to work.

Inside the theatre little is known of the girl's private history, except that she is married. Of this fact she has never made concealment, using it as a protection in her dangerous position; but since her husband never appears upon the scene, either to conduct her to the theatre or to take her home, she has not found his name of nearly so much use to her as her own. Most of the women employed in the same line of business consider that Miss Merton 'gives herself airs.'

This is because, having so little to tell that is pleasant, she has assumed a degree of reticence that is not natural, and sits awkwardly upon her. She cannot chatter as the others do. She has no lovers to boast of, nor can she affect social superiority in the sense of being a married woman. Indeed, poor Delia strongly suspects that most of her companions altogether disbelieve the story of her marriage, and the suspicion makes her shy.

The part she has to play to-night—a secondary character in the opening farce—she has acted over and over again, until she is utterly sick of it. She dresses for it almost in silence, whilst the girls around her are relating all the adventures that have befallen them since the evening before, and she is pondering on the conversation she held with Mrs.

Hephzibah Horton. She walks on the stage and goes through her part almost mechanically; words and gestures following each other in the old accustomed way, whilst the actress's heart is brooding over the probability—no! not the probability, the possibility—of a release from her present intolerable bondage.

To live alone with Willy, somewhere—however poor and wretched it might be—where she could leave her boy when duty took her to the theatre, confident that he was safe and warm, and that no cruel, drunken father would come in and thrash him whilst she was away; to be able to take her hardly-earned forty shillings home every Friday night and feel that, whatever she deprived herself of, her child would have sufficient to eat and drink for the following week—these advantages, the common justice which her motherhood demands, but which she never dreamt before this evening it was possible she could claim—seem like the opening of paradise to her bewildered senses. No one notices the absorption of her mind; the audience see no difference in her acting, and the company only think that 'little Merton is glummer than usual.'

And she is walking, and talking, and acting in a dream. The farce is succeeded by a melodrama, in which Delia has no part, but the evening's entertainment finishes with a burlesque, for which she must wait.

She changes her dress quickly and descends to the green-room. She wants to get out of ear-shot of the folly going on in the 'second ladies' ' dressing-room, and to have leisure to think quietly over the marvellous revelation that has been made to her.

Can there really be a refuge provided for her wrongs? Delia Moray would hardly have believed it from any other lips than those of Mrs. Horton. But she knows her to be as clever as she is true. Her acquaintance with her began in an unorthodox manner. It was during one of those seasons of drought about a year ago, when the 'Corinthian' was closed, and every other source of gain seemed closed also, that Delia Moray had entered a stationer's shop to ask if they knew of any copying (or other) work she could undertake to do.

Of course they did not. Stationers, with the rest of business men, are not in the habit of trusting their work to any one who may chance to demand it. But Hephzibah Horton was in the shop buying 'outsides' for her press orders, and was struck at first sight with Delia's face and manner.

She followed her into the street, and in her abrupt way asked who she was and where she came from.

A full explanation ensued. Delia could tell to a woman, and one who was evidently a gentlewoman, much that she could not say to the men with whom she desired to do business; and the end of it was, that Mrs. Hephzibah, with her usual energy, stalked off at once to Fleet Street, and there, having caught a dramatic critic, harried and worried the poor man to that degree, that he actually procured her protégée an engagement at one of the transpontine theatres before the week was out. And until the time to receive her salary arrived, Delia Moray's household was supported upon the proceeds of a five-pound note that was sent anonymously to her address the morning after.

Delia has never forgotten, nor ceased to be grateful for, that five-pound note. She knows full well from whom it came, though Mrs. Hephzibah denied all knowledge of the transaction in a manner that must have caused the hair of the recording angel to stand on end.

But since that time Mrs. Horton has been the ideal of all that is most sensible and good in the actress's eyes. She would take her word against that of her own mother, did her mother still exist in this world. And if Mrs. Hephzibah thinks that it is possible the law may release her from her marriage bondage, it must be possible!

It is this idea that is making the poor girl's brain whirl. She feels as if she had no capability of thought, the idea which has been presented to her is so sudden and so strange, as she sits in a corner of the green-room with her face buried in her hands. Naturally, the apartment is not vacant. Members of the company come and go continually, as their names are given out by the call-boy; some, who have a long wait, like herself, ensconce themselves on the seats and take to needle-work, or reading, or flirtation, as the humour seizes them; but if it is flirtation it must be conducted very quietly and discreetly, for the manager of the 'Corinthian' possesses a powerful ally in the shape of a wife, who, having been more than talked about at one period of her life, is now so exceedingly virtuous, that, if she could prevent it, she would not let the members of her husband's company even look at one another. But since looks cannot be avoided, she keeps a rigorous watch over their tongues and actions, and is all over the theatre, here, there, and everywhere, when least expected, ready to note all misdemeanours with her sharp eyes and report them to the manager on the very next opportunity. Therefore the green-room of the 'Corinthian' is a pattern of propriety, and all conversations held therein are conducted in a whisper. Not but that Delia can catch the import of a communication passing between two women by her side, and the more easily that it relates to the subject uppermost in her mind.

'Who on earth do you think I met in the Strand to-day?' says one.

'Can't imagine,' replies the other.

'Mrs. Ferrars! wife of old Bob Ferrars of the "Athenian." '

'Did you really! Why, she's never living with that man again, is she?'

'Not she. She says she wouldn't cross the road to speak to him if he lay dying in the gutter.'

'Who can wonder at it, after the brutal way in which he treated her? But what is she doing now? Anything in London?'

'No! She is just off for Liverpool. She's got an engagement in New York!'

'Bless my soul! you do surprise me! I thought no power on earth would make her leave her children.'

'No more it would! She takes both the babies with her.'

'What does Bob say to that?'

'Swears like a trooper, I suppose, but he can't help it. You know he squandered all her earnings and beat her so shamefully, she was obliged to apply for a protection-order against him.'

'What's that?'

'La! my dear! I can't explain it. Something the magistrate gave her to let her live by herself if she liked, and to prevent Bob pawning her wardrobe, and taking away her money. However, he declared if she went away he'd keep the two children, and Mrs. Ferrars should never see them. He thought he'd got her there, you see. He doesn't care a bit about the brats himself, but he knew she was so fond of them she wouldn't be able to stay away from the place where they were. But she spoke to the magistrate, and he said she might do as she chose, and Bob hadn't any power to touch the children, because they're so young; so she took them away from him the very same evening. And she tells me that when she has been in America for a few years, she will be able to get a divorce on the score of cruelty, and be free for good and all. And I'm sure I hope she may, poor thing, for she's had a bad time of it and no mistake.'

Here the speakers turn the conversation, and leave Delia at liberty to think over what she has heard. So—other women can make an attempt to free themselves and their children from ill-treatment and tyranny, and why not she? Why cannot she apply to a magistrate, as Mrs. Ferrars did, for leave to take Willy away from his father and support him herself?

The story related by her companions inspires her with courage. It was much to hear Mrs. Horton say there was hope for her in the law—still more to find her words verified in the case of a fellow sufferer. Delia gets up when the curtain is about to rise for the burlesque, with alacrity, and goes through the part allotted her almost with pleasure. The absurd words and merry tunes seem to keep time to something ringing in her heart—when she dances, her blood appears to run faster as though she were trampling down the weary past.

It is hope she feels there: hope, the last good left for mankind at the bottom of Pandora's box—hope, to which poor Delia has been so long a stranger that she can scarcely recognise the feeling. She looks very pretty and piquante as she dances in the first row in her fancy sailor's dress—so much so that a lady in the boxes scanning the burlesquers through her opera-glass, points her out to the gentleman who is her companion.

'Assez bien!' is his rejoinder after he has taken a careful survey of the stage; 'pretty, as you say, and pensive looking, but much too thin for beauty. These girls lead such fast lives, they go off terribly after their première jeunesse.

And the lady acquiesces, and looks at Delia again, and thinks what a pity it is that so elegant and attractive a woman should be classed amongst the lowest of the earth. Little does she imagine that the object of her pity is a wife and mother—as virtuous as herself, and far more praiseworthy for being so. So hardly do we judge our fellow-creatures when we walk by sight only.

As soon as ever the curtain has dropped upon the burlesque, Delia hurries back to the dressing-room, and is robed in her old alpaca gown, dark waterproof and brown straw hat, before her chattering comrades have disencumbered themselves of their glittering finery.

'It's raining cats and dogs outside,' exclaims one of them as Delia Moray turns to leave the room. 'How are you going to get home, Cleveland? Have a cab with Wilson and me, will you? The bus doesn't set us down within a quarter of a mile of the door, and we shall get drenched to the skin if we attempt to walk.'

As she hears the proposal, Delia hurries away. She is dreadfully afraid some one will ask her to go shares in a cab next, and she cannot afford it. 'Drenched to the skin!'—that is just what she must become before she reaches home, for she dare not take a 'bus.' She has only a few shillings of her last week's salary left, and she must not part with them for Willy's sake. Seven shillings!—and this is Wednesday—who knows what necessity may arise for them before she receives her salary again on Friday?

As the mother remembers this, and all that she has heard that evening, she twists her woollen comforter tightly round her throat and steps out into the pelting rain gallantly, her chief anxiety to get home to her boy, and provide as best she may for his comfort.

Willy is very delicate. As an infant he could not have proper care; she used to be obliged to leave him in the evenings, whilst she went to the theatre, to the tender mercies of her landladies, and his constitution has suffered from neglect. He is subject to attacks of croup and inflammation of the chest, and Delia trembles for his health with every change of the weather. To-night is a bad time for him—a cold November evening, combined with rain and a dense fog. She can even feel it penetrate her own lungs, as she coughs and experiences that peculiar tightness in the throat that portends bronchitis. But she does not think of herself. All her care is for the child.

Her lodgings are situated a long way from the theatre, somewhere in the back streets of the city; but how can three people live decently on a couple of pounds a week?

It is half an hour, or more, before Delia Moray reaches the dingy old house in which she and her husband live, in company with half a dozen other families as poor as themselves.

The door is opened to her by her landlady, a battered old woman, who rejoices in a wig of dishevelled curls—a legacy probably, left her by some of her theatrical lodgers in exchange for rent—surmounted by a black cap adorned with every sort of dirty artificial flower, but who keeps a kind heart in her bosom, nevertheless, and is particularly interested in Delia, whom she constantly declares she will not see 'put upon.'

They exchange no greeting, for the mother is in a hurry to see her boy. She runs up one, two, three flights of stairs, and quickly enters a dingy sitting-room. There is a strong smell of beer and tobacco pervading the place; but it is empty, and the fire has burnt down in the grate.

Delia turns into the bedroom. All is in darkness! She makes her way up to the bed, and lays her cheek down upon the pillow. The bed is vacant—no one is there! Then a sudden fear attacks her. What has become of her child? She rushes out upon the landing, and calls to the woman who let her in at the front door:

'Mrs. Timson! Mrs. Timson! Where is Willy? Who has taken my boy away? Speak to me! Tell me where he is gone to—for the love of Heaven!'

————

CHAPTER IV.

'YOU HAVE MADE ME DESPERATE.'

The woman in the brown curls and artificial flowers comes limping up the stairs.

'Lor' bless you, Mrs. Moray! you've no call to be in such a stew. I would have told you where he was at first, if you 'adn't run past me like a whirlwind. The boy's only gone out with his pa.'

'With Mr. Moray, and at this time of night! Wherever can they have gone?'

'That I can't tell you. All I know is, that I was just going to slip off the child's things and put him to bed, when your 'usband called to me to put on his 'at and comforter as he was goin' to take him along of him. I said it wasn't fit weather to take the boy out, with his cough too; but all I got for my pains was to be told to mind my own business. The other gentleman was here too, and went out with them.'

'What! Mr. William Moray?'

'To be sure. They left about seven, and 'aven't been back since. When I 'eard your knock, I 'oped it was them; for I knew you'd worry terrible to come home and find Willy gone.'

'Oh, Mrs. Timson! it will kill him—in this dreadful weather!' sobs Delia.

'Don't go to talk such nonsense, ma'am. The boy won't take no 'arm, though he was coughing terrible, to be sure, as I let 'em out. The gentlemen seemed in high feather, though. Perhaps your 'usband 'ad some good news—'eard of an appointment, maybe, or something of that sort—and it'll turn out all for the best; so don't you take on like that now.'

'Oh! what can he have heard that should make him take Willy out at seven o'clock at night? He has never done it before! He hates to take the child anywhere. And he is so delicate; it's enough to kill him.'

'Well, I shouldn't wonder if it gave 'im an attack of croup,' replies Mrs. Timson, who, like most of her class, is a regular Job's comforter; 'but still, there's no knowing. It's coming down worse than ever, I do believe. And 'ere you are, wet from 'ead to foot, and not taking the least 'eed to yourself.'

'Oh, never mind me! I am of no consequence. I can think of nothing but my poor boy, exposed to this dreadful weather. Do you think Mr. Moray will bring him home in a cab, Mrs. Timson?'

'I don't know, I'm sure. If it suits his convenience and don't touch his pocket, he'll do it, not else. And now you must take off those wet things. It's all very well to say you can't think of nothing but the child; but what's to become of 'im, I should like to know, if you fall sick and can't work for 'im?'

'Yes you are right,' cries Delia, the landlady's words recalling the new hope she has for the future. 'I will change at once. It is so bad for Willy to come near damp clothes; and everything depends upon my keeping well—everything."

She strikes a light, and hurries into the bedroom, whilst Mrs. Timson goes down upon her knees to rekindle the fire.

'Yes,' she thinks as she does so, 'you might fall sick, poor thing, and rot where you lay, before 'e'd put out a finger to raise you up again. The idle, thankless varlet! Before I'd toil my life out for such a man, he might go to the work house. But it's all for the child—the child! She'd scoop out her two eyes if it would do the child any good, or lay down and die for 'im any day. And he's the son of his father too! I wonder how much thanks he'll give 'er for it by-and-by?'

Whilst Mrs. Timson is soliloquising, Delia is tearing off her articles of dress, one by one, fearful lest her boy should return before she is ready to attend to him. Three or four times does she rush out upon the landing, confident she hears voices and footsteps in the lower passage; but it is only those of the other lodgers, or the wind and rain beating up against the hall door.

'Mrs. Timson,' she exclaims, whilst on one of these pilgrimages, 'make up a good fire. Never mind the expense. My poor little boy will be so cold and wet when he comes in. And put on the kettle of water. If his cough seems worse, I will give him a warm bath. Hush! Wasn't that the hall-door bell?'

'Not a bit of it, my dear. The baker's boy broke the wire—bad luck to 'im!—this afternoon, and it won't sound. That's the first parlour ringing for 'is grog. 'E always takes a glass regular before turning in at twelve o'clock.'

'Twelve o'clock! Can it really be as late as that? Oh! what has become of my boy?"

'Now, you go and get somethink on your shoulders, Mrs. Moray, or you'll be catching your death of cold. What else could it be but twelve o'clock? You're never 'ome till half-past eleven yourself.'

But when Delia has discarded her wet things, and sat down in the sitting-room to wait the advent of her husband and child, the suspense becomes still more intolerable. She walks up and down the little apartment in her restlessness, pressing her face against the dingy window-panes as though she could distinguish anything in the general darkness outside. She hangs over the creaking bannister-rail, listening, with painful eagerness, to every step that passes on the pavement in hopes of hearing one step before the door.

More than once she gives vent to a violent fit of weeping, as the idea oppresses her mind that her husband has guessed of what she has been thinking, and has taken the initiative by kidnapping her boy, so she shall never see him again.

At one o'clock Mrs. Timson, with half-closed eyes, puts her head in at the door on her way up to bed, and requests that her lodger will be sure to turn off the gas in the hall after the gentlemen has come in.

'Oh! will he ever come back, Mrs. Timson—will he ever come back? Surely something dreadful must have happened to them! Mr. Moray is taken ill, or Willy has been run over by a cab! What else should keep them so late? I am frightened out of my life, waiting for them in this horrible suspense!'

'Nonsense, my dear!' returns the lady practically. 'You know your good gentleman's 'abits well enough. It's much more likely he's been a bit overtaken by liquor, and can't find his way 'ome. But, bless my soul, 'ere they are!'

And here, sure enough, they must be—or at all events, somebody must be—for the knocker on the hall door commences to sound, and continues to sound, as vigorously as it can, until every lodger in the house is wakened from his slumbers.

Delia flies downstairs to open the door, whilst Mrs. Timson limps after her, growling audibly at the unnecessary commotion made by the returning party.

'As if it wasn't enough to keep honest folk out of their beds till the small hours of the morning, but what 'e must come 'ome with row enough for the Prince of Wales 'isself.'

But Mrs. Moray heeds nothing but the fact that her child is close at hand. She undoes the fastenings of the door with trembling eagerness, and flings it open. On the threshold stand three figures. She sees but one; and sinking down upon her knees, clasps the fragile little boy in her arms.

'Get out of the way, will you?' exclaims the stuttering, drunken voice of her husband. 'What do you mean by blocking up the door in this fashion? Don't you see we want to come in?'

'Now, Mr. Moray, none of your shoving and pushing,' interposes the landlady indignantly; 'for I won't have it, and so I tells you. Your poor wife's been 'alf out of her wits with fright and anxiety about you, which you ought to have been ashamed of yourself to take off the child in that fashion, without saying a word to no one, and keeping 'im out long after decent folks 'ave gone to bed; but now you 'ave come 'ome, you'll please to keep a civil tongue in your 'ead, or I'll put you out upon the step again before you know where you are!'

'Hush! hush!' cries Delia imploringly, as she rises to her feet with the child in her arms.

'Hold your tongue, you old vixen——' commences James Moray, but his brother stops him.

'Be quiet, Jem, and let us go upstairs. You're not in a fit state to speak to any one.'

'No, that 'e's not, nor ever is,' replies Mrs. Timson witheringly; 'take 'im up with you, do, sir, and a precious bargain you've got. And if you don't mean to stay here all night yourself you'll be good enough to turn out again sharp, for I've waited up too long for you already, and don't mean to trust my 'ouse to a drunken sot like that 'ere.'

James Moray here makes a futile dash at the landlady's cap, but nearly upsets his balance in the attempt, and his brother with some difficulty guides his tottering feet up to the comfortless sitting-room, where Delia has already preceded them with the boy.

When at last they reach it they find her kneeling before the fire, taking off Willy's wet garments and chafing his feet and hands, which are as cold as ice. The look of anxiety and reproach upon her face is quite sufficient to raise her husband's choler.

'Leave that brat alone,' he says authoritatively, 'and let him put himself to bed as best he may. I require your services.'

But Delia can be angry too. The meek spirit with which she bears his insults to herself does not extend to his behaviour to her child.

'I cannot leave him yet,' she answers determinately. 'He is wet through to the skin, and God only knows what harm you may have done him by taking him out at night in such weather. If I do not see that he is thoroughly warmed and dried he will have an attack of inflammation before the morning.'

'Do you mean to disobey me?' cries James Moray, as he advances towards her threateningly.

He is a slight effeminate specimen of his race, with pale blue eyes and reddish hair; but even an effeminate man is an alarming antagonist for a woman when he approaches her intoxicated and with uplifted arm.

A sudden resolution seizes Delia to appeal to the protection of her brother-in-law. She has never been intimate with William Moray, for though he constantly visits their apartments, it is generally during the evening, when she is away from home, and when he has met her there he has taken his cue from James, and treated her more as if she had been his brother's mistress than his wife.

Delia dislikes him heartily, with his burly, well-fed manner and pompous speech, but surely, she thinks, he can never stand smiling by and listen to her husband's abuse of her.

'Mr. Moray, I beg you to interfere with your brother on my behalf. This child is exceedingly delicate and most subject to violent attacks of cold that endanger his life. He ought never to have been taken out to-night; no father who had the least consideration for his health would have done so, but since the error has been committed I will not be deprived of applying the remedy. Pray reason with James and show him that I am right.'

'Well—really——' stammers her brother-in-law, 'I scarcely feel justified in—in—opposing—your—that is, my brother's—claim to do what he thinks best with his own child!'

'Of course not!' interposes her husband loudly. 'One would imagine, to hear you speak, that the boy didn't belong to me. Drop those clothes, I say! drop them! Leave the brat to himself and attend to us; and when that is done the pair of you may go together to bed—or to the devil, for aught I care!'

"I shall not leave him,' replies Delia, also raising her voice as she resumes her occupation.

The men are equally amazed.

'What!' exclaims Mr. William Moray.

'Were you speaking to me?' demands the other.

'I spoke to both of you,' she answers, rising and folding her arms closely round the child as though to protect him. 'It is I that work for this child. All the money that comes to this house comes through my labour, and I do it for Willy's sake—no one else's. Therefore I refuse to give up the right to attend to his wants—the common right that every mother has.'

'I'll be whipped if you shall attend to him now,' says James Moray, as he seizes the child by the arm and twists him out of her embrace.

The action is violent, and makes the boy scream, and the sound of his voice in pain maddens his mother.

'Mr. Moray!' she exclaims vehemently, 'if you stand by and let your brother treat us in this way I will never forgive you. You don't know the tyranny he exercises over me and my poor child. Only yesterday he beat Willy cruelly—look at his back and judge for yourself—and threw me from the top of the stairs to the bottom——'

'Really, my dear lady, these little domestic differences can have no interest for a third party. They are so much better kept to one's self.'

'Little domestic differences!' she echoes scornfully. 'Would your wife call it a "little domestic difference" if her arm was bruised as mine is?'

'I should much prefer Mrs. Moray's name being kept out of the conversation altogether!'

'Oh yes! I suppose her name is too good in your estimation to be mixed up with such a disgraceful affair as a tipsy man beating his wife. But my name is Mrs. Moray too—and I have not only to hear of it, but to bear it.'

'I think, James,' says William Moray, turning to his brother, 'it would be as well if I wished you good-night.'

'All right,' replies James, in a half-stupefied manner.

He is still leaning up against the wall, with the partially undressed and weeping boy in his grasp.

And William Moray, the well-fed, respectable city man, who can visit and encourage his dissipated brother in his vices, but never ask him to his own home or stretch out a helping hand to aid him to a better life, prepares to return to his vulgar thriving home at Brixton.

But Delia will not let him pass. She places herself before the door and glares at him like a tigress.

'You shall not go until you have heard me speak,' she says. 'You come here and encourage this man in his drinking and his idleness; you know that he lives upon my earnings and ill-treats me in return; you know that you are ashamed to ask him to your own house or introduce him to your friends, and yet when I—a woman—appeal to you for protection and help against him, you smile and turn the subject, and say you'd better take your leave. Well then, I defy you both—there! Keep your drunken brother, since you are so fond of his company; support him yourself, for I am sick of it. My money is my own—not his—and I refuse any longer to keep him in idleness and vice, whilst I toil and slave. Go home and tell that to your wife, or I may take it into my head some day to tell her myself. Between you both you have made me desperate!'

She looks so as she stands there, with the fire of indignation gleaming from her eyes. It is Mrs. Hephzibah Horton that is doing it all; other nights Delia has lost her temper, but she has never dared to threaten before. The resolution of her voice strikes the two men dumb, and as she ceases no sound is heard except the wailing of the child.

'Most extraordinary—never heard of such a thing!' mutters William Moray as he slips past her down the stairs.

Then she is left alone with her husband, and fear succeeds to desperation. Her vehemence has almost sobered him. He looks as though he were about to speak.

Delia makes a sudden dash at her child.

'Give me Willy!' she exclaims. 'I have said my say, and you have heard it. Let me put him to bed, or I may become dangerous!'

To her intense surprise he lets her take the boy without remonstrance: lets her finish the task of undressing him before the fire; then carry him, fondly clasped in her arms, into the bedroom, where he sleeps in a cot beside his parents. Willy—relieved of his temporary alarm—prattles to his mother during her task of the fine places he has been to and the pretty ladies he has seen during the evening, but though she hears him she is too weary to listen or to respond, for her heart is heavy as lead for dread of what may be before them both. Her husband's silence is ominous—of what? Has he been impressed by her out spoken reproaches, or is he in a worse condition than she at first supposed, and unable to comprehend what has passed? Delia cannot tell.

She puts her boy into his little bed with many a fervent kiss, and returns to the sitting-room, inwardly trembling though outwardly calm, to collect his scattered clothes. Poor little Willy has but one suit. If she does not hang it before the fire to dry he will have nothing to wear upon the morrow.

As she enters she sees that her husband has quitted his former standing position and taken a chair. But when she has crossed to the fireplace and stooped to gather the little garments, he rises suddenly, and turning the key in the door, secures it in his own pocket.

Delia glances round suddenly and meets his eyes. The semi-intoxicated look has faded from them: her daring has dispelled it. She knows now that she has to encounter a man sober enough to be dangerous, and sufficiently strengthened by liquor to feel his power. Her first impulse is to secure the weapon nearest at hand, and that is the chair. She puts it in front of her and grasps it tightly, as James Moray, with his effeminate puny face and evil eye, advances towards her.

This is a nice way for a husband and wife, who have been separated for hours, to greet each other!

————

CHAPTER V.

'GIVE ME THE KEY!'

'Well!' he commences insolently, 'and so you have chosen to insult my best friend, have you? and in my very presence too!'

Whatever the woman may feel, she carries a brave front. Yet she cannot forget that she is locked up in a room at midnight with a man who is utterly unscrupulous, so long as there are no witnesses to his actions; and though she grinds her teeth together to prevent it, her lip will tremble as she answers him.

'Your best friend, is he? For my part, I should be ashamed to be able to call no better man "friend," than one who pandered to my vices, and yet did not consider me good enough to associate with his family.'

'And if there has been any coolness between my relations and myself, pray who has been the cause of it, except you?—or my cursed folly in marrying a woman from the scum of the earth!'

'It is not true. I was very poor when you met me—an unfortunate child cast on her own efforts for a living, and barely getting it at fifteen shillings a week. But you know that my connections are as good as your own, and that through all my struggles to live I kept an honest character! And that is more than you can say for yourself.'

'Born of poor but honest parents,' he sneers; 'yes, I think I have heard something of the sort before, and those who pleaded it were usually the very opposite to their assertion of the parental attributes.'

'Do you mean to say, then, that you doubt my former respectability?' she exclaims indignantly.

'I didn't say so,' he returns, in a tone calculated still further to affront her, 'but I have only your word to the contrary. And the truth of the asseverations of ladies of your class has not, I must confess, as a rule, inspired me with that complete confidence in the circumstances which, perhaps, I ought to feel.'

'God forgive you!' says Delia bitterly, 'for you know you're lying to me. Although I believe, from your brother's behaviour, that you have been cowardly enough to let him suppose it is the truth.'

'Oh! now you are becoming abusive, are you? Not content with putting yourself in a rage for nothing, and flying at my brother like a fury till you drove him from the door, you must needs have a turn at me. But once for all, madam, I won't stand it!'

'You must stand it! I will not keep my wrongs to myself any longer. I would work for you, Heaven knows, willingly enough, if you would only give me a little gratitude in return; but I will not be knocked about and half starved, whilst you go swaggering out with William Moray every evening to spend the wages, for which I have to toil through all weathers, at the public-house or the music-hall. And your brother ought to be ashamed of himself to encourage you in it.'

'O! he ought—ought he?'

'Everybody says the same. Your behaviour to me is the talk of the house. I can't help that so much because, unfortunately, I have bound myself to you, and there seems no way of escape; but I am not your brother's wife, and if he wishes to spend his evenings in your company, let him pay for the pleasure, for I shall do so no more. Our poor child has neither sufficient clothing nor food, and yet you, who refuse to do a stroke of work to maintain him, spend the money which should be his upon your own vices. Is there a night, hardly, that you are sober? Are you sober now? It is enough to sicken any woman.'

'I am quite sober enough to hear what you're saying, madam, and to pay you out for it afterwards. If you choose to tell my brother that I thrash that whining brat of yours, and throw you downstairs (which I don't believe I ever did), why, I may as well have the satisfaction of doing it as the credit.'

'Do you mean to deny you used violence to me yesterday? Look at the marks of it on my arm! I was ashamed to undress before the other girls to-night for fear they should ask me where I got these bruises.'

'We are getting mighty delicate all of a sudden,' he says, with the old sneer.

'Well, no woman, whether she cares for her husband or not, would like to confess to others that the man who has promised to love—and—and—and—to protect her, can beat her as cruelly as if she were a dog,' replies Delia with a mighty sob. 'It's so humiliating——'

'O James,' she continues, with sudden energy, clasping her hands, 'can't we try to live a little more happily together? You used to like me once. When you married me you said you had never cared for any woman so much as you did for me. And I've tried to be a good wife to you. I've worked hard, haven't I? and given you every halfpenny I earned, and you've never had reason to complain of my conduct to any other man. Don't you think if we tried, we might live more at peace with one another? Do try, James—do try to love me and Willy more. You could make us so happy if you chose; and you can't think how hard it is for a woman to live and work, day after day, without one word of encouragement or thanks.'

She is crying bitterly now, with her face hidden in her hands, but her tears have no more effect upon James Moray than they have upon the table. Let a man once permit the habit of drinking to get the better of his reason, and he may say good-bye to all the softer feelings of charity and pity and generosity. His honour deserts him, and with honour goes everything that tends to make a man. His wife's emotion excites nothing but ridicule in Moray's breast. The appeal she has made to him cannot touch his heart, for he has deadened its sensibility by liquor. The sight of her weeping makes him giggle and sneer, and when he perceives that his amusement only causes her to sob more convulsively, he becomes angry.

'I won't have this snivelling,' he says coarsely; 'stop it! do you hear? It's all put on. An actress can pretend anything she chooses. Whether I struck you or not, you had no right to tell William of it. What concern is it of his? And you've spoilt, maybe, the best day's business I ever did in my life, by blabbing of me in that way!'

All this time it has never occurred to Delia to ask why her husband and his brother took the unusual trouble to drag out her delicate child in such inclement weather, to accompany them upon their round of pleasure. She does not think of it even now. Subsequent events make it clearer to her, but at present her mind is filled with but one idea, that either things must alter or she must leave them behind her. And she catches at the last words of her husband's address eagerly. They seem to contain a glimmer of hope for her.

'How? by what means? has your brother offered to help you to get any work?'

'Work! work! I'm sick of the word; you never seem to have an idea beyond it. I'd have you know that my family were not brought up to labour, whatever yours were.'

'The more shame for them, if they leave their wives and children to starve. But Mr. Moray works. He could help you if he chose. You have told me that he married a rich woman, and has a beautiful house in Brixton. Why doesn't he give you employment under himself, or make you an allowance out of his abundance?'

'Why? Because—if you must know—he is ashamed that his wife's friends should be brought into contact with you. It isn't every one who cares to meet a second-rate actress, remember!'

'Then why does he come here to meet me himself?' she demands angrily.

'He comes to see me—not you!'

'And I may slave on for ever to keep you in drunken idleness, whilst he stands and looks on and sneers at my parentage and my profession. But he shall not have the opportunity to do so much longer.'

'What do you mean by that insinuation?'

'I refuse to say. You will find out in time for yourself.'

'By Jove! you shall tell me!' exclaims James Moray, striding across the apartment to her side, and grasping her by the wrist. 'Now, what was it?'

But Delia clenches her teeth and is silent.

He shakes her violently.

'Will you speak or not?'

'I will not speak!'

'I shall strike you in another moment.'

'If you do, James, as there's a heaven above us, it shall be for the last time.'

She utters the words so forcibly, that for a moment he desists.

'Will you explain what you meant by William not having the opportunity of sneering at you much longer?'

'I will not.'

'Then take the consequence of your cursed obstinacy.'

The uplifted hand comes down heavily upon the side of her head, but she does not resent it further than by closing her eyes as it descends. But when she receives it, she draws a long breath, and, springing up from her seat, confronts her husband.

'What do you think of that?' he says jeeringly.

'I think, as I have always thought, that you are a coward and a bully. I think—what I was fool enough to deny to-day, when it was suggested to me—that the best thing you can do is to drink yourself to death, and that the sooner it happens the better for all connected with you.'

'Oh!—that's the sort of suggestion your friends are in the habit of making, is it? I don't believe you. I believe the idea originated with your own evil heart, and that you are quite capable of attempting to carry it out. But I'll be even with you, madam. If my life is worth nothing to you, I know some one whose life is——'

At this moment, as if in response to, or confirmation of, the father's words, there comes a cough—a single hollow cough—from the next room. Delia hears it, and starts at once into an attitude of suspense. Her husband may rail as much as he likes at her now she will neither heed nor listen to his abuse. All her senses are enlisted on the side of the sound that issued from the bedroom. How well she knows it! That terrible single cough, with the brazen ring, that portends the approach of croup.

When it is repeated, and she is certain there is no mistake, she utters an exclamation of alarm, and makes a spring for the door. But it is locked, and the key is still in Moray's pocket. She turns towards him without hesitation. Their interview is over. There can be no further reason for keeping her from the child.

'Unlock the door, James! I must go to Willy——'

His reply is given in a tone of perfect coolness, although a look in his eyes betrays that he knows his power.

'I prefer your remaining here!'

'But I cannot remain. He has got the croup. Don't you hear his cough. I must apply the proper remedies at once. There is no time to lose.'

'I am afraid, though, you will have to wait my convenience.'

'Your convenience! when the child may be dying. Give me the key, I say. I will go!'

'You shall not go.'

She sees now that she is in his power, and recognises the object of his refusal. He will be revenged upon her even at the cost of Willy's health—perhaps his life. At this thought she grows furious as a tigress robbed of her whelps.

'I will not be detained in this room at your pleasure whilst my boy wants me. I will kick at the door till every creature in the house is roused. I will scream out of the window till everyone knows how brutally you are treating me'

'Will you?' he answers, advancing towards her steadily, with his eyes fixed upon hers.

She is about to retreat before him, when, with a sudden action, he seizes her hands, and twists them behind her back. As he does it, all the colour fades from her face.

'Don't make me reckless!' she gasps. 'Don't irritate and excite me any further, James, for the love of God, or you may make me commit murder——'

'I'm not afraid,' he says nonchalantly, as he ties her hands behind her back with a piece of whipcord, and the croupy cough rings out again from the other room, accompanied by a hollow cry of 'Mother!'

The sound utterly subdues her, and she takes to entreaty. Surely, when he knows how important it is that the boy should have immediate help, he cannot have the heart to refuse her.

'James! I will be good—I will do anything you ask me, only untie my hands and let me go to Willy. I am sorry I spoke so rudely to you just now, but you aggravated me, and you know I have a vile temper. Do let me go to the child. If these attacks are not attended to at once, they may prove fatal. For God's sake let me go!'

'I shall do no such thing.'

'Are you not content with the ill-treatment you have given us already,' she exclaims, 'but you must let the child die for want of assistance?'

'I have no intention of letting him die—I can attend to him myself——'

'But you don't know how. You have had no experience. And where am I to be?'

'You will remain here. No reasonable person can possibly blame me for refusing to lie down and sleep in the presence of a woman who has just threatened to take my life.'

'Ah, James! for pity's sake, forgive me! You know I didn't mean it. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head. Pray let me come too. I will not go to bed. I will sit up—I will lie down on the floor—I will do anything you tell me, if you will let me go to my boy.'

But her pleading is in vain. James Moray sees that he has her 'on the hip,' and has no intention of giving up his revenge. He doesn't believe that Willy is in danger of death, but he knows that she does, and the knowledge is his triumph. So he advances deliberately to the door, and places the key in the lock.

She comes up behind him as close as she can.

'James—dear James, do let me come too.'

His answer is to throw her violently from him into the centre of the room. Her tied hands prevent her being able to save herself in the slightest degree, and she falls, first against the table and then on the floor, striking the back of her head and hurting herself considerably. As she rises, confused and dizzy, she hears the key turned again on the opposite side of the door, and finds herself a prisoner. She rushes forward and kicks with her feet against the panels.

'James!—James!—James!—for the love of God, come back and take me to my boy!'

But all the answer she receives is conveyed by the sound of the slamming and locking of the bedroom door, and she feels that further appeals to his pity would be in vain. She sinks down on the floor, where she sobs as though her heart were broken.

In the cold and the dark, for her husband turned off the gas before he left her, she sits, rocking herself backwards and forwards, and moaning in the extremity of her anxiety and fear. What can Mr. Moray do to relieve the child, whose ominous cough still continues, at intervals, to strike her with alarm? He has never attended on Willy at such times before, is not acquainted with the proper remedies, does not even know where they are kept! She hears him speak to his little son in a gruff voice as he enters the room, and bid him keep quiet and lie still—as if he could keep quiet with inflammation tearing at his throat and chest—yet not a sound reaches her to intimate that any medicine has been given to relieve his symptoms.

She hears Willy ask for her again and again, and the same order to him to be silent reiterated by his father, accompanied by a threat of punishment if he is not obedient.

The plaintive cry of 'Mother! I want mother!' reaches her so distinctly as she remains with her ear pressed against the wall, and holding her breath in order to catch what may be going on upon the other side. She feels as if she must reply to it; but her husband's tones increase in irritability, and the boy, whose cough is becoming more violent with every paroxysm, is sobbing in his little bed.

The mother's suspense becomes agonizing; her brain seems almost to turn with the dreadful fear that oppresses her. She beats her body against the wall that divides them, and screams to her husband to administer the remedies for the child's relief. The effect of her vehemence is that Mr. Moray, in a loud voice, threatens to thrash the boy if he disturbs him again. At this, her heart stands still, although in the darkness her quivering face wears a sickly uncertain smile. For he cannot be in earnest—he cannot really mean to do such a cruel thing now, when the little lad is fighting for his breath. The feeble complaint is nevertheless repeated, and—God in heaven!—what sound is that?

Yes—yes! it is true! The inhuman monster is beating his sick—may be his dying child.

Delia's senses seem to forsake her. She beats, with her pinioned arms, against the wall, the door, the window, in her mad indignant horror, until, desperate at her impotence, and worn out with conflicting emotions, she sinks unconscious on the floor.

————

CHAPTER VI.

ROBBERY AND INJUSTICE.

The next morning dawns upon a bright cold day. The dense fog has dispersed, and the rain ceased, and though a few hours of fine weather have not been sufficient to transform the wet and muddy crossings into dry land, they are navigable, and pedestrians look on them and give thanks.

Mrs. Hephzibah Horton rises with the lark, that is to say, she is seated at her breakfast-table as early as is compatible with a London milkman's ideas of serving his customers in November, and certainly before the nine o'clock post comes in. Professional writers, as a rule, do their work either very early, or very late. For them there is no afternoon or evening, or rather, these periods are their times for reaping that which they must garner in their homes.

Mrs. Hephzibah, when she has the option of choice, prefers to be early. Her business is chiefly connected with reviewing, or reforming that which others have written, and she likes to keep her evenings for thought, and her mornings for work. This morning, however, she intends to devote to the interests of her friend. For all Mrs. Hephzibah's savage energy when aroused, there is a well of sympathy in her in dependent breast for those less fortunately situated, and Delia Moray's case touches her upon a vital point. She looks upon her as a most valuable illustration of the necessity of the cause she has at heart. She has taken a deep interest in her since the day she made her acquaintance in the stationer's shop; and now that matters seem to have come to a crisis with the poor girl, Mrs. Hephzibah is determined to devote one morning at least to discovering what remedy there is for the evil.

Her boots, soles uppermost, lie side by side in the fender ready for her to put on. Good sensible boots they are, one may be sure, with soles an inch thick, and uppers of solid leather.

'None of your kid fooleries for me—with heels like spikes, stuck in the middle of a brown-paper sole,' she is in the habit of telling her shoemaker; 'give me a boot that will stand twelve hours' tramping in the mud, and let me set my foot flat on the ground as God intended it to be, the while, and I'll thank you.'

And if the pair waiting in the fender for her feet this morning do not belie their looks, Mrs. Horton's shoemaker has earned her thanks.

When her breakfast is concluded and her boots are on, she proceeds to ensconce herself in a huge waterproof cloak that completely envelops her and buckles round her waist with a belt that means buckling. A plain dark bonnet, without any veil, upon her head, and a stout umbrella, such as middle-aged gentlemen carry, in her hand, and Mrs. Hephzibah is equipped for warfare. Yet, notwithstanding the absence of all such fripperies as lace and ribbon in her attire, she looks, from head to foot, a gentlewoman. Her clothes, though plain, are good, and her dress, though rough, is feminine. She will not wear a veil, because she likes to see her way clearly before her, and she has discarded silk ties and ribbons about her throat because they render her liable to cold; and it is also strongly suspected by her friends that her gloves would follow her ties, were she not a little afraid of society and rheumatism.

Yet with all this contempt for petty weaknesses, Mrs. Hephzibah has never adopted the masculine style of attire which so many of her partisans affect. Whatever her private opinions may be, she stops short of outward folly—which is the reason that whilst many people think her principles ill-advised, no one has ever yet been found that did not respect herself.

And amongst the most ardent admirers of her freedom of thought and action is her legal adviser, Mr. Bond. This little man and Mrs. Horton are always quarrelling, and yet neither of them is happy without the other. Mrs. Hephzibah will not even undertake the correspondence of a new provincial paper without consulting 'that little fool Bond,' as she affectionately terms him; and although the solicitor cannot make any use of her clear understanding in his business, he has two motherless boys at home, just of an age to need a woman's supervision, and he never makes any alteration in his plans concerning them without first asking her advice upon the subject. So that when Mrs. Hephzibah, on the morning in question, armed to the teeth with umbrella, boots, and waterproof, steps into the office in Holborn, and asks for Mr. Bond, the clerk in attendance, having first given her a dusty seat, flies to inform his principal that this well-known client seeks an interview.

'Well, my dear Mrs. Horton, this is an unexpected pleasure,' commences the solicitor, as she is ushered into his presence.

'Don't talk nonsense! Why shouldn't you expect me one day as well as another? Any letter from Johnson's people by this morning's post, by the way?'

'None; I regret to say—none!'

'Well, never mind. It's no good crying over spilt milk, and I have something of more importance to speak to you about. How stiflingly hot you've got this little office of yours! What makes you keep such a large fire?'

'I thought—that is to say, the weather has changed so suddenly—there is such a frosty feeling in the air'—commences Mr. Bond apologetically.

'Fiddlesticks!' cries Mrs. Hephzibah. 'If it's cold outside, all the more reason you shouldn't stew yourself up in an oven like this all day, and then turn out in the night air to go to Hampstead. It's no wonder you're as grey as a badger. But it's just like men. Present comfort is all you think of.'

'It is well known that Mrs. Horton entertains no very exalted ideas of the sex,' remarks Mr. Bond, smiling ruefully as he runs his hand over his thick grey hair.

'Well, isn't it true? Look at my head,' says Mrs. Hephzibah, as she unceremoniously removes her bonnet and displays it for his advantage—'hardly a white hair in it, and I suppose I'm as old as you are. What age may you be?'

This question is always an embarrassing one for either a gentleman or lady still 'on their promotion,' or on the look-out to provide themselves with a partner for the second time, and the little solicitor grows quite confused on being so suddenly assaulted.

'Why, you don't mean to say you mind telling it!' exclaims Mrs. Hephzibah contemptuously; 'then I'll set you the example—I was forty-seven last birthday, and that was on the twentieth of September. Now you have it!'

'I have the advantage of you then by three years,' rejoins Mr. Bond, smiling, 'for I was fifty in August.'

'Bless me! Just what I thought. And you look sixty if you look a day.'

If Mr. Bond looks anything at this outspoken assertion, he looks particularly annoyed.

'Ah! it's no use reddening up after that fashion. What does it signify how old you look? When people come to our age, a few years more or less can't make any difference. We're past the time of courtship and that sort of nonsense, eh! Mr. Bond? But it's all owing to your late hours and hot rooms. If you had been in the habit of walking in all weathers, as I do, and going into a cold bath every morning from January to December, and taking your natural rest and eating plain food, you'd look as young as I do. But perhaps it's just as well you don't. Bob and Bill will be strapping fellows in another year or two, and if you looked less of a fogey than you do, some designing woman might be tempted to try and catch you for the second time. And you'd be made a fool of: you know you would! Not that there's much need for us to make fools of men, the Lord knows, when the majority of them are sent into the world ready made.'

'Really, my dear madam,' interposes Mr. Bond, who is not quite easy under the tone the conversation has taken, 'this is not business.'

'Whoever said it was? However, as it doesn't seem to be pleasure either, I'll tell you what I've come for. I want your advice for a young friend of mine, a poor fool who's married, and wants naturally to get unmarried again.'

Now, if there is anything on which Mr. Bond would rather not give Mrs. Horton advice, it is that connected with his own profession. This may appear strange, particularly as she pays him honestly for all she obtains, but it is the truth. He likes her excessively as a friend—and dislikes her as much as a client. For in the first place, though she asks his opinion, she very seldom adopts it; and in the second, they rarely enter upon business matters without having words together. Mr. Bond, prudent both by nature and experience, cannot coincide with Mrs. Hephzibah's vehement manner of regarding things; and she, who is all fire and energy, quickly loses patience with his cautious circumspection.

'Ah!' says Mr. Bond reflectively. 'We too often come across such cases in our profession. "Marry in haste and repent at leisure" is as true a proverb as any. At the same time, it behoves us to be very careful how we put our finger between the fire and the wood.'

'Which means, that when our friends get into difficulties, it's better, in our own interests, that we should sneak quietly round the corner, and leave them to get out of them as they best may,' replied Mrs. Hephzibah sharply. 'Yes—that may be your theory, but it's not mine!'

'But, my dear lady, as a rule, you know that there is no way in which a woman can rid herself of the inconveniences occasioned by an unsuitable marriage, except one.'

'And a nice set of men they must have been who first sat down to frame a law the alternatives of which were misery or crime. But she can take out a protection-order against him, surely!'

'If she has accumulated property by her own earnings which her husband dissipates to minister to his vices, adding cruelty to the theft, I should think she undoubtedly would have a claim to one. But has the gentleman in question laid himself open to any such charge?'

'The "gentleman in question," as you term him—the blackguard, as I should call him—has done everything under the sun to entitle him to penal servitude for life, in my opinion.'

And here Mrs. Horton details as much as is necessary of

Delia Moray's circumstances and history, to which Mr. Bond listens attentively, lying back in his office-chair with his eyes closed and his hands slowly rubbing one over the other.

'Goodness me, man! are you listening to me?' exclaims Mrs. Hephzibah suddenly, as, bringing her story to a close, she turns and confronts the placid-looking little solicitor. Mr. Bond leaps as if he had been shot.

'Of course, Mrs. Horton, of course I am. I have been pondering your friend's case all the while. But it hardly appears to me, as far as I understand the circumstances, that she is in a position to avail herself of the conditions you mentioned.'

'Not of a protection-order? Why, who on earth was it constituted for, if not for women in Delia Moray's position?'

'Well, without going into the matter more thoroughly, I am not quite prepared to acquiesce with you. The provisions of the Act, if I remember rightly——'

'Have you ever read them?' demands his client abruptly. 'Do you know what you are talking about?'

Mr. Bond bows and smiles deprecatingly. But he would scarcely like to be put through a catechism on the question under discussion by his formidable opponent.

'Certainly. It is scarcely probable I should not have done so. Still, the working of that particular Act has not as yet been brought fully under my notice in a legal point of view, and therefore, until I have looked a little more closely into the matter, I am hardly prepared to give a decided answer to your question.'

'You mean, that until you have time to go home and read up all about it, you don't know anything of the matter at all. I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Here is one of the most important means that has ever been brought forward for the amelioration of the position of women, and you know no more about it than Bob does of his delectus. A publican might just as well hang out his license for selling liquor, without a drop of brandy in the house. It's no wonder that the poor fools who go to law to get themselves righted are led by the nose into all sorts of scrapes. It's the blind leading the blind! I suppose if a man comes to you to draw up his will, you have to consult a book of reference before you are "prepared" to tell him if it is legal to make a will or not?'

'Really, Mrs. Horton! you are too hard upon me.'

'Not a bit of it. However, if you don't know under what conditions a married woman might procure a protection-order, I do.' And thereupon Mrs. Hephzibah begins to quote the law, from memory, as she did the night before to Delia Moray.

'You wish me to understand,' says Mr. Bond, when she has concluded, 'that your friend is desirous to separate from her husband and to maintain herself.'

'That's it! She wants to get rid of a brute who ill-treats herself and her child, and squanders all her earnings.'

'There is a family, then?'

'There is one child—if that means a family.'

'Of what age?'

'I am not sure. Somewhere between seven and eight, I believe.'

'Well, it seems to me that (always providing your memory has not played you false) the best plan would be for your friend to establish herself in a home of her own, and if her husband persecutes her then, to take out a protection-order against him. But if he can and will support herself and the child, there is no law by which she can leave his protection.'

'You mean, that if he provides sufficient food and clothing to prevent her becoming chargeable to the parish, he can ill-treat and abuse her as much as he likes in private, and she has no legal redress!'

'I am afraid that is the law.'

'Bah! a fig for your laws. They're as useless as the men who made them. If I had been such an idiot as to put myself within their power, I'd have defied them all.'

'I fear you would have got yourself into terrible trouble,' says the solicitor, with a look that intimates he would rather not have been mixed up with it.

'I'd have shown the world there was one woman not afraid to fight it, any way. But to return to Mrs. Moray. Shall I bring her here to speak to you herself?'

'Not until I have thought over what you have told me. Then I will let you know exactly how she stands with regard to the law.'

'All she wants is permission to support herself and her child away from that man!'

'How will he live meanwhile?'

'I am sure I don't know, and don't care. He has rich relations, I believe. Perhaps, if he were alone, they would come forward to help him.'

'Of course your friend is aware that if her husband chooses to claim the child, she will have no power to oppose him.'

'What! Can't she keep her own child!'

'Not if it is above seven years old, and the father will not consent to her doing so.'

'But no one has ever worked for its support but herself. She has kept it ever since it was born.'

'That is nothing to the purpose! So long as a child is an infant—that is, under seven years of age—the law recognises the mother's right to take care of it; but over that age it belongs, body and soul, to the father, always provided he can give it a home and proper support.'

'But this man is a perfect brute. He thrashes the boy till he is black and blue.'

'If Mrs. Moray can prove that her son is cruelly beaten by his father, without due cause, he will probably be bound over to keep the peace; but there is a difficulty in drawing the line between necessary chastisement and ill-treatment. Children require punishment at times, and parents are allowed to punish them. The law will not interfere unless the boy's health has been injured. There is no act more binding than that which makes the child the property of the father from the age of seven to that of sixteen.'

'Then, if I understand you rightly, should Mrs. Moray take out a protection-order against him, she won't be able to claim the boy as part of her right.'

'Certainly not. The child, being legitimate, belongs to her husband. If he were illegitimate it would be a different thing. The mother only would then be legally recognised as his parent.'

Mrs. Hephzibah Horton does not speak for a few moments. If she were a man she would swear horribly—as she is a woman, she bites her lip and is silent. But the same choleric indignation that produces oaths is rising in her breast the while, and as soon as she thinks she has obtained sufficient command over herself to speak, it bursts forth.

'So, this is your law, is it?' she exclaims, rising from her seat. 'I wonder an honest man like yourself is not ashamed to sit sniggling in your chair, and weighing it out as a grocer does his sand, pretending to think it sugar all the while. You must know what a horrid cheat and fraud it is. What! You tell me there is no chance of redress for this unfortunate woman, unless she consents to part with her child—the only creature for whom she longs to burst these unnatural bonds and live in peace! Because she has married this man—because he has sworn to love and protect her—therefore he has the right to torture her hourly by petty tyranny, or to curse her life by taking away her child! But if she had been frail instead of honest, she would at this moment have been free to quit her task-master and take her boy out of his clutches. And then you are surprised that some women should prefer freedom and poverty to the bondage of your crooked marriage laws. Why, it's enough to make the whole female race rise up as one woman and swear never to have anything to do with matrimony again!'

'My dear madam, they would only injure themselves by such a proceeding,' remarks the little solicitor blandly. 'If marriage has its disadvantages (which no sensible person denies), it has also its advantages.'

'I don't see them!' says his client bluntly.

'For one wife who is as unfortunately situated as Mrs. Moray, you will find a thousand who are entirely supported by their husbands' labour. And that, after all, you will allow, is the natural state of affairs.'

'Fiddlesticks! I allow nothing of the kind. We've got hands and feet, the same as you have, and double the amount of brains in our heads.'

'Oh! that, of course, no one would dream of disputing,' says Mr. Bond with a bow.

'Don't go nodding your head at me in that absurd manner, like a Chinese mandarin. If 'twas a little better weighted it wouldn't be so ready to topple on one side.'

'Really, Mrs. Horton, I must say your language is rather—rather—uncalled for.'

'I don't see it! I come here to consult you about my poor friend's difficulties, and you keep me for an hour twaddling about nothing at all, and then wind up by saying the very thing you should have said at the beginning. You've wasted half my morning. Do you suppose I should have stayed here trying to knock a little sense into your head, if I had known that under any circumstances that man Moray will have the power to torture his wife by keeping the boy from her? Why, of course, he'll do it—because he knows nothing would persuade her to desert the child. And she'll have to go on to the end—toiling for both of them till she sinks into her grave. God help her! and all such unfortunate creatures, for men won't, and it's evident the law can't. Here! let me go—do! I must tell poor Delia the upshot of this as soon as possible, for I'm afraid I raised her hopes last night for nothing.

'No! I don't want to shake hands with you! You're a good enough fellow in yourself, I dare say—as men go—but it makes me sick to see you sit there and hear you confess you make your living out of a system of injustice and robbery. For though you sum it all up in those three letters, L A W, you know well enough that's just what it means.

'I'll come and see you again, some day when I've got over this, and feel in a better temper; or, perhaps I'll run out to Hampstead next Sunday, and have tea with you and the boys. But let me go now, for the air of your room stifles me.

'Injustice and robbery! Robbery and injustice! That's what the whole system amounts to.'

Saying which, in no inaudible tones, Mrs. Hephzibah stalks through the outer office into the street, leaving the clerks in a state of bewilderment as to what particular wrong she alludes to.

————

CHAPTER VII.

'HERE'S A PASS FOR A WOMAN TO BE BROUGHT TO!'

When Delia Moray recovers from the fainting-fit into which misery, and fear, and emotion have combined to send her, the first sounds of which she becomes conscious are a loud knocking at the door, with a confusion of voices upon the landing, apparently engaged in altercation.

Such sentences as, 'You call yourself a man!' 'You ought to be ashamed of yourself!' 'I'll have no such goings on in my house!' and 'If I were you, Mrs. Timson, I'd turn him straight out into the street!' fall with a sort of dull meaning upon her half-awakened senses; and then the voice of her landlady is heard appealing to her:

'Mrs. Moray, my dear! are you there, or not? Answer me, like a good soul, or I shall have to break the door in.'

'I've already told you that she is there,' comes in sullen tones from her husband; 'and what the deuce the whole lot of you are kicking up such a confounded row about, I can't tell.'

'And who locked her in there, at dead of night, I should like to know, without fire or light, poor creature; and she been sitting up for the other brute and yourself till past twelve. Where's the key of the room?'

'Aye! hand over the key, or we'll soon know the reason why!' exclaims a masculine voice.

'A nice sort of 'usband, to go to bed 'isself, and leave his poor wife in the dark and the cold,' chimes in a woman.

And the lodgers appear to be pressing rather closely upon James Moray.

'Here, stand off!' he exclaims roughly. 'What business have you to come bullying me in this way? If I'm not to do as I choose with my own rooms, I shall leave them to-morrow.'

'And a good job for every one concerned in it if you would!' retorts another voice.

Delia has staggered to her feet by this time, and is groping her way along the wall. Her head is dizzy and confused from her fall, and she goes twice round the room before she can find the door. But when she has found it, she beats with her body against the panels, crying:

'Oh, Mrs. Timson! pray let me out, for the love of Heaven!'

'Give me the key, you brute!' demands the landlady of Moray.

'Take it, you old cat!' he retorts, flinging it towards her. In another second she has opened the sitting-room door, and dragged the still half-conscious Delia under the gas on the landing.

'Here's a pretty sight!' she exclaims witheringly, as the other lodgers, who have been roused by the contention between the married couple, crowd round her, and compassionate the wife's condition. 'Why, if he 'asn't tied 'er 'ands behind her back as if she was a blackamoor! This is a pretty pass to be brought to, for a woman who slaves her life out to keep the brute who ill-uses her in beer and tobacco!'

'You'd better not be abusive!' says Moray, attempting to carry off the matter with a high hand.

'Better not be what!' screams Mrs. Timson in return, as she frees Delia's hands from the whipcord. 'Why, if you dare to speak to me again in that way, I'll duck you head-foremost in the water-butt. Abusive to you! If you were taken this moment and flayed alive, or cut in four quarters and hanged, it would be a deal too good for you; and that's my opinion.'

'Yes, and everybody else's too! You're a nice reasonable sort of man to rouse the whole house up with your wife's screams, and then expect us to bow down and worship you!' says one of the lady lodgers, who is hanging over the top banisters, arrayed in a flannel gown and curl-papers.

'I'll tell you what it is, sir,' adds a man's voice: 'this sort of thing won't do, or we shall have to call the police in. A man's wife is his own property, we all know that; but when it comes to tying her hands behind her back, and beating her till she faints dead off, it seems to me to be carrying matters a leetle too far.'

'He didn't beat me,' says Delia faintly; 'I—I—fell by myself.'

'And that's a lie!' says Mrs. Timson cheerfully; 'however, 'tisn't the first you've told for him, my honey, and I bet it won't be the last. And now, if you can stand, let me 'elp you to your bed, for that's the only place you're fit for.'

'Oh, don't leave me! don't leave me!' exclaims Delia, in an excess of terror, clinging convulsively to her humble friend.

'Don't you be afraid, dearie. I wouldn't leave you in 'is clutches again to-night, not for ever so! Ah, Mr. Moray, it's no use your blaring at me in that fashion, for leave the poor girl I don't; and if you attempts to stop me, I'll 'ave in the perlice as sure as sure. And you don't come into the room, neither, so never think it. You've 'ad your share of the bed for to-night, and now you can take a turn at the sitting-room, and see 'ow you likes that. And, Mr. Green,' she continues, addressing one of her lodgers, 'I looks to you to see my wishes is carried out, and me and Mrs. Moray is not disturbed again till morning.' Saying which, Mrs. Timson half-drags, half-leads Delia into the bedroom, and slams the door authoritatively after her.

James Moray, left out upon the landing, finds himself in anything but an enviable position. So long as the attention of the lodgers was divided between himself and his wife, he had some opportunity of parrying their attacks, but now he has none, and their execrations fall upon his head like a shower of hailstones. The women, including the lady in flannel and brown paper, would dearly like to lynch him on the spot, did not the men restrain their ardour.

But Mr. Moray, as he marches into the dark and empty sitting-room, feels very small notwithstanding. He lights the gas, brings out a bottle of brandy and a glass, and makes preparations for re-kindling the fire—tries to appear, in fact, as though he had not been banished there against his will, but his efforts are in vain.

It is true that the women lodgers very shortly retire to their beds, and that the men, after a brief warning to him not to create any more disturbance that night, follow them. But James Moray knows that they have got the best of it, and that he has no power to oppose their orders. They are all low-born people, these fellow-lodgers of his, men and women much beneath him in position and birth; but they have got the upper hand of him, and he would no more dare to set Mrs. Timson at defiance and re-enter his own bedroom, than he would attempt his wife's life or his own.

As he sits there, half clothed and wholly comfortless, trying to drown his anger and mortification in repeated glasses of brandy, he curses Delia for the part she has played in the unpleasant proceedings of the evening, and resolves to be revenged upon her for it.

What has come to her, he thinks, that she seems suddenly possessed of such a spirit of defiance and rebellion—she, who has hitherto been so meek and uncomplaining and obedient? If she had not spoken out in so determined a manner before his brother, the quarrel that subsequently took place between them would never have occurred; and if, when he thought fit to punish her, she had submitted quietly to it, as she used to do, Mrs. Timson and her lodgers would not have been awakened from their slumbers to take the law into their own hands.

As James Moray reviews the day's work, and the ignominious part he has had to play in it, he applies himself again and again to the brandy to dispel the unpleasant memory. He can hear the low sobbing voice of his wife in the next room, and he knows she is relating the whole story of his treatment of herself and the child to the landlady, and that the woman will sympathize with her, and retail it to the entire household, and his name will be passed from one low mouth to another, coupled with every possible term of abuse.

By Jove, he won't stand it! No man would stand it. He shall give Mrs. Timson notice to quit with daylight, and remove his family to another lodging as soon as possible. But suppose Delia refuses to go? Suppose she makes it a stipulation of her continuing to work for him, that she and her child remain under the protection of Mrs. Timson and her fellow-lodgers?

The idea is so unpleasant that Moray is again compelled to have recourse to the brandy bottle, in order to drive it away. The liquor he took upon the previous evening, combined with his fresh potations, begins to have a strong effect upon him. Delia and the child, and Mrs. Green and Mrs. Timson, are all mixed up in inextricable confusion, as his head falls drowsily forward on his breast. He sleeps and dreams—some horrid nightmare dream, occasioned by the perturbation of his spirit, from which he awakes with a start and an oath, and with drops of perspiration, notwithstanding the cold night, upon his forehead. He darts at the brandy again, and drains half a tumbler at a draught. And with that he sleeps once more—the dead, unbroken sleep of the drunken, and the subdued November light dawns upon his insensible face and figure, stretched helplessly upon the hearthrug, where he subsided in his last attempts to settle himself comfortably in the armchair.

* * * *

As soon as Delia can remember anything clearly, she remembers her child. Poor little Willy, trembling from the chastisement he has received, and frightened beyond measure at the sounds of quarrelling that reach him from the landing, is weeping silently in his cot when his mother and Mrs. Timson enter the room. But with the sight of them, his two best friends, his tears subside, and with the sight of him the remembrance of what he has been subjected to flashes back upon Delia's mind.

'Oh, he beat my poor child!' she exclaims, making for the cot with all the speed her feeble limbs can boast of. 'He's got the croup, and James wouldn't let me go to him. I remember it all now; and when he cried for me his father beat him. God forgive the man! He beat the child when he was ill!' and sinking on her knees by Willy's bed, she catches the boy to her heart, and bursts into a flood of tears.

'Well, you may pray "God forgive him!" but it's more than I should do, the cowardly brute!' replies Mrs. Timson. 'I heard him whacking some one, but I thought 'twas you. And now, my dear, let me put you to bed, or you'll be dead beat before morning.'

'Oh no! Mrs. Timson, I must attend to the boy first. He has caught cold from being out so late at night, and has all the symptoms of croup. Just feel his hands! How hot they are! And listen to his breathing! If I do not give him the proper remedies at once, he will be seriously ill. No, no! don't cry, my darling,' she continues, as a paroxysm of coughing comes on, and Willy beats the air with his hands in spasmodic efforts to catch his breath. 'Mother has come now! Mother will give her dear little boy something to make him well. Be patient, my Willy, and lie still, and I will get some stuff that will do you good.'

With trembling, eager hands, she finds the necessary medicine, and measures it out for the child; whilst good-hearted Mrs. Timson, first taking the precaution to lock her protégés carefully into the room, goes downstairs in search of wood and coal wherewith to kindle a fire; and before long, Willy, being relieved of the oppression on his chest, has been put into a hot bath and rolled in a warm blanket, and has fallen to sleep in his cot again, with a gentle moisture breaking out over his skin.

And then, freed from the first pressing anxiety concerning her child, Delia crouches down upon the hearthrug, and leaning her head against the knee of her friendly landlady, relieves her over-charged heart by telling her in broken accents the sad history of her married life.

'I must tell you something first,' she says, in answer to the woman's entreaties that she will try and take a little rest, 'for I want your assistance and your advice, Mrs. Timson. I cannot bear this life any longer! I have made up my mind to leave him.'

'And quite right too,' boldly acquiesces Mrs. Timson. 'I'm sure it's a wonder you've ever stayed with him so long; and if you've got friends to help you, my dearie, why, the sooner you goes to them the better. And I'll do all in my power to aid you, for one.'

Delia presses the landlady's hand in silence. She perceives the mistake Mrs. Timson has made. She thinks she is happy enough to possess kind relations: a father and mother perhaps, or a married sister, able and willing to receive her in time of trouble. She doesn't know what an unfortunate, friendless creature she is. But Delia sees her way to take advantage of the wrong impression she has un intentionally given. Perhaps the landlady will be more ready to assist her in her undertaking if she does not know she is going forth upon the world, alone and utterly dependent upon herself. So, without asserting, she does not deny the fact.

'Thank you!' she murmurs. 'You are very kind to me. I have borne his cruelty for several years, Mrs. Timson, and have told no one; but now I feel it has gone too far. For myself I care little. He has killed every spark of hope in my breast long ago; but I cannot see my child half killed under my very eyes without making one effort to save him.'

'And when will you go, my poor dear? and how?'

'That is just what I want to speak to you about. I am afraid I shall not be able to leave the house unknown to Mr. Moray without your assistance. There are only Willy's clothes and mine to take—few enough—a bundle will carry them easily. If I make it up, will you take charge of it downstairs until I can find an opportunity to slip away? You know it must be in the morning, that I may be able to get settled before night, and I must wait, too, until Willy is well enough to move; but whenever it happens,' says Delia, turning round and gazing with her great, earnest Irish eyes into Mrs. Timson's face, 'promise me, dear friend, that you will not let him know which way I went or when. Don't let him track me, if possible, for I live in terror of him now, and I shall live doubly in terror of him then.'

'My dear, don't you be afraid. If ever that creature as calls 'isself a man finds you out again, 'twon't be by means of Theresa Timson; for I'll throw 'im downstairs and break 'is legs myself before 'e should have the opportunity of tracking you from this 'ouse.'

'I know you will keep your word,' replies Delia. 'It cannot be for long, Mrs. Timson. He must find me out sooner or later through the people at the theatre. But if I can only gain a little time to think—to arrange my plans—to get my friends to act in my behalf.'

'Lor'! now, what a pity your friends can't take you right off that nasty stage and let you live quiet for the rest of your life, isn't it? Haven't you got a ma who'd be pleased to have you at home to help her house-keep and such like?'

Delia shakes her head.

'I have no parents! I am an orphan. Do you think, if it had been otherwise, that my husband would have dared to treat me as he has done? Why, my father was a captain in the—but what is the use of speaking of that?' says Delia, recollecting herself; 'it cannot help me now. I married this man, I placed myself in his power. No father could have taken me out of that.'

'Well, you take yourself out of it—that's my advice to you, dearie,' replies Mrs. Timson, 'and I'm sure it's a miracle you've stood it so long. And you on the stage, too. I dare say now there's many and many a young spark would have took you away from him before this, if you'd had a mind to go.'

'No one could ever have made me give up my good name,' says Delia proudly, 'for it belongs to my child, Mrs. Timson, and he is everything I have.'

'Ah! well! I 'ope 'e may be preserved to you, but it's 'ard to say. I wouldn't set my 'art too much on 'im if I was you, for 'e's as weak a child on 'is legs as ever I see!'

The delivery of this sorry comfort makes the poor mother weep afresh.

'Oh! I know it! I know it! but think then what it must have been for me to see him beaten upon the slightest occasion—thrashed, shut up, sometimes starved—and all that his father might be revenged upon me, because I did not make money fast enough, or refused to let him squander it on his own pleasure when made. Oh, Mrs. Timson!

pity me! pity me! for I am the most miserable wife and mother upon earth!'

'Now look'ee here, my dear. If you go on in this way, you'll be downright ill. Now, what I wants you to do is this. Show me the things that are to be made into that bundle, and then lie down and take a rest. I won't leave you—I promise faithful—but I'll just pack the clothes up whilst you lie down, and 'ave them ready against the morning. And then, the first good opportunity as 'appens, off you goes.'

'How can I ever thank you enough?' says Delia.

'I don't want thanks. No woman—as calls 'erself a woman—could see another in such trouble and not lend a 'elping 'and. There now, get into bed and take your boy alongside of you, and don't wake up until I tells you that it's morning!"

And Delia Moray, worn out by the events of the day, and with complete trust in Mrs. Timson's word, really does fall into a broken slumber, with Willy clasped close to her yearning breast.

Meanwhile the landlady works at her self-appointed task, and packs the scanty wardrobes ready for removal. The sacrifice she makes in assisting her lodger to seek other quarters is not so great as it appears upon first sight. For though Mrs. Moray is a favourite of hers and a regular payer, so long as her husband is tacked on to her she cannot cease to be a nuisance in any lodging-house. James Moray's dissipated habits, and late hours, and ill-treatment of his wife, are a constant source of complaints from Mrs. Timson's other lodgers, and several of them have affirmed that the Morays must leave the house or they shall.

Once quit of Delia and the child, Mrs. Timson knows the husband will soon follow. He has no means of paying his rent, and probably would refuse to pay it if he had, so she foresees that the first day it is due will find that gentleman turned into the street.

But, to do her justice, she would assist Delia in escaping from her tormentor under any circumstances. And when the morning fairly dawns—the same bright, cold morning on which Mrs. Hephzibah Horton sought an interview with Mr. Bond—it is with much satisfaction that she wakes the wife with the information that her husband is lying helplessly drunk in the next room, and that, if the child is well enough to be moved, the next few hours are her own.

' 'E's lying there on the 'earthrug like a 'elpless log, my dear, and my parlour stinking of his beer and bacca to that degree, it would take a week to sweeten it. When I see 'im just now I could 'ave kicked 'im as he lay—I could really! But if you want to give 'im the slip, now's your time, for 'e's safe to lie there till noon, if not longer—the nasty beast! When I see a man in that state, I thank the Lord that made me a widder—I do indeed!—for talk of 'usbands, Timson was a caution, I can tell you, and that's what makes my 'art feel for you so, poor dear! And now, what do you say? Is your name Walker, or is it not?'

Delia, refreshed by her short slumber, and with courage renovated by the bright, cheerful-looking morning, wakes up her boy and finds his symptoms of the night before so much decreased, that she answers the landlady's question in the affirmative.

And two hours afterwards, whilst James Moray still sleeps his drunken sleep upon the hearthrug, the figure of a woman carrying a bundle on her arm and leading a little boy by the hand, steals quietly away from the dizzy lodgings in the City, and takes tickets at the nearest Metropolitan Railway station for Holloway.

And Mrs. Timson, meanwhile, rubbing her hands in the kitchen, hears the hall-door shut and says to herself:

'Well, she's off, thank 'Evin! and I can take my Bible oath I didn't see her go, nor I don't know where she's gone neither. It was like 'er, poor soul, to promise to send me the week's rent on Saturday, in case the brute upstairs don't pay me, which I bet 'e never will. But as soon as ever 'e comes to again, I'll 'ave it out with 'im, or my name's not Theresa Timson!'

————

CHAPTER VIII.

'THE MOTHER IS SURE TO FOLLOW.'

Mr. William Moray, knocking at the door of his brother's lodgings, at about eight o'clock the same evening, is received by Mrs. Timson with a face of such portentous gravity that he is fain to observe it.

'Anything the matter?' he inquires curiously.

'Matter enough,' is the answer. 'I've kept a lodging 'ouse now, on and off, for the last two-and-thirty year, but never in all my borned days did I 'ave such a disgraceful scene on my premises as took place 'ere last night.'

'Indeed! I hope it had nothing to do with my brother.'

' 'Adn't it to do with your brother, then, which, if you knows anything about 'im, you must know 'e's the tipsiest, swaggeringest, most foul-mouthed creetur as ever presumed to impose on an honest body as 'as paid her way regular and——'

'Come, come, my good woman! all this has nothing to do with me. Please let me pass.'

'Don't you try to come over me with your "good womaning," for I won't 'ave none of it. And look 'ee 'ere, Mr. Moray, there's a week's rent doo for that man's rooms to-morrow, besides three-and-sixpence for coal, and if you don't make 'im pay it, or pay it yourself, out 'e goes into the street, without so much as "with your leave" or "by your leave." And now you 'as my mind, and you can make what you like of it.'

This speech quite takes Mr. Moray aback. He knows that his brother's dissipated habits lay him open to a great deal of insolence and abuse on the part of his landlady, but Delia has always been so careful to pay the rent out of her weekly salary, that he has never been subjected before to any demands from Mrs. Timson on that account. So he stares at the woman in complete amazement, and thinks she must have been taking a leaf out of James's book.

'Really, Mrs. Timson, your lodger's rent has nothing to do with me. Why don't you ask the lady to settle it?'

'Because she ain't here—that's why! She's run away from 'im, and I 'ope with all my 'art she may never see 'is face again; and if he attempts to get 'old of 'er, up into court we goes, one and all, and swears to what we see take place last night in this very 'ouse. For he tied that poor thing's 'ands behind 'er back and locked 'er up in the dark and the cold, whilst the child was screaming 'is life out for 'is mammy; and every soul in the place roused up and come downstairs and see it. And I tells you, sir, once for all, that if you don't pay 'is rent in advance or take 'im away from 'ere, I'll turn 'im out neck and crop, and if 'e starves in the street it'll be no more than he deserves——'

'I would rather hear this story from my brother's lips,' says Mr. Moray, passing her on the staircase, 'and then I shall be better able to speak to you about it.'

'And a nice account 'e'll be able to give you,' she screams after him; 'why, 'e was dead drunk till past three this afternoon, and can't carry a glass steady to his lips even now. He don't remember a thing what took place, but I do, and I means to act on it, and so you may tell the brute—drat 'im!'

But Mr. Moray having already reached the third landing, Mrs. Timson's parting adjuration is lost upon him. He turns the handle of his brother's door, and walks in. James is seated at the table, only partially sober, with his head bowed down upon his outstretched arms.

'Holloa!' exclaims William Moray, 'why, what's the matter now, Jem? The old woman downstairs has been giving me a garbled account of your wife having run away from you—but it isn't true, surely?'

'Cursed if I know,' rejoins the other. She ain't here—that's very certain.'

'How did it happen? Tell me all about it'

'I don't know how it happened. She aggravated me to that extent last night that she drove me to take a drop more than was good for me, I suppose, and I didn't wake till this afternoon, and then she had been gone for hours—so the old cat tells me!'

'She can't intend to remain away—'

'Can't say, I'm sure! I think she threatened me with something of the kind last night. Didn't you hear her?'

'Yes; but I never imagined she was in earnest! Women say so many things they don't mean when they are in a passion. She's gone off, probably, to try and frighten you. She's sure to come back again, if it's only to see the child——'

'But she's taken the child with her, and every one of his clothes and all her own, besides every shilling we had in the house. It's cruel of her,' says James, relapsing into the tearful state which so often succeeds drunkenness, 'to leave me all alone here without a blessed coin in my pocket, and no one to see after me. I didn't think she could be so cruel!'

William Moray whistles suggestively.

'I am afraid you must have been carrying on a little bit too far with her!' he says, after a pause.

'Well, I hit her—I know I did. I don't want to deny it. Hasn't a man the right to hit his own wife—the woman he keeps and pays for? Well, not exactly that, perhaps, but still, she promised to love and honour me, you know, and she didn't do it, and so I consider I had a right to hit her, and the child too, if I chose. I maintain,' continues James, rising from his chair and attempting with drunken eloquence to wave his hand, 'that when a man has a wife who——'

'Sit down—sit down!' says his brother curtly, as he pushes him back into his seat.

James makes no remonstrance. He only stares at William vacantly as he subsides again, and running his fingers through his hair, heaves a deep sigh, and lays his head down upon the table as before.

'Listen to me, Jem,' continues Mr. Moray; 'I want to speak seriously to you. Tell me the truth. Is that woman your wife or not?'

'Of course she's my wife!'

'I see no "of course" in the matter. After that terrible scrape you got into at Glasgow you disappeared altogether from society, and never communicated with your family for four or five years. Then you suddenly turn up in London, and I find you living with a lady who you say is married to you, but who is not in the position from which men of our standing usually choose their wives.'

'Well! how could I help it?' grumbles James. 'I could not get any employment after that cursed business in Glasgow, and Delia can make money, and how were we to live else? You wouldn't have had me starve, would you? or break stones? If the governor hadn't been so beastly unforgiving and cut me out of his will, I suppose we should have been living like other people. But anyway we were married fast enough, at Chilton in Berwickshire, and we've got the certificate of it—at least, Delia has, for I suppose the jade has taken it with her.'

'Then the boy is legitimate.'

'Well, I can't say more than I have, can I? I tell you we were married. Isn't that enough?'

'Very good; I'll take you at your word, but you'll excuse me if I had my doubts. Your behaviour to your wife is so different from what one usually expects to see under the circumstances. Now, do you think that she can have got an inkling of where we took the boy last night, and carried him off in consequence?'

'How can I tell? These women have ears all round, in my experience.'

'Because that is rather an important matter to decide. You see, the case is, James, you can't afford to part with this woman just yet.'

'How do you mean?'

'Well, to speak plainly—you won't support yourself and I can't support you. Therefore you must use every possible means to make her come back to you.'

'But suppose she won't come back,' whines James, 'how can I make her? She earns enough money to support herself, and she knows how ill I am, that I am unable to do any work, or to stand any fatigue; and if she stays away and you won't make me an allowance, I shall starve or go to the work-house, for there's nothing else left for me!'

'Hush! don't talk such nonsense,' interrupts his brother authoritatively. 'We must force Mrs. Moray to return to you, and we must do it by means of the child.'

'But she's got the child!'

'She has no claim to him. I think you told me he was seven years old on his last birthday. You can legally take him from her again.'

'But then I shall have to support him—and how am I to support myself?'

'I do wish you would hear me to the end, and not keep on interrupting so. The first thing we must do is to find out your wife's present address. That is easily accomplished by having her followed home from the theatre. Then you must claim and take away the child. The mother is certain to follow it, and with a little judgment we shall probably be able to bring her to accept any terms we choose.'

'But suppose she doesn't follow it?'

'Then I am prepared to carry out what I proposed to you last night, though I cannot say that my wife fell in very readily with my views. She considers the boy so plain. And I am sure she would never consent to receive him if she knew his mother was an actress or even alive. I have represented him to her, therefore, as a motherless child of yours by an early and imprudent marriage, whom I am desirous, in the event of your death, of adopting as my son; and if she allows me to carry out my own views concerning him, it is as much as she will do. She's a good woman, but her opinions are decided, and as she has had no children of her own, she is apt to be a little jealous of my approaching the subject. But it is very premature to talk of these things. Your wife appears fond of the child, and I believe you have only to claim him to secure her return to you.'

'And then she'll steal him back and give us all the same trouble over again,' says James Moray. 'You don't know how she went on at me last night, William! She declared as there was a God in heaven it should be for the last time.'

'What should be for the last time?'

'Oh, I don't know! Some rubbish or other. Just because I boxed her ears, or something of that sort.'

'If your landlady speaks the truth, you went a great deal farther than that, Jem; and you'll get into a scrape if you don't take care. You've got no discretion whatever. So long as you left the child alone, you might do anything you chose with that woman. However, you've been foolish enough to drive her to take the law into her own hands; and what we've got to do is to decide on the best plan of circumventing her. I will prevent her stealing the boy again, until something is settled for the future between you, by taking him home to Brixton for a few days. When your wife comes here and finds him gone, you must refuse even to tell her where he is until she comes to terms; and when she understands she has no legal claim upon the child, she will promise anything so long as he is restored to her.'

'And a nice life I shall live between the two when we come together again,' says James Moray sulkily.

'I can't help that, Jem. You won't work, and you cannot expect me to keep you.'

'I can't work; you know I am not strong enough.'

'I know you have drunk yourself into so precarious a condition, that your life is not worth a day's purchase. It's no use your shuddering at my words, Jem; you know that they are true, and that the doctor has confirmed them. It is folly to refuse to look the future in the face.'

'Well, it isn't pleasant to be constantly reminded of it. You're always dinning the fact into my ears that I may die any day.'

'It can't hasten matters, you know. And if I have alluded to it rather frequently of late, it has been on account of the child. I suppose if my father were alive, or I had any other nephews and nieces, I shouldn't think so much about it; but when you're gone, your boy will be the only near relation I have left, and I think it's only fair he should inherit my money.'

'I think so too, considering the governor left you my share as well as your own.'

'You lost it by your misconduct, Jem; but if my father had known you were married and had a child, I think he would have acted differently. However, it's no use talking of that now. But as your life is not likely to be a lengthy one, I am willing to adopt Willy after your decease, and bring him up to the business, on one condition—that his mother has nothing more to do with him; and you must draw up your will to that effect. As your wife is perfectly able to support herself, I have the less hesitation in suggesting this. She will doubtless marry again, and have another family, and——'

'Hem! Pass the bottle, will you?' interrupts his brother, in a peevish tone. 'It's enough to give any fellow the blues to hear you talk in that cold-blooded manner of what everybody intends to do after he's dead and buried.'

'Well, the oftener you drown unpleasant fancies in that way, the sooner you will turn them into facts,' remarks Mr. Moray, as he complies with his request. 'However, please yourself.'

James takes a glass of brandy, drains it, and shudders.

'What do you propose to do first?' he asks, after a pause.

'Just what I said. Leave it to me, and I'll manage the whole affair. When I have got the boy safe at Brixton, I will let you know.'

'Delia will be after him here like a shot, and half kill me to get at the truth.'

'Is she that sort of woman? I shouldn't have thought it. Well, tell her the truth, then. Say I wish to keep the boy. It will be all the better for your purpose, and make her see she is in your power. Then I will come over, and we can make terms with her between us. Don't say a word about the will you intend to make. I don't want to have anything to do with the child during your lifetime, and matters will arrange themselves afterwards. Meanwhile, if she thought it was not for a permanency, we might not find your wife quite so reasonable as I hope to do. The matter lies in a nutshell. She must either do her duty, or give up her child.'

'And suppose she chooses to give up the child? Who is to support me?'

'We can talk of that afterwards. But she won't choose!'

'Well, what am I to do till she comes back, then? She's taken all the money she had with her, and she'll draw her salary to-morrow evening; but not a cursed halfpenny of it shall I see! It's cruel of her to leave a fellow in such a plight!'

'Here! hold up, man! Don't snivel! I am going to settle the rent for you this week, and there's a sovereign to go on with,' throwing it down on the table. 'But, for Heaven's sake, Jem! don't go and get drunk again to-night: for the woman of the house declared she'd turn you out into the street if you did, and she looks every inch as if she'd keep her word!'

'Let's go out somewhere together, old boy,' says James, staggering to his feet.

'No; not to-night, Jem! I've got this business to think over, and I promised my wife to be home early into the bargain. Go to bed at a decent hour for once, there's a good fellow, and try and get some natural rest. I am sure you need it.'

And, indeed, a single glance at James Moray's hollow cheeks, and blood-shot eyes, and trembling frame, is to acquiesce in his brother's opinion.

The poor wretch makes some sort of promise to do as he is advised, and subsides again into his old despondent attitude. As William crosses the threshold and looks back at him, he thinks he has seldom seen a more pitiable object.

'The sooner he is gone, the better for all parties,' he says to himself, as he descends the stairs and summons Mrs. Timson to receive her rent.

So there is but one opinion with regard to James Moray. Every condition of ill into which mankind can fall has its compassionators, except his. Anger, contempt, surprise, indifference, hatred—all are hurled at the drunkard's head. But he misses the two sublimest gifts that mortals can bestow on one another. No one gives him either pity or patience.

————

CHAPTER IX.

'HE HAS THE LAW, BUT YOU HAVE THE MONEY!'

There has been another visitor besides Mr. William Moray to the apartments Delia used to occupy, and that is Mrs. Hephzibah Horton.

When she finds that her young friend does not appear at her rooms as she invited her to do, to hear the result of the interview with Mr. Bond, she dons her stout boots and waterproof, and goes round to the dingy rooms in the City to ascertain the cause. It is Mrs. Hephzibah's first visit there; for Delia has always been so much afraid of the reception her husband might accord her benefactress, that she has begged her not to put herself in his way, and has carefully concealed from him the obligations she is under to Mrs. Horton; for James Moray, like many another scoundrel who is not too proud to live upon the wages of a woman's work, would at any time have considered himself insulted by a stranger offering to lighten the burden he had without scruple put upon shoulders unequal to its weight.

But when Mrs. Hephzibah finds that Delia does not keep her promise on a subject so important to her own interests, she is afraid that some further ill-treatment may have prevented her fulfilling it, and determines to make inquiries for herself. When she discloses her wishes to Mrs. Timson, she hears, of course, the whole history of the wife's ill-usage and flight, garnished with the landlady's own opinions on the subject, and a graphic account of the then condition of James Moray, who is semi-intoxicated and wholly in bed, though it is but the twelfth hour of the day; for this interview takes place on the morning after Delia left her home and Mr. William Moray thought he had settled matters entirely to his own satisfaction and the well-being of his unfortunate brother.

Mrs. Horton does not know what to make of the business, and whether to rejoice or mourn over the decisive step Delia has taken. She fears she has been mostly influenced by the conversation they held the night before, and that she may blame her for a false counsellor when she discovers that, under any circumstances, she has no right to keep her boy. However, there is nothing to be done but to wait for the result.

Mrs. Timson does not know Delia's address, nor even in which direction she has gone, and subsequent inquiry of the stage door-keeper of the 'Corinthian' elicits no further information. So Mrs. Horton is obliged to return to her own rooms in a very unsatisfactory state of mind, and resolve to wait patiently until Delia shall think fit to communicate with her. She has not to wait long.

On the fourth day after Mrs. Moray left her husband, she rushes suddenly into Mrs. Horton's room, and, without preface or apology for the intrusion, gasps out:

'They have stolen my boy from me! They have come by night, and stolen away my boy out of his very bed! Tell me how I can get him back again, or be revenged upon them, for mercy's sake, or I shall go mad!'

The poor girl looks as if she were going mad, as she paces up and down the apartment, choking with anger and emotion; her hair hanging down her back, her hat half off her head, and the rest of her clothes thrown on anyhow.

'God bless my soul, Delia Moray, how can I or anybody else understand what you have to say, whilst you keep trotting up and down the room in that fashion? Come and sit down like a good child, and tell me all about it, and then perhaps I may be able to advise you on the subject.'

'I can't sit down. I have not sat down since I went home last night and found he was gone. The cruel heartless wretches! After all I have suffered, couldn't they have left me my poor sickly child? Oh, Mrs. Horton! I wish I could die! I wish I could fall down on the carpet this moment, and remember nothing and nobody ever again!'

'That's a sensible sort of wish to have, when you know your boy wants a mother more than most boys. Now do try and be reasonable, there's nothing makes me more angry than to hear people declare, as soon as they're in trouble, that they wish they were dead! It isn't true, you know. If you really were to die, at a moment's warning, you wouldn't like it.'

'If they keep Willy from me, there is nothing left to live for.'

'You're talking in riddles to me, my dear, and it seems likely I shall have to unravel them as I best may. However, I know so far, that you made an effort to free yourself from that man, for as you didn't come here to learn what news I had for you from my solicitor, I walked round to your place on Friday, and heard the whole story from your landlady.'

The mention of the solicitor arrests Delia's attention.

'Oh, what did he say?' she inquires eagerly, as she stops before Mrs. Horton. 'Is there any hope for me? Shall I be allowed to live in peace with my boy?'

'I won't tell you a word of what he said, until you have given me some account of your own doings since we parted. Now, I put it to you, Delia Moray, is it fair? You rush into my room like a whirlwind, and talk in the most incoherent style, without the least regard for my feelings of curiosity; but directly I mention something that interests you, you are ready to put me through a catechism, and make me answer succinctly into the bargain.'

'Forgive me!' cries Delia, 'but I am so distracted with grief and anxiety, I hardly know what I am doing. I will tell you all I know, dear Mrs. Horton. It is not much. I took my boy to Holloway. I had been there once to see a friend in the profession, and I knew I could get cheap and clean rooms. Besides, I wanted her guarantee for my respectability, for I had only five shillings to go on with till I drew my weekly salary.'

'Why didn't you come to me?' demanded Mrs. Hephzibah gruffly.

'I was so afraid of being tracked and followed, I wanted to get out of this part of the town as quickly as possible. Well, I got a room—only one, but it did very well for Willy and me, and I gave my name as Mrs. Brown, and settled myself there. Oh, it was so sweet and quiet, just for three days. Willy was so happy; the dear little fellow chattered and laughed more than I have ever seen him do before, for I told him we were going to live alone, and his father should never come and beat him again. I put him to bed each night before I went to the theatre, and he slept so soundly till the morning, and I should have come here to-day anyway, to tell you how comfortable we were; but last night, when I went home from the "Corinthian," he was gone—they had stolen my child from me!'

'Who do you mean by "they"?'

'His father, I suppose, and Mr. William Moray. The woman of the house said that when I had been gone about an hour, two gentlemen came and asked for the child; and when she refused to let them go up into the room, one of them said he was Willie's father, and threatened to have in a policeman if she did not give him up at once. So she was frightened, and she—she—let him go,' says Delia, breaking down at last with the recollection of her loss.

'What did you do?'

'I couldn't do anything last night. It was twelve o'clock before I heard of it. But the first thing this morning, I went to Mrs. Timson to ask if Willie was there, but he is not, and she says Mr. Moray has never even mentioned him. So they must have taken him off to some strange place, and I shall never see him again. I am sure I never shall!'

'Don't talk nonsense! Their only reason in kidnapping the boy is to induce you to follow him.'

'But they will gain nothing by that, for when I find him I shall take him back again. No power on earth shall prevent my doing so.'

'I am afraid there is a power that can prevent it, my dear, and that is the law!'

'The law! Oh, Mrs. Horton! you said it would protect me. You said it would enable me to live apart from James, and support myself!'

'Delia Moray! it is a very humiliating thing to have to confess that you are a fool; but if ever there was a fool, it is I. Since I saw you last, I've been obliged to acknowledge the truth of the proverb, "A little learning is a dangerous thing." '

'But you did not—you cannot have made a mistake.'

'Not with respect to yourself—but the child. He's over seven years old, and that old fool Bond tells me that after that age, you have no legal claim to him.'

'No legal claim to my own child that I brought into the world! No claim! I—his mother! No right to supply him with the necessaries of life which his father won't work to do! Oh, Mrs. Horton! it cannot—cannot be true!'

'It is true, Delia Moray, and a more infamous law was never enacted. But Mr. Bond was clear enough on the subject. He says no law in the calendar is more stringent or binding in its effects. A married woman has no right to the protection of her child after it is seven years old.'

'A married woman! Why a married woman?' cried Delia quickly.

'Because, if you were not married to that inhuman brute, you might take your child away from him to-morrow, and no one would dare to say you "nay;" because, if you were not married, you would have the sole right to keep, and love, and protect him, and you might imprison the father for not contributing to his support. That's the law of England, Delia Moray, and you may take it and make what you like of it, for I am sure that no one with any sense would desire to dispute the possession with you. When that old fool Bond made it plain to me, I could have torn every hair out of his head with the greatest pleasure.'

Meanwhile, Delia Moray, having sunk into a chair, is repeating in a stupefied manner to herself:

'Not mine! My Willie not mine! God in heaven! be merciful to me, and let me die!'

'It had been better if you had prayed that prayer before you ever brought him into the world,' says her friend grimly. 'It's much too late now. What you've got to do now, is to live and look after him!'

'But how can I look after him if his father has the power to keep him from me? How can I live to love and protect him, if I am so impotent that I may not pass through the door the law of England closes in my face? Lord God! is it possible that Christian mothers may be denied the same privileges that the brutes of the field enjoy? I am not a good woman, I know. I have never been what people call a religious woman, but I have been a good mother, and I defy the world to disprove it. But what is the use of it all, if it is to end in this—that after having reared my little one through the dangers of infancy, and kept him alive only by my labour and my care, he is to be torn from my breast as though I were nothing and nobody? Why do we ever bring children into the world—why do we suffer so much for a reward like this?'

'If I were not tired of hearing myself repeat the same argument, Delia Moray, I should say, because the majority of women enter into marriage without any knowledge of the characters of the men to whom they entrust the happiness of themselves and their children. However, talking won't mend such matters. The law of the land and the circumstances of your life don't fit, and the only thing left for you to do is to submit to one alternative or the other. Either to part with your child, or to put up with your husband.'

'Oh, Mrs. Horton! I cannot part with Willie. He is all I have. There would be nothing left to live for, or to work for, without him.'

'Then you'll have to accept such terms as Mr. Moray may choose to offer you.'

'If he refuses to give up the child, I must go back, even if he kills me.'

'Oh, he won't do that! You needn't be afraid. You are the goose with the golden eggs, and it would be altogether against his interests to wring your neck. He will only pull it a little every day, my dear. Give you a pinch and let you go again, as a cat plays with a mouse between its claws, until your back is bent and your hair has grown grey in his service, and death will perhaps mercifully deliver you from his clutches just as you've grown utterly indifferent to all outward things.'

'You are laughing at me, Mrs. Horton. Oh! it is cruel to laugh when I am in such pain.'

'I am quite sure I don't feel like laughing, Delia Moray. It is the most pitiful sight to me under the sun, to see such a number of my sister women in bondage worse than death. I would free you all if it were in my power, and set you working for yourselves, independent of the world!'

'We can never be independent nor free,' says Mrs. Moray, 'whilst we are mothers. But it is impossible you can know what I feel. You, who have never had a child.'

Mrs. Hephzibah, for all her vaunted independence, does not quite like this accusation. There are sweets and bitters in all lives; she knows it well, and the bitterest part of freedom is its solitude. Sometimes, in her very weak moments, she has thought she could bear anything, only to hear a child's voice call her 'Mother!'

But she shakes off the weakness like a serpent that may sting. A child entails a husband. As well drink poison for the sake of its flavour. Bah! what can she have been thinking of, to entertain the idea even for a moment!

And the voice in which she answers Delia is quite in accordance with her general principles.

'No, my dear! I have not. Thank goodness for it! and, I may add, my own sense. If you play with knives, and get your fingers cut, it's useless railing against the weapon; better blame your own carelessness. However, I do feel for the scrape you are in, with all my heart, and wish I could help you out of it. Have you no idea where Willie can be?'

'Not the slightest.'

'Well, I have then. Mrs. Timson told me that from what she could gather (with her ear at the key-hole, of course—they all do it!) of the conversation that took place between that drunken husband of yours and his brother, the day you left home, she thinks when they took Willie out with them the evening before, it was to William Moray's house—and I expect that is where you'll find him now.'

'At Brixton?'

'Yes, at Brixton—if that is where the man lives. What is the address?'

'I don't know. I have never been there. The William Morays don't think me good enough to visit them.'

'It is easily found. Just hand me down that Post Office Directory. Here it is: "Moray and Fergusson, Wool Merchants, 5,594, Cheapside." That's the City address, I expect. I've often seen the name over the door in my perambulations. Now for the Brixton one. Here you are again, you see: "William Moray, Esq." (they're all esquires out at Brixton, my dear, nothing under), "The Firs, Godalming Park, Westborough Road, Brixton, S.E." Oh dear! Oh dear! isn't it enough to make one laugh. "The Firs" indeed! I wonder how many firs they have about it? They'd much better have called it "The Furs" at once. I bet you'll find nothing but cats in the back garden. How ever, there's your address, my dear, and if you've got anything large enough to hold it, you'd better write it down at once, before I lose it again. "William Moray, Esq., The Firs, Godalming Park, Westborough Road, Brixton, S.E." Ha! ha! ha! ha!'

'But do you really think I can go there?" asks Delia, looking half alarmed at the idea.

'Go there! of course! What is to prevent you? You're not afraid of the wool-merchant's wife, are you? Go there boldly and demand your child, and if you don't get him, you will at all events get the chance of telling your own story. And mind you this, Delia Moray: cowards like your husband dread nothing more than an outspoken woman who is not afraid to make her wrongs public property. Men generally shut the door before they either kiss a woman or strike her: and if you are to live with James Moray again, your best safeguard against his cruelty will be to tell your friends of it freely.'

'Yes, Mrs. Horton, you are right,' replies Delia, animated by her friend's courageous spirit. 'I remember now, that the reason James was so angry with me the night before I came away, was because I had plucked up courage to tell his brother he had struck me, and when the lodgers were roused by my screams, he shrunk into himself again and seemed quite frightened. I will go to Brixton,' she continues, rising and arranging her dress before the mirror, 'and I will tell Mrs. William Moray everything; and if she is a woman with a heart in her bosom, she must pity me for the suffering I have gone through. And if she hasn't a heart, or tries to oppose me, I will take up my boy in my arms and run straight away with him—nothing shall stop me. I will stick a knife into the first person that comes in my way—I will——'

'Stay!' interrupts Mrs. Hephzibah; 'be a little reasonable, or I shall not let you go. Courage is a good thing, Delia Moray, but foolhardiness deserves its name. Say what you will—do what you will, but don't forget the man has the law on his side.'

'Mrs. Horton, if they try to keep Willie away from me, I will kill him! No one shall have my child but myself.'

'My dear, you shall do something much better than that! You shall force his father to accept your terms!'

'But you say he has the law on his side.'

'Quite true; but you have a greater power on yours (unless, which I strongly disbelieve, Mr. William Moray intends to charge himself with his brother's future support). He has the law, my dear, but you have the money!'

————

CHAPTER X.

'HE SHALL NEVER TAKE HIM FROM ME!'

As Delia, fortified by her friend's last words, speeds upon her way to Brixton, she feels a different creature. The desire to weep has left her, and she is burning with indignation and the ambition to redress her wrongs instead. Women who cringe, panic-stricken, before a man's ill-treatment of themselves, will become mad devils in their thirst for revenge if he lays a finger on their children. And Delia Moray is ready for anything. Had she a knife concealed in her bosom and a white cap upon her head, she might stand for a model of Charlotte Corday upon her road to Marat's chamber, as, with desperate eyes and firmly closed mouth, the Metropolitan Railway rushes with her towards The Firs.

At another moment she would have been terribly nervous of encountering Mrs. William Moray, whom she has always pictured to herself as an exalted personage who holds actresses and all persons who work for their daily bread in very low repute. And as far as the latter clause is concerned, Delia is right. Mrs. William Moray, when she was first raised to fill that proud position, was a stout, ill-bred, vulgar girl, whom William Moray, then a clerk in a counting-house, picked up somewhere in the suburbs of London. Respectable she always was, in the sense in which that word is generally used, and for an excellent reason, because she was too uninteresting and ill-favoured to render it worth any man's while to try and induce her to be otherwise. To become William Moray's wife was a great rise for Miss Amelia Ellis, as she was then called. The young clerk had several acquaintances in London higher in standing than himself, and they patronized his bride by calling on her, and thereby rendering her too grand to walk about with her own relations.

She was for ever talking at first of the many 'carriage people' she numbered amongst her visitors, and now that she has attained the dignity of being a 'carriage lady' herself, nothing can equal her self-importance and vulgarity. Such a woman as this is just the one to look down (or attempt to do so) upon all professionals, never mind to what position they may have attained in their art, nor whether they belong to Literature, Painting, Music, or the Drama. The greatest actor that ever lived is classed, in Mrs. William Moray's illiterate estimation, in the same category as the super who brings a letter upon the stage: and the greatest vocalist is in nowise better than one of the chorus. They are all 'play-actors,' in her ideas; low creatures that have to appear before the public in order to pay the weekly bills which she has but to ask 'Willgum' (as she invariably terms Mr. Moray) to draw a cheque for, and therefore must rank in social status infinitely below 'Mrs. Willgum,' who puts on all her H's with a deep inspiration, and does not even know a gentleman when she sees him.

As Delia, after many inquiries and several wrong turnings, arrives at last before the large stucco building standing back from the road, with a carriage-sweep in front of it, on the gates of which are inscribed in bold characters, 'The Firs,' she draws her shawl more closely around her, and wonders, for the first time, what the William Morays will say to her for seeking their presence uninvited. The thought staggers, but it does not daunt her. Willie may be within those walls, she thinks, as she glances up at the many curtained windows, ornamented with china boxes of winter shrubs; and Willie belongs to her, and nothing shall deter her from doing her utmost to rescue him again from the hands of his cruel father. She enters the drive-gate boldly, and walks up to the hall-door, scanning the house as she goes.

It is Sunday, and there are not many shabbily dressed people about. Delia fancies she sees the lace curtain at the window of one of the lower rooms move, as though somebody were watching her approach from within; but she marches bravely up the steps, and gives a bold, determined double-knock. A footman answers it, and she asks for Mrs. Moray. The man examines her inquisitively, as though he were not quite sure to what part of the house he ought to conduct her; but something in her face, combined with the double-knock, decides him, and he ushers her into the drawing-room, which is on the same floor.

Delia sees the butler's tray standing in the hall, and hears the rattle of knives and forks as she passes the dining-room. They are at luncheon then, or at dinner. All the better! Her brother-in-law will be at home, and able to establish her identity. When the servant asks for her name, she answers:

'Tell Mrs. Moray a lady wishes to speak to her on urgent business that will not bear delay; and then, seeing indecision in the man's face, she adds: 'Take in my message, or I shall take it in myself,' which quickly changes his expression to one of assent, and Delia is left alone.

She does not sit down; she could not rest a moment in the state of excitement into which she has worked herself. She paces up and down the long room restlessly, wondering in a kind of vague manner what is the use of having a handsomely furnished room, if all the chairs and sofas are to be kept covered in holland, and the frame of the mirror disfigured by a drapery of cut tissue-paper to keep off the flies.

She has not leisure, however, to take in half the beauties of the apartment. Her ear is straining to catch some sound that shall betoken the presence of her child, and she scarcely sees the classical group of white and silver flowers in a chalk vase that formed the centre ornament of Mrs. William Moray's wedding-cake, and is now disposed under a glass case on a side-table; nor the woollen mats of many colours, like Joseph's coat, that are placed alike under books, bottles, or baskets. There is an antimacassar on every chair-back: there is one on a small table that holds an alabaster figure in front of the window: there is one even depending from the music-stool. Yet Delia sees nothing of it all which proves that when we are in any great suspense or anxiety, the most beautiful works of art may be passed by unheeded.

An interval of five to ten minutes occurs whilst Mrs. William Moray is arranging her laces and ribbons, and wiping the effects of luncheon from her ample bust, where the crumbs will settle, and the poor mother in the drawing room is wondering how much longer she is to be kept in suspense. But then the dining-room door opens and closes, and in another minute the drawing-room door has followed its example, and the lady of the house, arrayed in a plum-coloured satin and velvet dress, enters.

Delia glances at her sister-in-law, and feels her heart sink and her hopes of sympathy vanish. There is nothing in Mrs. Moray's face but hardness and vulgarity. She is a woman of about five-and-thirty, stout and ungraceful, with small eyes, coarse features and limbs, and a complete absence of good breeding. She eyes her unknown visitor curiously. What on earth can this young person, arrayed in a stuff gown and a black straw hat, require of the mistress of 'the Firs,' and on a Sunday too? There must be some mistake. The supposition is marked so strongly on her countenance, that Delia answers it before it is spoken.

'I told your servant to announce me to you simply as a lady, because I was not sure, if you knew who I am, if you would see me. And I felt that I must see you, whatever happened. I am Mrs. James Moray—Willie's mother—and I have come to ask you what they have done with my boy.'

The elder Mrs. Moray is completely taken aback. It requires a person to be well used to society to encounter a surprise of this sort, and preserve one's presence of mind. And this is the first intimation she has received that the little boy now under her roof has a mother: her husband having presented him to her as the orphan child of his brother. So she does what most ill-bred people would do under the circumstances: grows very warm and agitated, and sinks down into a chair, without asking her visitor to be seated also.

'I don't know in the least what you're talking about,' she says, looking Delia steadfastly in the face. 'There hain't such a person as Mrs. James Moray—leastways, not connected with hour family.'

'Have they dared to tell you that story then!' exclaims Delia excitedly; 'dared to say I am not married to him! Oh, Mrs. Moray, it is a falsehood!—a wicked, cruel falsehood! I have my marriage-certificate at home, and can prove to you that I am James's wife. Where is your husband? He knows me well enough. Let him come and say to my face that I am not his brother's wife.'

'Oh, that is heasily settled, young woman,' says the other, edging towards the door, and trying not to look un comfortable; 'for Mr. James Moray's wife has been dead for hever so long, as I can testify. However, if you wish to see my husband, I think it will be the best for hall parties; for I am quite hunequal myself to contending with so hextraordinary a hinterruption. And hon the Sabbath too!'

'I am sorry I should have had to disturb you on Sunday; but how could I be expected to wait? I am in the greatest distress of mind about my boy. I came home from the theatre last night to find him gone from my lodgings—taken away, stolen, and not a word even to let me know where he is.'

'You came home from where?' demands Mrs. William Moray, horrified.

'From the theatre, where I play—the "Corinthian." I am an actress. I support myself and Willie, and have supported my husband for years past by my own labour. It is hard that the only requital he can make me is to steal my child, and that his brother helps him in the robbery!'

'Willgum! Willgum' calls Mrs. Moray from the open door.

She has drawn her purple satin skirts closer around her as the awful truth of Delia's profession is made patent to her sensitive understanding, and now she summons her husband at once to her aid. Her ears must have deceived her. It cannot be true. The mother of the child now sitting at her luncheon-table, and the wife of her husband's brother, an actress! and actually standing within a few yards of her. If Mrs. Moray were good at fainting, which she is not, she would certainly drop down now. But she grows red as a peony in the face instead, and bawls 'Willgum!' at the top of her voice.

'Tell your master to come here himmediately,' she ejaculates to a passing servant, and in another moment William Moray answers the summons.

Delia's indignation is by this time at its height. She sees how her rights, her very existence, have been ignored by the wool-merchant, and she is ready to expose and defy him in the presence of his wife.

'Have this person turned out of the house at once, Willgum,' exclaims Mrs. Moray, as soon as he appears, 'or I don't remain in it. She is an himposter—a hactress who hinsists she is Mrs. James Moray, though hI've told her there's no such person in hour family.'

But as 'Mrs. Willgum's' eyes fall upon her husband's face, she is not quite so sure of Delia being an 'himposter.'

'Am I Mrs. James Moray, or am I not?' says that young woman, as she confronts her brother-in-law boldly.

'Really! this is an excessively awkward predicament,' he stammers in reply. 'I must request you to leave the house. I cannot have Mrs. Moray alarmed in this manner. I——'

But Delia is a match for him.

'I will not leave the house,' she says defiantly, 'until you answer my question, and give me back my boy. Am I your brother's wife, or am I not?'

'Well—of course—at least James assures me,' he commences, still utterly at a loss to know how to get out of the dilemma.

'Why, Lor', Mr. Moray!' exclaims his better half, 'do you mean to tell me there's hany doubt upon the matter, when you've hassured me, times hout of number, that your brother his a widower and the boy a horphan?'

'Then he lied to you,' says Delia. 'He knew his brother had a wife. He has spent evening after evening at our rooms, going out with my unfortunate husband, and encouraging him in drinking and other vices. Bad as James may be, this man is much the worse of the two, who could see and know, and join in it all, and then deny it to suit his own convenience.'

'Don't haddress me, if you please, young woman,' says Mrs. 'Willgum,' with her haughtiest air. 'If you hare Mr. James's wife, of which there seems a doubt, you belong to a calling which should have prevented you from hintruding yourself into hany lady's drawing-room. But as for you,' she continues, turning to the unfortunate man who looks very much as if he would like to make his escape, 'I'm surprised hat you! His she his wife, or his she not? I demand the question hanswered as well as herself.'

'Well, my dear, if you must have it, she is; but knowing the objection you would naturally feel towards her profession, I thought it best not to let you hear the truth, especially as I have decided to adopt the little boy.'

'Hadopt the little boy!' exclaims Mrs. Moray. 'I'll allow you to do no such a thing. What! you expect me to hact the part of mother to a hactress's himp? Never! The very hidea makes my blood curdle.'

'A mother to my boy!' cries Delia, in her turn. 'I would like to see you or any woman dare to try it. I am his mother! God gave him to me, and I am perfectly able, not only to protect him, but myself. Where is my child?' she continues fiercely, as she turns upon William Moray; 'where is my

Willie? Give him back to me, or I'll go straight to the next magistrate and tell him the whole story from beginning to end.'

But at the sound of his mother's voice uttering his name, and raised as though to summon him, little Willie has got down from his chair at the luncheon-table, and now appearing at the drawing-room door, flies, with a cry of pleasure, into Delia's arms.

'My child!' she exclaims, 'my own own child! Let those take heed who would try to tear you from me again.'

'But, under the circumstances, I shall not be justified in permitting you to remove my nephew from my care,' interposes William Moray nervously. 'His father placed him with me, and unless the law interferes, you have no right to take him away. In fact, I will not let him go!'

'If you don't, I'll turn him hout hon the doorstep,' says his wife.

'If you don't, I claim my right to remain by his side till the affair is settled,' says his sister-in-law.

'You shall never stay hin my house,' cries Mrs. William to Mrs. James. 'I've never hassociated with hactresses yet, and I ham not habout to begin now, hif I leave my hown house and perish of cold hin the street.'

'And you're not going to have my boy to do as you choose with, not for a single hour, until the law gives him to you, which it never shall. I may be an actress—for which you seem to despise me—but I am a mother, and that I expect you'll never be, live as long as you may.'

There is nothing insults a barren woman more than to taunt her with the want of children. At this moment, if Mrs. William Moray might or could tear Delia into little pieces, she would do it with the greatest pleasure. But all she can do is to scream at her husband.

'Take her haway! take her hout hof the house, or there's no saying what I may feel hinclined to do. You have basely deceived me, Willgum; first by denying the hexistence of this creature, and then by bringing her low hacting brat into a respectable house, as hif 'twas your hexpress hintention to cut me hoff from hall society of any mark whatever. I'm surprised at you, and deeply hoffended by hall that has passed.'

'And not content with deceiving your wife and abetting your brother in all his cruelty to me, you stoop to help him to steal back my boy—my poor boy whom you know how he beat and ill-used, and whom I was trying to hide only from his barbarity.'

William Moray is like a man between two fires. He really is to be pitied the most of the three. He does not know which of these women to conciliate first, nor on what tack to steer so as to make his peace with either.

'I took the child from your lodgings with the best intentions,' he says to Delia. 'You cannot bear the whole burden of his support, in case of anything happening to my brother, and it was my intention to help you by adopting Willie as my son.'

'You shall never have him,' she cries indignantly.

'No! I'll hanswer for that,' interposes his wife. 'A fine thing, hindeed, to have to rear a child has his not your own, and has a mother you hare hashamed to be seen halong hof.'

'Don't insult me any further, or I shall tell you what I think of you,' retorts Delia, with Willie, frightened by the clamour, clinging closely to her breast. Having said which, she turns away as though to leave the room.

'Where are you going?' demands William Moray.

'What is that to you? Stand aside, and let me pass.'

'If you intend to leave the house, I shall go with you.'

'Willgum! hif you hattempts to follow that young person, you may go for good and hall, for I'll get a separation from you as sure as my name's Amelia Moray. No one has consorts with play-hactors and hactresses shall defile my company hafterwards.'

'But, my dear, I promised my brother—' he had commenced to say, when the drawing-room door is thrown open again.

'Mr. James Moray his coming hup the havenue,' announces Jeames Plush hastily.

It is evident that Mr. James Moray is no welcome visitor at The Firs, since the servants have been ordered to give warning of his approach. But his presence at this particular moment is a real relief to his brother, who gives a ready order for his admittance. At the intelligence of her husband's presence, Delia turns very pale, and clasps the boy tighter to her bosom. But she does not quail, nevertheless.

'That low creature here hagain,' ejaculates Mrs. Moray, 'with his drunken habits and his hunpleasant cunning countenance. Well, there's a nice pair of you, and that's my hopinion, and hif I'd known hit would come to this, I never would have demeaned myself by hentering such a family—no, never!'

'Whatever you may think, be good enough to keep it to yourself for the present,' replies her husband. 'My brother's coming is most opportune. It relieves my mind of a great responsibility. He can now do what he thinks best with his own child.'

'He shall never take him from me again,' says Delia, as she holds the boy close—close against her throbbing heart, and nerves herself for the coming interview.

————

CHAPTER XI.

'IF SHE WERE ONLY OUT OF THE WAY.'

Of the three people who await James Moray's advent in the drawing-room, perhaps his brother feels the most uncomfortable. He knows that when the business is over, and the husband and wife have departed with their boy, he will have a terrible account to settle with his Amelia. Never dreaming that Delia would have the hardihood to thrust herself into her sister-in-law's presence, he has prevaricated concerning the whole family without scruple. He has represented his brother as a poor young widower in a rapid consumption, his disease aggravated by his habits, who is unable to provide for his child after his death, and will soon be powerless to trouble them any more. Willie has naturally mentioned his mother several times in his aunt's hearing, but her husband has put her off the scent by declaring the boy alludes to some female who reared him, and whom he addresses by that name. He has assured her again and again that if she will consent to let him adopt his nephew, they will be able to bring him up as their own son without interference from anyone. And now, as soon as they are alone again, he will have to bear the brunt of her reproaches for his deception and treachery.

The other brother does not feel much happier. He enters the drawing-room at The Firs with anything but an assured countenance. He is perfectly sober, but not at all certain of the reception he will get at his sister-in-law's hands. For the fact is, he has only entered the house twice before this—once when his brother introduced Willie to the notice of his wife, and again when the child was hastily conveyed from the lodgings at Holloway to Brixton, and some false excuse was made for taking him there at that time of night. And on neither occasion was Mrs. William Moray's manner towards her brother-in-law such as to encourage a speedy repetition of his visit. But the old rooms in the City have been particularly dull to-day, and he feels more than usually weak and ill. So he has thought to make Willie's presence at The Firs an excuse for inquiring after the child, in hopes his brother may ask him to stop and take his Sunday dinner with them. Little does he think whom he will encounter in Mrs. William Moray's drawing-room. As he enters at the door, he makes his way at once up to her. He looks very pale and thin and somewhat shabby, but he has the appearance of a gentleman, though the woman he addresses cannot perceive it. He holds out his hand to her almost deprecatingly. She rejects it coarsely.

'Don't hoffer your hand to me, hif you please, Mr. James, for I have found hout hall your deception for myself.'

'What does it mean?' he asks, turning to his brother, and in turning he sees his wife and child. Then there is no need of explanation. 'So you are at the bottom of this, are you?' he says angrily. 'I might have guessed as much. What do you mean by coming up here without my leave? How dare you intrude yourself upon my relations in this way?'

'I came here for my boy,' she answers boldly, 'and if you had placed him in Buckingham Palace, I would have forced myself into the very presence of royalty in order to get him back again.'

'I am whipped if you shall keep him, though!' exclaims her husband, as he makes a feint of wresting the child from her grasp. 'The boy is mine, and I shall do exactly as I choose with him. The law is on my side—I have ascertained so much—and you have no power whatever to interfere with it. I shall put the boy where I choose, and with whom I choose, and no one on earth shall say me "nay." '

'You'll not leave him here, Mr. James, not for hanother hour, for I refuse to keep him,' interposes Mrs. William Moray. 'Hit was never represented to me, when I consented to hallow the child to remain hunder my roof, that he was the hoffspring hof a hactress.'

The start of surprise and disappointment with which James Moray receives this announcement is not lost upon sharp-sighted Delia. She reads its motive at a glance, and takes advantage of it. If Willie is discarded by his aunt, the burden not only of the child's support, but his own, must fall upon her husband. She remembers Mrs. Hephzibah's last words, and throws down her next card boldly.

'Take your son, then,' she says, in a loud voice but with trembling lips, as she pushes Willie towards his father. 'If you are to have the sole disposal of him, so must you take the sole responsibility. I will go out into the world alone and support myself.'

But this unexpected move upon the mother's part startles William Moray. He advised the recapture of the boy solely to compel Delia to follow him. If she is driven too far, and deliberately deserts her child, the support of both brother and nephew will come upon himself. And he is not prepared to undertake it. Therefore he quickly interposes to check the angry rejoinder that he sees upon James's lips.

'Stop, James! pray stop! You are going too far! What has your wife done that you should threaten her with the loss of her child? She has always been a good mother, and will continue to be so, I am sure. This matter only requires a little settlement. Cannot we talk it over together and come to some amicable arrangement?'

'Oh, all right,' says James Moray, mystified by the other's change of tactics, 'but I thought you said——'

'Never mind what I said. We were both put out at the time by finding Mrs. Moray had deserted you. But now that she has come back, we must try to patch up this little disagreement. What is it, Mrs. Moray, that you require my brother to do for you?'

'Simply this: To treat me decently! To let me lie down and get up in peace, and retain possession of my own child. I want no love from him. I have ceased to expect it for years past, but if he will only promise to refrain from striking me and Willie, and to leave us together, I will work for him, as I have done, until I can work no more.'

'Well, I think that is a perfectly fair proposal, and one to which my brother should be pleased to assent. What do you say, James? Have you any further remark to make upon the subject?'

'Does she mean to come home with me and do her duty?' demands James in a sullen voice.

'I have already said I will. But I don't consider it my duty to submit to be treated like a dog rather than a woman. I can support myself, and you can't. I am willing to support you on certain conditions, but the next time you force me to leave you, I shall go, not to Holloway, but straight into a police-court, and see if I cannot get satisfaction from the law. I have borne it all in silence too long, but I will bear it no more. Understand me plainly, James! I know my own power, and I mean to use it. You may have the law on your side, but I have the money on mine; and if you can support yourself and the child by your share of the business, I will take care to support myself by mine.'

'Who's been putting you up to all this nonsense?' growls her husband.

'It is not nonsense, and you know it! Now, you can choose what you will do.'

Willie is standing by her side, and looking up plaintively into her face the while; but she dare not meet the glance she loves so well, for fear it should overcome her. She is playing a dangerous game, for him and for herself, but she knows it is her only chance of retaining the boy, and feels as desperate as the gambler who has staked his all.

Her husband does not answer her at once. He is trying to find out from the expression of his brother's countenance what he intends to do in the matter. But William will not give him any clue, though his sister-in-law does.

'Willgum!' she cries sharply, 'hif your brother hintends to be hall day making hup his mind hupon the subject, I request you will take him hout of doors. Hit's a hinfamous and disgraceful transaction from beginning to hend—that's what I call it—and the sooner the whole party is taken to the police-court, I should say, the better.'

'My dear! if you will only have a little patience,' interposes William Moray.

'Do you hear what that woman says?' demands Delia of her husband. 'Will your pride permit you to remain here after that? We have sunk low, Heaven knows! but there is a stage lower for us to fall yet, and that is to be subjected to her insolence for another moment.'

'Oh, the himpudence of the creature!' exclaims Mrs. 'Willgum,' 'when you and your drunken, lying husband, and that himp of a boy, hare defiling the very carpets hunder hour feet.'

This appears too much even for the unsensitive nerves of James Moray. He turns to his wife, and says hastily:

'Shall we settle this matter on our way back or no?'

'You can settle it now, if you choose,' she answers. 'Peace or war! Take your choice between them; I have no other terms to propose to you.'

'Let it be peace, James,' whispers his brother; 'it is the best policy, at all events for the present.'

'We will have peace, then,' says James Moray, as he holds out his hand to Delia.

Their hands meet, but there is no life in the clasp that unites them.

'It is the wisest choice for all parties,' replies Delia gravely. 'Come, then, let us return home. We have been insulted sufficiently for to-day.'

Leading her boy by one hand, she follows her husband from the room, without bestowing another glance upon the irate Mrs. 'Willgum.'

'Hinsulted, hindeed!' they hear her harsh voice call after them into the passage; 'I should like to know who has been most hinsulted, myself or that creature that play-hacts night after night in a low theatre. Hinsulted, hindeed! I feels myself hinsulted by hever having been hasked to set heyes hupon such trumpery! Here, Willgum!'

But 'Willgum' has escaped as a bird from the net of the fowler, and is showing his visitors out at the hall-door.

'I shall look in at your place this evening or to-morrow, James' he says at parting. 'I want to talk this matter over quietly with you, and to persuade Mrs. Moray, if I can, that it was with a view to the good of both that I recommended you to claim the boy.'

'It is quite unnecessary that you should try to persuade me to anything,' replies Delia. 'You have heard my determination, and nothing will alter it. The future lies between James and myself, and no third party will be able to interfere between us again.'

'I suppose I am to understand from that speech that my presence is not welcome to you, Mrs. Moray?'

'Oh yes, it is!' interposes his brother hastily. 'Come round, William, by all manner of means; I have several matters upon which I wish to consult you.'

The James Morays return to their uncomfortable home almost in silence. Delia sits in one corner of the third-class railway carriage, with Willie held tightly in her arms, and her eyes fixed apparently on space. But as her husband glances furtively at her, every now and then, he perceives by the stern expression of her mouth and the calm gravity of her countenance that she is perfectly determined and fearless.

And indeed it is true that, having proved her power over him, the woman's dread of his brutality has vanished. All she feared was losing her child or seeing him ill-treated; but she is conscious now that she has gained the victory, and she means to keep it. Her husband is conscious of the same fact, and it does not tend to give him a better temper. His bullying tone has departed, but he is very sulky; and when they quit the train, he leads the way home to their old apartments in silence.

Little Willie, clinging to his mother's hand, chatters of the places and people that they pass, and she answers him cheerfully, but the husband and father does not speak to either of them. As Mrs. Timson answers the door, and perceives who they are who stand upon the step, she throws up her hands in amazement.

' 'Eart alive, dearie! you 'aven't never come back for good, surely?'

'I hope it may be so, Mrs. Timson, but I'm not sure,' replies Delia; and in her answer James Moray reads further sign that his wife intends to hold her future in her own hands. They reach the sitting-room, and here Delia has a consultation with Mrs. Timson on the best means of making themselves comfortable for the night; for, as it is Sunday, she has determined not to fetch her things away from Holloway until the following day.

There is nothing to eat in the house, and neither James nor she has dined. She orders something to be prepared for them as soon as possible, and Willie is delighted to be allowed to walk round with Mrs. Timson to the butcher's, and try and persuade him to cut a steak on Sunday.

As they leave the room, Delia looks at her husband, who has sunk into a chair, and is leaning his elbows on the table, with his head in his hands. He appears abject, and his condition moves her to pity. She goes up to him and speaks kindly:

'There is a good fire now, James. Come nearer to it and warm yourself. I am sure you must be cold. I think this is the coldest day we have had yet.'

But all the answer she gets is an order to leave him alone. She goes on as though he had not spoken:

'I feel for you, James, very much—though you may not believe it—and the unpleasant position you have placed yourself in; but you made it imperatively necessary for the safety of both Willie and myself that I should take some decided steps in the matter. Women and children are not animals that you can kick or ill-use at your pleasure, and you are not the first man that has had to learn that lesson.'

'Will you stop your cursed preaching?'

'No; I think it is best whilst we are on the subject that you should hear all I have to say to you. I shall not allude to it again, unless you compel me. You understood me perfectly when I spoke to you in your brother's house, just now, did you not?'

'Perfectly. You think you've got the whiphand over me, and——'

'I mean to keep it!' interposes Delia in a contained voice. 'I should not have called it the "whiphand" myself, but I suppose that term will do as well as any other, and the time is past, James, for compliments between you and me. You heard the conditions on which I consented to return home and work for you; but I did not enter into details. I hope you understand them. I will not have my child struck, or——'

'Oh, you won't! won't you?' says Moray, with a sneer.

'Or shut up in the dark,' continues his wife calmly, 'or unnecessarily punished in any way. Nor will I submit to insults myself. If you want to call me names, or strike me, or thrust me out upon the landing, you must pay for it; for I will not. Otherwise I see no reason why we should not live peaceably together. Love'—here poor Delia's voice shakes a little—'love has been long dead between us; but so long as I can make my two or three pounds a week, there will always be a roof over your head, and a meal upon the table for you; and you know you will be welcome to share all that I may be able to provide.'

'You mean, in fact, to take advantage of a poor devil like myself, being out of sorts and unable to work, to dole out my food to me when I am good, and withhold it when I am naughty, as though I were a child like your whining brat there, instead of a man!'

His allusion to his illness excites her womanly compassion. She flies to him as though his words had melted away all memory of the cruel past, and folds her arms about his wasted body, and lays her cheek upon his arm.

'No, no, Jemmy; don't say that! I am your wife, and all that I have is yours. It is my duty as well as my pleasure to work for you; only be good to me, dear, as you used to be in the days when we were first married, and I shall forget all the rest.'

But he pushes her from him with an oath.

'Be off with your hypocritical whining! It's too late to come over me with any gammon of that sort. You've lowered me before my brother and his wife, and spoilt every chance I had of getting any good out of them; and now you come fawning over me, and asking me to behave as I used to do in the days when I thought you cared for me. Why, I hate the very sight of you! If you want the truth, you've got it.'

Delia draws herself up, and leaves his side without another word. That moment might have been a turning-point in both their lives; but it has passed, and will never be recalled. Her face is pale but very resolute, as she leaves his presence to go and look after her child. Not another word is said upon the subject that divides them; but she reminds him of it every hour of the day.

The dinner appears and disappears. The husband and wife sit down together, and eat at the same table; but they do not address each other, except in the most formal manner. But the boy is present, and talks for both of them. Once Moray harshly bids him hold his tongue in the old fashion; Delia does not resent the order, but she just raises her eyes, and regards him steadily in the face. It is sufficient. In that determined glance he reads a reminder of their agreement, and Willie is permitted to chatter on unrebuked.

But the hatred with which Moray has commenced to regard his wife waxes stronger with each proof of her power. He is in the position of a madman bound with fetters, from which there is no possibility of freeing himself, lashing out in impotent fury, and foaming with rage because he cannot reach the passers-by. He would like to murder Delia. Those cunning, pale blue eyes of his have a dangerous light in them as he watches her every action. But she takes no notice of his mood, believing that it is but the natural consequence of the unpleasant scenes they have gone through, and that it will cure itself with time and reflection. She is perfectly fearless of him. When dinner is concluded, he looks in the cupboard for brandy, and finds none. He finished his bottle the day before. He feels in his pockets. They are devoid of coin. Then he calls out, as he used to do of old, for his wife, and tells her to send out for some.

'What is it you want?' she demands, coming in from the next room.

'A bottle of brandy. Tell Timson to fetch it.'

'Have you the money to pay for it?'

'No.'

'Neither have I.'

'What do you mean? Didn't "the ghost walk" on Friday as usual?'

'Certainly; but I have no money to spare for brandy. I never mean to buy another drop of it.'

'But I can't live without it!'

'You must live without it, James. Our child has had to live without socks, or flannels, or boots—often without meat or milk; and all that you might have brandy to help you into the grave! I have been a foolish and a wicked woman to encourage you in it so long; but it is over now. When I said I would work to get you board and lodging, I didn't include brandy in the contract.'

'Curse you!' is all he answers.

But she turns away without further remark, and the dull afternoon drags itself along, whilst he sits ruminating on the sorry prospect before him.

With the evening comes, according to promise, his brother William. Delia has retired to bed: in the first place, because she is very weary: in the second, because she has no wish to encounter her brother-in-law.

'Any news?' he says, as he enters the room.

'News!' repeats James contemptuously; 'it's just as I told you it would be if I forced Delia to return home on account of the boy. She's never ceased bullying me since we left your house. She will have this, and she won't have the other, till I'm sick of it already. I can't speak to the child, but she snaps me up; and she's refused to let me have even a few shillings for liquor. My life won't be worth a curse at this rate.'

'She's turned the table on you, has she? Well, I suppose that was almost to be expected, wasn't it, when she found the game in her own hands? But I say, Jem, you mustn't worry over it like this, old fellow. You're in a regular fever, and shaking all over. I hope you're not going to be ill.'

'A drop of brandy would set me all right,' replies the drunkard, who is, in fact, trembling as if he were in an ague-fit, 'only I've no money to send out for it.'

'I'll manage that for you,' says William, as he rings the bell and directs the landlady to fetch the stimulant. 'It doesn't do to leave off your liquor all at once, though Mrs. Moray is quite right to try and restrain you. You mustn't kill yourself before your time, you know. Where is your wife?'

'In bed,' says the other, with an expletive.

'Ah, all the better. I've come to talk to you to-night, and don't want any listeners. Here's the brandy. Take a good stiff glass, Jem, and try to stop that fit of trembling, for Heaven's sake!'

Jem is only too ready to obey his brother's orders; and in a very short space of time, by reason of the poison he pours into his system, he has apparently recovered both his nerves and his spirits, and is ready for business.

The conversation which ensues between the brothers relates solely to the little boy, whom William, notwithstanding the opposition he is likely to encounter from his wife, has taken a great fancy to adopt. He wants to persuade James to make a will, appointing him sole guardian to the child, subject to no control whatever of the mother: in the event of which he promises to make little Willie his heir, and bring him up to the profitable business of a wool-merchant.

'And so I will—byme-by—byme-by,' asseverates Jemmy, who is beginning to be slightly incoherent under the influence of the brandy.

'Better do it at once,' urges his brother. 'There is no time like the present; and after the way in which your wife has behaved to you, there is no knowing what she may do next. Besides, I think the fact of your having made such a will, will be a weapon in your hands against her. It will vex her, you know, terribly; yet she has no earthly power to prevent it.'

'Ah, true—true!' reiterates James, the pleasure of revenge sparkling in his eye. 'Give me the paper—quick!—and let me write it down; it'll vexsh her—true, and she shall be vexsht, she shall—cursh her!'

'I was sure you would see it in its proper light,' resumes William Moray, 'and so I drew up a paper that will answer all the purpose, if you will just write your name at the bottom—here. Stop, though! we must have a witness. Will your landlady officiate, do you think?'

'Dunno—shure!' says James.

'Well, we can but try,' replies William, ringing the bell. When the landlady answers it, he meets her on the threshold.

'Mrs. Timson, will you oblige us by witnessing my brother's signature? (I have been inducing him to make a proper provision for Mrs. Moray in case of his death,' he adds in a lower tone, 'and really his health appears to be breaking up so fast, that I think the sooner it is all settled the better.')

'With pleasure, sir!' replies Mrs. Timson, who considers the request to be quite a compliment, and I'm sure she deserves all he can do for 'er, for a worse 'usband never existed, as I can testify to, and all my lodgers.'

'Yes, yes! but I think we must let bygones be bygones—just for the present, at all events. Now, James! Let us see your signature. Mrs. Timson is all ready to witness it!'

'All rightsh—where'm I putsh it?' ejaculates his brother, starting up in his chair.

'Bless my soul! 'e's as drunk as a lord already!' remarks the landlady, 'it's as much as ever 'e'll do to 'old 'is pen.'

However, he does just manage to sign his name legibly, and when his brother's and Mrs. Timson's autographs have been added to it, the ceremony is complete. Then the landlady retires, and James Moray applies himself afresh to the brandy bottle.

'I don't think you had better drink any more to-night, Jem,' says William, as he buttons up the paper that has just been signed in his breast-pocket. 'Why not go to bed and sleep? You'll be another man to-morrow morning.'

'Too weak to—to—sh—shleep,' replies James, as he tosses off the liquor. 'Shee how hands sh—shakes. All hersh doing—cursh her!'

'Well, I'm afraid I can't stay any longer,' rejoins the other cheerfully. 'I got into awful hot-water with my wife this morning, and shall make matters worse if I stay out late to-night. She was terribly upset by the discovery of Mrs. Moray's profession, Jem. It was very indiscreet of her to disclose it. And I know the sole chance of my being able to befriend your little boy in case of—in case of—you know what, is, that he is totally separated from his mother. It is a pity Mrs. Moray cannot get some more respectable employment. If she had been a dressmaker or a laundress, it would have jarred less upon Amelia's nerves. She is very sensitive.'

But James Moray makes no reply to this harangue. He is leaning forward on the table again, staring into vacancy.

'It won't be long before you'll have played out your little game, and I shall be able to claim the boy as my own,' thinks his brother, as he makes his way downstairs with the paper securely fastened in his breast.

Strange to say, the thought gives him the greatest pleasure. He does not love the child, but he covets him.

He would give all he is worth to have a son of his own, but as that seems impossible, he would like to buy his nephew outright, and never let him hear the name of his parents again. To attain this end, he is capable of braving even his Amelia's vituperation. After all, he thinks, it will be but a matter of a few days' railing, and the martyrdom will secure him an interest in life for the future. So, as he makes his way back to Brixton, he hugs the drunkard's signature to his breast as though it were a possession of priceless worth.

James meanwhile, with the brandy bottle still close at his elbow, sits and ruminates over the events of the past day. He is not quite certain to what he has committed himself by placing his signature to that paper, but he remembers it was something to 'vex' his wife, and that idea alone is sufficient to give him pleasure. He would like to do a great deal more than 'vex' her. As, sitting alone with his own evil thoughts, and his worst enemy within reach of him, he reviews his misspent life, his drunken brain so distorts the circumstances of it, that he comes at last to persuade himself that Delia has been at the bottom of all the misfortunes that have befallen him. He forgets her patience and long-suffering, and the cruel wrong he did her by making her his wife, and remembers only that she is an actress, looked down upon and despised, and that his sister-in-law (who might have been so valuable a friend to him) considers herself insulted even by her presence.

As his poor maudlin senses try to unravel the mystery of his existence, it seems to him as though the woman sleeping in the next room were the sole cause that his life has been unfortunate and full of crime. If he had married as William has done, or not married at all—what good luck might not have been his portion! Delia is his evil genius—the marplot that has ruined all his prospects—the bar to any hope for the future. If she were gone, if she would only consent to remain away, and leave him and the child in peace together, William might be persuaded to do for him what he has promised to do for the boy. But she refuses to part with Willie. She says she will stay by him to the last that no one shall take him from her. And she has them both in her power, for while she remains, neither his brother nor sister-in-law will admit them to their presence.

If she were only gone now—out of the way—unable to trouble him any more!

The wicked thought presses on the burning brain, more than ordinarily confused by the approach of illness, until it gains the ascendency, and that which appeared an impossibility ten minutes before, seems the easiest thing in creation now. If he only had a knife—a sharp good knife that he could trust—she is sleeping soundly, and it would be over before she could awake.

The man rises, and gropes his way in drunken blindness to the cupboard, whence he draws an ordinary dinner knife and regards it stupidly. It is dreadful after that to see him kneel down by the fireplace and sharpen the blade upon the hearthstone, drawing it deliberately backwards and forwards, whilst a malicious smile plays about his countenance.

Then he tries the instrument upon his own finger, and drawing blood with the action, laughs softly to himself, and having opened the door stealthily, makes his way into the next room.

————

CHAPTER XII.

'I WAS NEVER MARRIED TO HIM.'

Delia is sleeping soundly. The varied emotions she has passed through that day, and the sleepless watch she kept up the night before, induce deep slumber. Her heart is heavy, but she believes she knows the worst now, and is prepared to meet it. So, that suspense ended, she can sleep, however sorrowful the waking may prove to be. There is a small night-light burning in her room. As James Moray enters, he walks up to, and extinguishes it. She does not hear his step. Nothing disturbs her rest, until she feels the pressure of a hand upon her body, outside the bed clothes, as it is feeling its way up to her throat.

She stirs—the hand is still. She asks:

'Is any one there?'

There is no answer.

She believes herself to have been mistaken—it was mere fancy; the fragment of a dream, perhaps, which she is not sufficiently aroused to remember. So she composes herself to sleep again. A moment's pause—and the hand commences once more its upward journey!

Then Delia perceives that the night-light is extinguished, and becomes alarmed.

'Who are you?' she demands sharply, as she springs up in bed.

The only answer she receives is the falling of a heavy body against her in the dark, whilst a hand grasps her arm, and something sharp and cold is drawn across her unprotected shoulder. In an instant the truth flashes upon her mind—that her husband is attempting her life. She has heard him rave so often, and say that he would kill her—has even known him lock the door and produce a pistol with the same threat on his lips—that she is at no loss to understand who her cowardly assassin is.

With a scream for help that rouses half the household, she wrestles with the arms that attempt, inefficiently, to hold her down; then leaping from the bed, makes for the door, and throws it open, letting the full light from the gas upon the landing stream into the room.

There he stands—a detected criminal—shivering like a wretch upon the brink of the gallows, with the knife still in his hand. Mrs. Timson, clad in a mysterious brown garment which she always dons in cases of emergency, has come up the stairs to inquire what the disturbance is about; the female clothed in flannel and brown paper once more hangs over the banisters of the top landing; and Green, Thompson, and Co. have opened their bedroom doors to listen if their services are required.

'Lor'! my dear, whatever is the matter now?' demands the sympathetic landlady.

Delia is about to denounce him—she is about to show the wound upon her shoulder, and let all the house know how just her estimate of the character of this man who calls her 'wife' has been, when her attention and thoughts of the danger she has escaped are distracted by the appearance of James Moray himself.

The landlady bears a flaring candle in her hand, and as the light falls full upon the drunkard's face, both the women start back with horror and surprise. He stands where Delia saw him last, but now the knife has fallen from his grasp, and he is shaking violently from head to foot. His countenance, usually so pale, has assumed a dark purple tinge, and works violently, his eyes protrude, and the foam is bubbling round his lips.

' 'Eaven alive! 'e's gone mad!' screams Mrs. Timson.

'James! James! speak, for mercy's sake!' exclaims his wife. 'I forgive everything—I will be silent as the grave—I——'

But before she can conclude her sentence, the wretched man, after one or two ineffectual efforts to retain his position, falls forward with a gurgle and a groan upon the floor, and is writhing in a fit at her feet. Delia is beside him in a moment, loosening his cravat and necktie—sponging his head with cold water—and trying to restrain him from hurting himself as he struggles against the overwhelming power that is pressing on his brain. It is the first time she has ever seen any one in a fit, but she might have been accustomed to them all her life, by the presence of mind and helpfulness she displays, whilst Mrs. Timson can do nothing better than give vent to a succession of screams that wake Willie in a paroxysm of terror, and bring all the other lodgers trooping into the room.

'Ah! I thought 'twould come to this, ma'am,' says Green reflectively, as he watches the struggling unconscious body on the floor. 'A man can't go on for ever as he's been doing, and not suffer for it in the end. My own brother went off just so, he did, so it seems to come quite natural to me to see it. If you could get a spoon in his mouth now, it might be a comfort to him by-and-by. He'll have fine work with his tongue when he comes-to. He's a-biting it right through.'

She hears these remarks and many others similar to them, mingled with Willie's frightened weeping, but she takes no notice of it all. Something—she cannot tell what—seems to warn her that this is the end, and there will be no 'coming to' ever again for the wretched creature in her lap.

And so the event proves. In a few minutes the convulsion abates—only, it would seem, to allow the body to gain strength to meet the much worse attack that immediately succeeds it, and after which James Moray, with his shirt front covered with blood and foam, lies quiet and struggles no more.

'He's a-coming-to,' remarks Green oracularly.

'He is dead!' says Delia in a low voice; and she is right.

When the doctor, who has been summoned by some of the lodgers to his aid, arrives upon the spot, he confirms her verdict. The drunkard has been overtaken by the fate he was attempting to compass for another.

* * * * *

On the following morning, Mrs. Hephzibah Horton is seated in her own rooms at breakfast in company with the solicitor, Mr. Bond. Not that Mrs. Hephzibah is in the habit of taking breakfast, or any other meal, with a gentleman alone.

Notwithstanding her age, and perfect indifference to what the world may choose to say of her actions, she has never been accused of such an indiscretion before. Partly because she cares too little for the society of men, or they for hers but chiefly because she knows that though a woman is never young enough, nor pretty enough, to suit the fancy of her own sex, she is never too old nor too ugly to become a mark for their scandal.

But Mr. Bond has invited himself to her breakfast-table this morning. The interview which she held yesterday with Delia Moray considerably upset Mrs. Hephzibah's equanimity. She is really attached to the unfortunate little actress, and most interested in all that befalls her. And when Delia left her in that excited manner to go and seek her boy at Brixton, Mrs. Horton, after a short time given to reflection, donned her own walking-things, and started off in the opposite direction for Hampstead, in order to lay the whole case once more before her solicitor, and ask him to tell her plainly how to move in the matter. She made sure that she should find Mr. Bond in the ruralised home, where he almost invariably spends Sundays with his boys and his garden and his poultry. But when she arrived there, she found he had gone out with both his sons for the day, and the maid left in charge of the house had no idea where they had gone, nor when they would return.

So Mrs. Hephzibah, chilled and out of temper, had no alternative but to go home again, and write a long and abusive letter to Mr. Bond. Which epistle, combined with the servant's description of the lady's visible annoyance at missing him, so worked on the little solicitor's feelings, that he started off by an earlier train than usual on Monday morning, and presented himself at Mrs. Horton's rooms in the Strand just as she had sat down to a very cosy-looking breakfast-table.

Though it did not appear at first as if the sacrifice he had made to friendship were to meet with its due reward.

'Who on earth asked you to come poking your nose here at this time in the morning?' Mrs. Hephzibah inquires sharply, as he is announced. 'Oh, it's no use standing bowing and scraping out there by the door! As you are here, you may as well make yourself comfortable, for I dare say that prinked-up maid of yours, with her fly-away cap and blue ribbons, never takes the trouble to make you a decent cup of tea before you leave home in the mornings. So, if you're not afraid of your character, I'll risk mine, in order that you shan't say you missed your breakfast to see me, and I sent you to Holborn without any.'

Mr. Bond rubs his hands and deprecates the trouble to which he is about to put her, but Mrs. Hephzibah thrusts him down into a chair in front of the fire by placing her hands upon his shoulders, and then proceeds to do the hospitalities of her breakfast-table in a manner so feminine, and opposite to what one would expect from her quick speech and understanding, that the solicitor, in the midst of enjoying his rissoles and buttered toast, finds himself wishing he had some such guardian of the Hampstead household to look after his comforts when he is off duty.

'And so the poor lady you spoke to me of the other day is in trouble again?' he remarks, as they commence their meal.

'Trouble again!' echoes Mrs. Hephzibah; 'it's the same trouble, poor dear! and she seems to have had nothing else during the whole course of her married life. But eat your breakfast whilst it's hot, Mr. Bond, and leave discussion till afterwards. It's one of my principles never to combine business and eating. You can't do both well at the same time. And each one is so dependent on the other, that they're worth attending to separately.'

Mr. Bond laughs, and follows his hostess's advice, and the meal is prolonged beyond its usual time. Before it is concluded, a servant brings a twisted piece of paper to present to Mrs. Horton.

'Please, ma'am, a gentleman has brought this for you.'

'A gentleman?' repeats Mrs. Horton, as she examines the crumpled note. 'Now, is he a gentleman, Sarah, or is he not? It's the most extraordinary thing,' she continues, turning to her guest, 'every servant who enters this house I try to teach to distinguish between the appearance of a gentleman and a tradesman, but they can't do it. The grocer's lad and the printer's devil continue to be announced as "young gentlemen;" and it is all the same to Sarah, if you knock at the door, or the man who heels my boots calls to have his bill settled, "a gentleman" wants to see me. That's the truth, now?' she says, addressing the maid again.

'Well, ma'am,' replies Sarah, blushing, 'this gentleman is not, perhaps, quite a gentleman, but he's run very fast with the note, and he says it's very particular and must be given to you immediate.'

'That's another thing,' says Mrs. Hephzibah, as she untwists the written communication.

But as soon as her eye falls upon its contents, she starts, ejaculates 'Good gracious!' and then—with the demand 'Where is the man?'—she flings the note across the table to Mr. Bond, and flies downstairs, followed by the astonished servant.

The solicitor, left alone with the mysterious message, wonders at first if he will be justified in perusing it; but then, remembering the energy with which it was hurled towards him, concludes he will be, and reads as follows:

'Dear Friend,

'If you can come to me, pray do so. It is all over. He died last night, and I am left alone, and more in need of help from your strong heart and head than ever.

'Yours affectionately,

'Delia Moray.'

He has hardly had time to decipher the pencilled characters, so as to be sure there is no mistake, before Mrs. Hephzibah returns and throws herself into her chair with a sigh of relief.

'It's all right,' she says, in answer to his look of inquiry. 'I couldn't believe it was true till I had questioned the man myself—poor Sarah's "gentleman!"—a dirty creature who looks as if he hadn't shaved for a week, nor washed for a twelvemonth! But there's no doubt about it. The man's dead, and that poor girl is freed from her worst difficulty. The Lord be praised for all His mercies!'

'Isn't that rather a—a—strong way of looking at it?' says the solicitor timidly.

'Not a bit of it! No way could be too strong. The man's been a curse to her from the day she first set eyes on him, and God has mercifully removed the curse, and saved her perhaps from the temptation of carving out a future for herself. If Delia Moray doesn't thank Him for her release, she's not the woman I've taken her for—and I've done with her henceforward—that's all!'

'Still, death, you know, my dear madam, is a very serious thing.'

'Who said it wasn't? Though it's not half so serious as life, which we think nothing of making a jest of! Look at the lives that you and your trade have ruined! You can laugh over them; but if death is mentioned in your presence, even though it's an escape for the one gone, and a relief for those left, you think it necessary to pull a long face. I hate such humbug! There's more nonsense talked about death than about anything else on earth. We hear of two armies demolishing each other, and we only say "How dreadful!" We see a worthless drunkard, like this man Moray, stretched ready for the grave, and we walk about on tiptoe and speak with bated breath. Why? To honour the shell of a spirit that excited nothing but loathing whilst it existed here below? Not a bit of it! To gratify our own dread of that which we know must happen sooner or later to ourselves. Bah! Don't talk to me!'

Mr. Bond has no intention of talking to her, or rather, she gives him no opportunity of doing so, for in another moment she jumps up and prepares to leave the room.

'Now make haste and finish your breakfast,' she says; 'and get into your greatcoat again, for I shan't be more than five minutes dressing, and we must go to her at once.'

'We?—we?' stammers Mr. Bond; 'but I must really ask you to excuse me. My business——'

'I shan't excuse you! You must come with me! Who knows what use your legal knowledge may be to the poor girl in this extremity? I don't know how she may be situated. That man is not likely to have made a will, and his relations may come and swoop down upon all her little possessions. Your English law has such a precious lot of twisting and turning and lying about it, that one never knows where one may find one's self.'

'But just at present—when the husband has not been dead many hours—surely my presence——' commences the solicitor again.

'If he had only been dead a minute you'd come all the same,' replies his tormentor. 'Delia Moray says she wishes me to go to her, and I wish that you accompany me. So say no more about it;' upon which Mr. Bond wisely refrains from further discussion, and by the time Mrs. Hephzibah returns to the sitting-room he is ready to escort her to the City.

When they reach the Morays' lodgings, Mrs. Timson, with the elongated face which she considers suitable to the occasion, precedes them upstairs with an intimation of their arrival, and Delia, very pale and very grave, comes out to meet her friend upon the landing.

'It is so good of you to come to me,' she says, as Mrs. Hephzibah embraces her, but I felt sure you would. I sent a telegram to tell Mr. William Moray this evening, and he has already arrived here; and—and—we don't get on very well together,' she concludes, with a look that says more than her words.

'Well! I'm all the more glad that I was able to come, my dear, then, and to bring my friend Mr. Bond, whom let me introduce to you. Mr. Bond is my legal adviser—you have heard me mention his name before, I think; and I have told him all your history, so you needn't mind what you say before him.'

'Pray come in from this cold landing,' says Delia simply, as, having bowed to the solicitor, she leads the way to the sitting-room.

The blinds are down, but there is a good fire in the grate, and it does not look more dismal than usual. The child is seated on the hearthrug playing with some books and toys, and William Moray, from his chair at the table, is watching him greedily, as though he considers him to be already his own. He does not look particularly gratified when his sister-in-law re-enters the room, followed by the strangers.

'Some friends of mine who have been kind enough to call and see me,' is all that Delia says in explanation, and then chairs are offered and accepted, and the party sit down together and feel uncomfortable, and don't know how to begin the conversation.

'This is a very melancholy occurrence, sir,' says William Moray to Mr. Bond.

'Very melancholy!' is the rejoinder.

'But only what was to be expected,' chimes in Mrs. Horton decidedly; 'and any one who knew of the deceased's habits must be surprised to think he lasted so long. You'll excuse my speaking of it in your presence, Mr. Moray, but I am a friend of Delia Moray, and I've come here this morning expressly to talk with her about her future prospects. We all know the kind of life she led with your brother, so perhaps you will pardon us if we should be compelled to say anything to give you pain.'

'Perhaps you will prefer my going into the next room,' says William Moray.

'On the contrary, I prefer your remaining here,' replies Mrs. Horton; and being very curious to learn what she and Delia can possibly have to say to each other, he accepts the offer. 'Only I am going to speak without reserve,' adds the lady, for his especial benefit. 'And now, Delia Moray,' she says, laying her hand affectionately on that of the girl, 'what do you intend to do? Tell me everything. You can hardly remain here.'

'Oh yes, I can—for a few days at least,' replies Delia, with a slight shudder. 'Afterwards I think I shall take Willie back to Holloway. The rooms suited me, and it is a healthy place for him.'

At these words Mrs. Hephzibah Horton sees William Moray shift in his chair and smile. She is sure that he means mischief or annoyance of some sort, and is determined to offer her protection to both mother and child.

'And what about the "Corinthian," my dear? Will they spare you till the funeral is over?'

'I hope so. I have sent a letter round to the manager to ask if he can fill my place for a week. If not, I suppose I must go on as usual. It seems very dreadful, but it is one of the penalties of the profession.'

'Women have had to do it in worse cases than yours, I expect; where their feelings have been concerned as well as their ideas of propriety. And who is to manage the business of the funeral for you?'

'I don't know—I am not sure,' replies Delia uncertainly.

'I take that responsibility upon my own shoulders,' says William Moray.

'I'm glad to hear it; not but what it's only your duty. This girl has kept your brother alive quite long enough, in my opinion. It would be rather hard if she had to bury him as well.'

'My family, madam, is above leaving the funeral obsequies of any of its members to be performed either inefficiently or through the charity of strangers,' he answers grandly.

'Oh! indeed, sir! Well, I repeat I'm glad to hear it. Your family has not been above leaving one of its members to be solely supported by the labour of a woman; but as they are going to bury him, least said soonest mended. And about your mourning, Delia: all mourning is humbug, but I suppose you and the boy must wear it. How are you going to get it? Have you any money?'

'Oh! Mrs. Horton——'

'Don't "Oh! Mrs. Horton!" me, child, but answer my question. I come here as a friend, remember, so just write down what you want, and I'll order it for you. I'm not much of a hand at shopping at the best of times. I dare say Mr. Bond here knows as much about dresses as I do, but I shall find plenty of people in London to help me. And for your present expenses, will ten pounds do? There are always lots of little extras to be paid for at a time like this.'

'How shall I ever repay you?' says Delia, as Mrs. Hephzibah puts the money into her hands. 'It is too much. Indeed it is!'

'You'll have the less to repay, then,' replies her friend bluntly, but we'll talk of all that by-and-by. Has your husband left a will?'

'Oh, no! He had nothing to leave,' replies Delia innocently.

'An omission, nevertheless,' puts in the solicitor for the first time, 'and a very reprehensible one. Every man should make his will, if it be only to express his wishes on behalf of those he leaves behind him.'

'Then I am happy to be able to inform you that my late brother is exempt from your animadversions, sir.' says William Moray, smiling; 'for he has left a will, which was duly signed and witnessed in my presence.'

'Glad to hear it,' says the lawyer. 'Puts everything straight and comfortable.'

'A will!' cries Delia, 'I never saw it! Do you know where it is, Mr. Moray?'

'It is in my possession, and you will hear all about it in good time.'

'I do not suppose it will contain any great surprises for you, Delia,' says Mrs. Hephzibah, 'but since you have all had your say, listen to mine. If I understand Mr. William Moray rightly, he charges himself with the responsibility and expenses of the funeral, and there is consequently nothing left for you to do here, where I know you must be very uncomfortable. So bring the child and come home with me. I can get a bedroom at the top of my house, where you shall be as snug as my old landlady can make you; and as soon as everything is over, you can go back to your lodgings at Holloway, or decide on any other plan that seems best. But come home with me now.'

'O! you are so good—so very good to me!' exclaims Delia, as she throws herself into Mrs. Hephzibah's arms.

'Do you accept my invitation, then?'

'Gladly—thankfully. I shall only be too grateful to get away from this dreadful place,' she whispers. 'O, Mrs. Horton! you don't know half of what I have suffered here.'

'I can guess it, my poor child. So that is settled, and you return with me. If you have any little matters to arrange first, do them at once, for my time is precious, and so is that of Mr. Bond.'

Delia rises, and is about to quit the room. William Moray stops her.

'Excuse me, but do I understand that you intend to take Willy with you to this lady's house?'

'Of course. Do you suppose I would go and leave the child here?'

'Then I am afraid I must put a veto upon your doing so. I object to Willy's going anywhere except to Brixton.'

'You object!' exclaims Delia. 'What right have you to object to anything I may choose to do with him? You are not his father.'

'No; but I am his guardian.'

'Who made you so?'

'My brother. By the will I just now told you was in my possession. I am left sole guardian to his son, and I refuse to allow him to be taken from this house until I do so myself.'

Delia becomes alarmed. The look of gravity upon the faces of her friends as they listen to her brother-in-law's assertion rouses her to a sense of danger.

'Where is this will?' she demands in a low voice, as she presses one hand upon her heart.

'It is here,' replies Mr. Moray, producing it from his pocket-book. 'Perhaps, sir,' he continues, turning to the solicitor, 'since I understand you are a lawyer, and it is so very hard to make ladies view these matters in a reasonable light, you will be kind enough to examine this document and convince yourself and them that it is legally executed, and binding in its effects.'

As he speaks, he hands Mr. Bond the paper which James Moray signed the night before, and the solicitor reads it in silence. When he has concluded, he looks at Mrs. Horton, as much as to say, 'The game is up.'

Delia catches the look, and rightly interprets it.

'What is in that paper?' she demands, panting with excitement. 'Tell me—in Heaven's name—I have a right to know!'

'Now, my dear lady——' commences the solicitor.

'Be calm, Delia Moray,' interposes Mrs. Hephzibah, 'and depend on it we will see all your legal rights secured to you.'

William Moray smiles furtively, and says nothing.

'How can I be calm,' gasps the unfortunate Delia, 'when I feel some further calamity is hanging over me? Ah, God! have I not suffered enough—enough already——' Her head droops on her breast for one moment, only to be raised the next with renewed energy. 'Let me know everything,' she says to the solicitor—'everything! I am ready to hear it.'

'Knowing nothing of the parties concerned, except through my friend Mrs. Horton, I'm not perhaps in a fit position to pass a decided opinion on this document; but as far as I can judge, it appears to me to be a very ill-advised and unnecessary proviso, and if the parties who——'

'O! tell me what it contains, for mercy's sake!' implores the mother.

'Who wants your opinion about it?' says Mrs. Hephzibah sharply; 'give us the gist of the matter.'

'Well, ladies, the gist of the matter is, that this paper, signed by the deceased, and witnessed by his brother and one Theresa Timson, deputes the sole guardianship of his son, William Angus Moray, to his brother William Moray, and that without any reference to or interference on the part of Delia Moray, his wife. Which means, ladies, that that gentleman standing there has alone the power to decide where and how the boy shall be boarded and educated henceforward, and that his mother has no power whatever to gainsay or prevent him.'

'Infamous!' exclaims Mrs. Hephzibah energetically. 'But if the law can right her, it shall.'

'The law is futile to interfere,' responds Mr. Bond. 'This is the law.'

'Bah!' cries Mrs. Hephzibah, right in his face, to prevent the tears that have sprung to her eyes rolling down her cheeks.

But Delia's scared gaze is fixed upon him.

'What did you say?' she inquires softly; 'I don't think I quite understand it. My boy is left to his uncle. To be educated, and fed, and kept by his uncle. Not to live with me, do you mean? Could he do it? Is that the law?'

'It is the law, unfortunately, my dear madam,' replies Mr. Bond, blowing his nose. 'A father has absolute power over the destination of his child after seven years old. And the mother cannot interfere, which sometimes causes family differences to assume a very unhappy aspect.'

Still Delia does not seem rightly to comprehend the position in which her husband's will has placed her.

'But Willy will remain with me,' she says, appealing to her brother-in-law; 'even if you have the direction of his education, or the choice of where he shall live, you cannot take my own child from me! Willy will always live under my roof—will he not? and I shall have the care of him as I have had until now.'

'I am afraid not,' answers William Moray, shaking his head. 'My brother spoke very freely to me on this subject, and his express wishes were that in the event of his own death, Willy should reside with me at Brixton, and see as little of you as possible. It is my intention, therefore, to remove him there at once, and if you decide to visit your friend, I see no reason why he should not return with me to-day.'

She understands now. Her eyes flash, and she looks as if she had just been roughly awakened from a dream.

'It is not true—tell me it is not true,' she cries, shaking Mr. Bond by the arm.

'My dear lady, I cannot deceive you. It is true.'

'You mean he can take my boy from me! my child, whom I brought into the world and have worked for ever since; and that that man, who lies dead in the next room, has, by a turn of his finger, cursed my whole life!'

'Indeed, I am afraid that is the case.'

'He shall not—he shall not! I defy him! Is it for this I have borne insult and violence and abuse, in bitter silence? Is it for this that my husband's last act was to attempt my life? Oh! you cannot—cannot have the heart to take my boy from me!' she cries, turning to her brother-in-law. 'You know how I laboured and toiled to support that dead man, and how he requited me. You will not tear from me the only comfort my sad life has known? You will be merciful, and spare my boy?' She has clasped her hands and sunk upon her knees before him, and her eyes streaming with tears are lifted to his face; but he turns away unheeding.

'This is really a most unpleasant scene for all of us,' he remarks to the solicitor and Mrs. Horton, 'and I regret you should have been subjected to it. Pray make Mrs. Moray understand, sir, that whatever my personal feelings might be on the subject, I could not consider myself justified in going against the last wishes of my departed brother, and that the sooner she reconciles herself to the idea the better.'

The way in which she reconciles herself to it is by giving a deep groan, and sinking down upon the floor where she was kneeling.

'If you could persuade your friend——' says William Moray to Mrs. Horton.

'Don't speak to me!' she answers abruptly. 'I think the whole transaction infamous, and worthy of your brother and yourself from beginning to end. He made her miserable whilst he lived, like the pitiful coward that he was, and he couldn't even leave her in peace after he was dead. And you helped him, living, as you will help him now. But there will rest a curse upon you as there did upon him. Such things don't go unpunished. They may be according to the law of England, but they're not according to the law of God; and He'll visit them upon you as He has done upon him. And if the poor girl had never been such a fool as to marry him, he couldn't have made her suffer like this to gratify his own petty revenge!'

The woman on the floor seems to have been listening to Mrs. Hephzibah's words, for as the last sentence leaves her lips she raises her head, and a look of fierce determination succeeds the despair in her face.

What is it she gropes for in her bosom? Does she mean to murder the man who threatens to rob her of her child; and is it a concealed knife for which she seeks? It might be, judging from the look upon her face. But whatever it is, as she gets hold of it she rises to her feet suddenly, and stands upon the hearthrug with her back to the fire.

'Mr. Bond!' she exclaims, 'is that the truth? Were my boy a bastard, could they take him from me?'

'A strange question, my dear madam; but certainly not—certainly not!'

'Not by will or otherwise?'

'By no means whatever! It is only over his legitimate child that a man has any power.'

Something held in the hands behind her back drops into the blazing fire, and is shrivelled into nothing. As Delia gives a rapid glance round, and sees it has entirely disappeared—a beautiful courage—the courage of despair—gleams from her eyes, like that which must have inspired the martyrs of old when they placed their naked feet upon the burning ploughshares.

She catches up the child upon the hearthrug, and holding him tightly to her breast, advances to the table.

'Then I defy William Moray, or any other man, to take my boy from me,' she says. 'He is mine, and I am his. We belong to one another only. I was never married to his father!'

At this announcement every one in the room is visibly startled.

'Are you in earnest, madam?' demands the solicitor incredulously.

'Delia Moray! for God's sake, think what you are sacrificing!' whispers Mrs. Horton.

But the animal instinct is roused in the woman's breast, and she shakes off her best friend with fierce impatience.

'Leave me alone!' she answers loudly. 'I tell you 'tis the truth!'

'It is not,' says William Moray; 'it is a trumped-up lie to serve your own purpose. I had the assurance from my brother's lips that you were his wife!'

'Where are the proofs, then? Bring them forward!'

'You must have a copy of the marriage-certificate, surely?' says the lawyer.

Mrs. Hephzibah Horton remembers—and says nothing.

'I have no certificate,' replies Delia.

'That is of little consequence,' says William Moray angrily. 'A copy is easily procurable from the registrar's books of the church where they were married. I am not going to be fooled in this way.'

'But if we were never married in any church—what then?' says Delia defiantly.

'But I say you were! You were married at Chilton, in Berwick. Now! are you convinced that it is useless to try and deceive me?'

She laughs scornfully.

'Go to Chilton, then, and get the certificate. There is no church there. It was burnt to the ground at the very time I stayed in the place with your brother.'

Mr. Moray starts. He has heard something of the occurrence before, and remembers it is true. He begins to fear she may outwit him.

'This is child's-play!' he exclaims passionately. 'There must be a copy of the certificate somewhere amongst my late brother's papers. I shall go and search for it.'

He leaves the room as he speaks, and Mrs. Horton approaches Delia.

The mother's face is very pale, and her lips are tightly compressed together, and as her friend grasps her hand she shrinks away from her.

'Don't touch me, or speak to me! Remember what I am!'

'I do remember it, Delia Moray, and I admire your courage. But you cannot deceive me!'

The girl's eyes turn towards her with a look of infinite gratitude.

'Don't mention it now! For the next few minutes I must act or fail.'

William Moray re-enters the apartment.

'Have you been successful, sir?' asks Mr. Bond.

'D—n it! no!' is the reply. 'But I will prove the truth of the marriage yet, if trouble or expense will do it.'

'Meanwhile,' interposes Mrs. Horton blandly, 'you will have no objection, I suppose, to this lady returning home with me?'

'She may go to the devil!' he answers fiercely.

* * * * *

So she passes from the home where she has been so miserable, with a blight upon her fair name, and a brand for ever on her outcast child, believing that the joy she has so rashly purchased must outweigh the sufferings that accompany it.

And this is Delia Moray's Lie!

BOOK THE SECOND.

THE CONSEQUENCES.

'Thou hast dared To tell me what I durst not tell myself. I durst not think that I was spurn'd and live. * * * Give me my love, my honour, give 'em back, Give me revenge while I have breath to ask it.'

Dryden.

————

CHAPTER I.

'I SHOULD LIKE TO SPEAK WITH YOU AGAIN.'

There are some places in this world of change—a very few—which look as if they had stood still since the day on which they attained maturity. No modern architecture has displaced the quaint fashion in which their first houses were built: no innovations have been permitted to supersede their ancient customs.

The dress of their burghers even remains unaltered, and grass grows between the round paving-stones by which their highways are rendered torture to the modern martyr, whether he traverses them on wheels or on foot.

Such a place is Bruges: city beloved of devotees, refugees, and impecunious Englishmen; where the carillon rings out from the Tour de Halles faithfully every quarter of an hour, and the commonest object that passes within your range of vision is a study for a painter.

It is true that the church bells are chiming all day long: true that the Flemish women chatter like a nest of monkeys:

that the dog-carts rattle over the pavements, and most of the articles of commerce are vended in the open streets: yet for all that, peace and rest are written upon every stone of the grey, grave old city.

The trees waving solemnly towards each other in the Place that contains the Palais de Justice, and the Chapelle du Saint Sang, seem to whisper the words. The calm canal flowing on without a ripple towards the sea; the closed doors of the many convents; the open doors of the many churches, all say the same thing.

It is a home, not for the frivolous and the gay, who require constant excitement: not for the guilty, who dare not stand face to face with their past, but for the weary and heavy-hearted, for those who have closed their accounts with this world and only wait their summons to a better and a brighter life.

* * * * *

Not that all the inhabitants of Bruges are ready, or even desirous to be ready, to quit it. Young and happy hearts beat amongst them, although the voices of the children seem more subdued here than in other places. It appears like sacrilege to make those reverend archways ring with laughter or the ancient stones clatter beneath running feet. But they think little about that, you may be sure. Gabrielle de Blois, even, great tall girl of seventeen though she is, returning from her daily music lesson at the convent school, has no scruples on the matter. She is a pretty gipsy-looking creature, with dark hair hanging down her back in tangled curls, and bright eyes full of mirth and mischief, and a coarse straw hat pulled over her face. She looked as demure as a nun just now when she met the Reverend Abbé Bertin and answered some questions he put to her respecting her father, but as she turned the corner and passed under the dark archway that will conduct her to the sunny open Place, she caught sight of a well-known figure advancing as though to meet her, and all her love of fun rushes to the surface, She darts like a swallow behind the opened gateway, and waits in silent ambush the approach of the new-comer. In her hand she holds a branch of blossoming lime which she pulled carelessly from a tree on her way from school. The person she waits for advances unsuspectingly, believing her still to be some quarter of a mile ahead of him. He is a young man of one or two and twenty: slight, tall, and graceful in appearance, with delicate features, blue eyes, and fair reddish hair.

He does not hear the half-suppressed giggle with which his proximity to the gateway is saluted, but he does feel a long branch of blossoming lime tickle his neck as he passes through it, and in another moment he has detected the hidden culprit. The warm flush that beautifies his features as he does so, is sufficient to denote the interest he feels in her, whilst the burst of glad laughter with which she greets him, proves that he is no unwelcome companion.

'Gabrielle,' he says in French, reproachfully, 'why did you not wait at the convent until I called for you?'

'Because, Angus,' she answers in the same language, 'the fact of your calling for me so constantly has been observed, and papa would not like me to be talked about.'

Both speak fluently, but there is just sufficient difference in their accents to show that Angus has acquired the language by education, and Gabrielle uses it as her native tongue.

'What nonsense! when we have known each other from little children. One would think you were about to become a nun yourself.'

'And who says I am not?' she returns defiantly.

'You look very like a nun in that costume, I must say. Much more like a wild Arab of the desert!'

'Now, Angus, that is very unkind of you, as well as impolite, when you know my poor papa cannot afford to dress me any better.'

'Oh! Gabrielle! as if you did not look beautiful to me in any guise. Only when you talk of becoming a nun, it is too absurd.'

'Why should it be absurd? Both my aunts are religieuses, and I have no mother to take charge of me, should my poor papa die.'

'There is no chance of your father dying; but if there were, you should have some one better than a mother to look after you!'

'Tiens! who is that?' cries the girl, with well-affected ignorance.

'A husband.'

'You must not speak to me in that fashion, Angus. Papa would not approve of it!'

'I must speak, Gabrielle. The time has come for speaking. I only wait your permission to broach the subject to your father. But though I know that, according to the custom of your country, I should do that first, I am too English in feeling to pluck up courage for it, until I am sure that his consent will be backed by your own. Tell me, Gabrielle, if your father says "Yes," will you have me for your husband?'

The young people have emerged into the Place by this time, and are pacing slowly up and down beneath the row of lime-trees. It is a very uncommon thing to see a young Belgian lady do, but the good people of Bruges have long ago decided that Dr. de Blois is letting his motherless girl go to ruin. At the present moment, however, there are few witnesses to the impropriety. It is the universal dinner hour amongst the labouring population of Bruges, when every shop-door is locked, and every citizen has disappeared somewhere in the background, to consume the mid-day meal. A few drivers of hackney carriages, slumbering upon their seats, are alone within sight; the crows are cawing to each other in a lazy way, and the trees are whispering their old burden of peace and rest—and everything appears to be at rest upon this sleepy broiling day in June, except the two young hearts, fluttering under life's first sweet experience of love, as they confess their secrets to each other.

'You must not speak to me like that, Angus! I don't think it can be right,' says Gabrielle, looking very pleased the while nevertheless.

'Is it right to marry without love then, think you?' he demands in his turn.

'No, no; of course not!'

'Yet thousands do, both in your country and mine; and what comes of it? I have seen its effects, Gabrielle—I have felt them, only too deeply—and I have determined never to marry unless I am assured that my future wife loves me for myself alone.'

'Can you doubt it, Angus?' says the girl softly.

'How am I to be sure of it, darling, unless you tell me so with your own lips? If I went to your father and told him I desired to make you my wife, he might give me his consent—do you think he would give me his consent, Gabrielle?'

'I do not know. I am not sure,' replies the girl, blushing violently; 'but papa loves you, Angus. He has often told me how much he should like to have had a son just like yourself.'

'Well, then, if I told him that I have been placed in a position to earn three thousand francs a year, with the prospect of increase, that circumstance, combined with his personal liking for me, might make him say, "Here is a desirable marriage for my Gabrielle;" and he would tell you the same, and his influence, added to our long intimacy, might cause you to believe you loved me well enough to become my wife, when it was all a mistake and a delusion on your part; and then, Gabrielle——'

'And then, Angus?' she repeats in a voice of inquiry.

'We should wake up to mutual misery, as my father and mother did. I, to find out that my wife did not love me; and you, that you had thrown away your chance of happiness for ever!'

'Was your mother's married life wretched then, Angus?'

'So much so, that she will never speak of the past, even now! But do not let us think of that, Gabrielle, except as a warning for our own future. Tell me, if your good father consents to our union, will it make you very happy? Would you rather be my wife than the wife of any other man?'

'I will never be the wife of any other man!' replies Gabrielle resolutely. 'If papa will not consent to it, Angus, I—I—will go into a convent, like my poor aunts.'

'Never, darling! Never, whilst I live to protect you by my right hand. A nun, Gabrielle! Why, it would be a sin against the Creator of those laughing eyes, to hide them under a veil! He never made them to shed their light unseen, I will answer for it.'

'Then you must promise they shall never weep, Angus.'

'Not if I can help it. We have known each other from babies, Gabrielle. I was not much more than a baby when mother first brought me here, and you were a wee, toddling thing fresh from your nurse's arms. And for fourteen years we have played and worked together—in school and out of it; and never had a quarrel, have we? I think we may venture to hope that we may go through life together in the same manner. Will you try, dear Gabrielle?'

'Yes!' says the girl modestly.

'Then, that's a settled thing, darling; and I will speak to Dr. de Blois the very first opportunity. Oh, you have made me so happy! To think of having you all to myself, making the house so bright for me and dear mother; for we must have mother to live with us, Gabrielle, must we not?'

'Oh, certainly,' cries the girl. 'Do you think I would have it otherwise? Why, half the joy of it, Angus, will be because I gain a mother to love and cherish me; I, who have never known what it is to have a mother's care!'

The young man is about to make some rapturous reply to her words, when the attention of both is diverted towards the driver of a fiacre, who is waving his arms and hallooing in their direction.

'What can the man want?' exclaims Angus, as he turns and sees him.

He is standing beside his vehicle, at the open door of which a gentleman appears to be occupying himself with some passenger inside, whilst three or four other drivers stand around in idle curiosity or amazement.

'Some one has been taken ill,' says Gabrielle, with the quick instinct of her sex.

She proves to be right. As the young couple near the vehicle, a portly, pompous-looking Englishman turns to question them, disclosing the body of a portly, pompous looking Englishwoman lying in a state of unconsciousness upon the carriage-seat. The driver, knowing Angus by sight, and being unable to comprehend a word of the stranger's language, had wisely summoned him to his aid.

'Do you know if I can get a doctor in this place?' demands the Englishman curtly, and without removing his hat. 'This lady, my wife has been taken very ill, and I must get medical advice at once for her.'

'There are several doctors here, monsieur,' commences Angus politely.

'Well, well, well! I don't want several doctors; I want one. One will do if he's worth his salt, and can understand English. Can you give me a name and address?'

'Shall we send them to your father?' demands Angus, in French, of Gabrielle. 'He is the only doctor in Bruges who can speak English.'

'Yes, yes!' replies the girl eagerly. 'Papa will do all he can for the poor lady.'

'Are you going to keep me standing here all day?' says the stranger rudely.

He is dark-haired, coarse, and rather common-looking, yet there is something in his appearance that strikes Angus with interest. The interest seems returned; for as the Englishman looks at the young man again, it is with considerable earnestness.

'Doctor de Blois, Numero 10, Rue St. Augustin, is a very skilful practitioner, monsieur, and will do all for the lady that is possible.'

The stranger gives the direction to the driver, and nodding carelessly in acknowledgment of the service rendered, is about to re-enter the vehicle, when a thought suddenly strikes him, and he turns round, with his foot upon the carriage step.

'What is your name?' he says abruptly.

'Angus Moray, monsieur.'

The Englishman descends to earth again.

'Angus Moray! Who is your father?'

'My father, James Moray, has been dead for a long time; but my mother lives here.'

'Oh, your mother lives here, does she?'

'Certainly. We have been residents in Bruges for many years past.'

'Exactly. I understand all about it. Now, look you here, Mr. Angus Moray: I happen to have known your father, and I should like to speak with you again. I can't stay now, with my wife in this condition, as you may suppose; but I am stopping at the Hôtel Belgique, and if you like to come and see me there to-morrow afternoon, you can—if not, leave it alone. Good-day to you!' and entering the vehicle, the portly Englishman closes the door and drives off, leaving the two young people standing in the middle of the Place staring after him.

'What a curious adventure,' says Angus at last. 'I wonder what the man can possibly want to see me for!'

'It is unaccountable,' acquiesces Gabrielle. 'And he has forgotten to leave his name too! Tiens! but that is droll! For whom will you ask?'

'There will be no difficulty in finding him, Gabrielle. There cannot be two such Englishmen staying at the Hôtel Belgique.'

'Suppose he should turn out to be a millionnaire, and wish to make you his heir!' suggests the girl. 'You would forget all that you have just said to me then, Angus.'

'Never, my darling! But suppose your papa saves the lady's life, and in gratitude for his services the millionnaire bestows all his fortune upon him. One event is quite as likely to occur as the other. What would Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Blois have to say to her railway surveyor then, eh?'

'The lady is not ill enough for that,' replies Gabrielle evasively. 'She has only fainted from the heat and fatigue; and how the visitors here can go through the exertions they do, standing about churches and picture-galleries all day, in the height of summer, always puzzles me! See, Angus, there is another Englishwoman in that fiacre. Ah, how droll she is! What a comical figure! Will she strike the poor driver in the face with that huge umbrella?'

They seem destined to encounter surprises to-day, for as they look towards the person Gabrielle has mentioned, they plainly see the umbrella flourished in their direction, with the evident design of attracting their notice.

'Another millionnaire! Now we shall have one apiece!' exclaims Gabrielle, laughing, as the vehicle halts and they walk up to it; but this time it is in very tolerable French that the stranger asks if they can help her to find the address for which she is bound:

'I have just come over by the Ostend boat to visit an old friend in Bruges, and though I have been corresponding with her for years past, I have never been required to put the number of the street in which she resides upon my letters; and this idiot on the coach-box doesn't appear to know the lady's name nor anything about her!'

'Pardon, madame!' says Angus, as, with all the courtesy of his adopted land, he stands bareheaded before her. 'Perhaps he is a stranger to Bruges. Will you favour me with the name of the lady you desire to find?'

'It's not a private house. It's a lodging house in the Rue Allemande, kept by a Mademoiselle Steivenart.'

'Ah, madame, I am fortunate! I can direct you without further trouble. Mademoiselle Steivenart keeps the house at Numero 22.'

'Thank you very much. I'm sure I'm infinitely obliged.

This fool would have driven me about the town all day,' replies the stranger; and in another minute she has also driven out of sight.

'What a funny-looking lady!' exclaims Gabrielle as she disappears. 'She wears a bonnet of the mode of ten years back, and a cloak like a man's coat, and has such a loud voice. You would make twice as nice a woman as she is, Angus, if we dressed you up in my clothes.'

But Angus is thoughtfully ruminating over some old memory, stirred by the stranger's appearance and address. 'It is strange she should be bound for Numero 22!' he says presently. 'I wonder who she can be going to see there. The boarders are all foreigners except my mother.'

'And this lady is so much what my papa would call a "regular John Bull." But may she not be going to see your mamma, Angus? Madame Moray told me last week she expected a friend from England.'

'You are right, Gabrielle! You have hit it!' exclaims Angus. 'Everything assures me you must be right; and this lady can be no other than my mother's old friend, Mrs. Hephzibah Horton.'

'Tiens! What a name! cries Miss Gabrielle.

————

CHAPTER II.

'HAS HE EVER BEEN TRIED?'

Mrs. Hephzibah Horton (for it is indeed she) is jolted rapidly over the uneven paving stones until she finds the vehicle has stopped before a wide porte-cochère, carved in old black oak, with fiendish and cherubic faces, all sporting in inextricable confusion about the figure of the martyr Saint Sebastian, with his gridiron ready in his hand.

'This can't be a boarding-house,' says Mrs. Hephzibah in her decided tones; 'the idiot has made another mistake. It looks much more like the entrance to the Inquisition Chamber!'

'Madame said Numero 22,' suggests the driver patiently.

Perhaps his patience is attributable to the fact that he has not understood one half of the abuse his fare has lavished upon him.

'Of course I did; but is this Numero 22?' She glances upward as she speaks, and her eyes guiltily encounter the number painted on the wall. Where's the bell, then?' she continues. 'Heavens! you don't mean to tell me that is it?' as the driver pulls at a long iron handle depending from an iron hook, and makes a clangour like the sound of a church bell. 'It's enough to wake the dead' says Mrs. Hephzibah, as she throws herself back upon her seat.

It is sufficient, apparently, to wake up a fat sleepy-looking Flemish girl, who with a very white cap, very red cheeks, and a very thick waist, now presents herself at the open doorway; and Mrs. Hephzibah, being satisfied that she is at Numero 22, descends to earth, and is ushered past Saint Sebastian into a vast paved hall, ornamented by trees planted in green tubs, which communicates by a flight of stone steps with the apartments of the house above. She has scarcely reached it, and is still searching for the proper fare to bestow upon the driver, whom she affirms should receive nothing at all for being such an idiot, when a light step sounds along the upper corridor, and some one comes flying down the broad stone staircase, right into her arms.

'Oh! my dear, dear friend! Is it really and truly you? What happiness to meet you after a separation of so many years!'

Mrs. Hephzibah is not given, as a rule, to embraces or tears, but she is surprised to find how emotional this meeting with Delia Moray has the power to make her feel.

There is a moisture about her eyes that she cannot understand, as she returns the younger woman's kisses; and her hands tremble so, that she gives the idiot a whole franc over his proper fare, a circumstance which affords her a subject for regret during the remainder of her stay in Bruges.

'And now that we are alone, let me have a good look at you,' she says, when, all such preliminary ceremonies as removing her travelling attire and taking some refreshment being happily concluded, she finds herself seated in her friend's private room.

Delia Moray stands before her, laughing. She was twenty five when they parted; she is thirty-seven now, but the fourteen years' interval of rest and quiet has passed over her lightly.

Not a white hair shines amongst her smooth dark tresses, not a wrinkle yet appears upon her forehead. Her cheeks are plumper and her complexion brighter than they were wont to be, and happiness is sparkling in her eyes and dimpling her mouth with smiles.

'My dear, you look ten years younger than you used to do. I'm afraid you can't say the same of me. Is it the air of this place that has done it, or have you got a Belgian Rachel to make you "beautiful for ever." You have certainly got hold of some secret that half your sex would give their eyes to find.'

'It is the rest and the content, dear Mrs. Horton. Oh! you cannot think what a peaceful life I lead here. I seem to have no care, no trouble. I make the little money I require for my own wants, easily, and I have friends all over Bruges, and my boy is so good and generous to me.'

'I am glad to hear that—very glad indeed. He ought to be a good son to you, Delia Moray, for you gave up everything for him.'

'Oh! he is, and so clever besides, and getting on so well in his profession. He studied, you know, as a civil engineer and surveyor, and Monsieur l'Abbé Bertin took a great interest in him; and now, with the assistance of some of his relations, he has procured Angus an excellent appointment—the permanent charge of a new line of railway just opened between Bruges and some of the smaller towns in Belgium. And Angus is to receive three thousand francs a year as salary, that is, one hundred and twenty pounds of our English money, with an annual increase of ten pounds. That is not a bad income for a boy of twenty-one, who has had nothing but his own wits to depend on for a living. Is it, Mrs. Horton? And it might be all for me if I chose to accept it from him. Dear Angus!'

The mother's eyes are dancing with pride and pleasure, and Mrs. Hephzibah cannot but catch some spark of her laudable excitement.

'It is capital—it is first rate! and I congratulate you, Delia Moray, on the possession of such a son. I didn't think he'd turn out so well—I didn't indeed. And so you call him "Angus" now, instead of "Willie." '

'Yes, and have done so for years; I think it best. It is his second name, you know, and the other is fraught with unpleasant recollections to me. I cannot bear the thought of that man, William Moray—even to this day. He who wanted so cruelly and basely to deprive me of my child—to take my only solace from me. It was a long time before I could forget the aversion and fear with which he inspired me, and even now I sometimes feel a dread lest his malice should find me out again, and urge him to revenge himself upon my darling boy.'

'Delia Moray, I see that you haven't given up your old habit of talking nonsense. How on earth could this man hurt you or your boy, who is already of age? It is evident that you've grown no wiser during the years we have been parted.'

'Oh! I know it is but a foolish fancy, but then Angus is so precious to me. And if anything were to come between us, or turn away his love from me, I think that I should die.'

'I don't suppose there is much fear of that. And so you live in this boarding-house all the year round, in preference to a cosy place of your own?'

'What should I do with a house of my own, Mrs. Horton? The houses here are all like palaces for size. My boy and I would be lost in one of them.'

'This place looks more like a convent than a respectable private dwelling,' remarks Mrs. Hephzibah grimly.

'But that is just what it was,' replies Delia, laughing, 'before the Spaniards ransacked the town, and scattered the inmates of half the religious houses. Oh, it is such a quaint old place! Such corridors, and unexpected staircases, and greniers! And all the floors are of solid oak upstairs, and of marble below. Don't you like it?'

There seems little fault to find with the charming room in which Mrs. Hephzibah is sitting with her friend at the time. The windows are filled with creeping and hanging plants, the walls decorated with oil-paintings, and the dark oak brackets with china.

Everything is comfortable and in good taste, and the heaviness of the carving with which the fittings of the room are decorated is relieved by the warm crimson velvet that covers sofa and chairs.

'Yes, I do—very much; and I'm delighted to find you living with so much luxury about you. This room looks rather different from the wretched place you used to occupy in the City, doesn't it? I suppose you've forgotten all about that, though, by this time, and do not even remember that you were once an actress, trudging through all weathers to the "Corinthian" to earn the pittance that kept life in yourself and your belongings?'

'Oh, do I not!' cries Delia impulsively. 'I often, often dream of it, Mrs. Horton, and wake up to thank God it is all over. And you, too, for if you had not helped me to get my first situation over here, I might have been on the stage to this day.'

'Nonsense, child! You'd have found plenty to help you without me. It was only "first come, first served." '

'I don't believe it! And then the people you placed me with were so good. They helped me to help myself. And after I had acquired the French language, which I did easily whilst teaching the little French children English, there was less difficulty still. The four young ladies I am teaching now are motherless girls of high family, and I am their chaperon as well as instructress. I go to their house every morning at nine o'clock, and am not allowed to leave them until their father returns home at six; but they are in the country at present, and I have a holiday. I dine with them in the middle of the day, too, so that my expenses are nominal; and they pay me such a liberal salary that I am really laying by something. Fancy my having money in the savings-bank, Mrs. Horton! Do you believe it? Doesn't it seem like a dream?'

'A very nice sort of dream, my dear, and one I hope you may never wake from. And you deserve it, too; you've worked faithfully and steadily for many years. It would be rather hard if you couldn't put by something against a rainy day, or the time when you may be too old for work.'

'Ah! then my boy will help me. He will never desert his mother, the darling! He says even that when he is married, he is determined I shall live with him.'

'A bad plan, my dear, but a kind wish, nevertheless. Talking of marriage, however, is it possible you have never thought of changing your condition yourself? I don't flatter my friends in general, but you're a personable sort of looking woman, you know, Delia Moray, and not so very old either, and I should have thought some sharp-sighted widower would have cast his eye upon you before now. Not that I'm an advocate for marriage, as you well know; though, since that blessed Property Act has passed, it's not half the slavery it used to be. Still, there are some women—soft, round, pussy-cat creatures like yourself—that seem made to be married; and as you've not been accustomed to live alone, I wonder you've not been tempted to try it again. Though you had a benefit the first time and no mistake, and perhaps, like the burnt child, you fear the fire. I'm not advising the step, remember, nor blaming you for abstaining from it. Only I fancied you were just one of those simpletons who would be persuaded to go in for it a second time.'

While Mrs. Hephzibah has been holding forth after this fashion, Delia Moray has been standing before her with downcast eyes and burning cheeks, winding a piece of wool aimlessly round and round her fingers. At the conclusion of her oration, the speaker looks up and guesses the truth at once.

'So I'm right, am I, and you'll be asking my permission to introduce some black-bearded, yellow-faced, lantern-jawed foreigner to me before the day's over, as your prétendu.'

'Oh no, indeed! There is no one of the sort! I am not fiancée, and never shall be.'

'Then what have you got so red for?'

'You are enough to make any woman get red,' replies Delia, half-laughing and half-crying. 'You do say such funny things. And I have had the opportunity of marrying again—more than once perhaps—but I would never do so, for the sake of my boy!'

'There's your old weakness cropping up again. What on earth has your boy got to do with your settling yourself comfortably in life and getting a man to pay your debts? Do you suppose Master Angus, for all his promises, would prefer to have a mother on his hands as well as a wife? Don't you believe it. If you can find a reasonable creature to marry, instead of a brute, it will be the best thing you can do for all parties. But none of your impecunious, lazy gentlemen, remember. Let it be a man, this time, who will work for you. Not a cur who will be content to live upon your earnings!'

'Dear Mrs. Horton, it is a wonderful thing to hear you advocating matrimony under any circumstances. How your opinions must have changed since we last talked together.'

Mrs. Hephzibah grows red in her turn under this accusation; but she fights for her character for consistency, nevertheless.

'No, Delia Moray, my opinions have not changed, but the times have. We haven't been standing still for the last fourteen years. If I warned you not to place your foot upon a rotten plank, because it would give way and precipitate you into the stream, that's proper caution. But when this same rotten plank has been propped up by a stout support from beneath, I should say you might cross with safety. That wouldn't be inconsistent, would it?'

'No; certainly not.'

'Well, it's a case in point. When you were a married woman, wives had no protection whatever against the tyranny and injustice of their husbands. Now they have. That's the difference! The plank is as rotten as ever, but the prop they have given it will prevent your falling into the stream.'

'Oh, do tell me all about it! You have told me nothing yet about yourself. I am so selfish and egotistical, I have talked only of my own affairs, and never inquired after yours.'

'There is not much to tell, my dear. I am going on in the old groove; and if I have lost a few friends by death, I have quarrelled with none that were worth retaining.'

'And how is Mr. Bond?' says Delia slily.

'Oh, that little fool! He's just the same as usual, thank you. Growing frightfully old, of course, and no one but himself to thank for it.'

'But he must be an old gentleman by this time, Mrs. Horton?'

'Not a bit of it. He's only sixty-four. But if a man will sit in an office heated like an oven, he must expect to shrivel up. I'm not shrivelled, am I?'

'Dear friend, with the exception of your hair being grey, you look no older than when we parted.'

'Well, I was sixty-one on my last birthday. But Bond's an idiot! He'll die before his time. I always tell him so. His boys are getting on well, though.'

'I'm glad to hear that.'

'We put Bob in the Civil Service. He passed a first rate examination, and has progressed steadily ever since. What with his regular work and writing for the press, he's making eight or nine hundred a year now, and has got a pretty little place at Clapham, with a nice wife and four healthy bairns cutting about the garden. Bill went into his father's office, and has taken all the bread out of the old man's mouth, as I say. Anyway, he gets the lion's share of the business; and right enough too, for who would consult that twaddling old Bond, who could tell his affairs to a smart young fellow instead? So now Master Bill wants to marry and set up for himself, like Bob, so I suppose the father will be left in the Hampstead cottage alone.'

'Oh, that will be very sad for him. I pity poor Mr. Bond when the cottage is empty. And without a wife, too.'

'Bless you, Delia Moray, Bond's a regular old woman, and will coddle himself as well as any wife could do it for him. I think sometimes that he's in his dotage. The trouble I had to drum the clauses of this "Married Woman's Property Act" into that old man's head, no one can imagine.'

'Couldn't he understand it?'

'He wouldn't understand it. None of them will to this day, unless they are compelled to. They don't like its provisions. They come too near home.'

'Is it such a very good thing for married women, then?'

'My dear, it's everything! It's their backbone—their support—the prop under their rotten plank. You don't mean to tell me you haven't read it?'

'I have never heard of it, except through your letters.'

'Bless my soul! how astounding! Here have we wretched women been crying out for justice for centuries past, and when we get the first drop of it, not one out of a hundred has the curiosity to see how it tastes! You'll tell me you never heard of John Stuart Mill and Gladstone next.'

'Well, of course I've heard of them.'

'Delia Moray, the "Married Woman's Property Act" is more comprehensive than any Bill that has been passed for the protection of women before. It embraces a wide area of possibilities, and it provides that the earnings of any married woman, however obtained, and all investments of such earnings, shall be held as her separate property, and settled to her separate use. Don't you see the working of such an Act, my dear? No more use for drunken or dissolute husbands, whose wives can earn a little money, to try and make their homes miserable as yours was made. The women can spend their earnings as they will, and snap their fingers in the men's faces. There was many a poor wretch sang Te Deum when that Bill passed, I can tell you.'

'What suffering it would have saved me!' sighs Delia.

'Ah! poor child! And what a lie into the bargain! You would have had that brute too well under your thumb for him to dare to make the infamous will he did.'

Delia turns deadly pale.

'Don't mention it, Mrs. Horton. Pray don't. It is the effort of my life to forget it.'

'I don't see why it should worry you! No one knows it here.'

'But is such a lie ever suffered to pass without its consequences?'

'Nonsense! What consequences could it have after all these years? Besides, it was a lie. That is sufficient!'

'I could not prove it as such,' says Delia.

Mrs. Horton is silent. In some arguments it is wiser to retreat from the field whilst we can do so with honour.

'Where is your boy?' she demands, with a view to change the subject.

Mrs. Moray's face brightens in a moment.

'We shall not see him till seven o'clock—the hour for the table-d'hôte. He always lunches in the town. I wonder what you will think of him? Some people say he is so handsome.'

'Humph! Is he like you?'

'Not a bit! He is very like his poor father, only taller and stronger.'

Mrs. Hephzibah's mouth is firmly closed.

'Dear friend,' says Delia in her pretty caressing way, as she comes and kneels down beside her companion, 'you won't let that circumstance set you against my child—will you?'

'No! that would be prejudice, and prejudice is a thing I despise. But I confess I would rather have heard the boy had taken after you. As a general rule, the outer man is a very fair index of the spirit.'

'You are mistaken there, indeed,' says the mother warmly. 'Angus is like his father in appearance only. He would never do a mean or cowardly thing. He would never trample on my love, nor consider it of so little value as to set up that of another before it.'

'Has he ever been tried?'

'No—but do you suppose it could be otherwise? Oh! Mrs. Horton! What are you saying? Do you wish to set me against my own child—to make me suspicious of his entire love for me?'

'Delia Moray! I want to do nothing of the sort. I only made a commonplace remark, to the effect that we cannot answer for what anyone will do, until we have seen them placed under the same circumstances as others. Come now, my dear! I've travelled a long distance for a sight of your bonny face. Do not let us quarrel in this the first hour of our reunion. I will admire your handsome boy when I see him, to your heart's content, and I will believe him to be anything you wish until I prove him to be otherwise.'

————

CHAPTER III.

GOOD-NIGHT.

But Mrs. Hephzibah is not destined to be introduced to Mr. Angus Moray that evening. The hour for the table-d'hôte arrives and passes, and he does not appear.

The new-comer, in her quaint, unornamented gear, and with her decided love of argument, excites much amusement amongst the ladies, and has more than one wordy war with the gentlemen, at the dinner-table; whilst Delia Moray sits by her side uncertain whether to be pleased or otherwise with the notice her guest is exciting, but in reality vexed with nothing so much as the absence of her boy. She has made arrangements that coffee shall be served in her private sitting-room, and the first thing Mrs. Hephzibah notices when they are again alone, is the sudden depression of her spirits.

'What's the matter now?' she asks, in her abrupt though not unkindly manner.

'Nothing—that is, I cannot imagine what should have kept Angus from home this evening.'

'Bless me! is it possible you're fretting about that? Your troubles must have come down to a minimum! Why, is the boy so very regular at his meals, then?'

'Oh, sometimes he dines out with his friends, and it is a settled thing between us that if he does not appear at the table-d'hôte, I shall not sit up for him. But, then, to-night of all nights, I thought he would have been at home.'

'He knew I was coming, then?'

'He knew I expected you, though I was rather uncertain whether you would arrive to-day or to-morrow. But it is very unlike Angus not to give me at least an intimation of his probable absence.'

'My dear, if you imagine for a moment that I feel his defalcation, you were never more mistaken in your life. I have long learned to appraise the masculine sex at its true value. The whole of their behaviour with respect to women is an artificial sham. Their servile courtesy—pretentious humility, and profound admiration—what are they, but tools to serve their own ends? Passion—ambition—greed—these are the three aims which urge them on to the measures they use to obtain a woman; but let her once be wholly and solely theirs, and if they don't quite go the lengths that your noble partner did, of kicking and ill-using her, they will have their own way, whether it makes her life miserable or not!'

'You never held an exalted opinion of them, Mrs. Horton.'

'I never did, my dear! and I never shall.'

'Still, I want you so much to like my boy.'

'I shall like him if he is worth liking. But I confess that in that case I shall consider him a rara avis.'

'Well, then he must be one.'

'Humph! I've heard mothers say something of the kind before. But don't look so vexed about it. If Angus appears to me very much like the rest of his sex, it will only be that he cannot help it. I believe they're born selfish and domineering, and they have no more power to change their natures than they have to change their skins.'

'You are not going to bed already, Mrs. Horton, are you?'

'Well, my dear, with your leave I will. I'd like to be up in good time in the morning, for I intend to see every nook and corner of this interesting old town before I leave it; but I've been sadly bumped about between the steamer and the rail to-day, and feel inclined for nothing so much as my bed.'

'And my boy has not come back yet,' says Delia ruefully, as she lights her friend's bedroom-candle.

'Never mind! I shall see him to-morrow, I suppose?' replies Mrs. Hephzibah, with cheerful resignation.

But as she is left to her own company, she thinks that Angus Moray is a selfish young fellow, who will make his mother's heart ache before she has done with him.

'I'll bet anything he's the image of that brute, his father,' she says to herself, as she prepares for rest, 'only Delia is such a soft-hearted creature she's never found it out. Comfort from a son of James Moray, indeed! She might as reasonably expect to gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles. "When the cat's black, the kitten's black!"—and Mr. James Moray was a very black cat indeed. Well, well! we've been fools from the commencement, and we shall continue so to the end. I have sometimes been fool enough to envy other women their maternity, but I do so no longer. Bob and Bill have been handfuls enough for me; and as for Angus Moray, I suspect—only suspect, mind! you needn't be harder than the world's made you, Hephzibah Horton—that he'd have finished me off altogether.'

Meanwhile, Mrs. Moray has crept back to her sitting-room and is loitering about it, touching a creeper here and altering an ornament there, feeling it is too late to sit down to any steady work, and yet unwilling to turn out the lamps so soon and leave the place in darkness. It is only ten o'clock; her boy may have been unavoidably detained at his office, and yet come in before the house-lights are extinguished. So she lingers lovingly, until her affection is rewarded by hearing the huge porte-cochère open and slam, and the joyous voice of Angus talking in Flemish to the hall servant. She waits at her open door to greet him with a smile upon her face, and he comes with a bright pleased look to return her caresses.

'My darling boy! Where have you been all these long hours?'

'Why? you have not been inconvenienced by my absence, surely?'

'I have, though! My friend Mrs. Horton arrived this afternoon, and I have been so disappointed at not being able to introduce you to her.'

Angus gives a start of recollection and surprise.

'Sacre! I had quite forgotten her! Isn't she a curious-looking old woman in a black cloak, and a bonnet over her eyes?'

'My dear! where ever did you see her?'

'In a fiacre driving across the Place! She didn't remember the number of the house, and I gave it her. But I didn't know, of course, that it was Mrs. Horton—only after she had driven away, Gabrielle said——'

'How very curious,' interrupts his mother; 'and here have we been talking of you all day, and it never struck her she had seen you. I can hardly believe that it is true. She must have observed your style and appearance,' says Delia fondly; 'but she certainly answers to your description.'

'Where is the old lady?'

'In bed! She was too tired to sit up and see you. I must introduce you to her to-morrow. I know she cannot fail to admire my handsome boy!'

They are in their own room as she speaks, and Angus stoops down and kisses her fondly. He does love his mother—or he thinks he does. But in her blind worship of him, she ministers so constantly to his self-conceit and comfort—the two great links that bind a man to a woman—that he has hardly had an opportunity of testing the capability of his affection for her. As Mrs. Hephzibah suggested, he has never been tried. As he stands in the lamp-light he is really a son for a mother to be proud of—at least, as far as his personal appearance is concerned. And Delia is proud of him to her very heart's core. She has trusted before and been deceived, by the father of this very man; yet she believes that if all the world were false to her, Angus would be true. And she is not singular in so doing; we live in such a world of deception that we learn at last to deceive ourselves, and when we earnestly desire a thing to be the case, are pretty certain to make believe it is.

'But you have not yet asked me the cause of my detention, mother.'

'Ah! I suppose it was that horrid office. I shouldn't blame it, dear, I know, when it is likely to bring you in so good an income, but I am jealous of it sometimes when it takes my boy away from me.'

'Well! it wasn't the office, it was something of much greater importance. O! I have a long story to tell you. Come and sit down on the sofa and let us have a comfortable talk.' He throws his arm round her waist as he speaks, and leads her to the farther end of the room.

'There is nothing wrong, dear Angus, is there?'

'On the contrary, everything is right! Mother, you know that for a long time past I have cared for Gabrielle de Blois.'

'And you have proposed to her, and she accepted you! O! I am so glad!' cries Delia, with the truly feminine habit of leaping at a conclusion.

'Well, you are correct so far. Gabrielle has confessed she likes me well enough to take me for her husband, if her father approves of the marriage. But there is the old doctor's consent to be obtained.'

'Why didn't you speak to him at once? He is so fond of you, he will put no difficulties in the way, I am sure.'

'I don't think he will, and that is why I have been waiting about his house till an hour ago, hoping he might return. But he was called off to visit a patient at Blankenburgh this afternoon, and has not yet come home.'

'It is of little consequence, Angus. You can see him the first thing in the morning. I am sure it will be merely a matter of form. You are already making a very fair income for this part of the world, and I do not think he can have much fault to find with you on other scores.'

'Neither do I. I bear a steady character in Bruges, and my birth is better than his own.'

Delia starts slightly, and draws away from him.

'What is the matter, mother? Are you cold?'

'No, no; it is nothing. Put your arm round me, Angus, and hold me close to you. Ah! it is so good to feel myself embraced by my son! And so Gabrielle has the good taste to admire these dear blue eyes and bronze-coloured locks! I always thought it would come to this, Angus; and now that the moment has arrived, I don't think I feel so very jealous. You will not let your wife's love entirely supersede that of your mother, will you?'

'Mother dear! how can you ask me such a question! You, who have been both father and mother to me. I often think there is a closer link between us than between most widowed mothers and their sons. We seem to have been so isolated here in a foreign country. And you have never mentioned your own relations to me—nor my father's family, so that I do not even know their names.'

'It would be of no use to you, my child, to do so. They will never meet you—nor you them. You must be content with the love of your mother and your wife.'

'More than content, a thousand times!' exclaims the young man enthusiastically. 'I am a naturalised Belgian, mother, and have no desire even to set my foot in England. If I can only obtain the hand of my beloved Gabrielle, I shall settle down to live and die here. And she will make you such a good daughter, mother. She speaks so tenderly—so affectionately of you—and says that half the joy of marrying me will lie in the fact of her gaining such a mother as you are, for her own.'

'Dear girl! I will try to do my duty by her, and love her dearly for my boy's sake. O! this is a very, very happy prospect. It is almost too good to be true.'

'You don't think there is any chance of Dr. de Blois withholding his consent to our union?' demands Angus anxiously.

'Not the slightest, my dear. In fact, I think I may tell you, in confidence, that the good doctor called on me about two months ago, full of concern at Gabrielle's growing interest in you, to find out what view I should take of the matter, should you make proposals for his daughter's hand. We discussed the subject freely, Angus, and I have no more doubt of Dr. de Blois's good intentions on your behalf than I have of my own.'

'O! you have indeed made me happy, mother! This is the best news I have heard for a long time! I shall go to bed with a light heart now. I confess I felt a little anxious before.'

'That was but natural, Angus. True love is always diffident of its own success. But it is time for us both to rest, my dear. I have a long day's work before me to-morrow, as well as you.'

She rises as she speaks, and they pass lovingly together up the stairs. As she dismisses him at her own door, Angus says to her,

'By the way, I had such an adventure this afternoon as I was walking in the Place with Gabrielle. Some Englishwoman had been taken ill, and the husband appealed to me for the address of a doctor. I gave him that of Dr. de Blois, and then he asked me to go and see him to-morrow at the Hôtel Belgique.'

'What! the Englishman?'

'Yes! wasn't it funny? I can't imagine why he should wish to see me again.'

'To thank you for your politeness, most likely—or to see if he can return it. What was his name?'

'I forgot to ask.'

'How will you find him, then?'

'O! I cannot mistake him. He is so big and fat, and red in the face.'

Delia laughs softly at the description.

'Did he go to Dr. de Blois?'

'Yes! Babette told Gabrielle the doctor was closeted some time with them in his consulting-room. But the lady proved only to have fainted, and the doctor and his patient had all left the house again before Gabrielle reached it.'

'I expect she went a long way round, Angus,' says Delia significantly.

The young man laughs.

'I expect she did, mother. I know it was past three before I reached my office, so I had to work double tides to make up for lost time.'

'Well, go to bed now, my darling, and sleep it all off again. Happy dreams to you, my Angus. Good-night.'

'Good-night, dear mother.'

She accepts his loving farewell with a smile. She little thinks it is the last good-night that she will have for many a long day.

————

CHAPTER IV.

'I WILL NEVER GIVE YOU GABRIELLE.'

Doctor de Blois is in his consulting-room, which is also his surgery, compounding some mixture for the benefit of his patients, and thinking deeply the while. He is a tall, thin man, rather more bent in the back than his fifty years would warrant him to be, and wearing his grizzled hair brushed off his forehead in front and to the nape of his neck behind, in the German fashion. His eyes are dark like his daughter's, but the powerful glasses his weak sight compels him to wear obscure their colour. Altogether he carries the air of a student, whose love of science is largely blended with his love of benevolence. That he possesses much devotional feeling is evidenced by the decorations of his consulting-room, which make it look more like a chapel than a surgery; the walls being hung with representations of incidents in the life of our Lord and His saints, and every available corner containing a bracket for an image. The fact is, Dr. de Blois should never have been a surgeon. He comes of a race which, for centuries past, has dedicated two or three members from each family to a religious calling, and he himself had originally been destined for the priesthood. But adverse circumstances—coming in the tempting guise of Gabrielle's mother—had prevented the consummation of what had appeared to be his destiny. André de Blois had fallen in love, and the magician of the world had proved more powerful than the service of Heaven.

Seeing how much his mind had turned against it, André's parents had consented to his abandoning the religious profession for that of medicine, and as soon as he had made sufficient money on which to support her, he had married his Louise, and carried her home in triumph. But the joy was not without its counterbalance of pain. As soon as he had obtained the prize for which he had trampled on the voice of conscience, André de Blois became a remorseful man. The smiles of his wife, interspersed with occasional fits of feminine frivolity, unreasonableness, and temper, were not sufficient to repay him for a troubled mind, and when, after a few years of married life, which had been neither better nor worse than most married lives, her death left him a widower, he would certainly have abandoned everything to embrace the calling he had relinquished, had it not been for little Gabrielle. But Dr. de Blois could not make up his mind to leave his child.

Both his sisters—fervent religieuses in different convents in Belgium—had offered to bring up his little girl for him; his old father and mother, who had pitched their tent next door to a church, and almost lived within its four walls, made him the same proposal; and his brother, who was the priest attached to a large orphanage, had begged to be allowed the complete charge and expense of his niece's education and living until she should be old enough to join the profession of her aunts.

But they had offered in vain. André de Blois could have sacrificed everything on his own account, but he could not persuade himself to make over the beautiful gift God had given him to another, as if it were of no value. He would have adopted the priest's cassock or the monk's cowl without hesitation, but he shuddered to think of his Gabrielle's laughing face shut up behind the grating of a convent, never to shed its light upon the world again, her voice never to solace his age, nor her hands to close his eyes in death. It was not to be thought of. So he thanked his relatives for their kind offers on his behalf, but expressed his intention of continuing to practise the profession he had adopted, and to undertake the charge of his motherless child himself. Still, he is much environed, even in his worldly occupation, by the odour of sanctity, and as Gabrielle has been entirely educated by her aunt Marie at the convent school, she also has imbibed the idea that a secular life should be the exception and not the rule in this world.

Dr. de Blois's pride may be said to lie in the knowledge of the piety of his relations. He is humble enough, poor man, on the score of his own, and believes there is very little chance of Heaven for himself unless he gets in by hanging onto the skirts of some of his family.

But of his sisters the nuns, and his brother the priest, and his aged parents, who are noted throughout the parish for their fervour and devotion, he is never tired of talking. We are all said to have a hobby. Dr. de Blois's hobby is to know that he is descended from a long line of good people. None of his family have ever been known to go wrong. They have married early—such as have been worldly enough to marry—and lived respectable lives, and brought up their children to do the same.

The prayers of those that have devoted themselves to religion have enveloped the rest like a charm. When officious neighbours have suggested to Dr. de Blois that his daughter has more liberty than is usually accorded to girls in Belgium, and that she may come to be talked of in consequence, he has smiled incredulously. Harm come to a De Blois! The thing is impossible—something that has never been and will never be! Besides, on Gabrielle's acquaintanceship with Angus Moray, the good doctor has been accustomed to look with much complacency. He has known Delia Moray ever since she came, enfeebled both in health and spirits, to

Bruges, and has watched her career with much interest. He and the Abbé Bertin, his cousin, have been her best friends, and done all in their power to help her and her boy.

Dr. de Blois decided, a long time ago, that Angus and Gabrielle would marry each other. He spoke to the mother about it (as Delia informed her son), and he even consulted the Abbé Bertin on the subject. The Abbé was all in favour of the match, thought it would be as advantageous as it was natural, and therefore set to work to procure the appointment for Angus which he has just taken up; so that all things seemed to be propitious to the young people's happiness. Yet Dr. de Blois is certainly very thoughtful this morning—not to say distrait. More than once he has spoilt the mixture he is brewing by adding wrong quantities to it, and had to throw the whole mess away. His brows are contracted, and every now and then he pushes his glasses up to his forehead and rubs his eyes in a puzzled and perplexed manner, as though he would make his mental sight clearer.

He is engaged in this way when Gabrielle pushes the door open, and finding her father alone, walks boldly into the surgery. Gabrielle, with her dark eyes speaking volumes from under her straw hat, and her natural curls hanging over her slender shoulders. She has an object in her visit to the surgery, too, the little maid, though she is not sure if she shall have the courage to accomplish it. She knows that Angus intends to see her father on his way to office that morning, and she would like, if possible, to pave the way a little for her lover. But how to accomplish it? Unless she blurts the truth straight out, papa will never understand her, because Angus's coming and going to the doctor's house are matters of every-day occurrence.

So she stands on the threshold and smiles and says nothing.

'You there, my bird!' says the doctor, peering at her above his spectacles. 'Why are you not off to your convent? It is past nine.'

'Yes, papa; I know, but I waited to see you. I thought you might be coming upstairs again, papa. I wanted to ask you something very particular, something about Angus!'

She has got thus far, and is just beginning to think that the task is not so difficult as she feared it would be, when her father turns round upon her with the awful question:

'Gabrielle! did Angus Moray accompany you home from the convent yesterday?'

'He did, papa!'

'And the day before?'

'Yes, papa!'

'And the day before that—and every day in fact?'

Gabrielle begins to perceive from her father's tone that this continual companionship is not agreeable to him, and will probably be put a stop to; but there is no such thing as deceit in the girl's composition, and though her voice falters a little in anticipation of what may follow, she still answers unhesitatingly.

'Yes, papa! whenever he can spare time to do so.'

'Well, you must discontinue the practice. You are not to walk with Angus any more from to-day. Do you understand me?'

'Yes, papa! only—if—if——'

'If what? I cannot have my daughter talked about because she walks out with a young man who is no relation to her'

'Félicité Duprez walks out with Ernest Haure whenever she feels inclined,' says Gabrielle in a low voice.

'They are fiancés. That makes all the difference.'

'But if—if—' falters poor Gabrielle again, 'if I were fiancée to Angus, papa——'

'Gabrielle,' says Dr. de Blois, walking up to the girl and looking her straight in the eyes. 'You will never be fiancée to Angus Moray! You must understand that plainly. I have let you see a great deal of one another because you have played together from children, but now that you are growing up it must be altered. I will not have your name linked with his. I have other views in the future for you!'

An English girl would probably have tried a little remonstrance on this occasion, and, finding it of no avail, have ended with a little rebellion. But Gabrielle has been differently brought up. She has been allowed more liberty than most of the girls of her acquaintance, but to counterbalance its probable risk has been the strict convent training, in which implicit obedience holds the first place. So, as her father's dictum falls on her ear she only turns pale, and, with a quivering lip, prepares to quit the apartment.

'You understand me, Gabrielle?'

'Perfectly, papa.'

'And you will obey me?'

'Papa! have I ever disobeyed you?'

'No, my child, no! You are a good daughter, and God will bless you for it. Now go to school, my dear, and you need not tell your good aunt of what has passed between us. It is a matter for ourselves only—between you and me—and need go no further.'

'Very good, papa!' says the poor child sorrowfully, as she turns away and commences her walk to the convent.

The birds are singing as blithely as they did yesterday, and the trees are whispering the same burthen to each other, but all the joy and the peace seem to have passed out of life for Gabrielle de Blois, and she wishes she had gone into the convent with her aunts years ago. If papa continues to maintain his present inexplicable determination and refuses his consent to her marrying Angus, she shall go into the convent, for there will be nothing left for her but to become a nun!

Papa, who has always admired and praised Angus so much, and said he wished he had a son just like him—what can have come over him so suddenly to say they shall not even walk together again? It is incomprehensible to Gabrielle, and her tender girl's heart bleeds at the thought of the interview that is coming, and the wound that Angus will receive before the conclusion of it.

Meanwhile, that young gentleman is walking with a jaunty, not to say confident, air, in the direction of the doctor's dwelling. Everything has combined to put him into a hopeful and happy temper. His interviews with Gabrielle and his mother the day before have given him confidence, and he has more the appearance of a conqueror about to take possession of his conquest than a lover with a humble petition to lay before the father of his adored.

Dr. de Blois is still in his consulting-room, as Angus taps lightly at the half-opened door with his cane, and then, without further preamble, steps into the room. The young man, as he stands there with his handsome features flushed by excitement, in a light grey suit—almost bridal in its dandyism—and a rose in his button-hole, makes so pleasant a picture, that the doctor forgets for a moment what he has to say to him, and recalls it with a bitter sigh.

'May I come in, doctor? You are alone, I see.'

'Certainly, Angus! You are early this morning, my boy—anything unusual going on at the office?'

'No! everything concerned with it goes as smoothly as possible, thanks to the character the good Abbé was pleased to give me. You have heard, have you not? that I have been selected to lay the new line of railway between this and the Wallon? It is an excellent appointment, and will bring me in nearly double pay during the period it will occupy. There is only one penalty attached to it that I can see. I am bound as engineer to make the first journey performed on the rails, and the country people are so bigoted against the incursions of the railroad that they sometimes indulge in the playful practice of taking up the newly-laid irons, which would be less safe than exciting!'

'Oh! you must take care of yourself, Angus!—you must take a great deal of care of yourself—for all our sakes,' exclaims the doctor unguardedly; and then, thinking he has said too much, he adds, 'For your mother's sake especially, for she has no one but you to look to for protection and support in her passage through the world.'

'Please don't make any amendment to your first sentence, doctor,' says Angus; 'to be careful for all your sakes has much more weight with me than to be careful only for my mother's. For there are others in Bruges beside her, I hope, who would be a little sorry if I were untimely smashed up on the railroad.'

'Oh! of course, my boy—of course. Your old friend and tutor, the Abbé Bertin, would be deeply grieved—so would the Groves and the Duponts and the Blaquières, and a score of others—not to mention myself. You must think of all those good friends, who would be so grieved to lose you, before you do anything rash, Angus.'

'There is one person of whom I should think more than of all you have mentioned, doctor, and that is—Gabrielle.'

The old doctor shifts his glasses and shuffles about uneasily.

'True—true—we remember our childhood's playmates sometimes longer than any other friends. I can recall how attached I was, as a boy, to Henri van Loo. I thought when he went to sea that I should have broken my heart; but I have never seen him from that day to this, and I suppose now that I never shall. Poor Henri!'

'But Gabrielle and I have passed childhood, doctor.'

'You have—but hardly Gabrielle. She is quite a child yet—only just seventeen—she will not quit school for the next two years.'

'My mother was no older than she is when I was born.'

'Perhaps! They order such things differently in England, I know; but scarcely, I think, better! There, a girl chooses her own husband; here, he is chosen for her by her parents or guardian, and marriages take place at a far more suitable age in consequence.'

'Ah! Dr. de Blois, do not think me presumptuous, but you, who have in your hands the choice of Gabrielle's husband, choose me to fill that position! She is not too young to love me—for she has told me so. How then can it be too soon for us to marry?'

The doctor tries to affect surprise at this appeal, but signally fails to do so. He is no actor, so he only knits his brows fiercely together and says:

'You have mentioned the subject, then, to my daughter'

'Forgive me! I could not help it. We walked home together yesterday, and it all came out somehow, before I knew what I was doing. And I waited here till ten o'clock last night in my desire to tell you about it. But you did not return, and I was compelled to go home to my mother. And when I told her the joyful intelligence she confided to me that she had already guessed it, and that you and she had even spoken of it together.'

And Angus waits for his answer without a doubt as to what it will be. The doctor is caught in a trap out of which he sees no way of escape with honour but one—the truth! And he is not yet prepared to tell it.

'You will not refuse my offer, Dr. de Blois?' says the young man nervously, seeing his friend preserves an ominous silence. 'I have means sufficient to afford Gabrielle as much comfort as she has been accustomed to, and you know that I will work for her steadily and love her faithfully until our lives' end.'

'I believe it, Angus,' says the doctor slowly; 'and as much dependence as anyone can place upon mortal man, I should feel disposed to place upon you. But I cannot give you my daughter.'

'You will not give me Gabrielle!' cries Angus Moray, in real distress.

'I cannot! There are reasons, many and grave, which render such a marriage impossible. You must put it out of your mind at once and for ever. It will never be!'

'But you have left us together, day after day, without a word of warning regarding the possible consequences of our intimacy; and when you spoke to my mother on the subject, she says you seemed to approve the prospect. What, in Heaven's name, doctor, has caused you to change your mind?'

'I can hardly tell you. But circumstances have come to my knowledge that——'

'Has it anything to do with my income?'

'Nothing whatever! I never coveted riches for my child.'

'Is it my character, then?'

'No, Angus. No one has a word to say against that in Bruges, or elsewhere.'

'Good heavens! What is the mystery, then? I am young, active, and healthy, and I love her like my life.'

'Poor boy! Poor children!' says the doctor, wiping away something very like a tear. 'I feel for you both deeply. But I will never give you Gabrielle. I will shut her up in a convent first.'

'At least you might tell me on what score I am condemned.'

'Ask your mother!'

'Does my mother know?'

'She ought to. If not, she cannot fail to guess. Angus, my dear boy, do not blame me too much for this. I am shocked, grieved, and upset by it all. If, with a clear conscience towards myself and others, I could give you my daughter, I would do so gladly. There is no one I would sooner embrace as a son than yourself. But I owe a duty to my family, and to the sainted dead, which——'

'Enough! Dr. de Blois,' says the young man, straightening himself to his full height. 'I understand your insinuation, though I have no notion of the cause of it. I and my mother have been considered good enough for you to associate with and make use of when it suited your convenience to do so; but when it comes to a question of uniting the families by marriage, you profess to think us beneath yourselves, because, I presume, we came to Bruges without our pedigree in our hands, and have taken no trouble to boast of it since. But I would have you know, Dr. de Blois, that the name of Moray stands as high in its own country—perhaps a great deal higher than that of De Blois in Belgium; and that I consider my mother to be as pure and high-minded a lady as any of your female relatives, although she has been obliged to earn her own living, and not been shut up in a convent for fear any one should speak to her. I feel your decision with respect to Gabrielle deeply'—here the young voice becomes very tremulous—'but I feel the slight you have cast upon my mother's connections and my own more deeply still; and I shall never forget it nor forgive it to my dying day!'

And with this poor Angus, unable longer to trust his voice nor his eyes, rushes abruptly from the surgery into the open air.

Dr. de Blois looks after him with a troubled air. 'Poor boy!' he says regretfully. 'God knows I would have spared him if I could, but it was quite impossible. How could I let him marry her after what I have heard? How bring his mother into my family to be a daughter to my father and mother, a sister to my sisters, a mother to my child? It is not to be thought of. All Bruges would rise up in condemnation against me! No! this is the right hand that has to be cut off, the right eye that must be plucked out, at whatever cost to myself or to Gabrielle. I may break my heart and her own—but it shall never be said that André de Blois was the one wantonly to disgrace a family of which he is already but too unworthy a member!'

————

CHAPTER V.

'ASK YOUR MOTHER.'

Angus's first impulse is to rush home to his mother and tell her everything. He is indignant at the manner in which Dr. de Blois received his proposals, and he would like to make her indignant too. From a child she has kept him so close to her, and he has grown up with such perfect confidence in the sympathy she will give him either in sorrow or in joy, that the least rebuff or disappointment will send him to her side for comfort and reassurance, as naturally as it did fourteen years ago. But on second thoughts—which are generally the more practical and worldly-wise—he decides not to relinquish his morning's work, even for a trouble like this. Whether he is happy or miserable, his business must go on; and it will not be harder to fight against his sudden disappointment to-day than it will be to-morrow.

Besides, with all his indignation, he feels just a little shamefaced to confess he has signally failed in the enterprise on which he set off so confidently, added to which his mother has that tiresome old woman Mrs. Horton staying with her; and there is no saying, in her own delight, how much of his private affairs she may not have confided to the stranger. Women are so fond of chattering! And though to receive his mother's sympathy might be very soothing to his wounded pride, Angus does not want Mrs. Horton's pity added to it.

So he decides not to go home until his usual hour, and passes a miserable morning in the attempt to distract his thoughts from Gabrielle and Dr. de Blois, and fix them upon engineering calculations and accounts instead. He had made so certain of success in his suit. Everybody and everything had appeared to encourage him to do so, and now the collapse of his dreams of future happiness has been so sudden and inexplicable, that it makes his brain whirl to try even to think how and why it has come about.

By the time he usually breaks off office-work to take his luncheon, Angus has nearly worried himself into a fever. He has no appetite—only a burning thirst upon him, and he rushes into the first bar he comes across to satisfy it. It happens to be the bar of the Hôtel Belgique. Angus has forgotten all about the portly Englishman and his invitation of the day before, the exciting events which followed it having put it completely out of his mind; but as he now stands in the bar, quenching his thirst with some beverage far simpler than the brandy-and-soda on which young Englishmen are so fond of killing themselves, the girl who serves him, and who, according to the manners of her class, is not backward in maintaining conversation with her customers, asks him if it is any relation of his that they have the honour of housing at the Hôtel Belgique at that moment.

'I do not understand you, mademoiselle,' stammers poor Angus, whose thoughts have been recalled by her question from something far different.

'We have a Monsieur Moray, who spells his name like yours, upon our books at the present,' she answers. 'Jacques! fetch me the visitors' book from the table in the salon,' and opening it at the last page of entries, she shows Angus, in all its glory, the inscription:

'Mr. and Mrs. William Moray, The Firs, Godalming Park, Westborough Road, Brixton, London, England.'

'It is a good address, is it not?' says the barmaid admiringly, as she tries to decipher the lengthy words. 'Monsieur must be an English lord at the very least, one of what they term their City princes, to have so long a name to his house. And he is not your relation, then? Yet he spells his name in the same way. Tiens! but that is strange.'

'It is strange,' repeats Angus thoughtfully, 'and also that my first name should be "William" like his. What is this gentleman like in appearance?'

'He does not resemble you, monsieur. He is stout and big, and with a face fiery red, and a loud voice, and——'

'Stay, mademoiselle!' cries Angus quickly. 'Was the lady taken ill whilst driving yesterday?'

'She was, monsieur; but how did you come to hear of it? Ah! Dr. de Blois must have told you, for he brought madame home again, and stayed with her some time afterwards. She had swooned with the heat—I do not wonder at it. She is as fat as monsieur, and she eats—ma foi! how she eats!'

'This is a wonderful coincidence,' says Angus. 'I met these people out driving yesterday, when the lady had just fainted, and it was I who directed them to Dr. de Blois's house. The gentleman in consequence asked me to call on him here this afternoon, but I had no idea his name was the same as mine. It is only chance, however. I know he cannot be any relation to me.'

'Ah, well! you be advised by me, monsieur, and take the chance. Chance is worth all the relations in the world. Everything we get is by chance, and it is seldom our relations give us anything. And this English milord is rolling in money, I know, for I have never seen madame wear anything but silk or satin, and it must take as much stuff to dress her as to clothe three ordinary-sized women.'

But Angus cannot smile at any of the barmaid's pleasantries. He is too much engaged in wondering what surprise the next turn of Fortune's wheel may bring to him. But his discovery of the stranger's name has determined him to take advantage of the invitation so discourteously proffered on the one side, and easily forgotten on the other.

'It is past two! Have Monsieur and Madame Moray lunched yet?' he inquires.

'Yes, their lunch was served nearly an hour ago.'

'Then will you send up my card, and ask if I can see them?'

The young woman complies with his request, and in a few minutes an answer is returned in the affirmative.

As Angus prepares to follow the waiter upstairs, he flushes scarlet with excitement and anticipation.

'A la bonne fortune, monsieur!' calls the barmaid after him cheerily, but he does not thank her for her good wishes.

He is filled with curiosity respecting the coming interview. And yet it may turn out to be nothing after all; for unless Mr. William Moray proves to have some reason for asking to see him again, Angus feels it is likely they will part worse friends than they meet. And he is not in a humour to-day to stand anything like rudeness quietly.

As he is ushered into the private sitting-room occupied by the Morays, he perceives that the lady, by virtue of her late illness, is reclining her portly figure upon a gimcrack sofa, far too small for it. She is clothed in green satin, which bulges in sheeny billows on every side of her, so that the couch she occupies is completely hidden, and she looks as though she were in the act of being translated to heaven, borne up by invisible cherubim beneath.

The fourteen years since we last met the ci-devant Miss Amelia Ellis have not improved either her personal or grammatical charms, as she has contracted a scorbutic appearance about the complexion, without having picked up a single H by the way. Mr. William Moray is standing by the window, picking his teeth.

A short but sharp tussle has taken place between himself and his billowy better-half within the period of the reception of Angus's card and the appearance of the young man himself. Mrs. William Moray had, or tried to have, hysterics, directly she heard that 'the hactress's himp' was in the same town as themselves, but when her husband announced his determination of seeing and speaking with him, her dread of contamination knew no bounds.

'Hit had made her flesh creep,' she affirmed, 'even to look at him when she had been so cruelly deceived as to believe that his mother was a married woman, but now that her heyes had been hopened, and she knew the habandoned creature to be what she was, she wondered at Mr. Moray's want of respect in wishing his wife to come into contact with such people.'

Mr. Moray picked his teeth, and answered nothing, unless desiring the waiter to admit the young man to his presence could be accepted as an answer. He had his own motives for desiring to see his brother's son again—even less worthy ones than his wife entertained for not seeing him, and he had no intention of being balked in his desire. So he gave his orders on the subject, and Mrs. Moray spread out her skirts and closed her eyes in silent indignation, whilst they waited the entrance of their visitor. Angus appears, and stands on the threshold bare-headed, and William Moray cannot but observe, with greater force than yesterday, the striking likeness he bears to his dead father.

'There is no question about his being poor Jem's son, whether his mother was married or not,' he thinks to himself, as he turns round slowly and regards him.

'Well, and so you've kept your appointment,' he commences in the unpleasantly unpolished tones he uses to everybody.

'Monsieur desired me to call upon him. I should not have dreamt of intruding otherwise,' returns Angus, with a touch of his mother's pride.

'Ah, well—it's the same thing. You're here—this is my wife—Mrs. Moray,' continues the stranger, with a jerk of his head towards his recumbent partner.

'I trust madame has recovered from her late indisposition,' says Angus.

The lady does not deign to notice the observation of the 'hactress's himp' except by a solemn nod, performed with closed eyes, but her husband answers for her.

'Yes, she's better. I had a long talk with your doctor yesterday. He speaks English wonderfully well for a foreigner.'

'He does,' replies Angus with a deep sigh, as the allusion recalls the misery of the morning.

'He's an old friend of yours, he tells me.'

'A very old friend, monsieur.'

'So am I. You needn't stare! I dare say you have forgotten me, but I knew you long before this Doctor de Blore did, and a nice time I had of my acquaintanceship with you too.'

'Monsieur overwhelms me with surprise,' says Angus. 'I have lived in this town since infancy, and I do not recall ever having had the pleasure of seeing monsieur before.'

'That's nothing to the purpose. Do you know my name? You can sit down, young man,' adds Mr. Moray, par parenthèse; 'there's no need you should stand whilst I speak to you.'

'I should think there was hevery need!' murmurs his partner, sotto voce.

'I learned your name from the visitors' book just now, monsieur, and was surprised to find it is the same as my own!'

'What is yours, do you say?'

'William Angus Moray, monsieur.'

'So you've been told; and mine is William Moray, and your father, James Moray, was my brother, and I sent for you here that I might tell you that you've no more right to bear the name you do than the waiter downstairs has. So you may put that in your pipe and smoke it!'

'No; that you haven't—no more right than a hinfidel has to salvation!' interposes Mrs. Moray from the sofa.

Angus thinks the portly Englishman must be travelling for the good of his mental health! He does not understand him. He! to be told by a stranger that he has no right to bear the name of his own father and mother! The man must be mad to think of such a thing! and Angus manages to get a chair between them before he ventures on a reply.

'I do not know by what right you address me in such a strain, monsieur; and I can only imagine you must have mistaken my identity. Every one in Bruges knows my mother, Mrs. Moray, and myself; and as I have never even heard your name mentioned before, you will pardon me for requiring a little further evidence before I believe what you tell me on your own account. I cannot accept every man as my uncle who chooses to say he is so.'

This independent answer stirs up all the vials of Mr. William Moray's wrath, as he recalls the last time his brother's son and he were face to face, and the disappointment which then ensued to all his hopes of making him his heir.

'Himpidence!' exclaims the voice from the sofa, as the words fall from Angus's lips.

'No, madame, not impudence, but independence! My mother has reared me by her own exertions solely, and taught me to lean for support or patronage upon no man. So, that though I should have been glad to welcome any relation of my dead father for his sake, I am not bound to take an insult quietly, even from his brother. And if you are his brother,' he continues, turning to William Moray, 'how can you tell me I have no right to bear his name?'

'Because your mother was never married to him!' says his uncle coarsely. 'If you want the truth, you've got it!'

Angus springs from his chair—every vein in his face swollen with excitement—and advances with a clenched fist towards William Moray.

'You lie!' he exclaims, closing in upon him. On observing his action, Mrs. Moray flounders off her resting-place with a scream, and the elder man does not quite like the aspect of affairs. He is fat and puffy, short-winded, and not used to pugilistic encounters, and the youth bearing down upon him looks dangerous.

'What would you do? What are you thinking of?' he says loudly, backing towards the window. 'I have said nothing but what I can prove.'

'You shall prove it then, and before we part company to-day, or I will make you eat your words. My mother not married to my father! Why, all the world knows she is Mrs. Moray, and receives her as such.'

'All the world of Bruges, you mean!' sneers the other. 'Now look here, young man, I don't mean to stand any bullying on your part, so if you wish to hear your own history, you'd better unclench your fist and listen quietly; if not, I shall ring the bell for the waiter to conduct you downstairs again!'

'Don't trust him, Willgum, don't trust him!' exclaims Mrs. Moray.

'He may trust me!' replies Angus in a low, agitated voice, as he sinks back into a chair, muttering to himself,

'Merciful Heaven! what horror is about to be revealed to me?'

William Moray wipes off the perspiration which fear has called to his brow, and addresses his nephew from behind the shelter of the sofa, on which his wife has re-arranged herself; a politic precaution on his part, seeing that if another assault should be meditated, he will have her portly person to interpose as a buffer between himself and the enemy.

'Young people are mostly quick to disbelieve anything they don't like,' he commences, 'but Mrs. Moray and I have cause enough to remember the disastrous circumstances of your birth and your father's death!'

'Cause henough hindeed!' comes from the sofa.

'However, your mother will be the best referee regarding the truth of any statement I may make to you. If you doubt any part of the story, ask your mother!'

'Ask your mother!' The same words Dr. de Blois had used to him in the morning! The memory of them comes back upon Angus's heart like a serpent's sting!

'Go on, monsieur,' he says in a low voice, trembling with passion.

'Your father held a very respectable position in Glasgow as clerk in one of the largest mercantile houses there, when he had the misfortune to meet your mother.'

'Hold, monsieur! Say what you choose against my father, but do not dare to asperse my mother's name to my face, or I shall be no longer master of myself!'

Mr. William Moray decides in his own mind that he will not.

'She was then an actress at some small theatre in Scotland.'

'My mother an actress! Never! You are altogether mistaken! This affair is becoming a farce!'

'I hope you may find it a farce, young man. Your mother, I repeat, was an actress, known by the name of Delia Merton.'

'And her name is Delia!' murmurs poor Angus.

'And a very low hactress too!' chimes in Mrs. Moray, 'who hacted hin the most hindecent dresses, hand——'

'My dear,' interposes her husband, 'will you permit me to tell his story to the young man myself?'

'Have it your hown way, Willgum. I honly hinterfered for hall hour good,' she returns with offended dignity, and thereupon re-closes her eyes and professes to become unconscious of what is going on.

'My poor brother James met her, and, as I thought, married her. At all events he managed to deceive me on the subject. He quarrelled with his Glasgow employers, however, and brought you and your mother to London, where I met him again. James was then in a very bad state of health—fast dying, in fact—and I, having a large fortune and no family to which to leave it, proposed rather rashly to make you my heir, and adopt you on your father's death as such.'

'I—your heir!' stammers Angus Moray in incredulous amazement.

'Certainly—and you would have been one of the richest men in London. However, your mother chose to interfere and prevent it!'

'A merciful hinterference!' murmurs his wife.

'How could she do so?'

'By asserting her sole claim to you, on the score of your illegitimacy!'

'Oh! monsieur! it is impossible! It can never have been!' cries the young man—distressed beyond measure—as he hides his face in his clasped hands.

'It is true as I stand here! Your father died, and I produced the will he had left in my possession, appointing me your sole guardian. I was about to put it into force, when your mother declared, before witnesses, she was not a married woman, and therefore had the sole claim to you.'

'I cannot believe it,' says Angus despairingly.

'Ask your mother, then. She had no hesitation in confessing it at the time, and her friend Mrs. Horton, and a solicitor of the name, I believe, of Bond, heard her make the declaration.'

'Mrs. Horton! Why, she is in Bruges at the present moment, staying with my mother—my mother, who is so loved and respected throughout the town—of whom I have been so proud. Oh, monsieur, I would rather have heard any news than this! You have given me my death-blow!'

'If Mrs. Horton is here, you can satisfy your curiosity upon the subject at once. Your mother is more likely to deny the truth, now that it will militate against her feigned respectability!'

'Monsieur! whatever she may have been, I would have you know that my mother is one of the purest, most modest women that I know, and—she is my mother! She would never stoop to a lie. If this is truth, I shall hear it from her own lips!'

'If it is truth! I can't say you're very complimentary to my veracity. However, if neither Mrs. Horton nor Mrs. Merton will satisfy you, I have the papers at home ready to be forwarded for your inspection.'

'I shall not trouble you, monsieur,' replies Angus haughtily, as he rises from his chair, for the name by which William Moray designates his mother has not escaped his notice. 'My mother's word will be sufficient for me!'

'As you please! But I trust you will not usurp my family name any longer, or you will place me under the unpleasant necessity of publicly proclaiming that you have no right to it. Your name is Merton. Be good enough to remember that for the future.'

This last sting is the worst of all.

'You may depend upon it that I shall forget nothing,' says Angus, with flashing eyes, as he turns to leave the apartment.

'Your friend the doctor could hardly trust his own ears when I told him the story,' continues Mr. Moray maliciously. 'He was quite taken aback by your audacity!'

Angus stops short, wheels round, and retraces his steps to the centre of the room.

'So it is you that have poisoned the mind of my best friend against me—that have made him forget the affection and the trust of years—that have helped to mar the brightest hopes that ever a man held? God in heaven! I see it all now. It is your cursed malice that has lost me Gabrielle—and I will be revenged upon you for it—as there is a judgment-seat in store for both of us, I will be revenged!'

He rushes from their presence as he speaks, but he cannot rush from the desolation they have created for him. The barmaid addresses him in vain as he tears through the vestibule into the open street, where the sunshine blinds him and the ordinary traffic sounds like the roar of thunder in his ears—without being able to stifle those three awful words that ring in his heart like a knell of death: 'Ask your mother!'

————

CHAPTER VI.

'WERE YOU MARRIED TO MY FATHER?'

Meanwhile, Mrs. Hephzibah Horton, sitting at luncheon with her friend Delia Moray, has a letter delivered to her, on the reception of which she becomes much disturbed.

'Folly!—idiotcy!—dotage!' she exclaims at intervals, like so many successive pistol-shots, as she peruses the missive in question.

'Oh! I hope nothing is going to interfere with our holiday,' says Delia anxiously, observing the ominous expression of Mrs. Hephzibah's countenance. 'That is not a business letter, is it, Mrs. Horton? Not a recall to London, or anything disagreeable of that sort?'

'Not a bit of it, my dear! They might recall as much as they liked, but I shouldn't go. I paid all my business debts before I started, and do not intend to incur any fresh ones until I go back again. I haven't had a holiday now for the last five years, and I mean to take a good one whilst I'm about it. No! this has nothing to do with business—I wish it had. It is simply a piece of idiotic folly, the perpetrator of which ought to be locked up in a lunatic asylum, for not being able to manage his own affairs. The old fool! Didn't I tell him again and again not to make a laughing-stock of himself, and directly my back is turned he does the very thing he shouldn't. A man of his age, too, and a grandfather of ten years' standing. The very children might rise up with justice and point at him. Did you ever hear of such a piece of drivel in your life? I'm totally ashamed of my acquaintanceship with him.'

'But I have not heard what it is yet, or who has done it,' says Delia, laughing immoderately at her friend's chagrin.

'Well! my dear! you needn't grin like that over a business of which you know nothing—and let me tell you, Delia Moray, in confidence, that violent laughing doesn't improve your style of features; for your mouth is a little too wide already. As to the matter contained in this letter, it's bad enough. That man Bond has actually followed me over to Bruges!'

'Followed you here, Mrs. Horton—what for?'

'What for, indeed! You may well ask what for! When he first heard I was coming to see you for a few weeks, he offered to accompany me. I said "No;" decidedly and flatly, "No!" What did he suppose I wanted a little idiot of a man like himself tacked to my tail for? He told all kinds of lies to persuade me to yield to his wishes; said I oughtn't to travel alone; I, Hephzibah Horton, aged sixty one, who have supported myself ever since I was thirty, and owed neither bread nor protection to any man, to require a thing like a dried-up monkey to pay my fare for me and look after my luggage. Faugh! Why, I should have had to look after him into the bargain!'

'But it was a kind thought, dear Mrs. Horton, nevertheless.'

'A kind fiddlesticks! What kindness is there in trying to force your company upon a person who doesn't want it? No! what the creature was looking out for was a holiday! He's hipped, I suppose, at the prospect of Bill marrying and leaving him, and he thought a change would set him up, and that he'd enjoy it more with me than without me. But the idea was not reciprocated!'

'Yet you have always been very good friends, Mrs. Horton, have you not?'

'Well! I've helped him with his boys, and he's given me the advantage of such legal knowledge as he possesses. Not much to boast of, though. I've generally had to rummage such information as I required out of his books, instead of his head. Still, we've rubbed on pretty well, without quarrelling more than most people do who've known each other for a quarter of a century; but he's a donkey, my dear, when all's said and done, and so I have always told him.'

'And you wouldn't let the poor little man come to Bruges with you?'

'No! I wouldn't—and what does he do in consequence? Here's a letter written yesterday, not twelve hours after my departure, to say that he is just about to start on the same journey by a different route, and expects to be here this morning.'

'Then he must be actually at Bruges this moment!'

'That's just it! Against all my orders, the man is actually in the place.'

'And he has crossed for the express purpose of being near you and of use to you in travelling. It is a very kind and friendly act, Mrs. Horton. You must be very good to him in return.'

'Good to him in return! What for? I shall be no such thing. I have a great mind to write to the Hôtel Belgique, where he says he shall stay, and tell him that unless he leaves Bruges at once, I shall start for Antwerp to-morrow.'

'Oh! that would be too cruel! And besides, you surely would not punish me for his offence. Think how long it is since we met each other. Why cannot we make a pact with poor Mr. Bond, and let him join us when we go sight-seeing? He will enjoy all the places we visit two-fold if seen in your company.'

Mrs. Hephzibah does not appear unwilling to be mollified. She sits there twisting the little lawyer's note undecidedly round and round in her fingers, but the thought does strike the womanly part of her, that now that he has been foolish enough to make the journey on her account, it would be rather hard to shut him out in the cold. But if she yields to Delia's request, it must be for Delia's sake and not for her own.

'Well, my dear! if you wish it, of course I am not the one to raise objections. I am your guest! I do not forget that fact, and you are at liberty to ask any one to join our party that you like.'

'Then let me write to Mr. Bond at once, and say I have heard of his presence in Bruges, and beg he will dine with us here this evening. May I? I shall be quite pleased to see the little man again. He was very kind to me at that dreadful time when I was left a widow.'

'Do as you choose—only don't say afterwards that it was done for my sake—I don't want to see the little ape. I'd much rather forget all about him and his stupidity. And I don't see what claim on earth he has upon you that you should ask him to dinner.'

'For old acquaintance' sake, Mrs. Horton! And it is very pleasant sometimes to see an English face in Bruges.'

'If you really want to show him a kindness, it would be a much greater one to call at the Hôtel Belgique as we go out this afternoon, and take the little fool with us. I dare say he'll be as dull as ditchwater, cooped up in a strange town by himself. Besides, I shall be able then to tell him freely what I think of his conduct, which I can hardly do across the table d'hôte.'

'Let us do so by all means,' says Delia, who perceives instinctively how the land lies. 'We had agreed to go to the cemetery this afternoon, had we not? It is a charming walk, right across the ramparts, and I feel sure Mr. Bond will enjoy it if he is not too tired after his journey.'

'Nothing ever tires him! There's nothing to tire. He is like a shrivelled-up old nut. He's got no blood, nor bones, nor muscle! How should he have, roasting himself to a mummy by the office fire from January to December? However, if we're going, we'd better go!'

Delia thinks that the little solicitor looks like anything but a shrivelled-up nut, as, on receiving her card at the hotel, he descends with alacrity to the vestibule to greet Mrs. Horton and herself. He is a fresh-coloured, pleasant, benevolent-looking old gentleman, very neat and prim in his appearance, and carrying his sixty-four years bravely. His mild blue eye seems troubled also, as if his impending loneliness grieved him more than he cared to confess; and the eagerness with which he turns to grasp Mrs. Hephzibah's hand proves where he looks for sympathy and depends upon finding it. Mrs. Hephzibah however has a character for consistency to maintain, and she will not forgive Mr. Bond's offence until he has asked her pardon.

'I thought I told you not to come here,' are the first words with which she greets him.

The poor little man looks up deprecatingly at his strong-minded friend.

'You forbid my accompanying you on Wednesday,' he replies, 'but I was not aware that you wished to monopolize Bruges during the whole of your stay here!'

'It's no use trying to turn the matter off as a joke. You understood my meaning well enough. And yet you cross viâ Calais the very next day. Do you call that friendship?'

'It was certainly my friendship for you that prompted me to cross. I could not bear to think of you travelling on these foreign railroads by yourself, and having all the trouble of looking after your luggage!'

'Nonsense!' says Mrs. Hephzibah, though she looks pleased nevertheless. 'To hear you talk, one would think I was sixteen instead of sixty-one!'

'I should not feel half the interest in you that I do, if you were sixteen—we could not in that case have been friends for so many years.'

The conversation is becoming so particular, that Delia, with half a smile, turns away and pretends not to hear, and Mrs. Hephzibah, growing red—yes! actually growing red at sixty-one—jerks out some expression of impatience, and says they have no more time to waste talking to him.

'If you mean to accept the invitation to walk with us, that Mrs. Moray is kind enough to give you, you had better come at once, for the afternoon is getting on, and we want to get on too. But if you're in doubt on the subject, say so at once, and we shall do just as well without you.'

Mr. Bond expresses his gratitude and promptitude to obey at one and the same moment by running upstairs to fetch his hat and stick, and the ladies step out upon the pavement in front of the hotel to wait for him.

It is a bright beautiful afternoon, and the street is crowded with pedestrians. Delia, letting her eyes wander at will, raises them to the hotel windows, but suddenly withdraws them with a sort of frightened gasp.

'What have you seen now, Delia?'

'Look the other way, Mrs. Horton. Oh! how foolish I am! I know it is only some sickly fancy, but I saw a face at one of the hotel windows, and just for the moment it looked to me so like the face of William Moray.'

Mrs. Horton laughs aloud.

'What will you get into that silly little head of yours next? William Moray, indeed! I wonder what he would feel like, set down in the middle of Bruges. Why, I don't suppose he knows that such a place exists! Put him out of your thoughts, my dear. He's safe enough in Cheapside, sorting his samples of wool. Take my word for it!'

'There is Gabrielle de Blois!' exclaims Delia, her mind suddenly diverted in another direction, as the doctor's daughter, with sober step and downcast eyes, comes quietly up the street.

Of course Mrs. Horton has heard the whole history of Angus's successful wooing, and probable engagement, and is quite prepared to admire her friend's prospective daughter-in-law.

'A pretty, graceful young creature' she remarks, as together they watch Gabrielle's approach; 'it's but seldom you see a girl dressed so modestly and sensibly nowadays; and Mademoiselle de Blois strikes me, Delia, as being all that you have described her to be.'

'She is indeed! and a thousand times more. I have known her from a baby, and I love her as if she were already my own. Gabrielle, darling!' continues Mrs. Moray, as the girl reaches her side, 'Angus has told me all, and it has made me so happy—so very, very happy.'

She expects that Gabrielle will answer her allusion by at least a smile—a blush—or a grasp of the hand; but Mademoiselle de Blois, on the contrary, looks both agitated and troubled, and only anxious to slip by Mrs. Moray and her friend as quickly as possible.

'Are you not well, dearest? Have you seen Angus this morning?'

'No! I have not seen him, madame, and I am quite well, thank you. But my papa is waiting for me at home, and desired me to return without delay.'

'I must not keep you then, if the good doctor is expecting you. But I could not let you pass me without a word of congratulation. I hope you are very happy, Gabrielle.'

'I—madame—' stammers the poor child, with her eyes full of tears. 'Oh yes! I am happy. Why should I not be, with so—but I must not keep my papa a moment longer. Adieu, dear madame!' and Gabrielle brushes past them on the pavement with a haste which is almost discourteous.

'There must be something wrong,' says Delia fearfully. 'I have never seen Gabrielle in such a strange mood before. She is utterly unlike herself. What can have happened?'

'Nothing of consequence, you may rest assured, after what you told me yesterday. The girl was scared, perhaps, by meeting you so unexpectedly and in my company; or she may maintain the "young lady-like" notion that it is not comme il faut to appear delighted at the prospect of marriage; or—but why waste time in trying to account for the vagaries of a child of seventeen? Here comes a child of a larger growth, but without an atom more of sense in his composition, booted and spurred, to act as our preux chevalier. Let us make a start for the ramparts, and don't worry yourself about the behaviour of Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Blois until you know there is a cause for it.'

But the advice is easier to give than to act upon. Delia cannot help worrying herself with unanswerable surmises during the remainder of the day. It appears so unaccountable that Gabrielle, or any other girl who had been fortunate enough to secure the love of her precious Angus, should not be elated with joy at the prospect before her. And elated her young friend certainly was not. Delia tries hard to shake off the depression to her spirits caused by this incident, and make herself an agreeable companion for Mr. Bond and Mrs. Horton; but the task is a difficult one, and after awhile she is much relieved to find they are such excellent company for each other, that they hardly seem to notice she is the most silent of the three.

They walk to the cemetery by way of the fresh green ramparts, planted with beds of flowering shrubs, and skirted by the peaceful canal which divides them from the city; and they wander for more than an hour through the kingdom of the dead, examining the various monuments erected there, from the marble or granite obelisk raised by the rich over the remains of their friends, to the little common black wooden crosses that are sown broadcast beneath an avenue of trees, and mark the last resting-places of the devoted members of the various religious communities of Bruges, who perform their works of charity without asking for praise in this life, or remembrance when they have quitted it.

Mrs. Hephzibah and her little solicitor enjoy their walk exceedingly, and are full of regret when they find it is time to retrace their steps. But Delia hopes to see her boy, and receive some explanation of Gabrielle's behaviour that shall set her heart at rest, and the distance between the cemetery and the Rue Allemande seems twice as long as usual in consequence. But another disappointment awaits her at home. Instead of Angus's happy face for greeting, she receives a note from him, hurriedly written, and inexplicably mysterious.

'I cannot attend the theatre to-night,' it says. 'You and your friend must go without me. You will find the tickets on the mantelpiece in my bedroom.'

It had been arranged they should visit the theatre that evening under Angus's charge, and the mother had been looking forward to this small pleasure as eagerly as if she had been Gabrielle de Blois herself. And now he is unable to accompany them, and he gives no reason for his default, only that it is impossible he can go. Of course his absence need not prevent their pleasure, for Mr. Bond is ready to fill his place, but it robs the evening of all its amusement for Delia, who sits in her stall, more ready to cry than laugh, and wondering, with an earnestness that is almost pain, what explanation she will receive of that day's mysteries.

It comes quite soon enough. When she returns from the theatre, and, having bid good-night to both her friends, enters her own room—the explanation awaits her there. Seated by her table is Angus—haggard, pale, and disordered in appearance; but as the door opens, he starts up from his chair and waits her approach. She is about to fly into his arms with an exclamation of pity and affection, when he waves her from him.

'Mother!' he says hoarsely, 'I was obliged to wait for you here. I couldn't meet you before those people downstairs.'

'You couldn't meet me, Angus. O! what is the meaning of this?'

'No! Not until I had received an answer from you to a question that is eating into my very soul. Mother! I have heard that to-day which seems to have taken all the light and life out of my existence. I cannot believe it—but you are the only person who can thoroughly satisfy me upon the subject.'

'Angus! what is it?' she says, trembling; 'tell me at once. There have never been any secrets between us yet. There never shall be!'

'My tongue seems to cleave to the roof of my mouth when I try to form the words, but they must be said. Forgive me, mother, if I wound you by the question, but think what I have suffered under the doubt presented to me. Were you married to my father or were you not?'

————

CHAPTER VII.

'YOU ARE MY BITTEREST ENEMY.'

For a moment, her relief at finding that his uncertainty does not arise from any fear for the failure of his suit with Gabrielle, makes her forget everything but that she can answer his question with truth in the affirmative.

'My darling child! yes! of course I was! Who has been so wicked as to try and make you think otherwise?'

'I knew it—I was sure of it!' exclaims the young man joyfully, as he catches her in his arms and kisses her. 'What a fool I was to doubt you for a moment! Give me your certificate of marriage, mother, and I will flourish it in the face of that liar to-morrow, and tear his false tongue out by the roots afterwards.'

'My certificate!' she falters, but still without an inkling of the truth; 'I—I haven't got it, dear Angus! I didn't keep a copy!'

'That is provoking,' he says, biting his lip, 'because it involves delay; but it is not a matter of vital importance. A copy is easily procured. You must give me the exact date of your marriage, with the name of the church where it took place, and I will write a letter before I sleep this night, that shall set the matter right for us. I cannot have your good name lying under a false imputation one moment longer than is absolutely necessary!'

Something of the danger flashes on her mind.

'My good name! Angus, for the love of Heaven, tell me what is all this about! Who has dared to asperse me to you, or to cast a doubt on my respectability?'

'Never mind, dear mother. This is my business, and you may trust to me to settle it. Only, let me know at once where you were married to my father.'

'At Chilton in Berwick. But—O! Angus, my child, it will be of no use your writing there, for the church in which the ceremony took place was burned to the ground the very same night!'

'Burned to the ground!—and all the registrar's books destroyed!'

'Everything was destroyed. The building was laid in ashes.'

'And you had not secured a copy of the certificate of marriage?'

'I had one, but I—I—lost it. I was young and careless in those days, dear, and hardly thought of the importance of such a document. But what can that really matter? I tell you—I swear to you—I was married to your father as legally as it is possible for a woman to be married to a man!'

'Then why did you deny it?' he asks suspiciously.

His question raises her wildest fears.

'Deny it! What do you mean? Who has been talking to you? O! Angus, you are keeping something from me. There is more in your words than you choose to say. Who says I denied it!'

'My uncle, William Moray.'

'Your uncle!' she almost screams. 'Where have you met him? Not here? Not in Bruges?'

'Yes—here! in Bruges!'

Delia steadies herself by placing one hand upon the table. Something that has been knocking at her heart and whispering in her ears all day, rises up at this moment in a tangible shape before her.

It was, then, the face of William Moray she saw at the hotel window. He and her boy have met! Angus knows all!

'What does he say?' she whispers in a voice of fear.

'He says that when my father died he left me to his guardianship, to be brought up as his heir, but that when the time came for asserting his authority, you set it aside on the plea that I was a bastard, and no one but my mother had any claim upon me. And that, but for your declaration to that effect before witnesses, I should have been one of the richest men in London at the present moment. Is it true?'

He has been looking at her in a stern, uncompromising manner, whilst he pronounces the words that cut her to the heart; and as he puts the last question, and she feels she must answer it, they seem to change places. He—her darling petted child, over whom she lavishes as much tenderness now as she did when he was seven years old—has become her judge and inquisitor; and she—his mother—a trembling criminal about to cast herself upon his mercy.

'Forgive me, Angus!' she cries as she throws herself upon her knees before him; 'I did it for your sake. Ah! you cannot know—you never shall know—the miserable life I endured before I was tempted to tell so foul a lie. You were all I had, my darling! For you I had worked and laboured through pain and wretchedness and discomfort, such as never woman endured before—for you I had suffered violence and insult and contempt. And then, when it was over—when at last Heaven mercifully delivered me from my unholy bondage, and I was looking forward to devoting the remainder of my life to you—they told me that your father had made a will by which you would be torn from my arms—never to be mine again in the sweet companionship of mother and child—and I could not bear it. The burthen was too heavy for me, and I escaped from it by the only means I could. I destroyed the certificate of marriage which I possessed, and denied there had ever been one.'

'You blasted my whole life, in fact, by falsely branding me with illegitimacy.'

'Angus, Angus! do not speak to me in that tone of voice. I did it for your sake.'

'To gratify your own wishes, you mean. Don't say you thought of me in the transaction. My welfare was the last consideration you must have had.'

'No, no; indeed it was not! What should I have done without you? You were my all—my whole earthly possession. I loved you as my own life!'

'And a nice way you took to prove it, by taking from me the only thing which I possessed—my father's name. Do you know what that man said to me to-day? That my proper name was Merton, and not Moray, and that if I didn't use it for the future, he would publicly denounce me as an impostor.'

'The wicked, cruel man! He knows you are his own brother's child—and except in that one matter I have never harmed him—why should he rise up now to destroy all my peace of mind?'

'Because you put it in his power to do so. By this lie which you told him to secure a temporary pleasure for yourself, at the price of an everlasting shame for me, you placed a weapon in his hand with which he can stab us both to his life's end! Do you know the mischief he has done already with it? He has related the whole base story to Dr. de Blois, who has peremptorily refused, in consequence, to give me Gabrielle in marriage!'

'Ah! no, no, Angus—it cannot be! You must be mistaken. Think how long we have lived and been respected in Bruges—what honoured friends we have gained here. Dr. de Blois will never take the word of a stranger against the proof of his own eyes. He did not tell you so, surely?'

'To all my entreaties that he would explain himself more satisfactorily, with respect to refusing my offer, he had but one reply, "Ask your mother—she ought to know." '

'Merciful God!' cries Delia; 'the consequences of my sin are finding me out indeed!'

'I was nearly maddened by the doctor's way of treating me, and had I not seen my uncle afterwards!——'

'Don't call that wicked man your uncle, Angus!'

'He is my uncle, if your account is true.'

The 'if' cuts her to the heart, but she weeps silently and lets it pass.

'If I had not kept my appointment with him (I told you last night that a strange Englishman had asked me to call upon him), I should never, perhaps, have known the real reason that I am considered unfit to wed with Gabrielle de Blois. Now—nothing will surprise me!'

'But you are fit. You are fit to mate with the best woman in the land.'

'You cannot prove it! I might have been all that you say, and more, had you let the provisions of my father's will be put into force. I might have been rich—prosperous and honoured—but you chose instead to brand me with a stigma that will cling to me to my dying day—and you had far better have killed me on the spot!'

'And would you rather, then, that I had let you go to your uncle, Angus?' she cries in an agony of pain. 'Would you have given up my love and tenderness for all these many years for the sake of that man's riches?'

'I would have given them up for the sake of an honest name,' he answers quickly. And then, seeing how he has wounded her, he adds, 'Don't think I undervalue your love, mother, but you might have found a better way of showing it for me than you did.'

And this is the end of it! This is the fruit of all those weary, tearful years—that ceaseless watchfulness and anxious love—that cheerfully borne labour, and those cheerfully expended earnings, that her boy might have everything of the best that she could give him—Angus tells her that he would have resigned it all to regain that which her own hand wrested from him!

Hers is indeed a 'bootless bene'—a short-lived good, which has borne no fruit but sorrow for them both. As she realises it in all its hideous naked truth, poor Delia crouches still lower at the feet of her injured child, and sobs as though her heart would break. But her emotion has no effect upon her son.

'To think!' he exclaims, as he rises and paces the room, 'that for a single lie my life and my affections are blighted for ever; that I have lost my Gabrielle and my good name at one and the same moment; that here in this city, where I have been reared to hold my head up with any man, I must slink through the streets with downcast eyes, branded with the name of bastard! Do you suppose all Bruges will not know it?' he continues loudly to the smitten creature crouching on the floor, 'that the very streets will not ring with the story of our mutual shame? How am I to pursue my profession? How mix amongst my fellow-men, who will believe you to be an outcast and myself nameless? I cannot stand it. I will not stand it! You may stay here if you like, to be shunned by those who befriended you, and pointed at by the very beggars in the streets, but I have too much pride to submit to such humiliation. I shall leave Bruges upon the first opportunity. I will settle up my accounts at the office as soon as ever it is possible—and turn my back upon the place for ever!'

'Angus—Angus! where will you go?' sobs his mother.

'God knows—and I don't care. Anywhere—so it be a country where the disgrace you have cruelly tacked to me is not known, and I can begin life afresh under the only name you have left me the right to bear. Life afresh! What a farce it seems for me to speak so! Why, you have destroyed my life, with all that was worth having in it. I shall have no life henceforward, as I shall have no name. Oh, mother—mother! you may have called it love, but you are the bitterest enemy I have ever had.'

So he passes from the room, leaving her crushed in body and in spirit on the floor, overwhelmed by the calamity of which she is the author, and seeing no way out of the thick darkness that enfolds her.

* * * * *

How long she lies there, Delia Moray never afterwards can say. She listens to Angus's last impetuous speech, hears his step cross the floor, his hand angrily slam the door with a violence that reverberates through the long corridor, and knows that she is alone—alone with her ruined hopes and the memory of the past. Her tears have ceased to flow: her heart has almost ceased to beat, as she confronts the fate she has built up with her own hands. How smoothly all things have appeared to go; how little she has dreamed her peace would ever be disturbed again, excepting by the calamities which are common to all mankind; and here—in the very zenith of her prosperity—when Angus was just about to be made happy for life—when she herself, too, might even have thought of—— But how futile it is to remember all this now; when everything seemed to have worked together for their good, the crash has come—and her ruin is complete.

As she sits where he has left her, with her face hidden in her hands, one by one come trooping past, scenes out of the acted portion of the drama of her life; and she sees herself as she first came to Bruges, fourteen years ago—broken down, indeed, and wearied with the misfortunes she had gone through, but so peaceful and contented with her little delicate boy—the one great treasure of her life—hers, as she then fondly imagined, for ever—clasped in her arms.

How marvellously free from suspense and fear had seemed those first sweet months of liberty when, though she was obliged to work hard all day, she used to return to her lodgings in the evening, confident of finding her child, rosy and dirty from digging in the garden, or playing with companions of his own age—full of babyish prattle as to what he had done and said, and ready to eat his wholesome meal with her, and be tucked into his white bed afterwards, as a happy healthy child should be! Then he had grown older—old enough to be curious—to ask questions and expect answers to them; and she had changed his name from 'Willie' to 'Angus,' lest by any contretemps he should come across those who were familiar with their former history. But no such accident had occurred. The boy had gone from school to college, and from college into the surveyor's office, without ever having experienced a doubt respecting his mother's antecedents or his own. His father had been an Englishman, and he was dead.

Those facts were enough to satisfy his curiosity on the subject, and, as he told Gabrielle de Blois, his mother had always been extremely reticent with respect to her married life. She did not wish Angus to curse his father's memory, but neither would she have deceived him in the matter. Therefore she had considered it best to keep her own counsel.

Meanwhile, little by little, she worked her way up in the estimation of the citizens of Bruges, until they had come to consider her almost as one of themselves. There is not a tradesman from one end of the town to the other but knows 'Madame Moray,' and would trust her bare word for the payment of his account. And the English residents, too, who, by reason perhaps of the fact that 'Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do,' are noted for their capacity of sitting in judgment on a scandal, before the offender has quite made up his mind whether he will perpetrate it or not—have passed her through the crucible of their approval, and brought her out blameless. Were it not so, she never would have been entrusted with the chaperonage of the Demoiselles de Landry, whose father, the Chevalier de Landry, is connected with some of the highest families in Belgium, and to whom she was recommended by his brother-in-law, Baron Saxe.

And it is all useless. It has all been for nothing—worse than nothing. She had better have taken her child in her arms and gone forth into the world as a strolling player; and then, when the dénouement came, it might have found him in a position in which the truth would not have proved so crushing a blow. But by dint of her own energy and perseverance, she has raised him only to cast him down again.

But yesterday and Angus was envied of half the young men of his age in Bruges! But yesterday and he held an excellent appointment, and was all but fiancée to one of the prettiest and most amiable girls in the city. And now, he will leave it all and go out into the cold, cruel world to which he is a stranger—without money and without friends—to hide himself from an unmerited shame that is too hard for him to bear. Delia feels at that moment, that had it been merited, it would have been easier to bear.

Had she been a frail woman, who had imposed upon the kindness of those around her, this breaking-up of all the old familiar ties would have come as the just punishment for her misdeed and deception. But to think that she has wantonly imposed this life-sacrifice upon the cherished child of her bosom is agony.

Yet Angus is right! If the horrid story that William Moray has already repeated to Dr. de Blois gets wind in Bruges, every soul will hear of it, and neither of them can make it their home thenceforward. How could she continue to chaperon the Demoiselles de Landry—or their father continue to allow it, under the circumstances? How could Angus live in the very sight of Gabrielle, to whom he may not even speak for fear of his actions being misconstrued, and keep up his friendship with the Abbé Bertin, to whom he owes all his good fortune, whilst he is under the ban of the displeasure of Dr. de Blois?

No! it is impossible. The truth has been spoken, and they must go! But is there no way out of it? No way by which to evade the utter ruin of her child? No means by which he might retain his position—perhaps even win his wife?

As Delia ponders on the possibilities of the case, a sudden idea strikes her to throw herself upon the mercy of Dr. de Blois. After all—it is a lie. The objections to her darling as the husband of his daughter are but chimeras. Surely so good a man will believe her, and once convinced of the truth of her statement, refuse to suffer such paltry considerations as the opinions of the world to influence him in deciding on the happiness or misery of their children.

With all her experience, Delia has still to learn that religious people are not behindhand with worldly ones in estimating the worth of public approval. When at last she has made up her mind not to lose a moment in making full confession of her fault to her old friend, Delia rises slowly from her lowly position, and stands before the looking-glass. How haggard and worn she appears! She might have lived ten years since Angus met her in that very room last night, and told her he knew all. And yet it is but five o'clock in the morning. She has cowered there, afraid to lift up her head lest the very stones should rise up in accusation against her, for only four hours—and it has seemed like a century of shame!

She throws up the bedroom window and gazes mechanically into the open street. Already the signs of daily life are beginning to manifest themselves in the shape of barrows of sand pushed by rough men behind, and drawn by trembling, sore-footed little dogs in front—in country-carts laden with fruit and vegetables—and in country wenches in their long black cloaks and hoods, going to early mass, before they commence their round of labour.

Dr. de Blois, who retains the primitive custom in both summer and winter of rising in time to attend the earliest service, will, she has no doubt, be already stirring, and on his way to church. She determines to start at once and be ready to receive him on his return from mass.

With trembling hands she smooths her disordered hair—changes her evening dress—and arrays herself in the simplest of morning costumes, whilst all sorts of fearful possibilities pass through her mind, and she wonders how soon it will be all over, or how many more walks she is likely to take through the streets of Bruges.

The fat, sleepy-looking Flamande is already flooding the stone-floor with pails of water, as Mrs. Moray passes out of the porte-cochère. She is too stupid, or too lazy, even to wonder where the English lady can be going at that early hour of the morning: possibly to mass, although she knows she is a Protestant; or perhaps to market, although she has nothing to do with the victualling of the household. But it is all one to the sleepy Flamande.

Meanwhile Delia threads the streets with a nervous rapid step and downcast eyes, afraid lest each figure that jostles her upon the narrow pavement should be the figure of a whilom friend, who has heard her story and determined never to speak to her again. Her heart is beating rapidly with fear and anxiety and the shame of confessing she has told a falsehood; but she never falters in her determination to save her boy if possible, at any sacrifice of self.

Dr. de Blois's surgery-door stands open. He usually leaves it so for the convenience of any poor patient who may wish to wait his return from church.

So she passes into it unquestioned, and leans against the counter, more dead than alive, until the shutting of the surgery-door tells her that her hour is come.

Then she turns and salutes her old friend with a bitter cry.

————

CHAPTER VIII.

'I WANT TO GO AWAY FOR EVER.'

For a moment Dr. de Blois forgets, in his surprise at seeing her, the motive which must have brought her there.

'Madame Moray!' he exclaims, 'what do you here at this hour? I trust you are not ill!'

'Yes! I am ill,' she answers; 'sick in body and sick in mind, and it is you only that can cure me.'

He begins to understand her mission then, and draws himself up stiffly.

'If I can help you, madame——' he commences.

'You can! you can indeed! Oh! Dr. de Blois, I have a long confession to make to you. Grant me half an hour of your time, and I will tell you all.'

'Proceed, madame,' says the doctor, still coldly, although he places a chair for her and sits down himself.

'A terrible piece of news has reached me, doctor. I hear that a person of the name of William Moray, a connection of my late husband, has been malicious enough to seek an interview with you for the express purpose of informing you that I am not a married woman, and that my dear son Angus is not a legitimate son. Is it true?'

'It is not entirely true, madame! Monsieur Moray certainly did give me that most painful piece of information, rather than hear which, I may truly say, I would have parted with a great deal that makes life worth living to me; but he did not seek me for the express purpose of telling it to me. He chanced to meet your son in the town, and was directed to my house for medical advice, when he asked me several questions concerning the young man, and finding he was on intimate terms with my daughter, he considered it his duty to let me know the truth, as it most certainly was.'

'But it is not the truth, doctor! It is a lie!'

Dr. de Blois stares with amazement.

'Indeed! Are you quite prepared to prove it?"

Her eyes sink abashed before his.

'Ah! no! I cannot prove it, else I had no need to be here this morning, ready to cast myself upon your mercy and forbearance. But it is not true, Dr. de Blois. As there is a God above us, it is not true!'

'Then you must be the victim of a very base conspiracy, madame!'

'I am. But a conspiracy for which I alone am responsible. I destroyed my own reputation. I destroyed the happiness and respectability of my son's life, by a lie—an awful and irremediable lie.'

'Your assertion is incomprehensible to me, madame. Many women—God forgive them—try to preserve their fair fame by a lie, but I never heard before of one that wantonly cast hers away.'

'You never heard before, perhaps, of a case in which a poor mother was forced to adopt one of two extremities, either to give up her child to a man she hated, or to keep him on the plea that he belonged to her alone.'

'Madame, you interest me! Pray proceed.'

'I was a married woman, doctor, and the mother of a child for whom I had toiled early and late. My husband was a drunkard and ill-treated me; but let that pass. He is dead! When he died I thought that I at least should have peace. But there is a law in England by which a father obtains the sole possession of his children between the ages of seven and sixteen. My boy was but just seven years old at the time of his father's death, yet he had all the right by will to order that he should be torn from my arms and made over to his uncle, to be brought up as he might choose to determine. But had I not been married to my husband, this will could never have been put in force. Do you understand me?'

'Entirely, madame.'

'I knew something of the working of this law and I felt desperate. The church in which I had been married was burned to the ground, but I possessed a copy of the certificate. Monsieur, can you not guess the sequel? I destroyed my certificate, and declared that I had never been a wife.'

'Madame, you performed one of the rashest and most unprincipled acts I ever heard of. You had no moral right to blast your own character and the life of your child, and by a falsehood, too. I thought better and higher things of you.'

'Ah, monsieur! do not judge me too harshly. You cannot possibly know what passes in a mother's heart. Her child to her is her own possession. The creature she has created. Any man, even the father, who dares to step between her and her sacred right of maternity, becomes a fiend, a monster! And this was not the father, not even a friend, but the man who had ever treated me with disrespect and want of consideration.'

'Can you wonder at it if he believed you to be what you affirmed yourself?'

'But he did not believe it. He knew that I was married, and only evaded the law by a quibble. Else why should he have got his brother to make a will which he believed to be illegal and useless.'

'I am not here, madame, to discuss the nicety of such points with you. The fact as it stands is, that we have only your bare word for it that you did tell a lie.'

'Then you do not believe me!' cries Delia in anguish. 'I have been fourteen years your townswoman and neighbour, and in all that time you have never detected me failing in probity, yet you cannot take my word now.'

'It is so unfortunate that you destroyed the certificate,' sighs the doctor.

'I know it is. Had I to go through the same ordeal now, I dare say I should behave differently, but I was young and inexperienced, and in mortal fear lest my boy should be taken from me. I thought they would search until they found the paper, and that my only security lay in its being destroyed, and so I burned it and kept my child. But I was a married woman, and William Moray knows it.'

She has got to the end of her tether now, apparently, and yet Dr. de Blois does not look convinced. He sighs, and keeps his head down, and plays nervously with some article off the counter.

'Dr. de Blois, won't you believe me?' says Delia earnestly.

'My dear lady, I have every inclination to believe you.

I consider the act of which you were guilty was a great sin as well as a great misfortune, the effects of which will follow you to your dying day; still, I have every wish to credit you with telling the truth now.'

'But yet you are not sure.'

The doctor shrugs his shoulders.

'Can any one in this world assert he is sure of that of which he has no proof? You must have known you were laying yourself open to suspicion when you did away with the only witness to your marriage ceremony.'

'My poor Angus!' cries Delia despairingly.

They sit silent for a few minutes. The silence seems to make her frantic.

'Doctor, doctor! have you no mercy?' she exclaims presently. 'Can't you see the misery of my soul? Will you not help me with a little pity, a little gleam of hope?'

'In what way, madame?'

'By telling me that this awful error of mine shall not influence you against my poor boy. It was no fault of his. Even were it true he would be innocent.'

'It would be a cruel tongue that could say otherwise.'

'But he is going away, monsieur. He says he must leave Bruges. That he can never hold up his head in the town again.'

'How could I prevent such a determination on his part?'

'By consenting to his marriage with Gabrielle! By letting him see that you do not believe the story of his illegitimacy, and giving him hope thereby that others may follow your good example.'

But she has gone too far. At the mention of Gabrielle the doctor's face assumes an expression of the utmost severity.

'You do not consider what you ask, madame. I have heard you thus far patiently, thinking it but right that you should have every opportunity of clearing your name from the aspersions it has encountered. But I should prefer your not mentioning that of my daughter. If Angus was dear to you, even to the renunciation of all that is most precious to a woman for his sake, Gabrielle is dear to me, even to the cutting off a right limb, or plucking out a right eye, for hers. I like your son—more, I have an affection for him, and under happier circumstances would have willingly seen him my son-in-law; but, as it is, I would rather lay Gabrielle in her grave than have her become his wife, or——'

'Or what?' interrupts Delia quickly.

'Or—or—your daughter! Forgive me, madame, if I pain you,' he goes on, as he hears the groan with which she receives his decision, 'but you must remember that, however innocent you may be, the world will believe you guilty; and I belong to a family whose pride it has been never to connect itself with those who bear the least shadow of blame or disgrace. And I much fear you have not heard the last of this. For Mr. William Moray seems to be greatly incensed against you (although kindly disposed to your son), and declares that he shall publish the story wherever you may take up your future residence.'

'The wretch! The inhuman monster!' cries the unhappy woman. 'It is I, then, who am the sole cause of all his malice?—I who am to play the part of a shadow, dogging the steps of my own child?—I to take the rôle of the sword that hung by a single thread above the head of Damocles?'

'I am much afraid it is as you say, and that it must so continue to be. The worst disgrace of an illegitimate child is his mother. It is the punishment Heaven sends her through the very heart whose weakness perhaps caused her sin.'

'Then you think the same as he does?' exclaims Delia. 'Dr. de Blois, tell me the truth!—Am I the obstacle to the engagement of Angus and Gabrielle?'

At this question the doctor starts.

'My dear madame! of course you are!'

'Were I altogether out of the way—were I dead and buried, and forgotten—would you consent to their marriage then?'

Perhaps I might! I can hardly say.'

'You must say! I insist upon an answer.'

'My dear lady, what is the use of discussing an improbability?'

'Who can tell what is probable or improbable in this world? All I ask is an answer to my question. Were I gone out of sight altogether—never mind by what means—so that my boy would never hear of nor see me again in this life, would you let him marry Gabrielle?'

'I would! I know it seems a cruel thing to say, and especially after what you have told me, but there is no doubt that while you live, you will always remain a reproach to your son and his descendants. The story of his birth will never be suffered to sink into oblivion. It will ever be cropping up again in the person of his mother. But should you leave us—which God forbid, my dear madame, for of whatever weakness you may have been guilty I can never cease to think of you as a friend—still, should you leave us, the scandal you have excited would soon die a natural death and be forgotten.'

'And then you would give him Gabrielle?'

'I do not think, under those circumstances, I should be justified in withholding my consent.'

'Dr. de Blois, you are a good man, and I believe every word you say as though it were gospel. But if you would swear what you have just affirmed, you would make me so happy.'

'I swear that, were you not in the way, I would make Angus my son-in-law! Surely, dear madame, there is no need of an oath on the subject! Your own good sense must teach you that——'

'I have no sense—at least on this point—and I want to hear you swear it. Then I shall be satisfied and content to let things take their course. I may not be here so very long, you know, and Gabrielle may be willing to wait for him a little; only promise me, by the God who made us both, that in such a case Angus shall have her.'

'I do promise you, by the God who made us both,' replies Dr. de Blois solemnly, 'that should such a contingency take place, and the young people be of the same mind still, I will place no obstacle in the way of their marriage.'

'Thank you!' she articulates, but in so faint and low a tone that the doctor becomes alarmed.

'You are not thinking of—you cannot be dreaming of——' he begins uncertainly, hardly daring to put his thought into words. But Delia has no such scruple.

'Of making away with myself, doctor?' she says with a sickly smile. 'No, do not be afraid of that! I have proved myself to be a very weak mother, but I am not going to be a wicked one. My boy shall have no worse disgrace to bear than I have already inflicted upon him.'

She has risen to her feet by this time and totters towards the door. Dr. de Blois springs to her aid. As he sees how the interview has weakened her, his conscience reproaches him with severity. What right has he had to accumulate, by harsh words and inferences, the load of misery that is bowing down this hapless creature's head? His faith has been entirely shaken in the statements made to him by William Moray. He is a sufficient judge of human nature to be able to distinguish between his coarse unscrupulous soul and the tender sensitive spirit of Delia; still, whether true or false, the circumstances remain the same, and his daughter and himself would have to bear the brunt of the unhappy doubt. So he will not obey the dictates of his conviction and his better nature, but lets the fear of the world's tattle and the world's frown spring up to choke the good seed sown by the charity that thinks no evil in his breast.

'Let me assist you, Madame Moray! You are not fit to walk alone.'

'I have walked alone for many a weary year, Dr. de Blois, and I must continue to do so still. Would to God that I had always walked alone!'

'You will let me call you a fiacre?'

'No, thank you! I want time to think before I meet my friends again, and the exercise will do me good.'

'You will not let this make any difference between us, I hope, madame. It is unnecessary, because our children are not to be united, that we should cease to be friends. It has always been one of my best pleasures to assist you! You will permit me to assist you still?'

'I shall never ask but one favour of you again, monsieur—to keep the promise you have just sworn to me.'

'On that you may depend;' he answers gravely, adding: 'at the same time I must say I sincerely hope the occasion for its fulfilment will never arrive.'

'And I trust as sincerely that it may. I love my boy better than you love your girl,' exclaims poor Delia, as she leaves the doctor to his own reflections.

As she takes her way homeward, she wonders how long a time must elapse before she can put the plan on which she has decided into execution, and by what means she will be able to frustrate Angus's design of leaving the city until it is accomplished.

She would like to pack up all her possessions and fly at once, leaving the coast clear for him; but she has certain social duties to perform, which she must see to first. Mrs. Hephzibah Horton has only just arrived in Bruges on a visit to her; she cannot run away and leave her friend in the lurch. Her heart may be bleeding the while, and every time she meets her wronged child may prove a separate martyrdom; yet because Mrs. Horton requires breakfasts and dinners, and her hostess cannot neglect her without rudeness, she must remain, however great the effort.

It is always so in this world. We suffer until the power of suffering seems dead within us; but yet we must order the household, and repair the rents, and hear the children's lessons, though we would thankfully lie down instead and die.

Delia Moray appears at the public breakfast-table (from which, for the first time in his life, she is thankful to see that Angus is absent), and goes through the mockery of exchanging morning salutations, and piling her plate with food she cannot consume, and pretending to appear interested in the various items of news that reach her on all sides, whilst her heart feels like lead in her bosom, and her dry bright eye becomes feverish in its endeavours to appear what it is not. But she has no simpleton to deal with in Mrs. Hephzibah, who, after one or two searching glances at her poor friend's excited features, gives an emphatic 'humph!' and knows all about it. So the first thing that happens to Delia, after breakfast, is to find herself pursued into her private sitting-room, and there subjected to a close catechism.

'Now, what's all this about?' begins Mrs. Hephzibah, with an air that means business. 'If I'm not much mistaken, Delia Moray, you've not lain down in your bed to-night, and that precious son of yours is at the bottom of it. You may as well make a clean breast at once, for I shall find out all about it before the day's over.'

At these words Mrs. Moray begins to cry.

'Indeed! there is nothing to tell—not yet, at least——' she stammers.

'What does "not yet" mean? What plot are you hatching that is not yet ripe? Of course I know it's on account of Angus—I'm not blind, my dear, and anyone with half an eye might have seen the young man did not behave well to you yesterday. I expect you've spoiled him, till he is not always able to distinguish right from wrong. Thank God I'm not a mother! However, that's no comfort to you! Now, what has he done?'

'Nothing—positively nothing! It is not his fault indeed. It is all mine.'

'That's as I may choose to take it. Anyway, he's made you miserable. You remind me of the Delia Moray of old days, and I don't like that, especially as that Delia was not too proud to confide in me, and this one is.'

'Oh no! indeed, dear friend, you are mistaken. If I have tried to keep my sorrow to myself, it has not been from any desire of concealment. But now you shall know all! I owe it to you, if only in remembrance of the days to which you have alluded, when you were the sole help and counsellor I had.'

And, relieved to find the painful restraint she thought fit to put upon herself wrested from her by the strong will of her friend, Delia pours out the full history of her misfortune, from the moment that Angus entered her room the night before, to that in which she parted with Dr. de Blois.

Mrs. Hephzibah listens to the relation in silence; but when it is quite finished, she throws herself back in her chair, exclaiming:

'I am a fool!'

'You, dear Mrs. Horton?'

'Yes, I! Don't you see that all this misery has come about from the information I gave you at the time of your husband's death? If I had let things take their course, you would have known no better than to give the boy up, and have done with it.'

'Surely you do not blame yourself for that.'

'I do blame myself, all round! What business had I to interfere? I should have foreseen it would result in something like this. And if I had held my tongue, you would have got over it all long ago, and might have been a happy wife by this time, with a fresh batch of children at your knee.'

'They could never have made up to me for the loss of Angus,' cries Delia.

'Pack of nonsense! Each one would have been as dear as the last, only you are unable to imagine it. And I have actually brought all this trouble on your head. Never call me your friend again, my dear. I've been the worst friend you ever had.'

'I cannot agree with you, and I shall always look upon you as the dearest and best of women. See how you helped and comforted me in the days of my despair.'

'Did I?' responds Mrs. Hephzibah, with something very like a tear in her eye; 'well, let me try if I can help and comfort you again then. What do you propose to do?'

'I want to go away,' sobs Delia. 'I want to leave Bruges and my boy for ever, so that nobody shall be able to trace where I have gone, or point to me as the cause of his disgrace.'

'And you think you will be able to do that?'

'I mean to try. It appears to me to be the only compensation I can make for the cruel wrong I have inflicted on him. And I shall leave a letter behind me, to say that I have gone—utterly and for ever, and that they will never see nor hear from me again; and I shall claim the fulfilment of Dr. de Blois's promise to me in consequence.'

'And what do you expect the effect of that to be?'

'I hope the doctor may prevent Angus from leaving Bruges, and let him marry Gabrielle, and then he will be content—my own precious boy will at least be spared from the shame and the blight of my presence, and so long as he is prosperous and happy, it matters little what becomes of me!'

'How do you mean to live?' demands Mrs. Horton bluntly.

'I have saved a few louis, enough to start me in life, and when I have settled somewhere, and changed my name, I am not afraid but that I shall find means of maintaining myself.'

'And you propose to make this sacrifice, to give up the only joy of your life, and to live out the remainder of your days in a self-inflicted martyrdom, for the sake of a son whose father was more like a devil to you than a man! Delia Moray, you are a saint, and I honour you as I never honoured any woman in this world before!'

And, to Delia's surprise, she finds herself suddenly enclosed in Mrs. Hephzibah's strong arms, whilst the tears of the hard woman of the world mingle freely with her own.

'Oh, Mrs. Horton! you think far too well of me.'

'I don't, my dear, I don't. I believe you to possess one of the noblest and most unselfish natures ever planned by the Almighty, and I will help you in this enterprise to the very utmost of my power. You will need a friend and confidante, Delia, some one to keep your secret for you and ward off suspicion in others. And that is what I will be to you.'

They cry together for a few minutes in silence, and then Mrs. Hephzibah says:

'Come now! don't let us make idiots of ourselves longer than is necessary. When do you propose to go?'

'As soon as your visit here is ended.'

'My visit terminates this evening. No, my dear, no remonstrances. If you are to do this thing, you must do it at once, and you have promised we shall meet again. I shall send a telegram to my landlady in London this afternoon, to say that I have lent my rooms to you, and you may be expected there any moment, and I shall go on to Antwerp by the evening train. That little pest Bond was plaguing me all yesterday to give him a promise to visit that city before my return, so I shall throw him into an ecstasy of pleasure by announcing my determination to accompany him there at once. It won't be too improper, will it, my dear? Our united ages amount to over a hundred, so I suppose we may be trusted to travel in the same railway carriage without fear of losing our characters.'

'You were always so clever at planning things,' says Delia through her tears.

'Well, show you think so, my dear, by adopting my proposal. You can lie as perdu in my rooms in the Strand as anywhere. And when we meet again, which will be before long, I reckon, we will decide upon your future course of life. But you are sure you have thought this well over, Delia—that you will not regret having been hasty when it is too late to remedy the evil?'

'Regret it!' cries the mother, with uplifted eyes. 'There seems to me as if there could be no room for regret, as if there were but one course to pursue, and no choice left to me. Oh! had you but seen Angus's look, and heard the tones of his voice last night, Mrs. Horton, you would not ask me that question. On one side lies my boy's shame, dishonour, and expatriation; on the other, the probability of his happiness—the possibility of his forgetfulness. How can you ask me to think before I decide!'

————

CHAPTER IX.

'I CANNOT BE YOUR WIFE.'

Angus does not reappear, and though Delia feels his absence to be the greatest relief, the day passes as though there had been a death in the house. Mademoiselle Steivenart, who keeps it, inquires diligently at each meal 'Ce cher Monsieur On-goose, quand arrivera-t'il?' and the mother is forced to smile and pretend that his absence is a pre-arranged thing, and she is perfectly cognisant of his whereabouts. The poor soul goes even farther than that in her deception. It has been settled between Mrs. Horton and herself, that in order to avoid premature suspicion, she shall inform her landlady that she has accepted an invitation to go to Antwerp that evening with her friends, which will give her time to decide the best method by which to break the news to all concerned in it that she will not return to Bruges.

Her personal possessions are not many; she can pack all her wardrobe in the travelling-case she takes to Antwerp, and the few articles which decorate her private room, with money to defray the debts she may have incurred, she will leave to her boy, without whom everything, even life itself, has lost its charm for her. She remains in her own apartments all day, weeping bitterly at intervals over the sad task she has allotted herself, but the necessity for action is a blessing to her, and such as are forced to fight in the battle of life always feel less acutely than those who remain inactive in the tents. By the time Delia has completed her preparations for departure, and written the letter which shall explain her temporary absence to Angus (the epistle, by which he will learn how much his mother is ready to sacrifice for him, will be despatched from Antwerp), she has fairly wept herself dry, and is waiting in her sitting-room, helpless and hopeless indeed, but calmer than she has been all day. She hears the deep clang of the iron bell at the porte-cochère, and springs to her feet.

She has been expecting Angus to return each hour, and every fresh footstep that has sounded in the marble corridor has been a fresh disappointment to her, but now that she believes he has come, she feels as if it were impossible to meet him. What will he say? What will he do? Will he look at her still with the stern uncompromising glance of yesterday, the remembrance of which is burnt in upon her soul, or has he relented of his harsh suspicion, and come to break her heart with words of tenderness, and load her with caresses which it will almost kill her to receive, knowing them to be the last she shall ever have from him?

She stands by the door, breathless, undecided whether to remain or fly, as the manly step strides up the corridor in the direction of her room. The Flemish wench appears first, grinning from ear to ear, as she endeavours to make her understand that the Baron Gustave Saxe desires to have an interview with her.

'I cannot see him. I cannot see anyone!' exclaims Delia hastily, but the order comes too late.

The baron has followed the servant to the door of her apartment; he is even now standing before her; she has no alternative but to receive him.

'Entrez, monsieur,' she says courteously, but all the colour has forsaken her cheek, and she trembles so that she almost totters back to her seat.

'To my regret I find madame on the eve of departure,' says the baron, 'but I trust it is not for long. Your determination has been sudden, surely. I met Monsieur Moray yesterday, and he said nothing of such a plan to me.'

He is a fine soldierly man in appearance, this Baron Gustave Saxe, with blue eyes and brown hair, and a heavy moustache of a reddish tinge, that droops over his mouth. In age he may have numbered about five-and-forty years, but he carries them bravely, and has all the bearing of a young and gallant man. He is an Austrian, and a colonel in the army, the brother-in-law also of the Chevalier de Landry, in whose house Delia has advanced to considerable terms of intimacy with him. And his presence has the power to make her quail at the idea of the step she is about to take as she has never quailed before.

'My departure is sudden, monsieur,' she falters in answer to the baron's question. 'I have friends in Bruges who wish me to accompany them to Antwerp for a few days. It required no consideration. It—it—is nothing, you know—only a trip of pleasure.'

'Then we shall see you back again soon—on which day, Monday, Tuesday, Thursday? I believe my nieces return from the country on Thursday. You will be here to receive them, will you not?'

'I hope so—I think so—that is, of course, I shall write to Monsieur Landry,' replies Delia incoherently, and visibly ill at ease.

'Madame is not well,' remarks the baron with concern. 'The heat, or some malady perhaps, has overcome you. Believe me, you are not yourself to-day. Let me persuade you to put off this trip of pleasure until you are recovered.'

'Indeed, monsieur, I am not ill. It is as you say, the heat, and perhaps a little trouble added to it. We all have our troubles in this world, you know, Monsieur le Baron, and the best remedy we can apply to them is the distraction we gain by change of scene and air, and my friends are very good to me.'

'Who would not be good to you!' cries the baron enthusiastically. 'Ah! madame, you little think, in your beautiful unconsciousness of self, the pride your friends take in administering to your welfare. It is a great privilege, and one for which I would sacrifice half my worldly possessions.'

She blushes deeply at his assertion, but she does not half believe it. He is an Austrian, used to palaver and compliment, both as gift and exchange. He has made her weak heart beat faster than it has had any authority for doing more than once before, and she will not let words, to which he may attach slight meaning, make her determination to do right look so much harder than it did.

'You are very good, monsieur, to say so, but your kindness only increases my gratitude instead of diminishing it. I am perfectly aware of the difference in our stations of life, and that I have not even the commonest claim upon your consideration. Hence it becomes all the more valuable because undeserved.'

'You have the commonest and yet the highest of all claims to myself and everything I possess,' replies the baron, 'the claim of a woman upon the man who loves her. Ah, madame! pardon me if I am too abrupt, but for many weeks I have tried to say this to you, and now that you are about to leave us, I can no longer hold my tongue. You must have seen my love, my devotion. You will not despise me when I confess that you fill all my thoughts, and that I have but one earnest desire in life—to make you my wife!'

In his ardour and foreign sense of chivalry he has thrown himself at her feet, and Delia has no escape from him. Here, on a level with her own face, are the impassioned eyes and glowing visage of the Baron Saxe, whilst both his strong hands are clasping her own as in a vice.

And the temptation of it!

If this offer had but come a month before, when, according to his own account, he had been ready to make it, from what suffering might it not have saved her! As the wife of this gallant Austrian soldier and noble, who would have dared to assail her fair fame, even though she had been mad enough to play with it as a child plays with a vase of inestimable value, never caring if he smashes it or not in the encounter? But now that the crash has come, and her vase is broken beyond the hope of repair, she would not, even if she could, carry the dishonourable fragments into another life, to blight and shame it with her own. So she heroically swallows a mighty sob that was rising to betray her disappointment, and draws her hand quietly but decidedly from the baron's clasp.

'Madame, what is this? You take your hand away from me! Ah, do not say you intend to refuse my suit—I will wait for your answer, days, weeks, years, if you will only give me a little hope to live on whilst you are considering it.'

'Baron! you do not know what you ask. I am no fit wife for you.'

'No fit wife! Then who is fit?'

'You are an Austrian noble,' continues Delia, relentless to herself, 'a man of high position and great wealth—and I am a penniless widow, neither young nor handsome—the governess to your sister's children. You shall make no mésalliance for my sake, Baron Saxe.'

'And who dares to say it will be a mésalliance?' he exclaims. 'You are of gentle birth—I can read it in your voice, your shape, your manner—and I am no more.'

'It is true I am what you say,' replies Delia, with a touch of pride; 'for my father was an officer in the Royal Navy of

England, but I was not educated in the same class as you have been. I was early left an orphan to depend on my own resources, and for many years I was nothing but an actress on the public stage, singing, dancing, and playing, night after night, for the sake of the bread I put into my mouth. And an actress is no fit person to place in the enviable position of the Baronne de Saxe.'

She thinks this intelligence will change all his ideas upon the subject. It has been a great effort to her to confess it, for she knows how proud he is, and believes he will despise her for her former calling. But she is mistaken. The baron listens to her avowal breathlessly, and makes it a further occasion for lauding her worth.

'And I respect and admire you for the strength of mind you showed in working for your independence and that of your child. It is your bravery that first drew me to you! Do you think I want a silly idle girl for my baroness—who shall be able only to look pretty and simper, and dress in a new costume each day? No, Delia! I want a friend—a companion—a woman! just such a woman as you are—who has the strength of purpose to do what is right, and the strength of mind to confess it! And now that that matter is settled between us, you will tell me I shall have what I want?'

It seems very hard to refuse him—very hard to shut her ears against the pleading of his voice, her eyes against the pleading of his eyes, but it must be done. Were she to encourage his advances, by ever so faint a show of yielding, he would insist upon its being followed by their betrothal; and before that event could be made public, the horrid news would reach him that her reputation had been assailed, and she had no weapon to put into his hand wherewith to fight the enemy. For one moment only she tampers with her own integrity, wondering, if she told the baron all, whether he would not choose to believe her story and trample on the opinion of the world. Her heart answers that he would, but then he is a true gentleman in soul and body, and he might do that for honour and the sake of keeping his word to her, which calm and dispassionate judgment would have urged him to refuse. And Delia will not draw him into the net with her, for she knows now (if she only guessed it before) that she loves this gallant Austrian soldier, and that his welfare is dearer to her than her own.

So she turns her face to one side, the better to escape his observation, and answers sadly:

'No, baron, it is useless for you to plead thus any longer. There is an obstacle between us that no arguments could overcome.'

'Tell me what it is.'

'I cannot, because it involves others as well as myself. You must take my word for it, that reasons exist against the idea of anything like marriage between us, that, if you knew them, would make you shrink from me as if I were a snake with the power to sting.'

'I am willing to take you, Delia, without learning these terrible reasons, which have no concern for me. It is you—you only that I want, and nothing can come between us except yourself.'

'Ah, baron! you talk at random. You little know the true state of the case.'

'Have you not told me the truth in saying you are free?'

'Yes! yes! most certainly! I have been a widow for the last fourteen years.'

'Then no obstacle can exist between us but one—your inability to love me! If that is the case—if you can assure me that I am altogether abhorrent to you, excepting as an acquaintance, then, and then only, will I cease to importune you to become my honoured wife.'

Delia looks at the handsome face upturned to hers and shudders. Had she been asked to search the world for the lot that seemed the best and fairest to her, she would have chosen this, and laughed at her insane folly for daring to dream of a fate so far above her deserts. To be the wife of this man—rich, honoured, and envied amongst all women for the pride of her position and her husband's birth—what better fortune could happen to the highest in the land? And yet he has chosen her! Without position or connections, the Baron Gustave Saxe has preferred her to the daughters of his own country, and wishes to place her at the head of his possessions and his house! It seems incredible, yet it is true, and she must reject the offer as though it were valueless to her. That is the hardest part of it. If she showed him what the effort cost, he would never accept the sacrifice. She must profess that she is indifferent both to it and him.

'I should be more than ungrateful for all the courtesy you have extended to me, baron,' she says with trembling lips, 'if I could say that you are "abhorrent" to me. Such a word is impossible from me to you. But if you ask me to say I love you well enough to become your wife, I must answer "No"—for there should be no limit to the love of married life.'

The baron rises from his kneeling position.

'You do not love me then, Delia?'

'I do not love you without limit.'

'Is that only your way of putting it, or do you mean me to understand that you will not be my wife?'

'I cannot be your wife.'

'Then you have ruined me!' he exclaims, as he paces with agitation about the room. 'You have smiled upon me and given me hopes, only that you may have the delight of crushing them!'

'Oh! no! no! do not judge me so hardly. I thought—I was not aware—I did not suppose——' she stammers.

'You women are all the same!' he interrupts her angrily; 'you encourage our attentions and return our glances, and then, when we ask you for that to which we suppose you have entitled us, you turn about and say, "You thought—you were not aware—you did not suppose——" And so is the child not aware, as he plays with the butterfly, that each touch of his finger maims a limb, or creates a wound. Madame, I thought higher things of you. I believed you to be above the usual trifling of your sex. I saw in you noble actions—unselfishness, bravery, and perseverance—and I credited you also with perfect truth.'

'Indeed, I have been true to you!'

'Too true! I think so! But not true to yourself! But I will go, madame; you shall no more be subjected to the discomfort of my presence, and I pray you to forgive me for the inconvenience I have unwittingly caused you. Farewell! and may the good God bless you!'

And without a second look at her, the baron seizes his hat and rushes from the apartment and down the corridor into the open street.

Delia does not scream, nor faint, nor fall. She stands by the table, just as she rose, thinking he would shake hands with her at parting, and her mouth quivers with suppressed emotion as she gazes blindly after his retreating form. But no sound escapes her. Once, as the clang of the closing door falls upon her ears, she tries to articulate the name 'Gustave!' but it dies upon her pallid lips, and she sinks upon her chair again.

How she would like to weep, but the tears seem dried up within their sources. The striking of a cuckoo-clock in the hall is the first thing that recalls her to herself. Eight o'clock! and she is to start with Mrs. Horton and Mr. Bond for Antwerp at nine! Delia staggers to her feet and takes her way upstairs, when the sight of her bedroom—so soon to be deserted—and the remembrance of all that took place there the night before, stir once more the floods of emotion in her. Angus and Gustave! She is parted from them both for ever! The unhappy woman sinks upon her knees in the centre of the floor, and holds commune with her Past alone.

————

CHAPTER X.

'I WILL FIND MY MOTHER.'

'Ce Cher Monsieur On-goose' (as Mademoiselle Steivenart persists in calling him) does not return to the Rue Allemande all that day, nor the next. When he rushed from his mother's presence, he went out into the night, and roamed about the silent streets till daylight, stopping more than once to gaze into the flowing canal that intersects the town, and to wonder whether the easiest way of ending all his troubles would not be to cast himself in headlong; so maddened did he feel by the terrible information he had received. He did not doubt his mother's word for a moment; he knew she was a married woman, and his birth as stainless as that of any of his friends, but which amongst them would believe the story? In the apparent hopelessness of proving his legitimacy, he felt he could have borne the shame better had it been deserved.

Had his mother been so unfortunate as to be deceived and betrayed, he would only have grieved over her weakness; but that, when invested with the legal right to proclaim herself his father's wife, she should have been so rash and so short-sighted as to brand her child an outcast for the sake of keeping him by her side—this was what Angus could not forgive! He traversed the empty streets until they began to fill again, and then he sought the shelter of an estaminet until the hour arrived for appearing at his office and commencing the day's routine.

Before he left it, he pleaded indisposition as an excuse for asking for a holiday, which the foreman unwillingly granted, for the young clerk was beginning to make himself so useful, that his absence was soon felt. But he wanted time and solitude to consider what was the best course for him to pursue, and as soon as the leave was given him, he went down to the little watering-place of Blankenburgh, and passed the night there, instead of returning home.

He shrunk from the idea of meeting his mother again. The wound she had inflicted on him was still too fresh and keen. Still less could he have encountered the petty gossip that formed the staple commodity in the conversations at the table-d'hôte in the Rue Allemande; it would have acted upon his nervous system as a gnat-bite on a sword-thrust irritates a dying man to madness. He felt it would be better for her—for him—for all of them, if they did not meet again for the next few days.

Meanwhile his mother flits away, and is lost to him for ever. It is on the second day after her departure that Angus returns; his feelings are very sore still, but they have somewhat calmed down from the first tumult into which they were thrown. He has had time to think over the whole business, and though the misfortune is as great as ever, and can never be remedied, yet if his mother erred, she erred for love of him, and doubtless little dreamt she was bringing such a grief upon his head in the future. Gabrielle is lost to him; of that fact he is assured, and the disappointment is very hard to bear; but she is young, and will console herself, whilst his mother has no one to console her but her son.

So he comes back to Bruges, resolved to go up into that mother's room and take her in his arms, and tell her that whatever happens, their lots must be undivided. By which it will be seen that 'Ce cher Monsieur On-goose' is not so black as Mrs. Hephzibah, in her childless acrimony, painted him. And indeed, fortunately for himself, he inherits far more of his mother's disposition than of his father's. He has been allowed to have his own way all his life, and such sons are apt to be wilful when opposed; but when it comes to a question of choice, the love that has been invariably showered upon them will generally win the day, and gratitude displace selfishness.

When the moment for showing his magnanimity, however, has arrived, Angus finds no one before whom to display it. The effect is chilling. He thinks hard things of his mother for considering only her own pleasure, and running off to Antwerp with her friends at the very time when he needs all the consolation she can give him. Man-like, he does not remember that he was the first to slink out of the way when their mutual misfortune was revealed to them.

He frets and fumes over Delia's absence, and has half a mind to follow her to Antwerp, and tell her all that is in his heart, so much does he miss her daily offices of care and affection. But on the third day he receives her letter—a letter to tell him that she is gone from him, and that he will never see her in this life again—that he may give out to the world that she is dead, and wear mourning for her if he chooses, since a separation like death will be between them thenceforward. The letter is as short as possible, and apparently very calm.

Poor Delia has been afraid to trust herself with the exhibition of any feeling, lest by doing so she should betray the infirmity of her resolve. So the actual words in which her communication is couched sound cold enough, but Angus can hear the trickling of her heart's blood the while. He knows what his mother is—how deep and strong her love for him—and he reads her death-warrant under her own hand.

In a moment he has seized his hat, and is on his road to the house of Dr. de Blois. Delia has mentioned in her letter that she has written to her old friend to claim the fulfilment of a certain promise he has made her, and that Angus will hear all about it upon application to him. He traverses the distance between their house and that of the doctor as speedily as possible, and rushes impetuously into his consulting-room. The first sight that catches his eye is the portly figure of Mr. William Moray.

Angus makes as though he would fall upon him then and there.

'It is well I have met you,' he exclaims angrily, as with disordered hair and flaming eyes he marches up to his uncle's side; 'for I should have followed you until I had, in order to make you answer for the infamous lie you told me the other day!'

'Dr. de Blois! I do not understand the attitude this young man has assumed towards me, and I appeal to your protection,' says Mr. Moray, as he gets behind a chair.

'Angus! Angus! be reasonable and remember where you are,' interposes the calm voice of the Abbé Bertin, and then Angus looks up, and sees that he is surrounded by old friends.

The doctor and his cousin, the abbé, are seated together at the table with William Moray, whilst near them lounges the Baron Saxe, looking very thoughtful and perturbed, and pulling his long moustache continuously with his hand. In the doctor's grasp, Angus perceives an open letter, and recognises the writing of his mother.

'Dr. de Blois, and you, Monsieur l'Abbé, I beg your pardon if my words have appeared unreasonable; but they are true, and I cannot but be glad that I have had the opportunity of saying them before witnesses. This man, who is my uncle——'

'No such thing,' interrupts Mr. Moray.

'You are so, sir! though I have no reason to be proud of the relationship, but my mother was married to your brother, and you knew it all the while that you asserted to the contrary. You drove me frantic with your vile insinuations, and I went home and accused my poor mother on your authority, and I have driven her away from her home and her friends, all for the sake of the vilest lie that ever issued from a man's lips, and for which you shall answer to her son, as there is a Heaven above us both.'

'If it is a lie—as you vulgarly assume,' retorts William Moray, 'your mother was the first to tell it, and I had her authority for the repetition.'

These words strike on the heart of the young man like a knell. He turns with a groan, to find himself folded in the arms of the good Abbé Bertin, who has ever been his true friend and tutor, whilst Baron Saxe seizes his hand in a cordial grasp.

'Courage, my child!' says the abbé; 'there is not a soul here who does not believe your poor mother's story. She is unfortunate, but she is not criminal. I for one would stake my life upon it.'

'Thanks, mon père, and you too, baron, for the kindly expression of your feeling in this matter. I understand by it that Dr. de Blois has heard from my mother, and that you know all; how she has left me, and the home to which she is so much attached, for ever, rather than bring a stain upon my name and mar my happiness.'

'Left you for ever!' exclaims William Moray.

'Yes, sir!' replies Angus fiercely. 'She has left me, or rather, she has been driven away by the cruelty with which you needlessly raked up this old story against her. What harm had she done you, that you could not leave her to live out the remainder of her life peaceably in the home she had made for herself, instead of casting this vile report like a firebrand into the very midst of our domestic happiness? She has gone now—where I cannot tell, leaving only a letter behind her to say that we are parted for ever, and she will not increase the wrong she unwittingly did me by putting me to further shame. But I have learned something more of your dealings with her since we last met. I have learned how you sowed the seeds of discord between my father and herself, and finally tried to blast her happiness by getting your brother to sign a will by which you would have obtained the entire possession of my body, had not my poor mother been clever enough to outwit you by a subterfuge that was the ruin of her own respectability. What sort of man must you be, to drive a woman to such an alternative!'

'Upon my word, sir,' retorts Mr. Moray, 'you crow pretty loud, considering your position and your age, and seem to imagine that the "entire possession" of you would have been a boon worth risking one's salvation for! What possible motive do you imagine I could have had for wishing to pay for your board, education, and putting out in the world, except that of charity? Do you suppose I could not have found fifty children to suit my purpose if I had simply desired an heir to inherit my money? I offered a benefit to my brother's son, fully believing him to be his legitimate offspring; but when the time came for fulfilling my promise, I was told I had no right to him, nor he any claim upon me. Am I to be abused and insulted by you after this fashion, then, because I was foolish enough to wish to assist your mother? I think, if you take the trouble to consider a moment, you will acknowledge you have been both rash and hasty.'

'I have been both rash and hasty, and I beg your pardon for it,' replies Angus. 'But that does not alter the fact that you have been needlessly cruel to both my mother and myself. We have never asked you for assistance nor advice. During all these years that she has worked single-handed to keep me respectably and start me in the race of life, she has never applied to you for help in any shape, nor obtruded herself upon your notice. You visit this place accidentally, and find us living here in a position gained entirely by my mother's exertions and good conduct, and you immediately set yourself to undo the work of years. You poison the mind of our best friend, Dr. de Blois, against us; and not content with that, you drag me into your presence and that of your wife, to insult and wound me beyond measure. You have ruined us, sir. Me, in my profession and promise of married happiness; my mother, in her friends and quiet home. Be content with what you have accomplished, and do not make a bad matter worse by attempting to excuse that which is inexcusable.'

'Mon cher Angus! you are mistaken,' exclaims the baron warmly. 'This gentleman has not had the power to rob your dear mother of one of her true friends! The doctor and the abbé will uphold me in saying this!'

'Most certainly,' responds Dr. de Blois. 'My cousin and myself are only sorry that Madame Moray should have taken so hasty a step without consulting either of us as to its advisability. When I parted with her yesterday morning, I feared she contemplated doing something rash, but she assured me to the contrary. Yet I would take heart, Angus, for I cannot believe but that she will return. Your remaining here will surely be a guarantee for it.'

'You do not know her, doctor,' says the young man mournfully. 'She is not a woman to decide hastily, nor to fail to carry out her voluntary pledges. Live as long as I may, I am convinced that my mother will never return to me.'

At this moment the door of the surgery opens, and the sunny head of Gabrielle appears in view. She has also been weeping, poor child, for the events of the last few days have told hardly upon her; but at the sight of her young lover her face brightens, although she does not venture to advance farther into the room.

'Gabrielle! Come to me,' says her father.

She comes forward then, though timidly, not knowing what is about to happen, and stands there, encircled by her father's arm.

Angus turns his head away. He is afraid to face the sorrowful eyes and downcast visage of his little lost love, lest his courage should break down and add another laurel to the malicious triumph of his uncle.

'When your poor mother came here, Angus,' says Dr. de Blois, speaking as solemnly as though he were alluding to the dead, 'she asked me if she were the obstacle to your engagement with my daughter, and I was compelled to answer, "Yes." '

'Then I don't think you had any right to do so,' interposes the Abbé Bertin.

'Do you mean to assert, mon cousin, that I should have been justified in telling the poor lady a lie upon the subject?' demands the doctor with mild surprise.

'I think you might have held your tongue altogether,' grumbles the abbé, as he pulls Gabrielle towards him, and strokes her dishevelled tresses.

'If you knew more of women, mon cousin, you would not have suggested such an impossibility. Madame Moray would not permit me to hold my tongue. She put question after question to me, until I had no escape but to confess the truth. When she had obtained it she asked again, Were she dead and buried and forgotten, would I consent to the marriage of these children? As I hesitated to answer, she put the question in another form: Were she gone out of sight, so that her boy would never hear of nor see her again, should he marry Gabrielle? I could not imagine to what she was alluding, except her death; and to pacify her I said "Yes." Even that did not satisfy the poor creature, and she would not leave the surgery until I had sworn it, by the God who made us both.'

'Then you're bound to keep your oath,' says the Abbé Bertin.

'Mon cousin! you are very hasty with me this morning. It was just what I was about to say. Of course I know I am bound to keep it. As soon as I received Madame Moray's letter I guessed the reason of her expatriation. She has sacrificed her own happiness to obtain that of her son; and I cannot go back from my word to so good a mother. Angus, mon fils, I give you Gabrielle! She is your mother's parting gift to you. Take her—and be happy! In giving her to you I give the best thing I have.'

He draws the young girl away from the abbé's embrace, as he speaks, and having kissed her fondly on the forehead, pushes her gently towards Angus. But the young man makes no advance to meet her, and the doctor thinks he could not have understood his meaning.

'Do you not hear me, Angus? Your noble-hearted mother's sacrifice is not made in vain. She has devoted the remainder of her life to an expiation of the sin she committed by telling a falsehood, and it shall not be without its reward. You shall have Gabrielle for your wife, and may the happiness of your married lives exceed that of your parents!'

Still Angus does not move nor speak; and Gabrielle's eyes, which have been dancing with delight, begin to assume a perplexed and troubled expression.

At this juncture Mr. William Moray's voice makes itself once more heard.

'Gone for good, is she?' he exclaims. 'Well, I don't wish to say anything unpleasant (for I think there's been quite enough unpleasantness between me and this young man already), but I really think it's the best thing she could have done. She was well enough, I dare say, in her own sphere; but, as my good lady says, she was lifted out of it to be put down in ours, and it turned her head. I'm quite willing to believe that her head was turned by my brother's notice of her, and that the good people of Bruges completed the job, for a duchess could hardly have carried it higher. However, she's shown her sense in this instance, and since Dr. de Blois means to let bygones be bygones, I shall follow his example. I don't deny, young man, that I was considerably nettled and aggravated by the trick your mother played me at your father's death: for that she was married to him I have no doubt whatever in my own mind, though she was so brazen in denying it, that she deserved to be taken at her own word. However—married or single—you are my brother's child and my nephew: the only chip of the old block into the bargain. If I had sufficient money twenty years ago to make you a rich man, you may take your oath I've doubled it by now; and since the doctor is willing to let you marry his daughter, I'm willing to renew the old offer, and place you in the position of my son, with a share in the partnership on which to maintain your wife now, and a good lump in prospect when I shall be gathered to my fathers. I know I've said some sharp things to you, but you aggravated me only next door to what your mother did, and since she's gone, and you stand guarantee she won't return to spoil sport with my good lady, why, all I can say is, let's forget and forgive, and be as we ought to have been from the beginning. And that's all I have to say upon the subject.'

'A noble offer, monsieur!' exclaims the doctor, elated at the prospect of his daughter's good fortune, as he shakes hands with the wool-merchant, 'and one for which you must allow me to thank you in the name of Gabrielle, as well as that of Angus. Do you not agree with me, mon cousin? Is not the proposal of monsieur munificent, and one for which our children must be everlastingly grateful?'

'Let us hear what our children have to say on the subject first,' replies the abbé dryly.

'Speak, Angus! Your good uncle waits your answer,' says Dr. de Blois, with some anxiety.

Gabrielle says nothing, but clings the closer to her father. Her feminine instinct warns her of what is coming.

'My answer!' cries Angus, starting as from a dream; 'it is soon said—it is contained in one word, "No!" '

'No! No, to what?' asks his would-be father-in-law.

'No! to everything! Am I a dog, or a scoundrel, that you should be in any doubt upon the subject? You offer me your daughter, and Monsieur Moray offers me his money—on what conditions?—under what belief? That my poor mother shall never return to view my happiness nor my prosperity! She—the woman who has borne me and brought me up—devoted herself to me in every phase of existence, and finally tried to sacrifice herself—her life, for aught I know to the contrary—that I may prosper! This is the creature whose interests you ask me to abandon for my own. You know, both of you, that were I to accept your offers I should adopt the very means to make that sacrifice complete.

You know, Dr. de Blois, with your pharisaical pride of religion and unstained purity, that, were I to wed Gabrielle, my poor injured mother would never dare show her ashamed face over the portals of my home; and you know, William Moray—who have confessed before us in this room to-day that you knew you lied in branding me a bastard—that were she to hear that I had sold myself and my honour in exchange for her good name and your gold, that her proud heart would break before she would own me as her son again. And so I say to you both—Keep your treasures! for on such terms I will not share them. I do not despise ease nor affluence, and I love Gabrielle de Blois more dearly than she will ever know, but I prize my mother's love before everything else in the world, and I will do nothing to make her ashamed of me.'

'Bravo! Bravo!' cried the abbé, patting the young man on the back. 'You are a son to be proud of, Angus; and your worth raises your mother's to twice its value.'

'But Madame Moray does not intend to return to you; we have it under her own hand. Had it been otherwise——' commences the doctor.

'Had it been otherwise, you would not have offered me the hand of Gabrielle—yes, monsieur, I perfectly understand you,' replies Angus proudly; 'and it is on those conditions that I will not accept it. I will marry no woman who may not associate with my mother. I will marry no woman even who is not proud of my mother, therefore Gabrielle de Blois is not the wife for me.'

'Mon cher Angus! I honour and respect you for your noble words,' says the Baron Saxe, grasping his hand afresh; 'and every one of them is true. You do right to be proud of your dear mother. I, too, am proud of her—proud of her friendship—and I wish to say before all these gentlemen, that had she but consented to my suit, I should have been proud to make her my wife.'

'Your wife, baron?'

'My wife, Angus! I asked her, over and over again, but she refused! I now know on whose account. Judge then, mon cher, what this mysterious disappearance is to me.'

'Let me thank you, baron—not so much for the offer you made her, as for the generous avowal you have given it here. The woman who has not been deemed unworthy of the noble position of the Baronne Saxe, may well afford to laugh at the sneers of a William Moray.'

'The Baronne Saxe!' exclaims the doctor and the abbé simultaneously.

'Yes, monsieur! and no other Baronne Saxe will there be to my dying day. I have known and admired Madame Moray too long to replace her image with that of another woman. And now, mon cher Angus, what do you propose to do?'

'I intend to throw up my situation, baron, and make my way through the world until I find my mother. She shall not hide herself from me. I will search every country in the universe until I find her. And when we meet again, I will say—I will say——'

But here Angus's fortitude deserts him, and his voice breaks down in silent tears.

'Angus! Angus! let me seek her with you!' cries Gabrielle, as, forgetful of all the rigid principles in which she has been nurtured, she leaves her father's arms and rushes into those of her lover.

He gazes at her fondly.

'No! dearest Gabrielle! it cannot be! If there were any hope that I might right my mother's name, and prove her blameless in the eyes of the world, I should say: "Be faithful to me, and some day I will return and claim the right of clasping this dear hand in mine." But if I have been told the truth, all evidence of her honour has been destroyed. Therefore I am an outcast with her, a nameless, penniless adventurer; and as I told your father, I cannot let you link your stainless life to mine. Never think I have not loved you, Gabrielle. It is my love for you that makes this step so bitter to me, but I will sooner endure the loss of you than the loss of my self-respect.'

'And you prefer to be a beggar to accepting my offer of assistance, then?' says Mr. William Moray coarsely, as the weeping girl leaves her lover's side and returns to that of her father.

'Yes, monsieur, I do!'

'A beggar you shall never be, mon cher, whilst I survive,' interposes the Baron Saxe. 'I am rich, Angus, and I love your mother. Try to look on me as a father, and let me share the search you propose to make for Madame Moray.'

The young man turns to him with his eyes swimming in tears.

'Yes, my dear baron, gladly, thankfully, if so you will. I have no pride in me except the pride that refuses to benefit itself at the expense of her who gave it birth.'

'So let it be! From this moment we are brothers-in-arms—bons camarades—and will roam the world together, if need be, until we reach the haven of both our lives—your mother!'

'My mother!' reiterates Angus solemnly. 'Gabrielle! dear, dear Gabrielle, farewell! I will never take a wife until she can say to me with sincerity: "I am as much your mother's daughter as your bride." '

And without another word to the assembly, Angus Moray rushes from the room, whilst Baron Saxe, with a hasty wave of the hand, strides after him. And in a few days more they have both quitted Bruges, no one knows for where. The quiet streets and deserted byways of the solemn old city know the gallant bearing and the ringing laughter of those two men no more. The citizens miss them, and wonder at their absence; but few guess the reason of it, except the friends that witnessed their departure.

And such are the consequences of Delia Moray's lie.

BOOK THE THIRD.

THE ATONEMENT.

'Nature hath assign'd Two sovereign remedies for human grief: Religion, surest, firmest, first and best, Strength to the weak, and to the wounded balm: And strenuous Action next.'

Southey.

————

CHAPTER I.

'I WOULD GO WITH YOU ALL OVER THE WORLD.'

It is much easier to hide from the world than anyone imagines who has not tried it. We are too apt to think ourselves of far greater importance than we are, and if we put it to the test we shall generally find that, except to a small and strictly private circle of admiring friends, it is not of the slightest consequence what we do, nor where we go. And as to identity, we have but to journey a few miles from home to make the humiliating discovery that no one has the least idea who we are or where we come from. Even the most popular of public favourites have occasionally to pass through this soul purifying process; of how much less consequence, then, must the everyday ordinary mortals be who have never had the opportunity to make their voices heard!

Delia Moray finds out the truth of this to her advantage. She had a thousand scruples about accepting Mrs. Hephzibah's offer of the temporary use of her apartments in London, fearing lest she should be immediately recognised, and the news of her discovery communicated to her son. But her friend's answer was decisive:

'If you want to lose yourself, my dear, at any time of the year, go to London. People are far too busy there to have time to ask the name of the person who lives next door to them. And then the place is empty now, and if you are really afraid of recognition, you have but to wait till the evening to go out. But don't forget that it is fourteen years since you left England, and you are so much improved and altered since that time, that I believe your own mother, if you had one, would pass you by without recognising you. If you stay in any of these gossiping continental towns you are a marked object, but they might as well try to track a minnow in the Thames as trace your whereabouts when once you have crossed the water. Of course, I know they'll come after me to Antwerp, and I'm prepared to give them every satisfaction—rest assured of that! But the only thing I do counsel is, that you change your name. Call yourself Manners, or Mathews, or anything you like except Moray; for though my old landlady is dead, and her daughter is as deaf as a post, yet she may have heard me mention your name in days gone by, and, like all women, she's as inquisitive as the Evil one.'

And therefore it is under the title of Mrs. Manners that Delia has introduced herself to Mrs. Horton's landlady, whom she finds only too anxious to make the friend of so old a customer comfortable in every respect.

Mrs. Hephzibah has promised to follow her to London as soon as she can do so without raising suspicion, but the days pass very wearily to Delia. She sits at the window half her time, watching the stream of cabs, omnibuses, and foot-passengers that throngs the thoroughfare, but the sight only sends her thoughts back to those sad days when she lived in the din and turmoil of the city, and had but one thought and aim in life—how best to provide her little Willie with food to eat, and to shield his tender childhood from the insensate fury of his father.

How hard she worked and fared in those olden times! Looking back upon them, her existence seems to have flown on like a placid river since, until this crowning misfortune came to disturb it. There is a tidal wave known in some tropical countries under the title of a 'bore.' No one can ever foretell when it is coming, but at some unexpected moment, when the river is calmly smiling in the sunlight, bearing its gallant freight of boats and barges and passengers, the awful 'bore' is descried approaching in the distance, raising its foaming crest far above the level of the highest mast; and before the crafts have time to furl their sails or put into shore, the tidal wave is down upon them, tossing them in the air, turning them over and over, snapping their timbers as though they were so much rotten wood, and hurrying their living freight to a sudden and untimely end. This is what the cruel intervention of William Moray has been to Delia's hitherto peaceful life. In a moment it has wrecked all her chance of present or future happiness. As she ponders on the occurrences of the last week, and the changes they have wrought, she speculates whether she would not have done better by giving up her child when it was required of her, and letting him be reared as William Moray's son. But she cannot answer herself in the affirmative. She cannot with truth say that she regrets the sweet intercourse of years that has bound the heart of the son and mother so closely together, even though the wrench that separates them be all the harder for it. Angus may despise her now for the weakness she displayed in days gone by, and were she to abide by his side he might continue to reproach her with it. But when he finds that they are really separated—not for a month nor a year, but for ever—when he knows what it is to love his own wife, and cherish his own children, his thoughts will fly back to the poor mother whose worst fault was her dread of losing him, and he will forgive her for a sin which has wrought no worse evil than her own broken heart.

This is Delia's faith. It is so strong that it bears her up, to the astonishment of herself, but it will not last. When the excitement is over the courage will fail, and nature denounce the cruel wrong that has been put upon her.

Naturally she passes much of her time in trying to decide upon her future course of life. She has sufficient money for her present need, but it will not last for ever, and when it is expended she must work. She cannot attempt to fill such a situation as she has just abandoned, for in the first place, she has no character from her late employer; and in the second, she has not the capability of teaching English children in their own language. To converse with the Demoiselles Landry whilst they were out walking was easy enough, but to sit down to instruct in grammar, and geography, and history, would be a different thing.

Delia feels that she has left tuition behind her altogether. The rooms she occupies, which are at the corner of a side street in the Strand, permit her eyes to fall, as she muses, on one of the flaming posters of the theatre, and cause her to debate whether it is impossible she should take up her old profession once more. She wonders whether she has quite forgotten how to speak, to sing, to dance!

The thought makes her smile, spite of her melancholy. She—at her age—to dream of appearing before the public in such a capacity! She does not know that she is twice as well worth paying to look at now, than she was in those days! Still, the stage has other openings beyond those of burlesque, and if she is not so slim as she was at twenty, she is better able to undertake the higher walks of the drama. She is dreaming after this fashion one afternoon, and half undecided whether she will not look up her old manager, and tell her life's romance to him, when she hears an unusual scuffle on the stairs, and the next moment the door of her room has opened, and on the threshold, to her intense delight and surprise, stands Mrs. Hephzibah Horton.

'Oh! my dear friend,' cries Delia, as she flies towards her. 'You come as a godsend to me! I did not suppose it possible, from your last letter, that you could be here for another week.'

'And neither did I mean to be,' replies Mrs. Hephzibah brusquely, as, having saluted Delia with a sounding kiss, she disencumbers herself of her travelling attire, in which she looks much more like a man than a woman. 'But, as usual, I've made a fool of myself. My dear, I've made the greatest fool of myself I ever did in my life this time.'

'Heavens! Mrs. Hephzibah! what have you done?'

'Nothing to do with your boy, my dear. I know that is what's running in your mind, so the sooner I tell you all about it the better. Well, I've seen him!'

'Yes! yes! Oh! what did he say? Does he think me cruel? Is he unhappy at our parting? Was he very anxious to learn where I had gone to?'

'Now look here! if you're going to shake all over like a bad jelly, I shan't tell you anything at all. Come and sit down by me like a sensible woman, and you shall hear all I have to say in a very few words. The second day after you left Antwerp, a card was brought up to me at the hotel, with the name "Baron Gustave Saxe." Who's he? Did you know him in Bruges?'

'Oh yes! a little,' says Delia, with flaming cheeks. 'He is only the uncle of my pupils—the brother-in-law of Chevalier Landry.'

'Well, considering he's only the uncle of your pupils, I don't see why you should get so red about it. Anyway he came to see me, and I admitted him. He's a fine-looking man, I suppose, to such as care for hairy creatures—I don't. However, he could hardly speak a word of English, and he was in such a flutter, it was some time before I could understand what he wanted; but when it came out—what are you hanging down your head in that absurd manner for, Delia Moray?' exclaims Mrs. Hephzibah, interrupting herself.

'I was only thinking. Did he speak of my boy, Mrs. Horton? Was Angus with him?' replies Delia hurriedly.

'No, he wasn't with him. He had sent this grand Baron Saxe as ambassador to me to find out where you were gone. I did just what we had agreed upon. I produced the letter you left behind for me, and declared that was all I knew of the matter. Heaven forgive me! I've never told so many falsehoods for anybody in my life before!'

'Dear, true friend! And what did he say?'

'What could he say? He read the letter, and expressed his disappointment and annoyance at its contents. He told me that your boy is very much cut up at your going, but that Dr. de Blois has consented to give him his daughter in consequence.'

'Thank God!' exclaims Delia, with streaming eyes. 'Then he will be happy!'

Mrs. Hephzibah does not think it well to let her friend know more than this. The baron also told her that Angus had peremptorily refused offers of assistance both from the doctor and Mr. William Moray, but she has little faith in his persevering in such refusals. She thinks she knows men better, and that to tell the mother of her son's first decision, will only be to raise false hopes of his fidelity to her. It is better she should be prepared for the worst at once.

'Yes, I suppose he will be happy,' she answers, 'as happy, that is, as men usually are for about three weeks after they get possession of a pretty face. I can't say I've much dependence upon any of the sex.'

'You never had, Mrs. Horton.'

'I never had, my dear, and experience has justified my opinion of them.'

'Do you think they will follow me to my home?'

'They! Who do you mean by "they?" '

'I should have said Angus.'

'Not he! What would be the use of his following you? I've put them completely off the scent with respect to your being with me, and professed to be as injured as any one of them at being left in the lurch, and even had I not, Angus does not know my address.'

'It is easily found.'

'Not so easy as you may think, particularly now.'

'Why particularly now?'

'Because—well, I suppose I may as well make a clean breast of it at once, as sooner or later it must come out. Delia, my dear, turn your head this way and take a good look at me, for here you see seated the greatest fool the United Kingdom has ever produced!'

'Mrs. Hephzibah!'

'I am, my dear! I shouldn't have liked to confess it ten years ago, but I've done that during the last week that would make the worst case in the Earlswood Asylum ashamed to own me for a relation. I've married little Bond!'

'You are married!'

'Aye, you may well shriek so that they may hear you halfway up the Strand! but it's the truth. I've married him. He's been bothering me to do it, on and off, for the last twenty years; and really, more to stop his worry than anything else, I just walked into a registrar's office with him the other day at Dover, and it was all over in ten minutes. For the sake of a little old man's folly, and ten minutes' want of strength of mind, I've chained myself down to be a slave for the remainder of my life. Oh Lord! oh Lord!'

'Oh! Mrs. Horton, let me congratulate you. You will be very happy—I am sure you will. Mr. Bond is so good and kind, and so truly attached to you; and then, after all, you know, a solitary old age must be a very melancholy sort of thing.'

'Delia Moray, try and be sensible,' snaps Mrs. Hephzibah fiercely. 'Couldn't I have passed a very jolly old age without going and marrying a man? How have I managed hitherto? But you're one of those women who never learn from experience. If you had had half a dozen husbands, each worse than the last, you'd still be disposed to try another for yourself, or to persuade your friends to do it on their own account.'

'But Mr. Bond is such a dear kind little man,' says Delia, laughing, spite of herself, 'and you are so well suited to each other. I wonder it didn't happen long ago.'

'Well, it might just as well have happened then, or not at all, for I've had all the worry of his affairs and his boys on my hands for the last ten years. However, we've got rid of them now, for, as I told you in Bruges, Bob's been settled for ages, and Bill is to be married next month, so the old father means to retire altogether from business, and we thought we might as well live together as apart.'

'It is a delightful plan,' exclaims Delia.

'Well, child,' says Mrs. Hephzibah, leaning her head against the warm bosom of her friend in a way which is very foreign to her usual independent bearing, 'I cannot deny that the idea of rest is pleasant to me. I have worked very hard in my life, Delia, and I have borne a good deal of hardship and even insult alone—always alone—I never had a creature to stand up for me against the world, and I felt it more than I cared to show. That was the reason that I often spoke and expressed myself more roughly than I felt. But to fight with the world is, after all, not a woman's province—at least, it hasn't come to that yet. So I grew rather tired of it at times. And now to think there will be no need for me to work any more—except as it takes my fancy—is very restful, and very very sweet.'

She lies quiet for a minute or two, with her head on Delia's bosom, and when she raises it and turns to kiss her, the other could almost swear that there are tears upon her cheek.

'But if you are married,' says Delia presently, 'where is Mr. Bond?'

'At Hampstead, I suppose. He does not give the cottage up to Bill till next month.'

'He is at Hampstead and you are here,' cries Delia, still puzzled at the novelty of such a proceeding.

It is curious to mark the change that passes over Mrs. Horton at her words. All the new softened feeling seems to fade out at once under the influence of the old independence that has reigned for years.

'And why not?' she demands imperatively; 'do you suppose, because I've been bamboozled into entering into a contract to spend the rest of my days with him, that I'm going to behave exactly after the pattern of all the simpering idiots who promise and vow the same thing? I wonder you don't know better! I was sixty-one last birthday, and William Bond was sixty-four! You hardly expected us to spend a honeymoon at Margate, did you? and get photographed under the same umbrella! We've lived apart all our lives and been very comfortable under it—so what's the odds that we should separate for a few days now? It's this sort of thing that has degraded love-making and marriage to a species of buffoonery instead of a solemn pledge of friendship between two souls. It was convenient to marry the man at Dover, so I did it. It was convenient, on arriving in town, to let him go to Hampstead and pack up his traps, whilst I came on here, so we did it; and when it's convenient to both of us, I suppose we shall meet again to abide under the same roof, and there's an end of the matter.'

'You said Mr. Bond was going to pack up? Do you intend to go away again?' demands Delia, in a trembling voice. For all her boasted courage, she does not like the idea of losing sight of her strong-hearted friend so soon.

'Ah! my dear, that's the best of it! William has been rather sly over this business, but I find now he has set his heart upon it for years past, and bought, in anticipation, a lovely little place down in the country, which has been tenanted until the close of last autumn, when he purposely refused to let it again. So it is ready for us whenever we choose to go to it, which I expect will be before very long.'

'I cannot fancy you in the country, Mrs. Horton.'

'No! I dare say not. Whilst I lived this hand-to-mouth sort of existence, compelled to work to-day for the bread to put it into my mouth to-morrow, the excitement of a town life was necessary to me, and I did not think I could endure any other. But now that the struggle is over, and I shall have no harder duty than to toddle about after the old man and see that he is made comfortable, I fancy I shall enjoy bees, and flowers, and poultry, and all the paraphernalia that go to make up a modest country home. But come, child, I am starving! Order me something to eat and drink, for mercy's sake, and then I shall be better able to tell you some of the plans William and I have been making for Cloverfield.'

Delia does Mrs. Hephzibah's bidding, but with a heavy heart. She cannot but rejoice at her friend's happiness, but she had so hoped, amidst the hardships of the new career she has chalked out for herself, to have preserved the blessing of her intimate companionship, that her fortitude fails before the prospect of the rural home at Cloverfield, which she may hear of, but will never see. When the meal she has ordered appears, she cannot partake of it, and Mrs. Hephzibah detects her want of appetite at once.

'Now, what's the meaning of this, Delia Moray? Have you been indulging in such an extravagant dinner that you cannot possibly touch a piece of bread and butter with your tea, or are you regretting already that you did not ask the advice of your boy—or perhaps that fine-bearded baron—before you decided upon running away? I said you would!'

'O! no! Mrs. Horton, indeed I am not! I fully made up my mind that it was necessary we should part, and whatever I feel—but, indeed, that has nothing to do with it. I have been thinking much, however, lately, of my work in the future, and do you know I have a very strong inclination to go on the stage again.'

Mrs. Hephzibah lifts up her hands in astonishment.

'On the stage! A woman whose greatest aim in life is to conceal herself! What next, in the name of Heaven?'

'But I should not pass under my old name, Mrs. Horton, and I should try to get employment in Scotland or some of the northern counties of England, so that I think I should be as effectually hidden by that means as any other. And I must work, you see.'

'Are you bent upon this hare-brained plan of the stage?'

'Not at all. I dread it; but I know of no other alternative. I could not take up teaching again. It is too monotonous—without friends or home. I should have too much time to think.'

Here her voice breaks.

'If I hadn't been in such a hurry to satisfy my ungodly appetite,' says Mrs. Hephzibah, 'I might have saved you this explanation. For look here, my dear! William and I have been talking a great deal about you, as you may well believe, and we have a little plan for you on our own account, if you can only see it with our eyes. The fact is, the old man is much better off than you would imagine. I suppose he's been robbing people right and left in that scrubby little office of his; but whether or no, we have a very tidy income, and the first thing he insists upon is that I'm to have my maid and my carriage, and Heaven knows what besides, and no trouble at all. I don't know whether the old fool intends to wrap me up in cotton wool and tissue-paper, like a wax doll, and keep me in a drawer, but to hear him talk, one would be almost tempted to believe it. However I'm to have a companion or housekeeper; some one that is to look after the servants and order the meals for me—to take such duties off my hands, in fact, as an unmarried sister, living with me, might offer to do—and for those services, William is ready to pay a very fair salary, say a hundred a year! Now, what I say is, Delia Moray, will you fill that office for me?'

'O! Mrs. Hephzibah! can you ask me? Yes! yes! a thousand times over—but not for money. Let me come as your friend—make use of me in any way you will, but give me the happiness of feeling that my duty is a gift. A return (if that were possible) for all your great kindness to me.'

'But that is nonsense,' says Mrs. Horton, frowning; 'and if you persist in it, you'll only make us all uncomfortable together. I have the money to give. Why should you prevent my assisting you with it instead of a stranger?'

'Let it be just as you will then: only, are you sure I shall be safe at Cloverfield?'

'I don't know where you could be better hid. It's a little village, it's true, but in the very heart of Hampshire, and you must remember we have both changed our names. We're not likely to have any friends to see us except Mr. Bond's sons—neither of whom have ever seen you. And to the gentry round about, if there are any, you will appear as a perfect stranger. What is your decision?'

'I will go with you, dear friend, most gladly and thankfully, and remain with you as long as I can be useful, or circumstances will permit me to remain.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'If Angus—or—or—any one else, should trace me to

Cloverfield and try to follow me there, I might be compelled to quit you.'

'Now, who is this "any one else," Delia? Tell me the truth. Is it the baron with the high-sounding name who came after you to Antwerp?'

'Dear Mrs. Horton! I shall never marry him!' says Delia agitatedly. 'He understands that perfectly. It is all over and done with, you may rest assured.'

'Have you refused him, then? Did he propose to you?'

Delia hangs her head.

'How could I do anything but refuse him? He knows nothing of my reputed disgrace. He would never have spoken to me had he done so. His pride is as great as his birth.'

'And so, poor child, you've had to give that prospect up too. Your son ought to develop into a good and great man to indemnify you for all you have lost for him. There! there! don't cry. It's only God who knows the future! Things may come right yet.'

'Nothing can come right for me, dear friend; but so long as Angus is happy, I shall be content.'

'Well! we'll try to make you so at Cloverfield. It is a bargain, then? You will come with us?'

'I would go with you all over the world.'

————

CHAPTER II.

'A PLEASANT ENGLISH HOME.'

For the sake of Delia, Mrs. Hephzibah makes short work of settling up accounts with her London employers, and in another week the friends are on their way to Cloverfield. True to her principles of self-help, Mrs. Bond wished to journey to Hampshire alone, leaving her husband to follow at his own convenience. But the 'little old man' outwitted her. He packed up all his belongings at Hampstead with marvellous celerity, and was down at Cloverfield making all things ready for her reception before she knew he had left town.

Delia thinks the circumstance pleases Mrs. Hephzibah more than it frets her.

'After all, my dear,' she observes, 'the house is his own, and the man has a right to put it in order if he chooses to take the trouble. I dare say we shall have to do everything over again, but if it pleases him it is little matter.'

But when they reach the cottage at Cloverfield, even Mrs. Bond is obliged to confess there is nothing left for them to do. Traces of the 'little old man's' affection and gallantry are visible upon every side, and Delia is astonished to see the comfort and luxury with which the new home is surrounded. She had expected to find a pretty rural cottage standing in its own little garden; but it is much more than that. It is a well-built, commodious dwelling, with a thatched roof and low, over-hanging gables, and a veranda that runs round three sides of the house. Attached to it are fruit and flower gardens, with poultry-yard and stables, and a couple of paddocks for the accommodation of the ponies and the cow. Nothing is too large, nor too assuming about it, but everything is comfortable and well-planned. It is the picture of a pleasant English home—such middle-class homes as are to be found nowhere but in our own country.

Mr. Bond meets the ladies at the station, with a low carriage drawn by a couple of ponies, and has soon brought them across the wide common where the school-children are tumbling over each other in play, and through the pleasant village where the mothers hanging about their open doors in the cool of the evening salute them as they pass, into the drive which leads up to the door of the cottage, and which is bordered by beds of shrubs and fringed with many-coloured flowers.

Delia does not converse much with the married couple on their way home. She is sitting behind and cannot see their faces. But she can mark the eagerness with which the little lawyer points out each object to his wife, and envies her friend for having found such a true companion with whom to pass the remainder of her days. Perhaps Mrs. Hephzibah also considers herself a subject for envy, for as she descends from the pony-carriage and enters the little hall of her new home, Delia thinks her eyes look rather moist, and is almost sure her lip is trembling. Anyway, when they find themselves alone in the bedrooms which have been dedicated to their use, Mrs. Hephzibah seems quite unable to bestir herself to get ready for the dinner that is waiting them below.

'He is too good to me,' she says in a low voice, as she sits down by the dressing-table. 'I have not deserved it at his hands. No woman in the world is worthy of so much care, and forethought, and attention. Oh! Delia, with all our boasted courage, we are but feeble creatures after all, when a grain of kindness has the power to overcome us.'

'Dear Mrs. Hephzibah! I am sure you are worthy of it, and more too. You cannot think how rejoiced I am that you have come to this at last. You see I am right after all, and a happy marriage is the happiest condition in the world'

But Mrs. Hephzibah has not yet arrived at the pitch of indulging in sentiment with her eyes open. It may overtake her, but it shall not be for want of the grinding heel of her practicality to keep it down.

'Delia Moray! you're talking nonsense again. Like all your sex, give you an inch and you take an ell. Don't suppose, because I say that I have not deserved as much as this at William's hands, that I am therefore about to repay his benefits in the coin in which most women liquidate their debts of gratitude. Don't imagine for a moment, if you please, that because I have been such a fool as to marry when I ought to be stitching at my shroud and bargaining for the only piece of earth of which I shall ever be the free-hold possessor, I am going to make myself a laughing-stock for society, by putting on the airs and graces of a silly young woman, and fancying that little Bond has done all this because he adores me. It's no such thing! The man has outlived all such folly long ago, and if he hadn't I should soon make him wish he had. We've entered into a contract, my dear—please don't lose sight of that in your connection with us—a contract to share such worldly goods as we may possess, and live in amity to our lives' end, if we can. The world is so scandalous, and society is such a toadeater, that in order to carry out such an undertaking a woman is compelled to go through the farce of adopting a man's name, and so I have been transformed into Mrs. Bond; but I don't acknowledge the justice of it any the more. My opinions on this subject are just the same as they ever were, and excepting that William and I have arrived at an age when we shall have no temptations to be fickle, I should expect no greater satisfaction from the arrangement than is derived by the majority of married people. However, we are good friends and desirous of pleasing each other, so perhaps we may rub on well enough; but dismiss all idea from your mind that you'll see anything of what people call love-making pass between us, for I should despise myself only one degree less than you would despise me if such were the case.'

'Dear Mrs. Bond! nothing could ever make me despise you—that less than all!'

'Call me Mrs. Hephzibah, if you please, Delia. I have no intention of dropping my own name, I can tell you. I suppose servants and strangers will have to use the other; but the less I hear it the better I shall be pleased. And now, perhaps we had better go down to dinner, or the little old man will be fidgeting all the buttons of his waistcoat off, in his anxiety to know what has become of us.'

Delia sees the parlour-maid directing sly glances of astonishment at the appearance presented by her new mistress; but Mrs. Hephzibah sits at the head of her table in silent dignity, and with the most supreme indifference to the utter absence of adornment in her attire. No fancy ribbons nor laces soften the hard masculine outline of her dress. The severest of starched collars and cuffs are the nearest approach to feminine decoration that she will admit; and her grey hair, which is still abundant, is strained off her face and screwed up into a knot behind, without the least attempt to render her features more attractive.

Delia, seated by her side, looks far more like what the mistress of the establishment should be. Her dress, though simple enough, is made in the last fashion; soft ruffles of lace encircle her white throat, and fall over her slender wrists; her hair waves off her forehead, leaving sundry little tendrils of a warmer hue to cluster over her brows and make shadows for her earnest melancholy eyes.

She appears younger than she is by contrast with her friend, and no one looking at her could do else than pronounce her to be a very pretty woman; yet Mr. Bond's eyes pass by her figure to rest with affectionate admiration upon the one he has at last persuaded to take the head of his house for him. The little lawyer, not overstrong in the brain, perhaps, who has been knocking about the sea of social life for so many years companionless, can hardly credit his good fortune in having secured Mrs. Hephzibah Horton to be the guardian angel of the remainder of his life.

Everything will go smoothly now. All those little misunderstandings with Bob's underbred wife, which have fretted the poor old father more than he has cared to say, are over. He will have but to request Mrs. Bob to carry her complaints to Mrs. Bond, to be quite certain he will hear no more of them. Bill, too, will become more chary of making demands upon the parental purse to pay for the extravagances which his own receipts are unable to cover. Mr. Bond himself will no longer be tossed backwards and forwards, like a shuttlecock, between the two sons, who seem to consider he was sent into the world simply to supply their need. They have known Mrs. Hephzibah from their childhood, and are quite aware she is not to be caught sleeping, so that their father feels he has gained a protector in her as well as a companion. Her brusque manner and uncouth appearance are music and beauty in his eyes, and no young lover who has just gained his bride could feel more devotion than Mr. Bond does, although he dares not show it.

The evening is spent in examining the premises. Delia would rather withdraw herself from the company of the newly-married couple, but Mrs. Hephzibah will not allow it. On the contrary, she passes her arm through that of her friend, and insists upon her walking by her side, whilst Mr. Bond trips behind them, or trots in front, but always with the same benevolent aspect and happy, smiling countenance.

They visit the cosy, sweet-smelling stables, where the sleek ponies have just been littered down for the night in company with an old cob, Mr. Bond's especial property, which has followed him from Hampstead. Here, too, Mrs. Hephzibah recognises the old purblind setter, Beau, whom his master was too considerate to leave to the tender mercies of Bill and his expected wife, and the stableman and gardener, who used so often to pull his cap to her in the old homestead, and is only too pleased to repeat the process now to the mistress of the new.

The flower-garden is a picture of repose, with its wide velvet lawn protected by mulberry and beech trees, under the shade of which are invitingly placed benches and wicker chairs, and in the well-stocked fruit-garden beyond they find the trees in which Mrs. Hephzibah had expressed the idea that she might be able to take an interest. The Alderney cow has been penned into her shed for the night, but she thrusts her soft wet nose over the bar to greet her new friends, and the poultry give evidence of their presence in the hen-house as the new-comers pass through the little yard that is dedicated to their use.

'It's all uncommonly pretty,' says Mrs. Hephzibah to Delia.

'It is all very, very pretty,' she echoes with a sigh.

She is thinking how much she could have enjoyed such a residence as this had her lot been happier than it is. It is an entirely new phase of existence for her. In all her varied life it has never happened that she should be made acquainted with real country life. In her neglected childhood, spent in Irish poverty, and a dirty town—in her unnatural girlhood, passed upon the stage—her blighted womanhood in the heart of London, and then her later better years in the city of Bruges, there has been much excitement and some pleasure, but not one taste of the pure unvitiated delights of rural life. She has never known what it is to take interest in animals and flowers, and such-like innocent amusements. The only pure happiness she has experienced was when she became a mother, and bore the child who is the cause of her present misery.

And to such people the first sight and taste of the country comes like a draught of pure water to a parched tongue. It almost intoxicates them, and yet it makes them feel so strong and healthy, as if they could never exist again away from the fresh, delicious air, and the sweet breaths of the flowers, and the soft notes of the birds, and all the other fragrant scents and murmuring music that congregate about a country house. Mrs. Hephzibah is enjoying it all thoroughly. She is at liberty to do so. For her there are no miserable recollections to be put away, before even the blushing beauty of a rose can afford her any satisfaction.

Notwithstanding all her asseverations to the contrary, which are but dying struggles to maintain the independence for which she has fought so long, she becomes a perfect child in her enthusiasm over the roses with which the garden abounds, and gathers one after another until her hands are filled with a huge bouquet of every coloured sweet.

'How lovely they are! How fresh! How beautiful, and what an exquisite scent!' she keeps on exclaiming as she buries her face in the flowers.

Is it a drop of dew remaining from last night's shower, or a tear from Mrs. Hephzibah's eye, that lingers in the cup of that damask rose? Who shall tell what thoughts rise up within her breast—still womanly, in spite of all her pretensions to the contrary—as she inhales the delicious fragrance of her new possessions, and remembers that for her, if she so chooses, life may henceforth be all roses!

No more drudgery, no more care or anxiety for the morrow, no more work in spite of pain or trouble or heart sickness, but a peaceful and well-provided-for existence, gliding smoothly on to the confines of the other world, with time in it to rest and think and prepare for the change that is coming surely to us all.

Her girlhood, which should have bloomed like those roses, and been as free from care, was swallowed up in a necessity for work. Her real girlhood seems to have dawned but to-day—the time of love and protection has but just come. And the man who has provided all this enjoyment for her, who has filled her hands with roses, is walking by her side, Delia having contrived to fall behind. In a moment Mrs. Hephzibah's heart strikes her with remorse that she should never yet have acknowledged to him the change his life has wrought in hers. In the dusk of the evening, and under the shadow of a falling acacia-tree, she draws nearer to him and grasps his hand.

'William,' she says hurriedly, and with much shame—'William! you have made me so happy.'

The little lawyer jumps with surprise and pleasure. That to be the husband of Mrs. Hephzibah was to have gained the summit of his ambition, he had known all along, but it had never struck him that their marriage would be an increase of happiness for her.

'Hephzibah,' he answers, in a voice that is slightly shaky, 'is it really true?'

'It is true, and I don't see why I should be ashamed to own it. I always thought that to marry was to give up everything that made life pleasant, but I find it is to receive everything instead. All the comforts and luxuries that surround this little home—I feel as if I should begin life anew in them—and you have planned them all for me! Well, then, in return I want to be honest, and tell you that you will have your reward. Already I feel ten years younger than I did, with all these sweet things about me; and if it were a little darker, William, I—I would kiss you!'

Had Mrs. Hephzibah said she would eat him, the little old man could not have been more surprised, but he is equal to the occasion. He stands on tiptoe then and there, and salutes her heartily, and the smothered laugh which reaches Delia from under the acacia-tree does not convey any meaning to her of the impropriety that is being effected there. Only when Mrs. Hephzibah, with a slightly increased colour in her face, which greatly improves its appearance, calls to her that the dew is falling, and that they had better go in to the tea-table, she pleads fatigue as an excuse for seeking her own chamber.

In order that outward calm may have its full effect, the mind that receives it must be at peace. It may have passed through great trials, and be still bruised and bleeding from the torture it has undergone, but the storm is spent, and the blossoms of hope have been laid low, and there is the waste space left for the sowing of another crop. Delia's heart is still too much occupied with its loss. Quietude and rest afford her leisure for brooding—and brooding drives her mad. The bustle and turmoil of a theatre, and the clash of an orchestral band, would be better suited to her present frame of mind than silence and solitude. As soon as ever she finds herself alone she unpacks her box and takes out her boy's photograph to weep over undisturbed. She is very, very glad for her old friend's good fortune, but it contrasts rather bitterly with her own ill-luck. What is her Angus doing at that moment? How does he think of her? What does he say? The unanswerable queries with which we delight to torture our wounded spirits rise up in succession before her—and all the reply is, silence! and must be for evermore.

She takes her boy's picture in her hand, and sits by the open window, that she may cool her heated face and inflamed eyelids before retiring to rest. The harvest moon has risen, and is streaming down upon the pretty garden in a broad beam of light that turns the pink roses into grey, and the crimson into black. The shadows under the acacia-tree stretch across the lawn; not a sound is to be heard from bird or bee; not a leaf rustles. On everything is stamped the impress of sleep and rest.

Delia is just thinking how peaceful and content all nature lies, when she perceives two figures steal across the lawn. Is it possible that they can be those of Mr. and Mrs. Bond? His arm is round her waist, whilst her hand rests confidingly upon his shoulder.

'Say it again,' urges the little old man, in an earnest voice which would not have disgraced a wooer of twenty.

'If it gives you pleasure, William, certainly. I feel very happy! happier than I have ever felt in my life before.'

Delia softly withdraws from the open window, and retreats to the other end of the room. Be the speakers eighteen or eighty, we have no right to listen to the sacred confidences of love.

But as she disrobes herself, the tears fall quickly. What has she done to be of all the world so desolate? Even Mrs. Hephzibah, who has spent a lifetime in decrying marriage and the fools who embrace it, has found her mate at last, whilst she is doomed to solitude in order to make others happy. It seems all very hard to Delia just now. She cannot see the hand of Providence, and therefore she does not believe in it.

By-and-by the light will dawn, and she will forget the darkness she has passed through. But we all know how wearily the hours go when we are holding a vigil in the night.

————

CHAPTER III.

'YOU ARE A COUNTRYMAN OF MINE.'

However miserable we may be, it is impossible, happily for ourselves and others, to keep up the appearance of gloom without intermission. We may have parted with the love of our life but yesterday. He has sailed for the other side of this world, perhaps, or for the other world itself, and his thoughts and works will be a mystery to us henceforward; yet the prattle of a child has the power to make us smile, or the insolence of an inferior to call forth our anger. So it is with Delia. She goes to sleep worn out with sighs and weeping—she wakes to the carol of the lark, the sound of the mower's scythe upon the lawn, the bleating of sheep, the lowing of cattle—all the bustle and stir, and fragrance of early morning in the fresh country, and rises more hopeful by expectation—the expectation of being of use in her generation, and increasing the happiness of a life that has never hesitated to use itself for her.

The cheerful faces that meet her at the breakfast-table tend to increase this feeling—so does an inspection of the little ménage that is to be placed under her care. Mrs. Bond's indoor household consists of three maid-servants, all of whom are to be completely under Delia's management. She is to take charge of the storeroom also, and order the meals—to be the housekeeper of the cottage, in fact; and since no limit is placed upon her expenditure, and nothing is required but on a very modest scale, she looks forward to her duties with pleasure. They are such as suit her.

Some women are born cooks, others are born dressmakers, others, again, are born nurses, or managers. Delia belongs to the third class. She does not care for the work itself, but the power to direct it well is a small ambition to her. So she enters zealously into a catechism of her maids, and to the arrangement of their duties and her own; she rallies her forces, in fact, and inspects her ammunition, and plans her mode of attack, and makes preparation for a long campaign.

Mrs. Hephzibah would be able to do all this for herself if she tried, but it would be a sore trouble to her, as great a one as it would be to her husband. A working literary life spoils a woman for the drudgery of domestic management, which is an art in itself. If you have been used to concentrate your own thoughts upon your own work or that of others—to live an interior life in a far-away world that has nothing in common with the sphere you dwell in, it is very difficult to enter with real interest into the discussion of how much rice is required for a pudding, or how many hours the leg of mutton should hang before the fire. And by this I do not wish to intimate that I join the usual cry that a literary woman must needs be a slattern or an ill-manager. Education of the intellect does not make her less skilful to arrange her own affairs; on the contrary, it increases her capability for all sorts of work, but the two cannot run together with the attention that each deserves. A man is not expected to carry on his work at office, or on the Stock Exchange, and attend to his kitchen and nursery at the same time; and a woman can hardly be supposed to do more than a man, though she often does so. Mr. Bond, who has watched Mrs. Hephzibah through so many phases of her weary life, knows all this, and determined years ago that if she ever became his wife, it should be not to exchange one form of drudgery for another still less congenial to her, perhaps, but to rest both mind and body.

So, whilst Delia undertakes the labour, which is next to nothing when undertaken alone, of managing the household affairs, Mrs. Bond is to be allowed to sit in the pleasant little study allotted to her private use, and indulge in scribbling or reading, or anything that strikes her fancy; whilst her husband takes long rides on his cob, or lingers about the garden and stable-yard directing his servants in their various employments.

According to the pleasant fashion of the country side, they adopt the custom of early dinners, so that Delia's active duties are soon over, and she is at liberty to be Mrs. Hephzibah's companion for the rest of the day—a privilege her friend will never permit her to forego by locking herself up in her bedroom, for the purpose of unhealthily brooding over the inevitable. Then, in the pleasant afternoons, Mr. Bond will take both the ladies out driving into the lovely scenery surrounding them; or, if he should be tired by his morning's ride, Mrs. Hephzibah and Delia venture by themselves and become the subjects of many ludicrous contretemps in their endeavours to learn the art of directing the feet of those two sleek ponies in the way they should go.

On the whole, however, since they love the beautiful woods and dales through which they pass better than the mere act of locomotion, they get on pretty well; and the afternoon drives, during which the friends can converse freely with each other, become a source of the greatest comfort to Delia, who derives strength and courage, and, above all, hope, from the teaching of a mind that is greater than her own.

Cloverfield, being still a mere village, has not many resident gentry beside the clergyman and doctor, and one or two solitary old maids and widows; but it is surrounded by gentlemen's seats, the owners of which, after a while, commence to call upon Mr. and Mrs. Bond. At Delia's earnest request she is not asked to be present in the drawing-room during these visits of ceremony. She has several reasons for not wishing to make any new acquaintances, foremost amongst which is the dread of recognition, and though Mrs. Hephzibah will not admit the justice of the fear, she agrees to indulge it.

Delia is therefore rather surprised one afternoon when she has retired to her own room with a novel, to hear the parlourmaid at her door with a request from her mistress that she will go down to the drawing-room to see a gentleman who has just arrived.

'Who is it, Sarah?' cries Delia, her truant thoughts flying at once to the only gentleman she would have cared to see.

'Mr. Le Mesurier, ma'am. I think he's a parson—at least, he wears a long coat.'

'Very good! I'll be down directly.'

When she enters the room, flushed from the haste with which she has arranged her dress, she finds the servant's surmise is correct.

'Let me introduce you to my friend Mrs. Manners,' says Mrs. Hephzibah; and then she continues to Delia, 'I hope I have not disturbed you, my dear, but I thought it only right you should make the acquaintance of our clergyman. Mr. Le Mesurier tells me that he has just returned from his annual holiday, and that the gentleman we have hitherto heard on Sundays has only been taking his duty during his absence.'

'I am very glad,' says Delia.

'Glad of what, Mrs. Manners?' asks the new-comer, with an accent that betrays his Irish nationality. 'That I have returned, or that Mr. Saunders only took my duty?'

'Of both, perhaps,' she replies, smiling; 'any way, I hope it is not great treason to say that Mr. Saunders has sent me to sleep every time I tried to listen to him.'

'Let us be charitable and lay it on the weather, Mrs. Manners, which has been too hot to keep awake in under any circumstances. Do try and think it was the weather! Else, if you fall asleep again next Sunday, I shall have no loophole by which to flatter myself that my discourse has not had a similar effect upon you to that of Mr. Saunders.'

He is a distinguished-looking man, tall and well-made, with an intellectual countenance, and wearing a tight cassock that shows off his fine figure to advantage. His blue eyes and dark hair are strongly Irish, so is his winning tongue. In a word, he impresses both his hearers favourably.

'I will retain judgment, then, until after next Sunday,' replies Delia, laughing; 'and especially since, if I am not mistaken, Mr. Le Mesurier, you are a countryman of mine, and should claim every indulgence at my hands.'

The moment the words have left her lips she regrets them, but it is too late. The warm partizanship of the natives of Ireland is well-known, and Mr. Le Mesurier embraces the idea of the connection between them.

'I guessed as much from your appearance. Pray, Mrs. Manners, allow me to shake hands with you over again in token of our good-fellowship. It is a real delight to meet any one from the "ould counthry" down in these wilds. May I ask if it is long since you left it?'

Then Delia sees still more plainly the trap she has laid for herself, and the complications to which it may lead. But there is no help for it at present.

'Very long! I have not seen it since I was a little child.'

'I thought so. You have no trace of the brogue left in your pronunciation. On the contrary, I detect a little French accent.'

'Perhaps so! I have lived abroad!'

'Ah! and do you not love it? For my part I could live there always. I have just come from the Tyrol. Every year I get away from these dull pastures for a month and rush to Switzerland. I feel as if I breathed more freely and thought more freely there than in England. Have you been in the Tyrol?'

'I went there for a few weeks, some years ago, in the company of friends.'

'Where have you chiefly lived then when abroad?'

Mr. Le Mesurier is putting all these questions with the enthusiasm of twenty, and Mrs. Hephzibah, seeing how awkward they are likely to become, makes an effort to rescue Delia from his clutches.

'My friend and I have not long returned from a visit to Flanders, Mr. Le Mesurier. I suppose you have visited Antwerp in your wanderings. In my opinion it is one of the most interesting of all old cities. Not a street nor a corner in it but contains some striking reminiscences of the past!'

'Ah! forgive me, Mrs. Bond,' exclaims Mr. Le Mesurier, with that ready frankness which is the distinguishing charm of his countrymen, 'for having left you so long out of the conversation, but you do not know, perhaps, the delight that we Irish feel on meeting one another on what must ever be to us a foreign soil.'

'I can quite understand it, and there is no need to apologise. Only Mrs. Manners has been so long absent from her native country that I believe she has forgotten all about it.'

'Madam, you are not an Irishwoman'—('No! thank the Lord!' interrupts Mrs. Hephzibah for her own benefit; 'a dirty, idle, story-telling lot')—'or you would never have made that speech, charming as it was. An Irishwoman can never forget her country! I have not seen Dublin now for ten long years, but every stone in her streets is stamped upon my memory.'

'I wonder you don't go to Dublin then, instead of the Tyrol, when you get a holiday, if you love it so much,' says Mrs. Hephzibah in her blunt manner.

Mr. Le Mesurier smiles slily.

'There are reasons, my dear Mrs. Bond. Friends, dead or gone—no home to receive me, and the price of everything extravagantly dear. No! I have not the means to appear in Dublin as I should wish to do. The Tyrol is cheaper, pleasanter, and a more complete change. Still, I love my country and her people, and I trust that Mrs. Manners and I shall be very good friends.'

'Have you been long settled in Cloverfield, and are you a married man?' demands Mrs. Hephzibah, still trying to lure him away from a dangerous topic.

'I have been settled here ever since my ordination ten years ago, and I have no wife to share the vicarage,' he answers, with a sudden gravity of manner.

'I hope you are not one of those parsons who consider celibacy a duty.'

'Yes I do—decidedly. A duty to myself,' he answers lightly. 'What would become of my visits to Switzerland, if I had a wife and family to carry about with me?'

'Well, some people consider that all parsons should be married men.'

'I know they do, but I think it is very hard upon the parsons! Are we to marry to please our parishioners or ourselves? I believe the social rule is believed to hold good also with doctors, which is the reason you see so many clergymen and doctors married to fools or dowdies, and often to women their inferiors in birth. Their patients and parishioners say they must marry, and in desperation they take the first wife that comes to hand. It's very unfair, isn't it, Mrs. Manners? Why can't they leave us to please ourselves? We come to grief quite soon enough without their assistance.'

'You're evidently a Radical,' says Mrs. Bond, 'one of what are termed "muscular Christians" nowadays. Well, I don't know that I shall like you any the less for it, for if I hate one thing above another, it is the humbug of cant. And there's more of it in your profession than in any other.'

'I am afraid there is,' he answers gravely, 'but it is with us as it is with all. We are what the world makes us. You won't let us be natural. You think because we have been ordained, we mustn't be men, consequently it has become the fashion to prune our thoughts, and order our conversations so that the words shall run in the same groove until you can hardly distinguish one man's utterance from another. It is not we that speak—it is the automaton that custom has manufactured for you. We have our passions, and our instincts, and our inclinations like others of the human race, but we are not permitted to indulge them, at least openly; and when you catch one of us tripping, you cry out, "O! what a horrible scandal! what a false, wicked hypocrite he is!" Whilst even if we talk, as I am talking to you now, giving free vent to the thoughts that rise in our hearts, it is animadverted upon as very strange conversation for a clergyman, and one that ought really to be reported to his bishop.'

'Well, you need never be afraid of speaking your mind here, Mr. Le Mesurier, because in the first place, it's what

I think every intellectual and reasoning creature ought to do; and in the second, I've always been a staunch advocate for liberty of conscience, and I don't mean to deny my principles under my own roof-tree.'

'You give me more pleasure by your words than you can imagine, Mrs. Bond. Your literary reputation is not unknown to me, as doubtless you have guessed; and here at last then I may hope to find friends and companions with reciprocity of feeling and sentiment.'

'You have not found that yet in Cloverfield during ten years' residence?'

He shrugs his shoulders.

'Hardly! I have certain duties to perform in the village which must not be neglected, and leave me but little leisure to do more than keep up a formal acquaintance with the surrounding families. Then in the place itself, besides one or two single ladies whom I could not possibly visit without risking my reputation, so charitable are the remainder, there are Dr. Wilson and his wife. He is a man without an idea beyond the pills and potions he administers in his twenty mile circuit; and she—well, she is Mrs. Wilson, and the mother of ten children who have to be kept, fed, and educated on an income of three hundred a year. Que voulez-vous? Is it likely her intellect, if she ever had any, could survive such multifarious cares? No, Mrs. Bond, I have lived a very lonely, friendless life since coming to Cloverfield. You must be patient with me if I take advantage of your kind invitation to visit you oftener than perhaps you intended me to do.'

Mrs. Hephzibah smiles at the compliment. She has taken a fancy to the stranger. She detects talent in him, and a mind above the common. She likes the society of intellectual men, and she does not dream that in cordially giving him admission to look in at the cottage whenever his time and his inclination prompt him to do so, she is paving the way for difficulties in his path, and that of her friend. He sits with them for half the afternoon on that occasion, talking in the most fluent manner on every topic that is started, discussing the country and the town, literature and music, the Tyrol, the Vatican, the Alhambra, and the Louvre; and proving himself to be not only a well-read man, but an excellent linguist and a clever traveller, who has made good use of his eyes and his wits as he journeyed through the world. The ladies are delighted with his conversation and charm of delivery.

The hours pass rapidly in his company, and before he takes his leave, Mrs. Hephzibah has made him promise to dine with them on the following day.

'I'm charmed with the man, my dear,' she remarks to Delia as soon as Mr. Le Mesurier is out of hearing, 'and I want William to know him. He's ever so much too good for a parson, for, as a rule, I can't endure them; but it just shows how travel and society can enlarge the mind. If he had stuck down here all his time, he'd have been as stupid as the majority. But you made a decided slip, Delia. How came you to tell him you were Irish! He'll never let you alone about it now.'

'It was the stupidest mistake, but I really couldn't help it. I never thought of the consequences. But I hope it may rest there. You remember what you promised me, dear friend—that I should never be asked to join your circle when you had any strangers with you. You must let me claim that promise to-morrow, and dine up in my own room.'

'Delia! you are never going to be so childish!'

'I am indeed! Remember, I am only your housekeeper, and I must see that the dinner is properly served. Were you to insist upon my appearing at table, I should only be miserable and ill at ease, fearing that each word I uttered might betray my history.'

'But William and I look upon you as a sister—or a daughter—and wish you in every respect to be treated as such.'

'I know you do, dear kind friends! and I shall never be able to repay your goodness to me. Then, if I am to be considered what you say, let me take a sister's privilege, and have my own way in this matter.'

'I can't refuse you if you put it on that score. But I am disappointed. However, child, do as you choose! Only I expect that the parson will be the most vexed of the three.'

'He is the very one I want to avoid,' cries Delia. 'There is something in that man—I cannot tell you what—that seems as if he would draw the whole of my secret from me at his will. O! Mrs. Hephzibah! keep me from Mr. Le Mesurier, I implore you!'

'Goose!' replies Mrs. Hephzibah curtly; but she does not think so, all the same. 'There's an influence in the parson that has power over me as well as Delia,' she says to herself; 'I suppose it's magnetic force, or something of the sort, but any way he's not one of the common herd, and he knows it for himself.'

————

CHAPTER IV.

'THEN YOU HAVE SUFFERED TOO.'

Mrs. Bond is correct. On the following day the parson is decidedly the most vexed of the three at Delia's defalcation, although he is too polite to show it except by his anxious and somewhat wandering air. The little dinner is skilfully chosen and served, and his host and hostess are cordiality itself; still Mr. Le Mesurier's eyes keep roving each time the door is opened, and his ears are strained to catch the least sound from without. At last he ventures to hint at the subject that is disturbing him.

'May I ask after the health of your charming friend, Mrs. Bond? I trust she is well.'

'She is quite well, Mr. Le Mesurier; that is, she is the same as usual, but her health does not permit her to take late dinners.'

'Then I trust the pleasure is only deferred, and that we shall see her in the evening.'

Mrs. Hephzibah does not reply. She believes that Delia has no intention of appearing at all. Her visitor continues:

'I cannot explain to you what delight it was to me to meet a countrywoman in her. Her features remind me strongly of the Fergusson family. Was that her maiden name?'

'No! nor do I think there is any connection between them.'

'I used to know most of the Dublin families,' proceeds Mr. Le Mesurier, with an intonation that infers he has no doubt he knows that of Delia, if Mrs. Bond will only be good enough to disclose it. 'My father was a prebendary of the cathedral, and hand-in-glove with the best society. My mother and sisters live there still. Irish families, once settled in Dublin, don't care to leave it. It is their Paris, New York, and London, rolled into one. They think а great deal of Dublin.'

'So I have heard! Mr. Le Mesurier, will you allow me to give you a peach?'

'Thanks! And Mrs. Manners has lived on the Continent too. She carries the air with her. Forgive my egotism, but I always think an Irishwoman takes more readily to a foreign education than an Englishwoman. We have a great deal of southern blood in our composition, and the life and customs of France or Spain suit us almost as well as those of our native land.'

'Better sometimes, it would seem, as in your own case,' replies Mrs. Hephzibah. She is getting tired of the conversation always drifting back to Delia, and would far rather discuss home or foreign politics with the parson than her friend's face and manners. 'I think I will leave you now to have a little talk with Mr. Bond, whilst I take a turn in the garden,' she says at last, rising from table; 'and don't trouble your head about joining me if you wish to make it a long one, for I never cared for the formality of etiquette whilst I lived in London, and am not likely to wish to carry it out in the depths of the country.'

Mr. Le Mesurier, holding open the door for his hostess with the grace of a preux chevalier of the olden school, assures her that the minutes will lag until they meet again; and she knows intuitively that it is Delia, and not herself, whom he desires to follow. Looking through the window, some ten minutes after, the parson descries two female figures instead of one sauntering up and down in the dusk beneath the shadow of the trees, and astonishes his host by dropping the topic under discussion so suddenly, that Mr. Bond has no option but to suggest that if his guest will not take any more wine, they had better proceed to the garden and enjoy their coffee in the cool evening air. Mr. Le Mesurier accedes with alacrity, but when he reaches Mrs. Bond's side he finds that she is once more alone, whilst the three cups of coffee that are presently brought out to them on a tray by the parlour-maid evidently prove that Mrs.

Manners has no intention of joining them even in that simple refreshment. The fact is, Delia is afraid to meet the stranger again. She broke through her resolution in doing so at all, and the first time she opened her lips she committed a blunder which she does not know how to remedy. So she sits at her open window instead, and listens to the ballads that, after the little party has come in from the garden, Mr. Le Mesurier trolls out in his rich baritone voice, accompanying himself on the cottage piano the while.

Delia is very fond of music. She is not a great proficient, but she is a great lover of the art, and sings her own little songs with a verve that has more power to charm than the finest execution in the world. She longs to be down in the drawing-room, taking her share in the entertainment now, for an enthusiast has as much pleasure in performing herself as in listening to the performance of others; but false shame restrains her, and she keeps upstairs until she hears the final good-nights exchanged, and watches Mr. Le Mesurier's tall figure walk down the gravel drive, and turn, with a parting look at the cottage, in the direction of his own house. Consequent upon the failure of her interview with the parson, however, Delia declines to make the acquaintance of the doctor's wife, who duly arrives to call upon the new residents, neither is she asked to do so; but when she hears Mrs. Hephzibah's account of the visit, she almost wishes she had been present.

'I've endured such a visitation!' exclaims that worthy as, the interview being ended, she enters Delia's bedroom. 'If I had broken every commandment in the Decalogue twenty times over, I should have expiated my crimes by the penance I've undergone this afternoon. You were well out of it.'

'Why! what was it all about?'

'It was about everything and nothing. The woman has told me the names, ages, and sexes of her ten children: the circumstances of their births; the dispositions they have developed, and the future their parents have mapped out for them.'

'Oh! poor Mrs. Hephzibah!'

'What have I done, Delia, to be marked out as the prey of the vulgar, low-minded wife of a country doctor?—I who all my life have determinately avoided every one who could possibly annoy or bore me with their coarseness or stupidity, even to the extent of being rude to them in return!'

'Why! you have married Mr. Bond,' says Delia, winding her arms about the uncouth person of her friend; 'and you must expect to put up with a few disagreeables in exchange for all the peace and comfort you have gained.'

Mrs. Hephzibah colours. She is not yet accustomed to hear her marriage alluded to without a feeling of shame. She has lost caste by it in her own eyes, and there is many a moment at the present time when she would (or she fancies she would) undo it if she could.

'Well! well! well!' she answers testily, as she unwinds Delia's clinging arms; 'I suppose one must give and take in this world, but it is none the pleasanter. Any way, Mrs. Wilson doesn't see the inside of my house too often! I'll take good care of that! I'll make William give up the cottage and take me back to London first!'

'Is she so very disagreeable?'

'She is everything that is odious. Uneducated, ill-mannered, common and unclean—with a narrowed, twopenny-halfpenny mind that takes the liveliest delight in scandal. She had nothing bad enough to say of Mr. Le Mesurier.'

'What has he done to offend her?'

'Heaven knows! Talked above her comprehension, most likely. Nothing stings these illiterate women so keenly as taking it for granted that they have received an education. She had nothing definite to tell, of course. Scandalmongers live by insinuation. But her manner was most offensive.'

'Yet she does not accuse him of anything.'

'She says enough to make one believe she could accuse him of everything! She began by asking me if I knew him. I said, "Yes." Did I like him? "Yes," again. "Oh, indeed! did I—well, of course, different people had different tastes; but for her own part——" "Which put into plain English," I said, "means, I suppose, that you don't like him, though I am at a loss to perceive what concern that is of mine." "Oh, no! my dear madam," the cat went on, "don't think so for a moment. The doctor and I have both tried hard to make friends with Mr. Le Mesurier, and to shut our ears to all that is said about him; because, being a clergyman, of course we consider it our duty to stand up for him as much as lies in our power. Still one cannot always be blind and deaf; and for a man in his sacred position, we are certainly grieved to see that he is so very careless in giving cause for scandal and ill-speaking amongst the people in the village." '

'What a shame to take away a man's character behind his back in that way! Did you ask her if she had any definite reason to speak so of him?'

'Certainly not, my dear. It would only have been an extra pleasure to her to trump up a story against him if she hadn't got one ready. But I said what I expect she did not like half so well. I told her that I thought it very superfluous and out of place for persons in the position of her husband and herself to talk about standing up "for a man of Mr. Le Mesurier's rank and profession;" that from what I had seen of him I should consider him quite capable of fighting his own battles; and that if the people of Cloverfield spoke against him, it was probably because he and his conversation were totally above their comprehension and themselves.'

'How I wish I had been there to hear you! What did Mrs. Wilson say in return?'

'She grew very red, and declared there were several most estimable and accomplished ladies in Cloverfield, who were quite capable of reaching Mr. Le Mesurier's standard. I said I was glad to hear it, and should be still more glad to see it. "But," the woman went on with a sniff, "they did not choose to associate with him after the strange stories that had been circulated about his former life, and the extraordinary manner in which he behaved for a clergyman: wearing a cassock about the village all day, smoking cigars, speaking in foreign languages, and deserting his duty to run off to the Continent whenever he had an opportunity." In fact, my dear, what I told the creature is true—Mr. Le Mesurier is altogether beyond and above them, and they hate him in consequence. Mrs. Wilson began to excuse herself and talk some rubbish about undue influence, and a farmer's daughter, but I cut her short by telling her I had no time to listen to scandal, as it neither interested nor edified me. So she pretended the doctor wanted her at home, and scuffled out of the house, and I do not think she will put her foot into it again in a hurry.'

'I hope not! What an odious woman! Though I can quite imagine, Mrs. Hephzibah, Mr. Le Mesurier has had a history. There is a fund of melancholy in his eyes when silent, and his mirth strikes me as being somewhat forced.'

'Which of us has not had a history, Delia? I do not suppose the parson is immaculate, either in the past or the present, but he's an intellectual companion and a charming man, and we have nothing to do with his private affairs. I saw Mrs. Wilson was dying to tell me about the farmer's daughter. As if I would stoop to listen to the tale of some low amour. Ladies who are so infinitely proper and virtuous that they cannot bring themselves to know a man against whom they have heard any evil report, have invariably minds coarse and little enough to delight in the fact. They will not bow to the sinner, but they rake up the dirt against him with both hands, and turn it over and revel in it. I do not mean to say that a parson shouldn't be a clean liver and perform the duties he has undertaken; but if I should find out Mr. Le Mesurier to be all this woman has insinuated, it would make no difference to me. I might be sorry he had been injudicious enough to become a parson; but I consider I have no right to pry into the private life of my friend.'

'Few women are so just and generous as you are, Mrs. Hephzibah.'

'Perhaps there is a spice of obstinacy mixed up with it, my dear. Anyway, what I have heard to-day has prejudiced me still more strongly in Mr. Le Mesurier's favour, and I shall make him as welcome as I can to the cottage, in order to try and atone to him in some measure for the barbarians by whom he is surrounded. Poor man! No wonder he said he was friendless here. What must such a mind as his have suffered by contact with them!'

Mr. Le Mesurier is not backward in availing himself of the general invitation which Mrs. Hephzibah stops her pony-chaise in order to extend to him, the very first time they meet after the conversation that has been recorded.

Delia is seated by her side, and Mr. Le Mesurier glances to see if she seconds the offer of her friend. But she is looking away from him over the surrounding country the while, and does not perceive the action. He accepts the invitation with alacrity, and takes advantage of it on the very next day, and several days following that; but though he enjoys many interesting conversations with Mrs. Bond, he finds it more difficult to get hold of her companion, who always manages to slip away just before or after he makes his appearance. One day, however, Delia is fairly caught. The Bonds have gone out driving together, and she is superintending the stripping of some fruit-trees for them, and cannot with honour leave the field of action, when Mr. Le Mesurier, with the familiarity which is becoming habitual to him, walks through the open French windows of the cottage drawing-room and out upon the lawn.

'How glad I am that I have found you at last, and that you cannot run away from me,' he commences, as he perceives her occupation. 'You have been so pertinacious in avoiding my society lately, that I had really begun to think that I had offended you.'

'Oh no!' replies Delia, with the old feeling of discomfort, she cannot tell why, at the first glance of his searching eyes; 'how could you possibly have done that? But you must not forget that I am only Mrs. Bond's housekeeper, and have a hundred little domestic duties to perform, that prevent my constant attendance in the drawing-room.'

'I suppose if you tell me so, Mrs. Manners, I am bound to believe it; but I protest against the "only." A woman of your talents and education may accept such a position from choice, but need never do so from necessity.'

'Anyway,' says Delia, with the tears in her eyes, 'Mrs. Bond has been my best and dearest friend through life, and I would rather be her housekeeper than the intimate companion of the greatest lady in the land.'

'Ah! now we approach a different phase of the subject, and I can well believe in the sincerity and justice of your choice. And she repays your affection in full measure!'

'God bless her! I know she does.'

'Only, with myself, she would be better pleased to see you try and live down the troubles of the past, than nurse them in solitude and silence.'

'Has she been speaking to you about me, then?' demands his companion quickly.

'Certainly not! Not a word has ever passed her lips on the subject, except an occasional one of praise for the pleasure she derives in your company, and which has made me anxious to enjoy a little more of it.'

'How do you know, then, that I have had trouble!' says Delia, with anxious eyes.

'My dear Mrs. Manners! How do I know that more than half the world has trouble? A physical doctor can tell by the look of his patient whether he suffers or no! Shall a mental doctor be less skilful? Believe me, I have not been a close student of human nature for twenty years without learning something of the human heart. And since it is my privilege and my province to help to heal such as are wounded, I have no hesitation in offering my services whenever they may be required.'

'You cannot help me, Mr. Le Mesurier.'

'Is your hurt beyond all assistance, then?'

'Yes.'

The servants are surrounding them with large baskets of apples and pears to be examined before they are conveyed to the storehouse, and for a moment he drops the conversation. When he resumes it, it appears to be on a totally different topic.

'Have you ever read the works of Chateaubriand?'

'I think not.'

'I have here one of his most poetical tales, that of "Chactas and Atala." I brought it to lend to Mrs. Bond. It may also interest you to read—that is, if you like romance. But I must warn you that it is very melancholy.'

'It cannot be much more melancholy——' commences Delia, and there pauses.

'Than your life, you were going to say,' continues Mr. Le Mesurier quietly. 'Perhaps not, and even if it were, you would not in all probability be able to perceive it; for our own griefs are always the worst in the world to us. You have not been much in the habit, I expect, of visiting your fellow-creatures, Mrs. Manners? I don't mean the grandees, nor even those in your own station of life, but the poor.'

'No! I have never had the opportunity of doing so.'

'I thought not. Educated people consider it etiquette to keep their troubles to themselves. It is the poor only that find no shame in pouring forth their woes to the first sympathizing ear that will listen to them. And the catalogue they have to give you, Mrs. Manners!—the pains they suffer uncomplainingly—the separations they have to endure—the friends they lay in the grave from sheer want of the means of keeping them alive—these and a host of similar martyrdoms meet the visitor of the poor on every side.'

'Have you many poor in Cloverfield?'

'We have no cases of positive starvation, but every other sort of suffering is rife. It is a mistake to suppose that paupers in the country are so much better off than their fellow labourers in town. They have fresh air, it is true, and as a rule far too much of it. The old ones are racked with cramp and rheumatism, and yet have to toil on summer and winter to the very last. You will see old men of seventy and eighty here, breaking stones upon the road. And when at last they take to their beds, they are left alone, day after day, to live or die as God may see fit. Nothing has made me more satisfied to suffer than viewing the sufferings of the poor.'

'Then you have suffered, too?' says Delia, in a low voice.

'I have!'

The words are few and simple, but it seems as though Mr. Le Mesurier could not trust himself, for the first moment, to say more. Then he goes on in a brisker voice:

'Come, Mrs. Manners! I will make a clean breast to you, and that may, perhaps, encourage you to open your heart to me! Do not think me impertinent. I am speaking, remember, as your clergyman, and with the sole view of doing you good. You ask if I have suffered. Heaven knows I have! I started in life with a blot upon my name which follows me wherever I go. Not a real blot, mind you! although doubtless I was to blame as well as others but a cruel misfortune which could not be fully explained, and of which I shall bear the brunt to my dying day. It involved the loss of all that I most loved, so that I have been a solitary and companionless man ever since, and it left me with an unsatisfied ache and longing which I know will never be set right. My parishioners blame me, I believe, for seeking distraction once a year in other scenes; if they knew what I endure during the remainder of the term, pent up in this little place, with no excitement but such as the performance of my duties brings, they would pity instead of condemn me. I tell you truly, Mrs. Manners, if it had not been for viewing and entering into the troubles of my poorer brethren, I do not think I could have stood it all so long. But I visit them in their cottages, and on their sick-beds, and we read and pray together, and talk over the rest that is coming for all of us, and so we comfort one another, and gain fresh strength to labour on a little longer and be patient. There is one old widow, a Mrs. Bunn—I wish you could hear her talk. Poor soul! she has just parted with her only son, who has taken his family to America. Of course they will never meet again in this world, and she knows it. The separation is for life, and he is the last hope she had left, yet her resignation and cheerfulness, although she suffers bitterly, are beautiful to see. She told me this morning——but, Mrs. Manners, what is this? Pray forgive me if I have said anything to wound you!'

For they have sauntered away together under the lime and acacia trees during the latter part of the conversation, and Delia, not being proof against the recital of a case so similar to her own, has suddenly broken down, and is crying bitterly.

'Oh! Mr. Le Mesurier!' she exclaims, 'you are a good man! and you know what trouble is. I will tell you all. I will see if you can help me—if you can advise me what to do!'

And thereupon she leads him into the drawing-room, and confides the story, which we all know, to his sympathetic ears.

Mr. Le Mesurier listens in silence. The tale is all the sadder, because the woman before him has brought the misfortune on her own head, yet he does not seem to think the case so hopeless as she does.

'Surely, surely,' he says, as she looks up into his face for comfort, 'this separation cannot last for ever. Your son himself will see the injustice of it, and seek you out again. Do you suppose that the love of twenty-one years can be forgotten in a moment?—you wrong yourself and him by such a supposition! He may find consolation at first in the society of his bride, but as years pass on, and troubles come upon him, his heart and memory will turn back to his mother, and he will not be satisfied until he has met her again.'

'Do you really think so?' cries Delia, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

But a moment afterwards the sparkle fades.

'You forget, Mr. Le Mesurier, that Angus will only gain his wife on the condition of his never seeing me again. And then, when they are respectably settled, with a family perhaps, and young girls growing up to maidenhood—(Oh! my boy! my boy! shall I never nurse your children on my knee?)—that would not be the time to unsettle all his prospects by raking up the miserable story that almost blighted his youth! Oh no! believe me that we are parted for ever! I meant it to be so, and it is done. But it is none the less hard to bear, and since I have seen you, I have felt, somehow, as if I should have no comfort in my church, or my prayers, until I had disburthened my heart to you. For I know that you will respect my secret.'

'Rest assured of that! I only wish that I could see my way to helping you more effectually than I do. But so long as you preserve your incognita, I fear it will be impossible!'

'I will never give it up, Mr. Le Mesurier. If Angus could trace me to Cloverfield he might feel bound to do from duty what he would never do from inclination. He loves Gabrielle de Blois, and she loves him! What mother has ever been dearer to her son than his promised bride? He cannot have us both! Then I must be the one to resign my pretensions to him, for had it not been for me, this threatened shame could never have fallen on his life.'

Mr. Le Mesurier is too wise to pursue the subject further. He has already conceived a great desire to help this woman, but he must think the matter over when he is at home and alone. He does not want Delia to work herself up into a more hysterical condition than she is at present; so he will not allow her to talk any more about herself.

'I think those people out there,' he says, alluding to the fruit-gatherers, 'appear as though they needed your attention. Shall we go and look after them? I shall not forget one word of what you have told me, but we shall do no good by discussing it any more at present, and the fresh air will be better for you than this close room.'

So saying, he saunters out upon the lawn again, where Delia, having dried her eyes, feels bound after a while to join him.

'Mrs. Manners, I have a favour to ask of you,' he commences, as soon as the opportunity occurs.

'What is it, Mr. Le Mesurier?'

'Will you help me in my parish work? I have often longed for a woman to co-operate with me, and take some of the more delicate cases off my hands, but no one would undertake the duty, and indeed I must say it is not to every one that I would confide it.'

'Do you mean, to visit the poor for you?'

'I do! Not only to visit, but to sympathize and pray for them.'

'Mr. Le Mesurier, I am not fitted for so great a work. I can scarcely pray for myself.'

'Then let the sight of their patience teach you to pray, and to give thanks. I will not have you say that you are unfitted for the office of consolatrix. You have suffered, and you acknowledge that you have sinned. Everybody is eager to affirm the first, but few can be found to confess the second. Armed with them both, you possess the right weapons with which to carry on your warfare with the hardships of the poor. Take my word for it, that you will derive as much healing from the occupation yourself as you will ever be able to impart.'

'If Mrs. Bond can spare me, I shall be very glad to help you, Mr. Le Mesurier. Poor souls! It would give me pleasure to comfort them, and I feel that I could speak more freely with them, perhaps, than with the rich.'

'That is what every one says who has once tried it. It is one of those cases in which it is truly more blessed to give than to receive. And as for dear good Mrs. Bond, trust me for gaining her permission for anything that is likely to do you good. Come! I like to see that smile. It is the thought of my poor that has called it there. It is Heaven's first pledge of the reward which charity never fails to bestow on those who practise it.'

————

CHAPTER V.

'HE IS NOT A NATIVE OF CLOVERFIELD.'

Of course, as Mr. Le Mesurier predicted, Mrs. Hephzibah is only too glad that Delia should take up any occupation that is likely to distract her mind from her own troubles. She loves the woman for herself alone, and has done so from the beginning of their acquaintance. She considers her the most foolishly romantic, sentimental and self-sacrificing individual in the world, but at the same time she respects her for the display of the very qualities she professes to despise as weakness. In reality the two natures are not dissimilar, Mrs. Hephzibah being much softer than she gives herself credit for, and Delia capable, under the appearance of meekness, of the most heroic bravery. So the friends' minds grow together, although they seldom confess it openly, and Mrs. Bond heartily seconds the clergyman's demand on an occasional few hours of Mrs. Manners' time.

'Go! my dear, by all means,' she says to Delia, 'and help the poor creature to get through his duty. I thought he had got more than he bargained for, with this village full of bedridden paupers. It's not the sort of work I should fancy myself, you know. Snuffy old men and rheumatic old women are not much in my line, and I always hated reading aloud; but if you like it, and they like it, it will be all right; and as for the time, it's your own to do as you will with.'

'You malign yourself, dear friend. Who was it picked up a half-starved little actress once in a stationer's shop, and befriended her before she had even inquired whether she were deserving or otherwise? You have always been the helper of the poor and the distressed, and I know your charity is not worn out yet, whatever you may say of yourself.'

'Well, well, child! there's no charity in thrusting in an oar where none is required, and the Cloverfield paupers would probably recognise nothing but harshness in my voice and manner. They'll have a good exchange in your soft wheedling tones and pretty little ways. So go along with your handsome parson and leave me to look after my ugly old man at home.'

Delia does not quite know how to take Mrs. Hephzibah's interpretation of her attempts at being useful in the parish.

'If I went with Mr. Le Mesurier,' she answers gravely, 'I should frustrate the sole object of my taking up this work, which is to lighten his duty by sharing it. He intends to give me, I believe, a certain number of cottages as my field of labour, and I am just to make friends with their occupants, and report their wants and wishes to him.'

'All right, my dear; set about it in any way you think best. Please yourself and you'll please me. And as for the sick and the old, why, there's the storeroom and the kitchen you know, Delia, and you must use them both as you find it necessary. We are not exactly Rothschilds, but that is no reason that the poor should want at our very doors, whilst we have a good dinner on the table; and I am sure that William and I have but one mind in that respect.'

'But, dear Mrs. Hephzibah, thanks to your generosity, I have more money than I need for my own use; and if I make no sacrifice at all in this matter, I shall feel as if it would never bring a blessing with it.'

'Oh! I see what you're at—I knew what would come of your living amongst a lot of papists so long. You're half a papist yourself. You fancy that if you make yourself very uncomfortable, both in body and mind, for the sake of these wretched paupers, that the Almighty will reward you by a special providence. It's for your own good then, and not for the poor after all. Go along with you, Delia; I'm ashamed of you.'

The tears rise in Delia's eyes at this rough treatment of Mrs. Hephzibah's, but they flash nevertheless.

'You are unjust,' she says, 'and that is very unlike you. And I will not hear a word said against papists, as you choose to call them; for my best friends belong to that faith, and I should be an ingrate were I to stand by and hear it ridiculed in silence.'

Mrs. Bond laughs heartily at the discomfiture she has excited.

'That's right, little woman,' she replies, in a patronizing tone; 'stick up for your friends, whatever they are. And I won't question your motives again. Even if you think as I say, I dare say you are right, and good deeds done at the expense of our own comfort bring a reward with them.'

'Mr. Le Mesurier says so,' remarks Delia softly.

'Be off then, and earn your blessing as quickly as you can.'

'The blessing she is most likely to earn,' continues Mrs. Hephzibah in confidence to herself, as soon as Delia's back is turned, 'is that good-looking parson. I'd stake my life that he proposes to her before the month is out. Of course, what else could one expect? Given, a handsome educated man, and a pretty, fascinating woman, both free to do as they choose, and bent on the same occupation, there is no help for them. They must fall in love with each other. I wish, though, that that Austrian fellow with the red beard were out of the way. I'm afraid if Delia has cast her eye upon him, that the parson won't stand so good a chance with her. And it would be so charming to have her settled at the Cloverfield Vicarage and always within call. I tremble to think what the place would be like if anything should occur to make her leave me shut up all alone with this stupid old man. And to think that I've bound myself, body and soul, to be at his beck and call for the rest of my life! No more jaunts abroad at a moment's notice; no more restaurant dinners, without a soul to please but myself—no more liberty, nor freedom, nor pleasure——'

Her thoughts are running on at railroad pace, when something stops them. Something that whispers:

'No more lonely hours in which to brood over your solitary life; no more returning to an empty house devoid of welcome; no more fear lest sickness should place you in the hands of a hireling, or death come unawares to find you friendless and alone.'

And Mrs. Hephzibah awakes from her fit of musing, to walk straight into the 'stupid old man's' private sitting room; where he is much astonished to receive two resounding smacks upon his healthy old face, as earnest of his wife's arrival.

Yes! there are worse things in this world than the bondage that ties us to the heart, even of a friend. Delia, innocent of the matrimonial designs Mrs. Bond has in store for her, makes her first entry into the cottages which have been allotted to her care, with some degree of éclat. It is not everybody who can get on with the poor. It requires more than a desire to do them good to be able to effect it. Delia possesses the essentials of a very sweet voice and affable manner that make her appear even more interested than she is when discussing matters that do not concern herself. She will not carry tracts nor Bibles nor any of the formulæ of parish visiting in her hand. But she takes one or two old illustrated papers from Mrs. Hephzibah's drawer, and a few roses out of the cottage garden. She will not enter the houses without knocking, but stands on the threshold until she has received permission to enter.

The old people and the children stare at her at first with the uncouth breeding of the lower orders, but although she is so unused to their society, she makes them feel at home with her at once. Her secret is a simple one. She treats them as though they belonged to her own rank of life, and takes no liberty with them that she would be ashamed to do with ladies and gentlemen. The poor are very suspicious of the higher classes. They are painfully aware of their own deficiencies and the superiority of gentlepeople, and they are sensitive of the impression their ragged clothes and dirty bodies and uncombed hair must make upon minds of greater refinement. The feeling causes them to be shy, and shyness makes them rude. Delia carries on her mission no knowledge of their ways and manners: only her own intuitive sense of delicacy and courteous bearing. Even the old men and women, who commence by thinking the lady from the Cottage has 'no call' to pry into their domestic concerns, soon perceive the charm of her manner as she begins to talk, not of their poverty nor ailments, but of the beautiful country they have round Cloverfield, and the prospect of a good harvest and a fine autumn. Then, when one old man admires the rose in her hand, she fastens it into the button-hole of his velveteen coat, while his wife exclaims, 'Theer now, feyther, ye are bucked up;' and with another she looks over the illustrated papers, and speaks to him of the foreign places depicted in them. So that, even on that first day, she receives many a cordial invitation to return soon, and has engaged herself to read the news, once a week, to such of her new friends as may be active enough to assemble in one place to listen to it.

Mr. Le Mesurier laughs loudly when she reports her early efforts to establish a club in Cloverfield, and how it has set her thinking that if he can procure her a vacant room for the purpose, she might add to the pleasure by giving the old people tea or coffee, and permitting them to smoke while she reads to them.

'We shall have you setting up a "free-and-easy" next, Mrs. Manners, and presiding at the piano and the bar yourself. What a dreadful mistake I have made by setting you, with all these loose continental notions in your head, to run riot amongst my innocent parishioners! What shall we call the "free-and-easy?" It must have a name and a sign, you know! And are the old ladies to be admitted as well as their husbands? Because if they get tea, their "masters" will certainly expect a little beer, if only to prove their superiority of sex. I must try and get up a comic song or two in anticipation of the opening night. Let me see, I used to sing "The Cork Leg" when I was a youngster, but perhaps you will consider that too slow and old fashioned for the delectation of a club under the auspices of so spirited a manager as you bid fair to be.'

Delia does not join in Mr. Le Mesurier's mirth, but takes all his remarks in earnest.

'I don't see why they should not have a piano, by-and-by,' she answers, 'or that I, or any other lady, should not sing and play to them occasionally. Poor old creatures! they have very few amusements. Then as to the beer! Would it harm them? They would only have it once a week, perhaps; and I know Mrs. Bond would supply it for them with pleasure. We would limit them, you know, Mr. Le Mesurier! we would not let them take too much. And it would be such a treat to them. Such a thing to look forward to. A little news and music—a little chat about it all, and then their pinch of snuff or tobacco—their cup of tea or glass of beer, just to take them home again. Surely it would all be very innocent and inexpensive. And with so many rich county families living round about, it should be easily done.'

'Every one is not so eager to procure pleasure for others, Mrs. Manners, as you seem to be, else this world would be a very different place from what it is at present. What you say is very true. Kept within bounds, such a club would be a godsend in this or any village. The difficulty would be to keep it within bounds.'

'You have no objection to my reading the papers to the old people once a week, have you?'

'I can have no objection to your carrying out any proposition that emanates from so kind and good a heart as your own. Have you been able to make anything out of old Strother?'

'Not yet. He would not even look at me, far less speak. But I hope that may not last. Is he as surly with you?'

'Far worse! He has taken a hatred, or fear, of me—I cannot tell why—which has prevented my visiting him for a long time. I am afraid he is not a very amiable old person. I wish he had never come here.'

'He is not a native of Cloverfield, then?'

'Oh no! He is a Scotchman, the father of Mrs. Kennett, who died many years ago. His daughter undertook the charge of him when he became a widower. I consider the old man to be quite mad, and advised Kennett to place him in the county asylum; but it seems that he promised his wife upon her death-bed not to do so. So he will be saddled with his support as long as he lives, which must be very inconvenient, as he requires constant watching.'

'His granddaughter, Patsy Kennett, complained bitterly to me the other day of the confinement it entailed on her.'

'Poor Patsy! Yes, she is a fine girl,' replies Mr. Le Mesurier, with a slight increase of colour.

'She appears devoted to you.'

'It is all fancy, I assure you. She suffered terribly from neuralgia a short time since, and I was foolish enough to try if mesmerism would relieve her. The attempt was successful, but the natives do not understand the meaning nor the effect of such a cure, and I had great reason to regret having used it.'

'In what way?'

'It attracted my patient too much towards me, and my motives and actions were altogether misinterpreted. That is one reason that I seldom cross Kennett's threshold now unless I am obliged to do so.'

'You are a practised mesmerist, then?'

'Yes, yes. But pray don't speak of it! The subject is an unpleasant one to me, and I would rather not discuss it. Shall you see old Strother to-day?'

'No; I cannot go into the village again until to-morrow afternoon, and then I shall be at the other end. I do not think I shall find my way up to Kennett's farm until Monday.'

'Monday will be the day of the school-feast, when I had hoped to have had your assistance in the field.'

'If you will excuse me, I would rather not be present. Mrs. Bond intends to be there, I know, with a sackful of toys and sugar-plums; but I cannot play at children's games, and shall be more usefully employed elsewhere.'

'The scene will be too gay to suit you?'

'That is just what I mean.'

'And therefore you ought to come. I know it is far more painful when we feel sad to attend a merry-making than a funeral; but we are taught not to live for ourselves, but others.'

'Must I be present at the feast, then?'

'No; I will let you off this time; but I am not sure if I shall not impose some penance for your want of courage that you will like less. For my own part, I would rather be with the children than with old Strother; but there is no accounting for tastes.'

Mrs. Hephzibah is made the recipient of some of the parson's grumbling at Delia's choice, and puts it down to the fact that her prophecy is coming true. Mr. Le Mesurier is evidently beginning to fret without Delia, and Delia is becoming afraid of herself and of him.

Now, there is some truth in the latter assertion, though not for the reason that Mrs. Bond imagines. Delia is not afraid of the influence her new friend possesses over her, but she is of the jests, though innocent enough in themselves, that Mrs. Hephzibah makes about it. Mr. Le Mesurier and she stand in the position of single people, and cannot be too careful of the rumours which an intimacy between them might raise. That the clergyman does possess influence over her, Delia cannot deny. She felt it the first day they met, and subsequently, when that strange mesmeric power of his drew her secret from her unawares. She acknowledges, too, the great charm of his speech and manner, and which she has been able to enjoy to its fullest extent, for the plain reason that he has never permitted it to exceed the bounds of friendship, even by a look.

Were he to do so, she feels their acquaintance would be, once and for ever, at an end.

She has given up Gustave Saxe, but she cannot forget him, nor that he wished her to be his wife; and the honour which that desire bestowed on her will preclude her lowering herself by bestowing a thought upon any other man until the day of her death. Yet Mrs. Hephzibah's jokes and insinuations are trying, and prevent her seeking Mr. Le Mesurier's company as much as she might otherwise have done.

In the matter of the school-feast, she is determined not to be associated with him, because the affair itself is so entirely out of her line, that her friends will of necessity think she has taken part in it with the simple intention of pleasing him. So she remains firm in her refusal; and on Monday afternoon, when the tent is pitched, and the flags are flying, and the village band is making most discordant music in the vicar's field, and the school children, with their tin mugs hung round their necks, are marching two-and-two up his laurelled drive, Delia is half a mile away, toiling along the lane that leads to Mr. Kennett's farm.

As she enters the long, narrow garden that fronts the house, she becomes aware of loud voices engaged in altercation and making themselves very audible through the open window.

'Now then, Patsy!' exclaims Farmer Kennett, 'off with all that fal-lal finery, and sit down to your work agen, as I tell ye. Why, where wad ye be runnin' to at this time o' the arternoon?'

'I'se a-going to the school-feast, be sure,' replies the girl.

'Aye! I guessed as much. A follerin' the parson agen! A bleatin' arter 'im like an unweaned lamb! Now, I tell ye, once for all, I won't have it! There's the old man's meals to be got, and he to be looked arter! and the parson may go to blazes before you shall neglect your proper work to run arter him! We've had enough o' that already, tell ye.'

'I don't see it's my place to attend to the old hunks. There's plenty of servants about the place.'

'Aye, sure! "Old hunks!" That's because he don't take to parson. And is that the way to speak of your own grandfeyther, that you ought to be proud to wait on?'

'Well, then, I ain't proud, and there's an end of it! Who would be proud to run about like a dog, and get no thanks arter all? Wish he'd stayed in Berwick, I do! A snarlin', growlin', cross-grained old——'

'Now, then, Patsy Kennett, you stop that tongue of yourn. I won't have the old man abused by you. If he's got his fads, so have the rest of us; and he was your mother's feyther—that's eno' for me.'

'Mr. Kennett' exclaims Delia, unwilling to hear any more of the conversation without making her presence known, 'is Mr. Strother indoors to-day?'

'Sure, ma'am. I was just having a talk with Patsy aboot him as ye came up.'

'And how is he?'

'Much the same as usual, ma'am. He's well enough in body; but he do fret arter his own place, sure-ly.'

'And how are you, Patsy?'

'I'se well enough, ma'am, thank ye!'

'She's put out because I can't spare her to the school feast, and leave the old gentleman to himself all the arternoon, ma'am. But I must be off to my field-work, and it's hard lines to leave a poor old crittur like that to his own thoughts for so many hours at a time—now ain't it?'

'But can't I relieve Patsy for an hour or two, Mr. Kennett? I do not care about the school-feast; and if you will let her go, I will stay here and try and amuse Mr. Strother till she returns.'

'I'm sure it's main good of you, ma'am, to offer it, and if it won't be puttin' too much upon ye——'

'Certainly not. It is all the same to me if I stay here or go on to see some one else. And I wish to get better acquainted, if I can, with your father-in-law. I think I could amuse him if he would let me do so.'

'He's main cranky at times, ma'am, but there's no saying what kindness may do with him. Patsy's a deal too rough, as I allays say.'

'Feyther don't half know how trying he is,' whispers Patsy as she conducts Delia upstairs; 'he sits on that bed day and night, and don't let no one touch it—not even to smooth the clothes. And he talks sich rubbish sometimes, it would curdle your blood to hear him.'

'He is not dangerous, is he, Patsy?'

'Bless ye! no, ma'am! only silly like, and obstinate. I'm sure I'm ever so much obliged to you for taking a turn with him, for I'm fairly tired out with his cranks.'

'Well, enjoy yourself as much as you can at the feast, Patsy, and come home again without fail in two hours.'

Mr. Strother does not look a promising subject with whom to beguile the tedium of an afternoon in August. He is a little old man of seventy-five or eighty; bent and decrepit to a degree, with cunning, bleared eyes and a perpetual cough.

He is always to be found sitting crumpled up on the edge of his bed, from which it is difficult to move him at any time, and never without he carries a huge parcel (of which he has never been known to lose sight) under his arm.

This parcel, which is hard and sewn up in half-a-dozen different wrappers of sail-cloth, oil-cloth, and baize, is said by some to contain all his personal wardrobe; by others a deal box filled with stones; others, again, assert that it is only a quantity of wood piled up into that shape; but every one agrees that the precious packet is full of utter rubbish. Of course there are to be found a few suspicious and scandalous subjects who shake their heads at one another when old Strother's mysterious bundle is mentioned, and rake up stories of human bones and cut-up carcases having been discovered, after years of concealment, packed in similar contrivances; but the general opinion acquits the poor old man of anything worse than an unpleasant temper, an enfeebled brain, and the cunning that usually accompanies it.

Delia, for her part, respects the bundle prodigiously; Mr. Le Mesurier gave her a shocking account of his having once attempted, in jest, to get it away from the old man, the result being that Strother nearly had a fit, and hated the sight of the parson ever afterwards. So she enters the room with her usual winning smile and salutes the old man graciously. Patsy Kennett, who has accompanied her, attempts to explain her presence.

'This lady is good enough to say she'll sit along o' ye while I go to the school-feast, grandfeyther!'

'Aye! aye! but I don't need her.'

'You need some one to talk to ye, and keep ye company! ye'll be civil now, grandfeyther, and give the lady good mornin', won't ye?'

'I tell ye I don't want her, nor none sich. Tell her to go home—theer's no call for 'er here.'

'She'll sit along o' ye all the same, and you mustn't be sassy, or you and I'll fall out together soon as I come back.'

To this the old man makes no answer, but looks determinately obstinate and unpleasant.

'I don't half like to leave ye along o' sich a cross-grained old mortal,' says Patsy meditatively.

'Never mind me, Patsy! If he refuses to talk, I have my own book to read, and shall make myself very comfortable, so you had better be off at once, for the tables were spread as I passed the vicar's field, and the children being marshalled into their places. Don't miss your pleasure for me, or I shall consider my afternoon has been wasted.'

'You're main good, ma'am,' says the girl for the second time, as she takes advantage of the permission extended to her and runs downstairs, leaving Delia alone with old Simon Strother.

————

CHAPTER VI.

'WHAT DOES HE KEEP IN THAT PARCEL?'

As soon as Patsy has disappeared, Delia attempts to ingratiate herself with her surly companion.

'Shall I read to you, Mr. Strother?'

'Wha'll ye be arter readin'?' he asks.

He is a freckled, lynx-eyed old man, who has been carroty-headed in his youth, and still retains many red hairs mingled with his stubbly white beard. He sits on the bed and full upon the mysterious bundle, with which he never parts company, so that he is perched many feet above his visitor, and looks down upon her like some dirty, unholy imp, with a countenance replete with suspicion and low cunning.

'I will read anything you please, Mr. Strother. Do you take any interest in the news? I have to-day's paper with me.'

'Na, na! I care nobbut the news.'

'Would you like to hear a chapter out of the Bible?'

'Na, na! I care nobbut the Buik.'

'What do you care for then?'

'I care nobbut ae thing. Ye'd best gang your way.'

'But I have promised not to leave you alone, so I must stay here till Patsy returns.'

'Aye! Dinna fash me then!'

And the old wretch places his elbows on his knees and his head upon his hands, and closes his eyes in intimation that he considers the interview, as far as conversation is concerned, to be concluded.

Delia thinks that if this is part of the penance Mr. Le Mesurier promised to impose upon her, it ought to wipe off a good many of her sins. She retreats a little distance from her discourteous host, and, drawing the book on which she is engaged from her leather bag, commences to read for her own amusement. An occasional grunt from Mr. Strother is all the sound that breaks the silence, but she cannot help every now and then stealing a glance at the comical figure perched upon the packet on the bed.

By-and-by she recalls Kennett's assertion that the old creature frets sorely after his native land, and makes a second effort to interest him.

'You have been in Scotland, Strother?'

'Aiblins I have—conseederin' it's my ain country.'

'Do you like it better than England?'

'Mubbe I do!'

'Would you like to go back again?'

'Aye! but there's nane left at hame as ken me noo.'

'Ah; that makes a great difference, does it not? But you have good friends here to love you and look after you, and a beautiful place to live in. Do you ever go to church, Strother? or to the kirk, as you call it in Scotland?'

As she puts this simple question, a transformation seems to pass over the old man. He has been ordinarily intelligent hitherto, but now he suddenly collapses and becomes incoherent. His little bleared eyes roll wildly; his hand is clenched; and the saliva bubbles from his mouth and drops upon his grizzled beard.

'The kirk—the kirk! he' utters excitedly, 'wha'll harm the kirk? Muster Gray munna do it, and the starm munna do it, for the water will aye come doon and pet it oot. And the poor mun, wha'll dream the puir auld mun wha's been twenty years aboot the place, and been main car'ful and aye dune his duty could mak a meestake at the lairst. Ye saw Muster Gray do it, didna ye noo?' he exclaims, making a dash at Delia, who is backing towards the door, with serious thoughts of beating a retreat downstairs. 'Ye mun say ye saw the carle do it, or I'll mak ye greet for the day we ever met.'

'Of course I saw him do it—everybody saw him do it,' she replies boldly, for she can gather his meaning without comprehending his words; 'but don't excite yourself in that way, Mr. Strother, or you may make yourself ill.'

'Eel! eel!' he ejaculates slowly, as he wipes the sweat off his forehead with a ragged cotton handkerchief. 'Hae I been weel sin' the day? But 'twas an awfu' starm surely. Eno' to barn the grondest edifeece that mun ever raised. And puir Simon was only the clairk, and coudna be expected to ken the reason of the fire. 'Twas an awfu' sight to see it barn, with the flames leekin' oop the rafters and the roof, and cracklin through the beeldin'.'

'Of what are you speaking?' says Delia curiously. 'Have you ever been in a fire, Mr. Strother?'

The old man eyes her suspiciously, and becomes silent.

'Do tell me all about it,' she coaxes. 'I love to hear a story, and you tell it so well.'

'Aye! But ye want to drair the seecret frae me, and ye wullna do it, na! na! Simon's a puir auld mun, but he can keep a seecret wi' the best o' thun.'

'Indeed! I don't wish to know your secret, Mr. Strother. I only want to hear about the fire. Was it in Scotland?'

'Na! na! t'wasna in my ain country, but 'twas an awfu' fire. But Muster Gray did it, and ye saw him do it, and ye canna go back frae your spoken waird.'

'Of course not! I do not wish to do so.'

'Weel, then, ye maun be content. If ye saw the carle do it, ye ken a' aboot the fire, and need nane to tell it ye.'

She laughs quietly at the trap the cunning old creature has set for her, and returns to the contemplation of her book, little thinking of the import Mr. Strother's secret is to her.

Presently he fidgets about on the top of his bundle, and she asks him if he is comfortable.

'Why don't you sit on a chair instead of on that great packet, Mr. Strother? I'm sure it must be a very hard seat.'

'It does well eno' for me.'

'But it would pack away so nicely under the bed, and your room would look all the tidier without it.'

'Aye! But I conseeder it's best whar' it is.'

'I suppose there's a box inside that wrapping?'

'Aiblins!'

'A box with clothes in it. Do you never take off the covers, Mr. Strother?'

'I've no need to tak' them off.'

'Do you never want to look at your treasures, then?'

'I dinna ken what you're speakin' aboot.'

'Do you never look at the things you've got in that parcel—well, the books, or whatever they may be?'

Simon Strother springs up from his perch like a jack-in-the-box, and comes down again upon the packet, glaring at his visitor.

'The buiks! the buiks! what do ye ken aboot the buiks? I was main car'ful of them. The fire burned the kirk, but it coudna hairm the buiks, because the puir auld chiel carried them safe to his hame. He lo'ed the buiks better than his bairns, and the awfu' fire daurna barn them! Hoot! see the lightnin', and listen to the peals of thoonder! The puir lassie 'ull be skeered wi' the flashes and the rain. Dinna greet, my puir wee thing! Dootless but theer's haird times before ye, but ye willna hae your wits barned oot like puir auld Simon, wha saw the whole edefeece come to the groond. But he saved the buiks—the good auld buiks that had sairved the peerish for so mony years. Aye! he was main car'ful of the buiks, and nane could thraw bleeme upon him becaise the buiks came to hairm!'

The books! the fire! the kirk! Something like a gleam is dawning upon Delia's mind. It cannot be! It is altogether too unlikely—yet if it were!

'Mr. Strother,' she cries, 'what was the name of the place where the kirk was burned down?'

'What! ye saw it dune, and ye canna remember the name of the place!' he returns, with a cunning leer.

'I was so frightened by the fire I forgot to ask the name,' she says, making a bold attempt at extracting the truth from him.

'Aye! The fire skeered you as it did me. And mubbe you air the puir lassie hersel' wha got married in the starm. I mind hoo skeered she looked when she writ her name doon in my buiks, but I canna remember hoo she was called.'

'Was there a girl married on that day in the church? Is it the storm at Chilton in Berwick you are speaking of? The lightning that burned Chilton Church to the ground twenty years ago?'

'Cheelton! Cheelton!' screams the old man; 'wha daurs to meention Cheelton in Barwick to me? I ken naethin' of the toon. I dinna ken if there is a kirk in Cheelton or no. I'm a Heelandmun, I ken naethin' of the Barder-land, and if any say I do, they lee. I tell ye they lee. Get oot!' he continues angrily to Delia; 'ye're a leear, I say—a dommed leear! and there's naethin' in this paircel but a peer o' breeks. What wou'd ye be luikin' at the auld mun's breeks for? Get oot, I say, and leave me to mysel'; I wullna hae ye speering aboot my room in this shameless manner. And as for the paircel, it's my paircel, and ye shallna hae my breeks; I'll see ye dee fairst.'

Delia, now fairly alarmed, rushes towards the door, and stumbles down the narrow staircase, where, to her infinite comfort, she encounters Patsy Kennett, who, much flushed and smiling, is mounting to relieve guard.

'Oh, Patsy! I am so thankful you have returned. Your grandfather has frightened me out of my senses.'

'Has he, now? It's just like him! The old hunks can't keep a civil tongue in his head for ten minutes together. But lor, ma'am, you're all of a trimble! Do 'e come down into the parlour now, and let me get ye a drink of tea, or summat, before ye go'

'No, thank you, Patsy! I shall be all right directly. But I want to ask you a few questions. How long is it since your grandfather left Scotland?'

'A matter of five year or more, ma'am. We had never seen the old gentleman before then, and I'm sure I wish we'd never seen him at all, for the trouble he gives is past believing.'

'Is he mad, Patsy?'

'Bless ye! yes, ma'am, as mad as a March hare—though the worst he ever does is to give the rough side of his tongue. Ye see the way of it was this. Poor mother, she come from Scotland, and feyther, he picked her up when she was in sarvice in London, and brought her down here. Meantime, grandfeyther goes silly up at her old home, and when grandmother died and there was no one left to see arter the old man, mother she prayed feyther to have him to Cloverfield. Well, I always thought he brought ill-luck to the house, for six months arter he came, poor mother fell sick of her last illness, and grandfeyther's been left to my care ever since. Parson, I know, wanted feyther to get rid of the old gentleman, but he promised mother he wouldn't, and so there 'tis, and there it must be, till the Almighty's good enough to take him.'

'But what drove him out of his senses, Patsy?'

' 'Twas a big fire, ma'am, and he was terrible burnt in it. You can see the scars on his breast and shoulders now. You see, grandfeyther, he was parish clerk at a place called Chilton——'

'Not Chilton in Berwick, Patsy?'

'Yes, ma'am! that's the place!'

'Gracious Heavens! is it possible? But Mr. Strother denied just now that he'd ever been there.'

'Ah! that's his cunning! He won't bear the least talking to on the subject. But there was an awful fire there that burned down the church and the parsonage, and no one ever knew how it happened; but grandfeyther lost his situation, and took it so to heart that he's never been right in his head since.'

'Parish clerk of Chilton in Berwick!' murmurs Delia; 'how wonderful I should have met him here, Patsy! I was married at that church on the very day it was burned down, and your grandfather must have been present at the ceremony.'

'Lor'! how strange! And now I come to think of it, ma'am, he often talks in his ravings about a young lady—a

"lassie" he calls her—who was married in the midst of the storm. Bless me! that is queer.'

'Patsy, what has he got in that bundle?'

'Ah! now you beat me, ma'am! No one, not even poor mother, ever saw the inside of that bundle. Often and often I've threatened to burn it whilst the old creature lay asleep, but feyther says he'll take the stick to me if I do. And he sleeps with his head on it, too, ma'am, and hardly ever leaves sight of it, night or day!'

'Does he never go out, then?'

'Only once and again in the garden for an hour or so, and then he locks his door, and takes the key along of him. Oh! he is a crankums, I can tell ye!'

'What can he keep in that huge parcel?'

'Some think it's stones—or sticks—or maybe rags. He brought it with him as it is, and has never undone it. Parson tried to look at it once, and the old man nearly bit him. He won't look at parson now, and ye'd better never mention the name before him.'

'Couldn't you find out by any means what is in that parcel, Patsy?'

Delia has become wonderfully curious about the old clerk's worldly possessions.

'I durstn't, ma'am. Feyther would nearly kill me, and the old man would quite. I'd sooner walk up and scratch the nose of Farmer Simpson's mad bull.'

'Ah! well! I dare say (as you seem to think) there's nothing of consequence in it. How did the feast go off?'

'Beautifully, ma'am! and I'm main obliged to you for letting me go. The tea was lovely, and Mrs. Bond gave me such a handsome neck-ribbon. I told parson ye were here, and he said he should be looking out for ye as ye go back again, to hear how you fared with grandfeyther.'

'I am afraid I shall not have a very cheering account to give him. The old man would neither let me read nor talk to him. When does he go into the garden, do you say?'

'Most days, ma'am, when it's fine. In the afternoon, when he's had his dinner, and wants to smoke a pipe.'

'I think I would rather talk to him there than in the room, which is rather close. Well, good-bye, Patsy! I will try and look in again, the end of the week.'

She hurries from the farm parlour as she speaks—her head in a whirl of excitement—her heart not knowing what it dares to hope for—her mind filled with one thought, the wish to meet and tell all to Mr. Le Mesurier. At the end of the long lane that precedes the village road she sees him, walking thoughtfully to and fro, and evidently waiting for her.

The feast is over he has done his share of handing plates of buns and filling mugs with milk and water, and the children are dispersed at play about the field—howling, running, tumbling, and yelling, in the semi-savage idiotic manner that the young of the human race adopt as a means of testifying to their enjoyment of life, in which art they fall far below the inferior animals, possessing neither the agility nor the grace of kittens, nor the innocence nor good temper of puppies.

It is not a scene calculated to afford pleasure to any educated mind: and it jars on that of Le Mesurier like a false chord in music. As he turns and catches sight of Delia's advancing figure, his face brightens. She reaches his side, breathless with haste.

'Oh! Mr. Le Mesurier, I have such a wonderful piece of news to tell you. Who on earth do you suppose old Simon Strother turns out to be?'

'Benjamin Kennett's father-in-law.'

'He is much more than that, I can assure you! He is, or rather he was, the parish clerk of the church in Chilton, at which I told you I was married to James Moray.'

'Is it possible?'

'Indeed it is. He has been telling me the whole story.'

'But can you trust the man's account of himself? Don't forget the state of his mind!'

'He cannot have invented it all. He described the storm and the fire to me. He even spoke of myself, or rather of the girl whom he remembers to have seen married on that very morning. Besides, Patsy Kennett corroborates all the historical part of his recital!'

'How it has excited you. You are trembling all over. But tell me, now! Supposing it to be all true, what difference can it make to you?'

'I do not know! Only I feel as if something would come of it. And the old man let out that he had books in that parcel which, Patsy says, he will never lose sight of. Mr. Le Mesurier, will you let me see the books for the registry of marriages which you keep in your vestry?'

'My dear friend, what are you driving at now?'

'I have never seen such books that I can remember! I do not know what they look like outside.'

'Very musty, and dirty, and worn—especially in a small parish like this, where they last for years.

'I must go and look at them to-morrow, that I may be able to recognise them if necessary. I suppose they are all much alike.'

'Mrs. Manners! what do you mean?'

'I mean, that in an unguarded moment old Strother divulged to me that his parcel held books, and the thought has struck me—I believe it is an inspiration—that they are the Chilton vestry books of which he had charge.'

'But that is the unlikeliest thing in the world. You told me that the church was burned to the ground in the night, and all that was in it. And did not your husband's brother, William Moray, when he wanted to get hold of your boy, send a messenger to Chilton in hopes of getting the certificate of marriage—without success? You are permitting your imagination to run away with you, Mrs. Manners. Even if Simon Strother were the clerk at Chilton, he would never have been allowed to make off with the parish registry books. It is altogether unlikely!'

'But he is mad, remember, Mr. Le Mesurier. Patsy says he was badly burned in the fire, and has been silly ever since. And how came he to be burned, if he were not attempting to save something from the flames? Besides, he told me he had saved the "buiks." He got fearfully excited at something I said to him, and declared he loved the "buiks" more than his own children, and no one could ever say they had come to harm.'

'And so you think the "buiks" must needs be tied up in his old bundle,' says Mr. Le Mesurier smiling.

'I feel sure of it! Oh! don't laugh at me. Think what a change it will make in my whole life, if the idea only proves true!'

'I do think of it, and that is why I am so anxious your hope should not lead you astray. I know what the disappointment will be if it proves fallacious! And I fear you have so little foundation to go upon.'

Delia's face falls.

'Do you really? Still, I must see the contents of that bundle. I shall never be satisfied till I have convinced myself, one way or the other.'

'How do you propose to accomplish it?'

'I cannot decide yet, but I have been thinking of it all the way home. Patsy says the old man sits in the garden when the afternoon is fine. Now if I can only get into his room when he is out of it, I will have all those wrappers off in ten minutes.'

'You may be sure he secures his precious package from intrusion before he consents to leave it. Kennett has told me that he refuses to get off it, day or night.'

'Yes, and Patsy says he locks his door whilst he is away. But the window must be accessible from the back garden. I could get up by a ladder, and smash in the glass if I find it fastened.'

'You'll be indicted for housebreaking with burglarious and felonious intent, if you don't take care, Mrs. Manners. And when you have opened the bundle, at the risk of your personal safety perhaps, you will find a mass of filthy rags.'

'I care nothing about my personal safety—I care only to find my unfortunate marriage certificate. Will you help me to do so?'

'Most certainly I will, to the extent of communicating our suspicions to the police, and forcing Mr. Strother to disclose his hidden treasures. Only I think we had better try soft measures first, and if you can make your way, with the girl's help or without it, into the old man's room, and unrip the bundle for yourself, it will certainly be the easier plan.'

'Patsy is too much afraid of her father to help me. I must do it alone! Do you think I might give old Strother a glass of wine with something in it to make him go to sleep, first?'

Mr. Le Mesurier laughs loud at the suggestion.

'What a manœuvrer you are, Mrs. Manners! You'll be hocussing me the next time you want to get me out of the way. I think you might venture on the wine though, without the "something" in it, and it will probably have all the desired effect. Or, what will be better still, give him a glass of whisky. You have heard how Scotchmen love their "whusky," and Mr. Strother will probably not be able to stand proof against the temptation.'

'Of course! That will be the very thing! I will take him a bottle!'

'Don't kill him outright, or you may be indicted for manslaughter along with the other misdemeanours. I am laughing again, Mrs. Manners, but believe me how sincerely I am interested in this new hope of yours, and how rejoiced I shall be at its fulfilment.'

'And believe me, Mr. Le Mesurier, that I will not rest hand nor foot till I have reached the bottom of that mystery, be it what it may!'

————

CHAPTER VII.

'MAY I ASK YOU A FAVOUR IN RETURN?'

The most natural thing to suppose is, that Delia runs straight home, after her interview with the parson, to repeat the discovery she has made to Mrs. Bond. But, strange to say, she does nothing of the sort. A hundred times during the evening is it on the tip of her tongue to tell it, and a hundred times her courage fails her, and she decides she will wait a little longer and discover a little more, before she makes her friend the recipient of her confidence. She believes and trusts in Mrs. Hephzibah as she does in no other mortal creature, but she is just the least bit afraid of ridicule from her caustic tongue. Clever women, as a rule, are not favourites with their own sex. Their comments are too unflattering, and their scent too keen, and their judgment too frankly delivered, not to render those with less knowledge and sharpness fearful of encountering a passage-of-arms with them.

Delia is no fool. She can hold her own with most people, but Mrs. Hephzibah has so little patience with romance and all its attendant excitement, that she will probably laugh unmercifully at the chimera, as she will call it, which has been raised by Delia's imagination, and cause some unpleasantness between them. For it is hard to hear our dearest hopes ridiculed in silence. And yet Delia would endure anything rather than quarrel, however slightly, with her friend. So she determines to keep her suspicions to herself, until they have become certainties.

The next day has scarcely begun before she has reason to rejoice at her reticence. Mrs. Hephzibah follows her from the breakfast-room into the drawing-room.

'Delia, my dear, shall you have any objection to be left to take care of the cottage by yourself for a week or two?'

'Certainly not, Mrs. Hephzibah. But why? Are you going away?'

'William must do so, and I want to accompany him. That fool Bob has got into a mess, and writes to his father to back a bill for him, and he shan't do it, as sure as my name's Hephzibah Horton—I mean Bond! As if I didn't know what backing a bill for five hundred pounds for Master Bob means! Giving him the money out of our own pockets, without his having the courage to ask for it, nor our having the credit of generosity.'

'You don't think he will pay it back again?'

'He can't pay it back. It is an impossibility. He draws a salary of eight hundred a year, and has got a wife and four children, who eat up every sixpence as fast as it comes into the house. William mumbles some rubbish about Bob being an honourable man and repaying him by instalments; but you know what William is, and always was—a simple creature that a child of two years old might twist round his little finger. And I won't stand by and see him robbed. Bob has no business, with his salary, to require such a loan. But I guess how it's come about. Madam has not been able to pick the bones of her poor old father-in-law for the last six months, and has run up bills in consequence, and expects him to pay them. I'll see her further first!'

'What do you mean to do, Mrs. Hephzibah?' demands Delia, who quite pities poor Mrs. Bob, whatever her delinquencies may be, for having to go through an interview with her determined mamma-in-law.

'Do! my dear! Why, I shall make very short work of it. I shall say to Bob, "Now look here, my boy. Hand over those bills of your wife's at once, and I'll pay them—for the first and last time though, you will please to remember; and if your father is such a fool as even to think of backing a bill for you, for five pounds or five pence—why, I'll take over the charge of his whole income from this hour, and not a man-jack of you shall inherit a halfpenny of it." No! no! I know the little old man's a fool, and I've often called him so, but no one else shall apply the term to him whilst I live, and that you may take your oath of, Delia Moray.'

'I am sure you will settle everything in the best possible way for all parties, Mrs. Hephzibah.'

'And you're not afraid to stay in the cottage by yourself till we return?'

'Afraid! Of what should I be afraid?'

'I'm sure I don't know! I don't know what half the women in this world are afraid of, and yet they are! How ever, I shall consider the thing settled, and start to-morrow. We may be absent a week or fortnight. It will depend entirely upon the amount of Bob's liabilities, or his father's obstinacy. But if it takes me six weeks to settle, I don't return home till I've seen it done.'

'All right, dear friend! If your absence is even extended to six weeks (for which I should be sincerely sorry) you will find me at my post when you return, and everything, I hope, in the strictest order.'

She sees now that she was wise not to disclose her interview with old Strother too soon. She might have unduly excited Mrs. Hephzibah's curiosity, or even prevented her accompanying her husband to London.

Now, the coast will be clear for action, and she and Mr. Le Mesurier will be able to work together, or apart, as they may see fit. The prospect of freedom of action gives her renewed courage, and hope rises up strong within her, and makes her ready to sing with anticipation. She looks so bright and gay, indeed, on the morning of their departure, that Mrs. Hephzibah's lynx eyes detect the change, and her tongue remarks upon it:

'What are you hopping about and dancing all over the place like a parched pea for, Delia Moray?' she inquires sharply. 'It looks very much as if you were glad to get rid of us for awhile.'

'O! Mrs. Hephzibah! how can you think of such a thing!'

'I didn't think of it till you put it in my head. However, I'll be charitable and lay all your activity to your desire to get us off in good time. I suppose you will enjoy an extra quantity of the parson's company when we're out of the way.'

'I suppose I shall see him about as often as I do now,' replies Delia, with a slight accession of colour.

'Fiddle-de-dee! my dear! The whole world is not blind! We all know what Mr. Le Mesurier comes here for! Only, don't go and marry him without giving us notice—that's all.'

'Dear friend! you do make me so uncomfortable by your remarks. Please don't joke on that subject any more. You must know there is no foundation for what you say!'

'I don't know anything of the sort,' returns Mrs. Hephzibah pertinaciously. 'However, you're both free agents, and have a right to judge for yourselves. Now! don't bid me good-bye with that long face! Laugh and look happy, or I shall believe my worst suspicions to be correct.'

Delia does laugh, and bids her friend a very affectionate farewell, though the subject she broached worries her for some hours after the pony-carriage has driven away to the station with its owners. Why cannot a middle-aged man and woman feel and express a friendship for each other, without the bystanders immediately attributing their intimacy to a warmer feeling? Mr. Le Mesurier, too, who has never by word or look hinted at love for her—whose breast conceals a sorrow which she feels sure is connected with some woman's death or desertion—how cruel it is, even in jest, to link their names together. It makes her quite shy with the parson on the first occasion of his entering the cottage; but when he proposes a visit to the church and the vestry books, she joins in the plan with alacrity, and prepares to accompany him at once.

'What queer-looking things!' she says, as she examines the rough, brown leather covers in which the volumes are bound; 'and the ink in which the first entries are made is quite faded and pale. Fifty years ago, Mr. Le Mesurier! Is it possible this book has lasted all that time?'

'Quite possible in Cloverfield, where we do not celebrate half a dozen marriages a year. What is it, Mrs. Webber?'

This last question is addressed to the pew-opener, who is employed in cleaning the church, and now beckons him mysteriously to her side from the open vestry-door.

'Excuse me a moment,' Mr. Le Mesurier says hurriedly to Delia, as he passes into the chancel.

She continues to turn over the record of the Cloverfield marriages with a sort of undefined curiosity. Is it possible that on the preservation of a slip of scribbled paper like one of these depends the validity of a union which, by the loss of it, may be the means of so much misery? She shudders as she recalls what the loss of her own has entailed upon her, and turns over the leaves rapidly. As she does so, a name catches her eye—one name amongst the hundreds she has gazed upon mechanically—and she reads the record.

On such and such a day, 'John Le Mesurier, bachelor, of Dublin, to Adela Coombes, spinster, of Southampton.'

She looks at the date: it is that of fifteen years ago—five years before the present Mr. Le Mesurier came to reside in the parish. Still, it seems strange that he should not have noticed the name being similar to his own; but perhaps, she argues, clergymen never take the trouble to read the records of marriages that occur before they had charge of the parish.

'Is this a relation of yours?' she asks promptly, as her friend returns to the vestry. 'The name is precisely the same, you see—John Le Mesurier; but he was married five years before you came here, so perhaps you never saw the certificate.'

Pointing with her finger to the entry, she turns to confront the clergyman, and is amazed to see the pallor that has overspread his face.

'Mr. Le Mesurier! are you not well?'

'I am quite well, thank you! Have you finished examining this musty old book? Then, I think we may as well lock it up again! About Mr. John Le Mesurier, who appropriates my lawful cognomen! Yes! I believe he must be some sort of connection of mine, because the name is not a common one; but I never knew him, and as you say, the event happened long before I ever saw the place!'

But he is very pale still, and the muscles of his face are working nervously.

'There are no Coombes living about here now,' remarks Delia thoughtfully.

'Oh! no! There is nobody of the name here. There never was!' replies Mr. Le Mesurier, in the same agitated and uncertain manner. 'Now, you are quite sure you will know a vestry-book again, to swear to—won't you?' he continues, with a sickly attempt to smile; 'and be able to tell at once if old Strother's possessions are the property of the Church, or his own?'

'Oh! I think so; and, Mr. Le Mesurier, I assure you his parcel is just the size to contain three or four of these books—making allowance for all the wrappings they are sewn in.'

'When do you intend to make your first raid upon these wrappings?

'To-morrow, I think; but I shall not go unless it is a really hot afternoon, that will tempt the old man to sit out for some time in the garden. Do you not come my way?'

'No! thanks! I have a visit to pay to the Temples. Good afternoon!'

He raises his hat and strides off abruptly.

Delia is just wondering what can be the reason of his sudden alteration of manner, when he retraces his steps and overtakes her.

'Mrs. Manners, when you told me a secret that affected your daily happiness you relied on me for respecting your confidence and keeping it sacred, did you not?'

'Certainly I did!'

'Have I belied your trust?'

'I am sure you have not!'

'Then may I ask you a favour in return, not to mention to anyone the record you saw just now of my—my—relation's marriage? He is not a person to be proud of, and the marriage was strictly private, and for many reasons it is desirable it should remain so! I know you will oblige me in this particular. Good-day.'

And, raising his hat once more, Mr. Le Mesurier leaves her again without waiting for the assurance he has so earnestly required.

Delia does not know what to think of this little episode, but she has always considered her clergyman friend to be rather strange and erratic in his moods, and ascribes his anxiety on the subject of the marriage record not being mentioned to some fad of his own, certainly not to anything that can concern her. She has so much to think of and plan for herself at this moment that she has no leisure to speculate upon the actions of her acquaintances. She ponders hour after hour on the best means of conciliating old Strother, and rendering her voyage of discovery easier; but she reaches Kennett's farm the following day without having arrived at any definite conclusion as to what course it will be better to pursue.

It is a broiling afternoon, and Delia has felt the trudge up the long lane very trying; but she is rewarded by the first sight that meets her eyes being that of the old Scotch man sunning himself by the beehives. He looks only a trifle less offensive in the open air than he did in his close bedroom, and he receives his visitor with no greater cordiality. But she is delighted to see that he is smoking his pipe, and she has a little flask of Scotch whisky hidden away in her pocket.

'What a lovely day, Mr. Strother! I am so glad to find you out! Where is Patsy?'

'I dinna ken.'

'Does she find it too hot in the garden? I almost think I do! May I go round and ask her for a glass of water?'

'Ye canna fash me wi' what ye do.'

Accepting the ungracious permission extended to her, Delia walks up the gravel path to the farmhouse. Her object is twofold: first, to find out where Patsy may be; and secondly, to obtain a glass of water in which to put the whisky. At the open door she meets a serving-girl.

'Is Miss Patsy in, Jane?'

'Well, she ain't azackly in, mum, but she won't be long. She's only rin out the back way to meet a friend, and I'm keeping watch in case the maister should return and make a rumpus about it. Poor Miss Patsy's got very little time to hersel', mum, so ye maunt tell the maister of her.'

'To be sure not, Jane! I have only come to beg for a glass of water. The day is so hot, and I am very thirsty.'

The farm maiden lifts down a mug from the nail on which it hangs, and makes her way out into the back garden.

'The poomp's at the back,' she says in going.

Delia follows her. To examine the back of the house is her desire.

She finds that the 'poomp' stands in a wilderness of currant-bushes and raspberry-canes, now stript of their fruit, and the wall of the house is thickly covered with a vine of many years' growth. On either side of the back door are windows with latticed panes and broad sills; the lower one to the right is the scullery window, the one above it she believes to belong to the bedroom of old Strother, and it is fastened open by an iron hook.

'Is that the old gentleman's room?' she asks indifferently of the servant.

'Yiss, mum, that's his'n, and 'twull be a good day for all concerned when he's laid out in it.'

'Does he make himself so very unpleasant, then?'

' 'Twould take a month, mum, to tell ye half his noosances.'

Delia walks up to the window-sill, and finds it is amply wide enough to stand upon. In the scullery are a set of steps with which she could easily reach the upper window. Given ten minutes to herself, and she feels sure that her work would be accomplished. She is active and lissom still, although the mother of a man. The worse difficulty will be to get the servant, who appears to be the only person within hail, out of the way. But Delia has her purse in her pocket and knows the power of money. She has no fear, when the time comes, of not being able either to get rid of Jane or to make use of her.

'Will Miss Patsy be long?' she inquires.

'I think not, mum, for she and I is the only ones at home. It's harvesting, you see, and the men are all at work in the field. But I promised Miss Patsy to see arter the old gennelman, and he's right enough in the gardin, so maybe she won't hurry, and particular as she's gone to meet her young man.'

'I see! Well, give me a little more water, Jane—thanks, that will do! And now I will go and talk to Mr. Strother, and keep a good look-out for the master coming up the lane.'

She returns to the old clerk full of hope for the success of her project. But to her surprise she finds he has left his seat and is peering in at the open front door.

'What air ye speerin' sae lang wi' the lass fur?' he asks in his usual suspicious way.

'I was only getting some water to drink, Mr. Strother,' replies Delia cheerfully. 'I find a little weak whisky-and-water the most cooling drink possible on these burning afternoons.'

'Whusky! What can a leddy ken aboot whusky?'

'Oh! don't I "ken" about it! You forget I have lived in Scotland, where everyone acquires a liking for it, and my friend Mr. Bond has some of the finest Scotch whisky in his cellar you ever tasted.'

'Aye! It's mony a day sin' the like o' me tasted whusky.'

'Why! do you never have any now?'

'Wha'll an auld mon like me find the bawbees to buy whusky? D'ye theenk that carle Kennett 'ud give 'em me? Ah! ye dinna ken how close he keeps the puir auld mon wha's got naethin' left of his ane. Ay me! it's deevil a bawbee he ever pets in my han'.'

The old creature is evidently beginning to trust her, Delia thinks, for she has never heard him so communicative before.

'Whusky' and 'bawbees'—the two great national idols before which Scotchmen bend their knees more fervently than ever Catholic bowed before his patron saint—what may she not accomplish with them both?

'Mr. Strother, I want you to taste my whisky, and if you think it good, I shall bring you a bottle for yourself.' 'A hale bottle o' whusky to mysel'? Aye! but ye're the richt sort o' leddy to veesit a puir auld chiel like me.'

With his old tongue he commences to lick his lips as she produces the spirit-flask, and the wrinkled hand he extends for the glass trembles visibly. Delia has taken care to make the dose a potent one, and Strother takes it down at a draught.

'Aye! but that's summat like whusky!' ejaculates the old sinner, as the last drop trickles down his throat.

'Would you like a little more?' cries Delia.

'Wall, I'm no sayin' that I couldna tak' a wee drappie more—but I'm na strang in the stummick, leddy, and I'm thinkin' that mubbe, if ye werena to pet the wetter in it this time, I shouldna rin the risk of takin' cauld in my insides.'

'Of course not! How foolish of me not to think of it!' exclaims Delia, placing the flask itself (which once contained half-a-pint of sherry from a railway station) in his hands.

Old Strother's bleared eyes light up with sensual pleasure as he applies his lips to the neck of this little bottle, and expresses his satisfaction at its contents by loud and prolonged smacks. But he does not grow sleepy so soon as Delia expected. Either he is more accustomed to drinking spirits than he will acknowledge, or his head is very strong; but though he becomes less loquacious and makes absurd faces to himself in the air, his eyes do not show any disposition to close.

Delia commences her wiles again.

'Do you like the whisky, Strother?'

'It's jeest the barder-land to heeven, leddy.'

'You would like me to give you a whole bottle to yourself, wouldn't you?'

'You wouldna expeect me to pee for it?' he says, with a sudden fear.

Delia cannot help laughing.

'Certainly not! I mean to make you a present of it.'

'I haena a bawbee o' my ain to sweer by. I ken weel I had pleenty in the auld days, but there's nane, noo my puir bairn Kennett's gane, to ceer if the auld chiel hae his bawbees or na.'

'Shall I give you some bawbees?' says Delia, holding out a five-shilling piece to him.

He snatches it eagerly.

'Aye! but the siller's beautifu'! Hoot! hoo it glistens i' the soon. The lairge handsom' bit o' siller with the heed o' the queen upon it. I mun petit in my paircel—I munna let that carle Kennett or that hizzy Patsy speer at my siller, or mubbe they'll tak' it away agin. They'll tak' my beautifu' bawbee frae me and buy shoon wi' it. Ha! ha! the siller piece shall rest in my paircel wi'—wi'——'

'With what, Strother?' interrupts Delia anxiously, observing that he halts.

'Wi' my breeks, leddy!' he says with a leer.

The old man is as clever as herself, and not to be taken in one moment sooner. She wanders from him up and down the garden, hoping that silence may induce repose. At the tenth turn, seeing his eyes still wide open, she begins to despair, and believes her afternoon, whisky, and crown-piece to have been all three thrown away; but as she saunters towards him for the twelfth time, she perceives, to her great joy, that his head has fallen forward on his breast, and he has commenced to nod, with those short, uncomfortable jerks that assail one when sleeping in a chair.

Delia crawls up and down the path a little longer, and then, seeing that all is safe, skims past the sleeping old man noiselessly, and rushes to the back garden. There is no time to waste now; she must do her work rapidly and without delay.

'Jane,' she exclaims, going at once to the point, 'here is half-a-sovereign for you! I want that set of steps placed against this wall. I have a great fancy to gather some of the bunches of grapes that hang up there by the second window!'

Jane, who probably has never possessed half-a-sovereign all to herself in her life, stares at the coin as if she were in a dream.

'I must have it at once; do you hear?' repeats Delia; 'or it will be of no use to me.'

'Sure, ma'am—but they isn't ripe yet.'

'Never mind that! You bring the steps.'

The girl has them in her arms as she speaks, and places them against the wall without further remonstrance.

Delia mounts them like a squirrel.

'What a queer fancy!' thinks the servant as she watches the lady's ascent.

But she has half-a-sovereign in her hand, and she cares for nothing else.

As Delia reaches the second window, she tells Jane to re-enter the house and watch the sleeping man for her. As soon as ever the girl has disappeared, she is on the sill and through the open casement.

Yes, here is the same room in which her last interview was held with the old clerk of Chilton; and there stands his bed, with the immortal package on the top of it.

She sits down, and, taking out a pair of scissors provided for the purpose, commences to unrip the stitching of the wrappers. She has never calculated on the difficulty of her task.

The box, or books, or whatever the contents may be, have been stitched and re-stitched with thick twine, so that the old man appears to have spent days over his task. At last, by dint of blunted implements and bruised fingers, Delia has succeeded in removing the outer wrapper of American cloth, when she finds herself confronted by a second one of drugget or baize, as hard to work through as the first.

She tries to cut right through the centre of the package, but some hard substance resists the scissors! she must have patience and proceed by degrees.

As she has half unripped the second covering, however, she is startled by a noise upon the uncarpeted stairs—the sound of approaching footsteps stumbling up the narrow gangway. What can it be? Is it possible that Strother can have awakened from his slumber and had his suspicions aroused by her absence? She flies to the casement that looks out upon the front. It is true! He has left his chair, and a key is already grating and twisting about in the keyhole of the door.

Delia has no time for consideration—no time to do anything but escape by the way she came, so, leaving the 'paircel' in the state to which she has reduced it, and not waiting even to recover her fallen scissors, she leaps on to the window-sill, and is down the steps and standing on the gravel path below before an eye has seen her proceedings.

Her next effort is to place the steps where she found them, and thence to proceed, flushed and panting, into the front-kitchen, where Jane is quietly seated, shelling broad-beans, with her half-sovereign laid on the table beside her.

'The old gentleman's gone through up to his room,' are the first words with which she placidly greets Delia. 'My goodness! what's that?'

She alludes to a loud scream, like the note of an angry ape in pain, which proceeds from Strother's chamber. Delia knows full well what it is, and prepares to fly from further questioning. But the old man's ravings reach them but too distinctly.

'Wha's been in my room?' he cries. 'Wha's daured to tooch my paircel? Let me find the carle and I'll wreeng his neck for him. I'll ken wha's daured to fash me. I was anely i' the gairden takin' a wee drap o' whusky, and naebody hae been i' the house but Jean. It maun be that hizzy Jean. Heer! Jean, Jean!'

'You had better go to the old man and quiet him, Jane,' says Delia. 'Tell him no one has been in his room. How could they, with the door locked? I'm afraid I may have given him a little too much whisky. Do what you can with him, and I'll go and tell Miss Patsy, whom I see coming up the garden, all about it.'

Miss Patsy does not think anything of the affair. Mrs. Manners is 'main' good, she says, to trouble about 'the old hunks,' but no one ever dreams of attending to anything he says or does. He's as 'daft' as any lunatic in the county asylum.

'And where have you been, Patsy?'

'I've been to meet my young man, ma'am,' says Patsy, with a blush and a smile; 'for you see, it is our harvest home supper to-night, and if he was to miss it, all the fun of the evening would be gone for me.'

'Naturally! Where is your supper to be held?'

'Up at the big barn in the poplar field. I suppose it would be no use asking ye to join us, ma'am. Likely parson will be there. He mostly looks in at the harvesting suppers.'

'No! Patsy, thank you; I am too tired to-day. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Bond are in London, and I have the cottage to look after. But I hope you will have a very pleasant evening, and that your young man will be sure to be there.'

She gets away as soon as she can after that, for she is disappointed at the failure of her afternoon's experiment, and fears lest she may have marred her chances of success by her precipitancy. But as she sits alone in the evening, thinking over these things, it suddenly occurs to her that in all probability old Strother will have gone up to the harvesting supper with his friends, and the coast be once more clear.

She never thought of asking Patsy Kennett whether her grandfather would be included amongst the guests, but it is worth going up to the farm to see if it is the case or no. As soon as this idea strikes Delia, she puts it into execution. It is ten o'clock; but what is ten o'clock for a walk along a country lane, with the harvest moon lighting up each object as bright as day?

When she has traversed half its distance her eye is attracted by something that glitters in the hedgerow. Delia stoops to pick it up, and finds to her astonishment that it is the same glass flask she presented to the old Scotchman that afternoon.

It is like the old man's surly ingratitude to throw it away, she thinks; but how on earth did it come there? She holds it in her hand, as she walks on, wondering, but can come to no better conclusion than that Strother may have commissioned some child to fetch him whisky in it, with the money she gave him, and the messenger, cognisant of the old man's weakness of intellect, has been unfaithful to his trust.

But as she reaches the farmhouse another light is thrown upon the circumstance. She is met by the servant Jane—howling loudly, after the fashion of the lower orders when in distress, and wringing her hands.

'Gracious heavens! exclaims Delia, 'what is the matter?'

————

CHAPTER VIII.

HE'S GONE.

'He's gone, mum!' replies Jane, in a fresh succession of howls, and making as though she would rush down the lane. 'He's gone!'

Delia places her hand upon her arm to detain her.

'What do you mean? You mustn't leave me like this. Who's gone?'

'The old gentleman, mum! Oh! now ye're here, do 'e bide a bit and let I rin down the village arter 'im. If the maister comes home and finds 'im gone, he'll take all the skin off my back, I know he will.'

'But you can do no good by running wildly about the village. You had much better tell me what is the matter as quietly as you can, and I will see if I can help you. When did the old gentleman go?'

'That's just what I can't say, mum. Maister and Miss Patsy and the rest of 'em, they went off to the harvesting supper at six o'clock, and left me to take care of the old un, here. He'd been so close and sullen since you left this arternoon, that he wouldn't speak to no one; so I thought as he wor a sulkin' upstairs, I might run out at the back for a minute, jist to git my clean things from mother; and when I come in again and went to take up his supper he was gone, and I'm clean out of my senses to think what I shall say to maister when he comes home.'

'But Strother cannot be far off, Jane. He is hiding somewhere in the house or the garden, you may depend upon it. He is too infirm to run away.'

'Bless you, mum! he can run like a rabbit. It's only his cunnin' makes him pretend he can't move. I mind, once before, when maister had teased him like about this parcel, he took it into his head to scour off, and a fine piece of work there was to find him agen. And that's why maister's so perticular he shall never be left alone. The tiresome, provokin' old piece!'

'Come with me, Jane! I am sure we shall find him under the bed, or in the wardrobe, or somewhere!'

She drags the girl up to old Strother's room, but it is completely empty, and what is more, the parcel has disappeared.

'Why! the parcel is gone!' exclaims Delia.

'Then as sure as sure he's off!' cries Jane, with another burst of tears, 'for 'e's been a-ravin' about that beastly parcel the whole arternoon, and 'e must have watched me go, and shouldered it, and bin off like a rocket! Oh! that sich a thing should ever 'ave 'appened to me. I shall never hear the last of it—not if I live to the age of Methoosalums.'

Whilst the servant-girl raves after this fashion, Delia is walking rapidly about the room, searching every corner of it. Then she visits every other apartment in the house, walks the length and breadth of the garden, and looks right and left over the broad fields that surround the farm, shouting Strother's name in vain. It is evident that he has taken French leave, and the mysterious parcel with him. The raid she committed upon the wrappings that afternoon has frightened the old man into running away. Suddenly Delia remembers the sherry-flask she picked up from the hedge row. One thing is evident. Strother must have taken the path that leads down the lane. Now the lane by which she reaches Kennett's farm branches out in two directions; one road intersects the village of Cloverfield, the other runs at the back of it, straight to St. Alders—the nearest town at which there is a railway-station. The old man, with the cunning of insanity, is not likely to have risked recognition and discovery by walking by daylight through the village. He must be hiding, therefore, somewhere on the St. Alders road. In a moment Delia has made up her mind to follow him. Strother's safety, it is to be feared, is of little moment to her, but the precious parcel he carries she will not, if possible, lose sight of.

'Jane!' she exclaims, with excitement, 'the old man is gone—there is no doubt of that—but he cannot have got far without money.'

But here she remembers the five shillings she gave him, and her energy becomes doubled as the fear strikes her that he may already be speeding beyond her reach.

'You must stay here,' she continues rapidly to the servant, 'and I will go in search of him, and bring him back with me if I can!'

'Oh! and if ye don't find him and the maister should come home!' exclaims Jane, wringing her hands in the dreadful anticipation.

'You must tell him the truth; but say I will do everything that is needful. Good-night; I may be back again sooner than you expect;' and running rather than walking, Delia takes her way without further parley down the lane.

As she hurries along, her thoughts are all in confusion, and she is only sure of one thing—that she must follow after that parcel, if the quest takes her to the other side of the world. But at present she has only to find old Strother, whom she must needs believe is on the St. Alders Road, hiding in a ditch, perhaps, or asleep from exhaustion under the hedgerow, weighed down by the burden he insists upon carrying. If she went in a carriage she would miss seeing him: besides, she could not use her friend's vehicle for the purpose; so she resolves upon walking. Walking alone at ten o'clock at night over an unfrequented and unfamiliar road, with only the harvest moon to light her way, seems a formidable undertaking. But Delia has no fear where so great a purpose is at stake. One precaution only will she observe, to scribble a few lines in pencil on the back of a card, and give it to the purblind housekeeper at the rectory, who she knows cannot read, to deliver to Mr. Le Mesurier as soon as he returns. The rectory stands at the end of the lane, at the corner where the two roads diverge, and as soon as her written message is in safe keeping, Delia strikes off to the left, and walks rapidly in the direction of St. Alders, which lies about three miles from Cloverfield.

The road is almost as bright as day, yet, though her eyes are busy searching every side, they can detect nothing larger than a startled rabbit or hare making its way through the thicket off the queen's highway. Several times she jumps over the ditch that skirts the road on either side, and parts the brambly hedge, at the peril of scratching her eyes out, that she may see if any figure is to be distinguished in the fields beyond; but all is barren of sight or sound, and she walks so quickly that she has arrived at the little town of St. Alders before she thinks she is half-way there. The lights are extinguished in most of the private houses, for St. Alders is a primitive place, and its residents keep unfashionable hours; but the railway-station is on the outskirts of the town, and the state of activity it appears to be in emboldens Delia to go straight there and make inquiries for the object of her search. She finds the narrow platform quite crowded with passengers, and a truck full of luggage bars her entrance for the space of halfa second. It is evident a train is momentarily expected. As she enters the booking-office, a clerk thrusts his face out at the ticket-window.

'Now then, miss—where for? Winchester, Basingstoke, Waterloo?'

'No, thank you! I only came to ask if an old man, very bent and decrepit, and shabbily dressed, with a large parcel, has been seen here this evening? He has left his home, and his friends are very much distressed about him.'

'Don't know nothink about it, miss; better ask the station-master,' says the ticket-clerk abruptly, as he bangs down the window.

'Oh! where is the station-master?' exclaims Delia to every one within hearing.

'Do you think the lady can mean the little pedlar-looking fellow who carried a box, or summat, on his back, and spoke such broad Scotch, Bill?' demands an official, who has overheard her conversation, of another.

'Yes, yes! that is he!' replied Delia eagerly. 'An old man, with his hair half red and half white, and with a freckled skin, and velveteen suit. He is mad. I must find out where he's gone to.'

'That was he, miss, then, sure enough. He came in here about eight o'clock, looking awfully fagged, and I offered to shift the parcel for him, but he wouldn't let me touch it. I fancied the old gentleman was cracked, but he seemed 'cute enough to look after himself.'

Here a deafening bell, heralding the approach of the train, drowns the porter's voice for a minute, and the passengers, pushing forward to secure their places, separate him from Delia. As they come together again, however, her first words are:

'Can you tell me where he is gone?'

'Well, if so be this was the old gentleman you're in search of, miss, he booked hisself by the 8.10 for Winchester, where he must have been landed full an hour ago.'

'When does the next train leave for Winchester, then?'

'Why, this here's the Winchester train as is alongside now! Last one to-night, too—the eleven express to London. She won't stop again now, except at Winchester and Basingstoke, till she's run through to Waterloo.'

'Put me in a carriage! I must follow that man at all risks!'

'You'll have to look sharp if you want to leave by this train. Have you got your ticket?'

'I'll pay at the other end!' cries Delia, as she leaps into a carriage, the door of which is just about to be closed with a bang, and finds the train at the same moment moving off in the direction of Winchester. As soon as she is beyond the possibility of abandoning her design, Delia sees that she has done a very foolish thing. Who and what on earth is she running after in this senseless manner?

A hasty description, half listened to or understood, and delivered by a man of whose trustworthiness she has not the slightest proof! And even if the porter's word is to be depended on, what is she to do on arriving at Winchester? She cannot roam the streets there at night, searching for old Strother. Where, then, will she go? Of whom make inquiries?

As she realizes the position in which she is placed, Delia feels very much inclined to shed tears. She is disgusted with herself for having committed so hare-brained an action. Women are seldom to be trusted to act on their own responsibility; they are too excitable and impulsive. Even the cleverest and most prudent amongst them require the weight of a man's brain to balance their own.

Men are slower to think, decide, or act than women. They often irritate the lower animal, that walks by instinct rather than by knowledge, by their seeming inactivity and unnecessary forethought. But where one woman gains her cause by impulse—from some happy inspiration, that is to say, that has struck her she does not know how, and led her on to act she cannot tell why—a hundred lose theirs.

Impulses are, in many instances, divinations; but it is not every mind to which it is given to divine, nor every mind that can divine that which is given it. But though Delia sees the imprudence of which she has been guilty, she will not regret it yet. She argues that she may be, and probably is, on a wild-goose chase; but that, had she missed the opportunity offered to her, and it turned out that Strother was in Winchester all the time, she should never have forgiven herself. So she tries to believe she is right, and consoling herself with the idea that, should she be wrong, she will, after all, have done her best, sits bolt upright all the way to Winchester, wondering what Mr. Le Mesurier will think of her midnight escape.

In three-quarters of an hour she finds herself at her destination. As she pays her railway-fare, she tries to extract some information from the ticket-collector, but unsuccessfully: nor does he give her any hope of gaining news through their means. Winchester station is a very different place from St. Alders, and too many passengers come and go to render it possible for the officials to recollect their personal appearance or their destination. Her best plan, he says, guessing her station in life, will be to put up at the George Inn, in High Street, and place her inquiries in the hands of the parish authorities in the morning.

Delia's spirits feel considerably quenched as she finds herself jolting in a ramshackle old fly, of a breed peculiar to cathedral towns, towards the inn in question. She sees that she has probably created a scandal and made a foolish midnight journey for nothing. Such satisfaction as she is likely to acquire from it would have been as easily gained by letter. In what way is she to set about her business in the morning? There is no one to guide or direct her. She feels utterly lost and out of conceit with herself and the world in general.

The night-porter receives her in the hall of the George Inn, although the house is not yet shut up. As she is slowly ascending the staircase, following on the heels of a sleepy chambermaid, who has been summoned to conduct her to her apartment, the sound of voices reaches her ear through the half-opened door of a public billiard-room, in which a company of gentlemen sit smoking and talking together.

A sudden pang shoots through Delia, and she stops for a moment and presses her hand against her heart. Some one has laughed—a low, sad laugh, very unlike the joyous ring of her boy's voice, and yet the tone reminds her of Angus. The pain it engenders, though sharp, is salutary. It infuses fresh courage to her half-fainting spirit, by recalling the purpose for which she has placed herself in so unpleasant a position. Whatever the upshot may be, she can never lament a rashness which has been undertaken for the sake of her son.

'I am glad I am here,' she keeps on repeating to herself as she prepares for rest; 'very, very glad. And until I am convinced that Strother never came in this direction at all, I shall continue to be glad.'

So she sleeps well and peacefully. But she is up with the morning's light. By that time she has decided what to do. She will take the earliest opportunity of laying the whole case before a magistrate, boldly charge the old clerk with robbery of the vestry-books, and demand that a proper search be made for him, and an investigation of the parcel that he carries.

But help comes to her before she has had time to act. As she sits at breakfast, a card is put into her hand, which is inscribed, to her surprise, with the name of 'Le Mesurier.'

In another moment the friends are together.

'Is it really my business that has brought you over here?' cries Delia. 'How good and kind of you! I never thought my message would have had such an effect.'

'What other effect did you anticipate, Mrs. Manners? When I returned home last night and received your card, I considered it my duty at once to follow and offer you my protection. What can you mean by running about the country, at dead of night, in this harumscarum way? What good did you expect to do by it?'

'I do not know; but I traced Strother to Winchester, and I felt that I must follow him. How did you ascertain that I was here?'

'As soon as I got your message, I walked after you to St. Alders; but the station was closed. So I sat there till the morning and came on by the first train. The porters told me all about you and the "Scotch pedlar" you were inquiring after, so I knew I was on the right track. And once at Winchester, it was easy to guess I should find you at the George Inn. Everybody who comes to Winchester goes to the "George." '

'Oh! Mr. Le Mesurier, do you think we shall find him?'

'Sooner or later, there is no doubt we shall; but I question whether we can do much in a day. What are your plans?'

She tells him of her desire to consult a magistrate, and he considers it the best thing she can do.

'But be advised by me. Let me save you the trouble of walking all over the town for nothing. Rest quietly here, and I will go out and make the necessary inquiries. Then, if your presence is required, I will return and fetch you. Is it agreed?'

'I will do anything you think best,' says Delia, and the parson leaves her at once.

But after he is gone, she comes to the conclusion that she has been very selfish. Why should she let this man, on whom she has not the slightest claim, run about after her business, whilst she sits idle in the hotel? She looks from the window upon the principal street of the town. It is a quiet, sleepy-looking place enough, with but few passengers. If the old man is here, she is just as likely to see him on that deserted pavement as in the high-road of Cloverfield. What if she should be missing the very opportunity she is striving for, by sitting idly indoors? So she puts on her walking attire and saunters into the street. It is not cattle market day, consequently there is little life stirring in its quiet lengths. Two or three citizens gently ambling to their offices or their shops; two or three nursemaids airing their respective charges; two or three children on their way to school—such are the varieties that people the High Street of Winchester. There is a cawing of rooks to be heard from the Close, near at hand; and lured by the sound, and the reports she has heard of the beauty of the grand old cathedral, Delia turns her feet after a while in that direction, and passing under the arch of St. Crispin, finds herself in one of those solemn, peaceful enclosures that surround most of the ancient ecclesiastical edifices in England. It seems as though in a moment she had passed out of the working world into a city of the dead; and she sits down on a flat tombstone, almost awestruck by the thought and the feeling it brings with it. Not every one, though, is of the same opinion on entering the Cathedral Close. Two dirty urchins are playing ring-taw on a stone slab close to her, whilst a third is making the welkin ring with his melancholy howls.

'What are ye cryin' for, Bill?' demands one of his companions at last, impatiently.

'Mother's 'it me!'

'Why for?'

' 'Cause I stoned an old beggar on Martyrs' Worthy Road.'

'What beggar?'

'An old thief with a pack. I tried to hustle 'is pack, and 'e growled at me, so I 'it 'im with a stone; and then one of them wimmin in a black gound and a white cap come out of Brushwood Farm and blackguarded me, and I tried to 'it 'er; and she tuk 'old of me and led me 'ome to mother, and got 'er to wallop me. And ain't she done it neither?' continues the boy, as he rubs the seat of his corduroy breeches and laments anew.

Delia is listening to the recital with all her ears.

'What's the good of 'itting a beggar for nothin'?' demands one of the young philosophers engaged in ring-taw.

' 'Twarn't for nothin'. I wanted a bit of the leather off 'is pack to cover my ball. So I just give a grab at it, and the old feller come arter me; so I threw stones at 'im. But I got the bit of leather,' he adds, with a sly grin of satisfaction, as he thrusts his hand into his pocket.

The treasure comes to light! It is a morsel of worn American cloth, just like that which covers old Strother's parcel.

Delia trembles all over at the sight.

'Come here, boy!' she says to the blubbering urchin, 'I want to speak to you.'

The child appears very shy of coming within the range of her hand. Perhaps he anticipates another cuff; but the sight of a shilling has a wonderful effect in clearing up his doubts and allaying his fears.

'Be that for me?' he asks cautiously.

'It shall be yours if you will answer me a few questions.'

At this wonderful announcement, all three lads stay their occupations, and gather round her.

'What was this old beggar like, and where did you see him?'

'He wore a little un, all crumped up like, with white 'air, and a big pack on 'is back; and I see'd 'im on the Martyrs' Worthy Road 'alf an hour agone.'

'If I give you this shilling will you take me to him?' says Delia eagerly.

'We'll all take you to 'im, mum,' cry the boys simultaneously, as, forgetful of tears and whippings and ring-taw, they prepare to form themselves into a guard of honour for the lady who has shillings with which to reward their services.

Delia tears a leaf from her pocket-book, and writes on it, 'Follow me to Brushwood Farm, on the Martyrs' Worthy Road;' then rising, she leaves it at the George Inn door for Mr. Le Mesurier, and prepares to follow her young guides wherever they may lead her.

She has found the old clerk again. She feels sure and certain that she has found him.

————

CHAPTER IX.

'ADELA! IS IT YOU?'

The Martyrs' Worthy Road appears to be a long way off to Delia, dragged there hurriedly as she is by her impetuous little outriders.

'This is the shortest cut, mum,' cries one.

'No, Bill, 'taint. The lady must go up Mark Lane,' contradicts his brother.

'She'd much better keep to the 'Igh Street, and turn when I tells 'er,' ejaculated the third.

'I don't care which way I go, so that you take me there as quickly as possible,' says Delia in her turn.

On the road she makes the whipped boy repeat, again and again, his description of the old beggar.

'And who was the woman who took you to your mother?' she asks presently.

'She's a beast! that's what she is,' replies the urchin determinately.

'I knows 'er,' says one of the others; 'she's staying with Farmer Coombes at Martyrs' Worthy. She's what they calls a "sister!" '

'I'd like to "sister" 'er,' interpolates the injured boy.

'But what became of the old man when the "sister" took you home?' says Delia.

'O! she took 'im into the farm'ouse fust, and she's there with him now, I'll lay. I won't go nigh 'er, for one.'

'I shall not ask you to do so. Only show me the house, and you shall have your shilling and be off. What name did you say?'

'Farmer Coombes, of the Brushwood Farm.'

Coombes!—Coombes! Where has she heard that name before? She has scarcely time to ask herself the question, before she is there.

It is a large, spacious house, much added to and improved by modern skill, the house of a gentleman farmer rather than the everyday, business-like residence she had expected to see. But here, having arrived at her journey's end, and the little lads being quite certain that the 'woman with the cap' took the 'old beggar' in there, she dismisses them with a shilling apiece, in the possession of which they run shouting back to the sweet-stuff shop. At another time Delia might have felt timid of intruding upon the privacy of strangers, but now she feels no repugnance, no fear, only the intensest desire to learn if her surmises are correct. She walks straight up to the hall-door of the Brushwood Farm, and rings the bell. It is answered by a country maid.

'I beg your pardon,' commences Delia in her sweet low voice, which even excitement is powerless to render coarse or common, 'but is there an old beggar man anywhere on your premises—an old Scotchman, with a pack upon his back?'

The girl stares at her.

'I think you'd better see the sister,' she replies.

She ushers Delia into a sitting-room, where in a few moments she is joined by a lady in the garb of a Sister of Mercy; a lady in every sense of the word, from the calm yet respectful manner in which she receives her visitor, to the courtesy with which she enters the room and demands the stranger's business.

'I hope I am not taking a great liberty,' says Delia, 'but I have been told that you have a poor old man under your roof—one whom you saw being stoned by some rough little urchin—and as I have come to Winchester solely in search of such a person, I considered myself entitled to make inquiries of you.'

'Your end justifies the means,' returns the sister gravely, bowing her head. 'It is true that we have offered shelter to such a poor old creature as you describe, but I must know more before I can identify him with the person of whom you are in search!'

'The man I mean is a Scotchman—very old and decrepit—not quite right, moreover, in his mind. He has white hair, and a freckled skin—wears a velveteen suit, and had a large parcel on his back containing books of great value.'

'It has not been our province to examine the contents of his luggage, madam, but as far as the remainder of your description goes, I think I may say that it tallies with the stranger at present under our roof. But pardon me for asking if this poor old creature's condition is of any moment to you.'

Delia blushes.

'I will be frank with you. His personal safety is of no more moment to me than that of any other old man; but the contents of the parcel he has carried away with him——'

'I see! Then I need have no hesitation in telling you that he is in a very critical condition. He had a fit outside our house, which was the reason I had him carried in, and the doctor, who is with him now, thinks very badly of him.'

'O! how I wish Mr. Le Mesurier were here!' cries Delia impulsively.

The sister starts and looks at her earnestly. The action causes Delia to regard her in return. She is a very pretty woman, notwithstanding her unbecoming dress, and cannot have seen more than five-and-thirty years. But there are traces of past pain or sorrow upon her face which no comfort arising from the knowledge that she is leading a pure and religious life has had the power to efface.

'Would you like to see the old man? He is unconscious, but it may be a satisfaction to you,' says the sister, after a pause.

'No, thank you. I would rather wait. But it would be a comfort to me to explain the reason of my presence here to you.'

And thereupon Delia discloses as much of her past history as is necessary to account for her present interest in old Strother, and the sister listens, as it is her mission to do, with all a woman's sympathy.

'There is no doubt that, under the circumstances, we shall be justified in searching the contents of his parcel,' she replies; 'and how sincerely I hope it may prove to contain what you are looking for! You must have suffered greatly. Heaven send you the reward of your patience and affection!'

Delia's eyes fill with tears.

'We all suffer in this world,' she says gently, 'some at the beginning of life—others at the close. I shall never believe but that God's mercies and judgments are meted out equally to His creatures. Forgive me for saying that I am not so dull as to suppose that you have escaped the common lot yourself.'

The sister colours with pain.

'My troubles,' she answers, 'differ from yours only in kind. I, too, brought them on my own head, and by an unpardonable deceit, which, like all deceit, involved another's happiness as well as mine.'

'A tendency to deceive is the prevailing weakness of our sex,' says Delia. 'As sure as Heaven brings me out of this fearful dilemma, I will endure any shame or loss rather than permit one word that is not perfectly true to escape my lips again.'

'Ah! my friend, we are all ready to shut the stable-door when the steed is stolen beyond recall. I would wipe out the history of my youth's error with my blood, if I could; yet I know it will follow me to the brink of the grave!'

At this moment the servant thrusts her head into the opened doorway.

'If you please, sister, there's a strange genelman wants to see yer.'

'Perhaps it is my friend,' suggests Delia; and at the sound of her voice, Mr. Le Mesurier steps forward, saying:

'According to your directions, Mrs. Manners, I have——'

But as he has got so far, a low cry from the Sister of Mercy arrests his sentence, and he turns hastily to confront her startled face. At that sight, all composure deserts him. Delia, watching his countenance, sees it change with the rapidity of lightning, as a dozen conflicting feelings pass over it in quick succession; then he darts forward, as though to clasp the stranger in his arms, but checks himself suddenly, to exclaim in a low voice of bewildered surprise:

'Adela! is it you?'

'Yes! yes! it is I. But this meeting, as you must suppose, was completely unpremeditated. Now, let me go, without further questioning.'

She attempts to leave the room, but he bars her exit.

'I cannot let you go without an explanation! For fourteen years we have been separated, and my existence has been a living grave without you. I have tried to overcome my love for you without success; and now that we have met again, if the past can never be renewed, at least let me have the privilege of counting you amongst my friends.'

'It cannot be. You ask what is impossible. I am not worthy.'

'Have our miserable separated lives, then, had no power to wash out unworthiness? You know how mine has been spent. I see now how you have employed yours. I have forgiven. Let us both strive to forget.'

'No forgetfulness can wash out crime,' she answers.

'Mr. Le Mesurier! had I not better leave the room?' asks Delia, to whom this scene, though inexplicable, is becoming very painful.

'No! do not leave us. Adela! this lady has been one of my best friends. To her I have been able to confide a little of the trouble which I have borne silently for so many years, and she has sympathized with and pitied me. She will tell you how, in consequence of our sad separation, my conduct has been misunderstood and maligned, and my life compelled to be solitary and loveless. She too has known sorrow for herself. Shall she quit the room, or shall she stay and hear what I have to say to you?'

'Let her stay! I can trust her as I would yourself.'

'Mrs. Manners,' continues Le Mesurier, 'when you were looking over the vestry-books of Cloverfield parish last week, you came upon the entry of a marriage between John Le Mesurier and Adela Coombes which took place fifteen years ago in that very church, and which I begged you to keep a secret for my sake. That entry referred to the union of this lady and myself.'

'She is your wife!' exclaims Delia.

'I was,' says the sister sadly.

'You are—you ever must be, at least in my opinion,' replies Mr. Le Mesurier. 'Fifteen years ago then, I was staying at Southampton, reading for holy orders, when I met Adela Coombes, who was a teacher at a school. She had had the misfortune to have a very unhappy home, and——'

Here the sister, who has been struggling between a desire to atone for the past by a humble confession, and the natural feeling of shame which forbids her making it in the presence of a stranger, takes the words out of Mr. Le Mesurier's mouth.

'John—John! let me tell the story. There is no disgrace too great for such a woman as I have been. Madam!' she continues, turning towards Delia, 'I told you but just now that the blight of my life had been effected by an unpardonable deceit. The deceit involved an unpardonable imprudence. As a young girl I had, it must be confessed, a most unhappy home, and to escape its discomforts I eloped from it, at the age of sixteen, with the mate of a merchant vessel, a man I had only seen some half a dozen times. I was married, and lived with him at Southampton for a while until he went to sea again, when his ship was wrecked and all hands reported lost. I did not grieve for him—he had been too little to me; and when I met Mr. Le Mesurier, and learned that he loved me, I was too elated to care for anything else. I was supporting myself then as a teacher in a school. I had entered there under my maiden name, and I never undeceived John in the matter, but kept the fact of my first marriage a secret from him. After we had been acquainted a few months, he proposed to me that we should be married privately. He was his own master, but he did not wish his family to hear the news all at once. So we were married at the little village of Cloverfield, and for awhile we were happy—quite—quite happy!'

'I was, God knows!' interpolates Le Mesurier, in a voice of deep feeling.

'Then came my awful temptation and fall. The news reached me in a roundabout way that my first husband had been saved from the wreck, and was doing his best to trace me. I suffered the tortures of hell, but I never told John. I knew that as soon as he heard it, we should be forced to separate.'

'My poor Adela!'

'But I betrayed the truth, spite of myself. John was interested in mesmerism at that time. He studied the science deeply, and I was the patient on whom he made his chief experiments. I did not know the extent of the power he held over me, and he thought his wife could have no secrets, worthy of the name, from him. So one day, when I was under the influence, he commanded me to speak what was in my mind. I obeyed him—and he learned everything! Then there came a terrible awakening—and all was over between us.'

'You went back to your first husband?' says Delia, who is intensely interested in the story of her poor friend's life.

'No!' with a shudder; 'thank God, that was never required of me. But he found me out, or rather his friends did, and I nursed him—he had been fearfully injured and crippled in the course of the hardships he had undergone—until he went to his rest.'

'Is he dead?' exclaims Le Mesurier, in an excited manner.

Adela glances at him reproachfully.

'Yes! years and years ago! And when that duty was over, I entered upon my present career, and found the peace I never knew before.'

'He is dead, and you never let me know,' says Le Mesurier; 'and whilst I have been spending my life in vain regrets for what I thought to be an irremediable grief. How could you be so cruel!'

'What would have been the use of disturbing your mind afresh, when I hoped it had turned to better things for comfort? I was not your wife—I never had been—I never could be, after the shameful deception I had practised upon you, and the sin in which I had knowingly permitted you to live.'

'I do not attempt to say you were right, Adela; but your fault, however great, arose from love for me. But I too had injured you, though innocently, and it was not fair to debar me the option of remedying the wrong I did you.'

'You never wronged me, John,' she answers softly.

'Is any of the regard you felt for me in those days left, Adela?'

'Oh! why do you ask the question?'

'Because I love, and have loved you, all through this mutual trouble and long separation. I have not tried to find you, because I believed you to be living as the wife of another man; but I have never forgotten nor ceased to grieve for you, and I am ready to marry you over again to-morrow, if you will consent to take me.'

The sister crosses over to Delia's side.

'Oh! madam, if you are his friend, as he says you are, try and persuade him not to think of anything so imprudent. He is a clergyman, beloved, I am sure, and looked up to in in his parish, and I am not fit to be his wife, for the past shame must ever cling to me. Pray—pray tell him that the best thing he can do is to forget that he has ever met me again.'

'Indeed, I shall tell him no such thing, Adela, for I know that your loss has been a lifelong sorrow to him, and I believe that your re-union will prove to be the happiest thing in the world for you both.'

'We were so very, very happy together,' she says, through her tears.

'And so you will be again. Mr. Le Mesurier, I heartily congratulate you on your good fortune. And you so fully deserve it. If it had not been for your generous friendship for me, and sympathy in my trials, you would not have been here to-day to find your long-lost treasure again. Adela! if you love him still, make him happy! His life has been a wasted one for want of you.'

'Oh! John, can you forgive me? is it possible you can love me still?' says Adela.

She is answered by the stealing of an arm about her waist. Delia rises hastily and walks to the window. She is rejoicing with the most unselfish joy over the new-born happiness of her friend, and she will not be witness to the sacred kiss that heralds it.

But when the whispering, and the happy tears, and the embraces, so long missed between these two, have somewhat abated, Delia turns towards the re-united lovers with a happy laugh.

'Fancy! our all meeting in this extraordinary manner in a house which we never saw until to-day! It is the most wonderful chance I ever heard of.'

'There is no such thing as chance, I believe, in this world,' says Adela, smiling; 'but it is nevertheless a wonder—one of the happy surprises Heaven sometimes sends us, as it sends the sun to shine upon the earth when there has been sufficient rain. This is my uncle's house, but I have only been here for ten days. My usual work lies in London, but I came down here to nurse my aunt, who has broken her arm.'

'And your future work, love, will be in Cloverfield—the parish which I accepted only because it was connected with thoughts of you!'

'Yes, dearest!' she answers, with quiet content, 'as soon as my work here is finished, I will come to Cloverfield whenever you desire it!'

At this juncture a knock sounds upon the door, and Adela has hardly had time to disengage herself from Le Mesurier's encircling arm, when the doctor who has been called in to attend old Strother enters the room.

'I beg your pardon, sister, but if you are at leisure I should like to speak to you for a moment.'

'You can speak to me with the greatest confidence here, doctor. This lady and gentleman are my friends, and interested in the fate of your poor patient. Pray how is he going on? Has he yet recovered his consciousness?'

'He has not recovered it! It is of him I wish to speak to you. I regret to say that he is dead!'

Dead! The word falls with chilling effect upon all present. Death is an awful thing, even when it is presented to us in the person of an imbecile and worn-out pauper.

'I should like to identify the body,' says Mr. Le Mesurier.

They follow the doctor silently and reverently to the chamber where poor old Strother was conveyed; and there, on a bed, they find the body of the Chilton clerk, dressed as they discovered him, with his arms fondly extended over the precious package that caused his death.

'Is anyone aware of the contents of the parcel the poor old fellow carried?' demands the doctor, 'for he appeared to be very particular about it. The only signs of sense he betrayed were when we attempted to take it away from his side; and he died, as you see, in an attempt to enfold it in his arms. Yet I should hardly imagine, from its appearance, that it contained anything more valuable than old rags, or stones.'

'It is in order to discover the true contents of that parcel that I have been put to the trouble of following the poor old man to Winchester, doctor,' says Le Mesurier; 'and with your permission we will at once proceed to take note of what we may find in it. I am sure you will trust me to do what is just and right in the matter, when I tell you that I am the Vicar of Cloverfield.'

So saying, Le Mesurier shoulders the mysterious parcel and carries it into the next room.

————

CHAPTER X.

'I AM THE HAPPIEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD.'

Mrs. Ηephzibah told Delia, when she was going to London, that she intended to make 'short work' of Bob's affairs, and so she does; indeed, Mr. Robert Bond has perhaps never been more astonished in his life than he is by the aptitude his step-mother displays for settling an unpleasant business with railroad speed. She has not been in town an hour before he is compelled to make a clear statement of his liabilities, and give a written promise that if they are defrayed he shall never expect to receive assistance from his father again. As for Mrs. Bob, she undergoes such a talking to, that, as she informs her husband afterwards, she would rather go without a dress to her back for the remainder of her life than run the risk of encountering such another.

Mr. Bond, as may be supposed, takes but a feeble share in the proceedings. He is evidently of the opinion that it is useless to keep a watch-dog and bark yourself. So he lets his wife do all the barking, only dutifully chiming in with an acquiescence when referred to, and sits by, an attentive listener, thinking, as he always has done, that Mrs. Hephzibah is the most wonderful woman in the world, and he the luckiest of men to have secured her for himself.

The business which brought them to London being so satisfactorily and adroitly settled, there does not seem any further reason for Mr. and Mrs. Bond to remain absent from home. Neither of them care for theatres or concert-halls—they have even outgrown their proclivity for perambulating picture-galleries, or roaming about botanical gardens. The season is long past, everybody is out of town, and the streets look dusty and deserted.

Three or four days after their arrival, therefore, Mrs. Hephzibah suddenly propounds the question to her husband over the breakfast-table, why they remain there any longer.

'I'm sure I don't know, my dear,' replies the meek little man.

'I'll tell you, then; because we're a couple of fools. You haven't got a single thing left to do here, neither have I. All our friends are away, and we are being openly robbed every hour in a nasty, fusty, second-rate hotel, when we have a charming cottage of our own standing empty in the country. I'll close our boxes the first thing after breakfast, and we'll go back to Cloverfield by the twelve o'clock train.'

'By all means, my dear,' says the obedient Mr. Bond.

And the journey is carried out as proposed, which brings them home on the afternoon of the very day on which old Strother died at Brushwood Farm.

Not having sent word of their intended return, Mr. and Mrs. Bond are compelled to dispense with the comforts of their own pony-carriage, and hire a fly to convey them from St. Alders to Cloverfield. As it stops before the door of the cottage, and the parlour-maid comes running out to let down the window, they can see by the expression of her face that her master and mistress are the last people she expected to find in it.

'This is a surprise for you, Ellen, is it not?' says Mrs. Hephzibah, as she descends from the vehicle.

'It is indeed, ma'am! I made sure it was Mrs. Manners come back.'

'Mrs. Manners Why, is she from home?'

'Yes, ma'am; and Mary and me, we have been in such a state we haven't known what to do with ourselves. I'm sure it's ten thousand blessings you and master have come, for Mrs. Manners has been missing ever since last evening, and we can't think whatever's gone of her!'

'Missing! what nonsense! Didn't she sleep at home?'

'No, ma'am! and nobody's seen her neither. I'm sure we've been into every house in the village to make inquiries. She had her tea last evening as usual, but when I went up to tell her supper was ready I couldn't find her nowheres, and she's never been home since.'

'This is very extraordinary,' says Mrs. Hephzibah, turning pale. 'William, come into the parlour. I want to speak to you.'

When she has got beyond the reach of the ears of the domestics, she says:

'Take my word for it, Delia's gone back to that boy.'

'That seems very unlikely, my dear. Why, I thought the only reason she came here was to hide from him.'

'I know it, but she has had our society since; that has diverted her thoughts a little. I should never have left her, William. As soon as she found herself alone, poor thing, she got brooding; and then the fit seized her to see him again, and she is off to Bruges. I am sure that I am right.'

'Well, it is rather inconsiderate of her, I think, considering that we left her in charge of the house. I thought she made you such faithful promises not to lose sight of it.'

Mrs. Hephzibah sighs. She is very much disappointed. Still, she will not blame Delia more than is needful. She feels sure that to the mystery is attached no wrong.

'But it is a cheerless coming home,' she says sadly.

'Am I intruding?' exclaims a sharp voice at the door.

It is that of Mrs. Wilson, the doctor's wife, the lady against whose gossiping propensities Mrs. Bond inveighed so strongly a few weeks ago.

'I guessed you had returned by seeing the fly stand before the door with the luggage, so I thought I would just pop in to tell you the news. Isn't it a dreadful thing—but perhaps you have already heard it?'

'We have heard nothing! We have only just arrived,' replies Mrs. Hephzibah stiffly.

'No? That's strange! I should have thought the story was all over St. Alders by this time. About Mr. Le Mesurier, I mean. Ah! I told you what an eccentric person he is, and how many queer stories have floated about concerning him. And now he's run away.'

'Run away! Impossible!'

'Well, then, ask my husband; but any one will tell you it is the truth. It seems that he was at the Kennetts' harvest home supper last night, but he was never seen afterwards. Kennett is in some trouble about that old man Strother, I think, and he sent down the first thing this morning to consult Mr. Le Mesurier; but he left home last evening, and his housekeeper knows nothing of where he went, nor why. Very extraordinary behaviour on the part of a parson, isn't it? Dr. Wilson says he should never be surprised to hear that he had made away with himself. He is so very eccentric and unlike other people.'

'What folly! Excuse my plain speaking, Mrs. Wilson, but I must say so. The poor man is most likely watching by the bedside of some sick or dying person. Is he to account to the parish for the way in which he spends every hour?'

'Oh! of course, it is easy to defend him; and we all know Mr. Le Mesurier is a favourite at the cottage, Mrs. Bond. Only I fancy my husband knows more about the sick and dying in Cloverfield than their parson does, and he says he was nowhere in the village this morning.'

'He has left it then, doubtless, on his own business. I hate all tattle and gossip, Mrs. Wilson.'

'Well, perhaps I had better take my leave, then. I am sorry I intruded,' says the doctor's wife, in an offended tone.

'I am sorry you did,' repeats Mrs. Bond. And the ladies part at daggers drawn with one another.

'William!' cries Mrs. Hephzibah, as soon as her visitor's back is turned, 'I retract my opinion concerning Delia's absence. She has not gone to see Angus. It is much worse than that! She has eloped with that Le Mesurier.'

'My dear! what will you say next?'

'There is nothing more to say! It is as plain as a pike-staff, and I have seen it all along; although I never thought she would have made such an idiot of herself at the last. What can be more self-evident? They are both missing at the same moment! If you don't want to accuse Delia of conduct such as I am sure she would never be guilty of, they can but have left Cloverfield to get married to each other.'

'But did they want to marry each other?'

'Bless me! how blind you are! You remind me more of the days when you used to sit blinking in that stuffy little office of yours, this evening, than you have done since we were married. Any one but a man could have seen they were falling in love! What do you suppose all that reading the same books, and walking together and visiting the poor meant, if it didn't mean that? Why, I spoke to Delia about it the very day we left. And she denied it in toto. But of course that's a woman all over. Give her the smallest opportunity to tell a lie, and she will seize it as a cat seizes a rat. Only, I thought better of Delia. And at her age, too! Why, she's forty if she's a day.'

'No! no! my dear! Only thirty-eight!'

'Take her part, of course—if it's only to contradict me! You'll say next that it's quite as reasonable of her to plan an elopement like a silly miss of eighteen, as to be married in broad daylight like a sensible woman. What was to prevent her marrying the man if she wished it? She's her own mistress! And now she's sunk herself in my opinion for ever.'

'Hadn't we better wait to make a decision until we hear that she is married?' suggests Mr. Bond.

But Mrs. Hephzibah is in too bad a temper to be reasoned with. She walks out of the room without deigning to answer him, and slams the door after her. And then she goes up to her own chamber and fastens herself in, and gives vent to a long fit of weeping. She loves Delia very dearly, and this news has been a great shock to her. It has upset the equilibrium of her mind, and rendered her incapable of exercising her usual fair judgment.

Her good little husband leaves her to herself. Blessed are both the men and the women who know when to leave even their dearest and best friends to themselves. They are the salt of the earth who help to keep life's unions sweet. But yet Mr. Bond is not idle. He busies himself in urging the servants to prepare a comfortable meal for them, and an hour afterwards, when it is ready, he goes softly upstairs and knocks at the door of his wife's room.

'Who's there?' demands Mrs. Hephzibah sharply.

'It is I, my dear,' he answers, in his usual tone; 'and I have come to tell you that dinner is ready.'

'I don't want any dinner, thank you!'

'Then come and carve for me whilst I eat mine.'

The kind voice vanquishes the remnant of her ill-temper. What has the poor 'little old man' done that she should visit Delia's offence upon him? Mrs. Hephzibah's better feelings rise to the surface, and she descends without further parley. There the evident care and forethought which have been employed to make her comfortable smite her with a sense of her own injustice, and she is very nearly lowering herself by kissing William before the house maid.

'I am a brute!' she says roughly, as soon as they are alone together; 'and you are an angel, William. I have thought a great deal too much of myself since our marriage, and far too little of you. But you have taught me my own deficiency to-day, and I mean to profit by the lesson. I feel almost glad now that Delia has left us. I shall take my proper place as your housekeeper and general attendant, and not be too fine to look after my own kitchen and pantry.'

'My dear! I couldn't think of allowing you to employ your talents in so mean an occupation. Your brain was intended for much greater things. If Mrs. Manners does not return to us, I shall procure you another housekeeper.'

'You will do no such thing, William! If she comes back or not, your wife will look after your house and table for the future. I am not a baby; and when I have made up my mind to do a thing, I do it!'

It is scarcely necessary for Mrs. Hephzibah to make the assertion that she is not a baby, but any one who had peeped in upon the old people during the remainder of their little meal might have dubbed them a couple of infants, to judge from the foolish things they said to one another.

Ah! love is very sweet and very simple, let it come at what age it may! And there are some hearts that can never feel it at all, and others—happy, happy hearts!—who foretaste heaven, that can warm up beneath its influence to the last day of their lives.

But Mr. and Mrs. Bond do not finish their meal nor their love-making without an interruption. As they are sitting over their coffee and their simple dessert together, Ellen enters with the intelligence that two strange gentlemen are in the drawing-room, waiting to speak to her mistress.

'Oh my God! they bring me some bad news of Delia!' cries Mrs. Bond, as she stumbles to her feet, and rushes precipitately to the drawing-room, where, to her utter amazement, she is confronted by Angus Moray and the Baron Gustave Saxe. It is difficult to say which of the three is most astonished.

Mrs. Hephzibah is, at least, the first to speak.

'Do you bring me tidings of your mother?' she exclaims.

'My mother!' echoes Angus Moray. 'Why, merciful Heavens! it is Mrs. Horton! Madame,' he continues rapidly, 'where is my mother? Is she not with you? Do you know of her address? I have been trying in vain to find both you and her since coming to England. And now to think that we should have met thus!'

'Who told you I lived here?' demands Mrs. Hephzibah in her turn.

'We did not know it. This is a complete surprise to both the Baron and myself. But madame, in mercy, tell me, is my dear mother here?'

'She is not here, Mr. Moray.'

'You cannot give me her address?'

'I cannot!'

Both the men look grave. Angus once more breaks the silence.

'My good friend here, who has been as a brother in all my troubles, left Bruges with me for the express purpose of searching for my poor mother.'

'You are not married, then, to Mademoiselle de Blois?'

'No; nor never shall be, until my mother's pure fame is righted,' replies the young man proudly. 'The baron and I, after some wanderings on the Continent, crossed to England, and being unable to trace my mother's name in London, we went up to the place in Berwick where she was married, to make inquiries about the burning of the church there, and the people who remembered it. But every one of consequence is dead. After much trouble, however, we ascertained that the old man who had been clerk at that time had gone to England to live with his friends; that his name was Simon Strother, and that he was staying at a farmhouse at Cloverfield. So we made all haste here. When we arrived, being utter strangers, we went first to the clergyman's house, to see if he could direct us aright; but we found he had left home yesterday. His housekeeper told us, however, that there was a lady living at this house who visited a great deal amongst the poor, and she thought she might be able to tell us what we wished to know. So we came here, little thinking that we should find an old friend. And now you cannot tell me one word of my dear mother! What awful mystery has she wrapped about herself? Where, in Heaven's name! can she be hidden?'

'If you had asked me that question yesterday, Angus Moray, I could have answered you—under this roof!'

'Here, in this very house! Baron, this is indeed joyful intelligence! But you can surely tell me, then, where she has gone?'

'I cannot! I wish I could'

'Madame! you frighten me!'

'Because I am frightened myself! You have not heard, perhaps, that I have changed my name since I last saw you,’ says Mrs. Hephzibah, with a desperate effort to appear unconcerned and easy at telling a piece of news that always makes her feel uncomfortable. 'I am Mrs. Bond now, and when my husband and I came to live down here, your mother came with us, under the name of Manners.'

'I know you have always been esteemed as her best friend, madame, but how in that case could you have aided her to hide herself from me—the creature she loves best in all the world! It was cruelty to separate us!'

'We may have our different opinions upon that score,

Mr. Moray. However, the fact is that she wished it, and I did so aid her. And a week ago Mr. Bond and I went to town on business, leaving her in charge of the house. She promised me she wouldn't quit it, but she broke her promise. We came home this afternoon to find her gone—no one can say where. It is altogether a most unpleasant mystery, and I know no more of it than I have told you.'

'She must have gone back to Bruges!' exclaims Angus. 'Baron, shall we follow her there?'

'I wouldn't be in too great a hurry if I were you,' responds Mrs. Hephzibah dryly, 'because there is another side to the matter. I thought the same as you do at first, but I've altered my opinion. The fact is, your mother has been very intimate since coming here with a parson of the name of Le Mesurier, and it is a strange coincidence that he disappeared from Cloverfield last evening at the same time as she did.'

'Do you mean to insinuate, madame——' commences Angus excitedly.

'I don't mean to insinuate anything, but my own belief is that by this time she is Mrs. Le Mesurier. It is a most stupid way of doing things, and I shall never have the same respect for your mother that I had; still, she has a right to order her own affairs, and the man is well enough as men go, so I dare say she might have done worse than marry him!'

At this juncture, the baron, who has been listening attentively to the conversation hitherto, pulling his long chestnut moustaches in silence, becomes visibly agitated.

'Angus, mon cher, it is impossible! it cannot be. You know that I spoke to your dear mother the very night she quitted us. I told her of my love, and in a measure she did not deny that she returned it. She cannot have changed so soon—so very soon? Is it likely? is it probable? Say, mon cher, that you do not believe this story.'

'Baron, I don't know what to believe; but if it proves to be true I shall be completely miserable.'

'I don't see why you should say that,' remarks Mrs. Hephzibah.

'Because, madame, this good friend of mine, who has done my mother the honour of offering her his hand, made this journey to England and brought me with him, at his own expense, with the sole intention of renewing his proposals in whatever condition he found her. He has been more than a father or an elder brother in his kindness and generosity to me, and I cannot but feel bitterly disappointed if on arriving at the end of our search, I find that my poor mother has thrown away all the advantages waiting for her, for the sake of some hasty and ill-considered attachment. But she was in despair, and women are not themselves under such circumstances.'

'She has certainly felt the whole business terribly. Dr. de Blois and that brute of an uncle of yours have much to answer for.'

'Of my uncle I know, and wish to know, nothing. He tendered me his assistance after my mother's flight, and I rejected it with the scorn it deserved. But Dr. de Blois has sorely repented of the share he took in the transaction. Only this morning I received a letter from him entreating me to return to Bruges and let things be as they were between us. I have answered it, saying that as soon as I have found my mother I will return; but if what you surmise is true, it will be a sorrowful day for me, who hoped so earnestly to have travelled back in the company of the Baron and Baronne Saxe.'

'I don't think there's much chance of that,' growls Mrs. Hephzibah.

Her kind heart is sorely grieved to see the emotion displayed by her two hearers, for Angus Moray has cast himself despairingly upon the sofa, whilst the poor baron, unwilling to betray his weakness, is looking out of the window, whilst he tries with all his might to maintain the composure necessary for his dignity as a man. But she is so convinced of the truth of her own suspicions, that she considers it would be worse than cruelty to buoy up her visitors with fallacious hopes. So she is again repeating:

'If poor Delia ever becomes Baronne Saxe, I'll eat my husband's hat and himself into the bargain,' when voices—loud and cheerful voices—make themselves distinctly heard upon the step of the open hall-door.

'Home at last! Won't you come in? Oh yes! you must. No; I won't give up my precious burthen for anything. You may take the two others if you choose, but I shall keep this one. I couldn't sleep without it, indeed I couldn't; I should dream it was gone again, and wake up to believe my dream was true. I'll kill you if you try to touch it,' continues the merry voice with a burst of innocent, gleeful laughter.

'Have your own way then, you wilful creature!'

'It is my mother's voice' cries Angus, starting from the sofa.

'Yes! and with Mr. Le Mesurier,' replies Mrs. Bond grimly.

At this moment Mr. Bond, who has remained in hiding in the dining-room during the strangers' visit, appears in the hall and confronts Delia.

'Are you home?' she exclaims with surprise. 'Oh! what will Mrs. Hephzibah think of my running away in this fashion? Where is she?'

'I am here,' replies Mrs. Bond, from the precincts of the drawing-room; 'and ready to receive you, Delia.'

'Oh! my dear friend,' she says, coming forward with a huge parcel in her arms; 'how can I excuse myself to you?—but Mr. Le Mesurier will help to tell my story. A most wonderful thing has happened. I have found——'

But here the mother, having crossed the threshold, first perceives there are strangers in the drawing-room—next, regards them for a moment curiously—and then, with a loud cry in which there is no sound but that of unalloyed happiness, drops her parcel on the ground, and rushing to the outstretched arms of her son, throws herself into them and weeps unrestrainedly.

'Oh, my boy! my boy! My precious, precious boy! My hope, my treasure, my child! Do I hold you in my arms again? Oh, my Angus! my darling! where have you come from? How did you know your mother was here? Is it my tears that have drawn you to me? I have never lain down in my bed, Angus, without weeping the bitterest tears for you, and a thousand times I have resolved to break my oath sooner than endure the hell I suffered apart from you. But it was for your sake, darling, for your dear sake! And now you are come—we are together once more, and I have the most wonderful news to tell you. I——'

'I guess it, dearest mother!' he says sadly. 'Do not give yourself the pain of telling it.'

'But it is not pain—it is great, great joy. My dear friend, Mr. Le Mesurier——'

'Hush, hush! The baron is here.'

'Baron Saxe!' cries Delia, becoming instantly covered with blushes, as she raises herself to look at him.

'Yes, madame!' says the baron, now compelled to speak, though huskily, 'and no one will rejoice more in your happiness than I shall!'

'But you do not know it yet! You have not heard——'

'Can't you see that they don't want to hear?' interrupts Mrs. Hephzibah ungraciously.

'Do not want to hear! But that is impossible. It is what we have all been living for.'

'You may—perhaps.'

'Oh! you cannot understand me! Mr. Le Mesurier, pray come here and let me introduce you to my dear son, Angus Moray—before I disclose these happy tidings to him.'

The parson bows to the two gentlemen, who return his courtesy but stiffly.

'You seem determined that everybody shall be as pleased at this business as yourself,' says Mrs. Hephzibah.

'Oh, they will! They shall be! Angus, my darling!' says Delia suddenly, 'are you married?'

'No, mother! I refused to be till I had seen your good name upheld before the world. I could not accept happiness whilst you were sorrowing,' he adds, with forced emphasis; 'and I have travelled England ever since (aided by our good friend the baron), in order to try and prove the lie my uncle told of you. And in our search we were directed to Cloverfield, though without the slightest idea that we should find you here.'

'My own brave faithful boy!' she cries. 'How good of you, and how good of the baron! I feel I can never give you love enough—nor he, thanks enough—for what you have done in my service. But your reward is close at hand. I have found the certificate.'

'What!' exclaim the whole company simultaneously.

'I have found my marriage certificate,' she repeats hysterically. 'Thank God for ever and ever for it! It is that which took me from home, Mrs. Hephzibah. I knew it was wrong to go away in your absence, but so great an issue was at stake. I found out that Simon Strother had been clerk at Chilton when the church was burned down, and suspected he carried the vestry-books about with him in a parcel which he never permitted any one to look at. He was out of his mind, you know. Yesterday, finding that I had attempted to undo his parcel, he ran away from Cloverfield, taking it with him, and when I heard the news, I followed him as far as Winchester——'

'You and Mr. Le Mesurier, you mean,' interposed Mrs. Hephzibah.

'No,' replies Delia, blushing; 'Mr. Le Mesurier did not join me till this morning. And we discovered the old man in a dying state, and we got the parcel and found it contained these volumes, in a very dilapidated and burned condition; but my certificate was safe, and Mr. Le Mesurier has it in that book, and I—I am the very happiest woman on the face of the earth,' says Delia, as she bursts into a flood of tears, and hides her face once more on the arms of her son.

'And you are not married to him, then?' demands Mrs. Hephzibah.

'Married! Married to whom?'

'To the parson there?'

'Good gracious! my dear friend! Whatever made such an idea enter your head? He is a married man already.'

'Well, I am a fool!' soliloquises Mrs. Bond, in a crest-fallen manner; but her husband pats her arm in contradiction of the statement, and she recovers her equanimity with wonderful rapidity.

'If you're married, where's your wife?' she says to Le Mesurier.

'She is at Winchester at present, Mrs. Bond; but I hope before long to introduce her in Cloverfield. Untoward circumstances have separated us for some years past, but owing to Mrs. Manners' energy in searching for her certificate, we met again by the most wonderful coincidence, and I rejoice to say that all is peace between us once more.'

'Well, every one seems to be in luck to-day,' says Mrs. Bond; 'myself as much as any,' she adds, with a squeeze of the little lawyer's hand.

'Am I to be the only unlucky one left out, madame?' says the baron in a low voice, as he takes a seat on the other side of Delia.

'I hope not, baron. I trust your future will be as bright as that of any of us!'

'It is in your power to make it so, Delia.'

'What, have you not yet forgotten the old folly?' she says, with a happy smile.

Angus gets hold of his mother's hand, and places it in that of his friend.

'Will it make you happy if I leave it there, my precious boy?'

'Very happy, dearest mother.'

'Then it shall be just as Gustave wishes.'

'Gustave will never give it up again,' the baron answers, as he raises her hand to his lips.

'Oh my God!' sighs Delia reverently, as she sits between her future husband and her son, 'I thank Thee Who hast accepted an atonement for my lie.'

THE END.