.

2

 

*

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

grote of respectability, arrived from the |
uston Square Terminus, while a young man
of meditative aspect might have been seen on
his knees, now in one empty chamber, anon in
another, performing some species of indoor sur-
veying, with a three-foot rule, a loose little ob-
long memorandum-book, and the merest stump
of a square lead-pencil. This was an emissar
from the carpet warehouse; and before nigh
fall it was known to more than one inhabitant
of Fitzgeorge street that the stranger was going
to lay down new carpets. The new-comer was
evidently of an active and energetic tempera-
ment, for within three days of his arrival the
brass-plate on his street-door” announced his
rofession, while a neat little glass-case, on a
evel with the eye of the pedestrian, ex-
hibited specimens of his skill in mechanical den-
tistry, and afforded instruction and amusement
to the boys of the eee: who criticised
the glistening white teeth and impossibly red
displayed behind the plate-glass with a
inavigor and freedom of language, Nor did
Mr. Sheldon’s announcement of his profession
confine itself to the brass-plate and glass-case.
A shabby genteel young man pervaded the
neighbor! for some days after the surgeon-
dentist’s advent, knocking a postman’s knock,
which only wanted the galvanic sharpness 0
the professional touch to be the real thing, and
delivering neatly-printed circulars: to the effect
that Mr. Sheldon, surgeon-dentist, of 14 Fitz-
george street; had invented some novel method
of adjusting false teeth, incomparably superior
to any existing method, and that he had, fur-
ther, patented an improvement upon nature in
the way of coral gums, the name whereof was
an unpronounceable compound, of Greek and
Latin, calculated to awaken an awful rever-
ence in the. unprofessional and unclassical

min
The Fitzgeorgians shook their heads with pro-
hetic solemnity as they read these circulars.
Struggling householders, who find it a hard task
to keep the two ends which never-have met.and
never will meet from growing further and fur-
ther asunder every year, are apt to derive a
dreary kind of satisfaction from ‘the contempla-
tion of another man’s impending ruin. itz-
george street and its neighborh had existed
without the services of a dentist, but it was very
doubtful that a dentist would be able‘ to exist
on the custom, to be obtained in Fitzgeorge
street. Mr. Sheldon may, perhaps, have pitched
his tent under the impression that wherever
there was mankind there was likely to be tooth-
ache, and that the healer of an ill so common to
frai! humanity could scarcely fail to earn his
bread, let him establish his abode of horror
where he might.. For some time after his ar-
rival people watched him and wondered about
im, and regarded him a little suspiciously, in
spite of the substantial clumsiness of his furni-
ture and the unwinking brightness of his win-
dows, His neighbors asked one another how
long all that outward semblance of prosperity
would last; and there was sinister meaning in
ee ee ids 4
© Fitzgeorgians were not a little surprise
and were perhaps just a little disappointed, on
finding that the newly-established dentist did
Taaage to hold his ground somehow or other,
and that the muslin curtains were ae saat re
3 that the |

and again in all their spotless puri
ste oil, f -stone and |

‘supplies of rotten-stone and
house-flannel were unfailing as a
ied snow of Mr.

ring and that the r
Shel on’s shirt-fronts retained its primeval
whiteness. Wonder and suspicion gave place to
a half-envious respect. Whether much custom
came to the dentist no one could decide, There
is no trade or profession in which the struggling
aman will not.receive some faint show of encour-
agement, Pedestrians of te with
handkerchiefs held convu ive ore their
mouths, were seen to rush ly toward the
dentist’s door, then pause for a moment, strick-
en by a sudden terror, and anon ts the
le of an inflexible bell. Cabs been
heard to approach that fatal door—generally on
wet days; for there seems to be a kind of fitness
tho extraction ot a ‘Hike ans an pee
8 e on. 0! ler) ies ani \-'
tlemen had been known to come many timento
the Fitzgeorgian mansion. There was a legend

of an old lady who had been seen to arrive in a |
iterackery 0

brougham, especially weird and nu’
aspect, and
beautified and renovated creature. e
the Fitzgeorgians declared that Mr, Sheldon had
established a very nice little and was
saying money; while the other half were still
despondent, and opined that the dentist had
private property, and was eating up his little.
capital, Tt transpired in course of time that Mr,
Sheldon had left his native town of Little Bar-
lingford, in Yorkshire, where his father and
randfa: had been surgeon-dentists before
fim, to Seat ee on oh He =
van of an excellent practice,
oa had transferred Bis household. goods—the
mderous chairs and tal the wood whereof
deepened and mellowed in tint under the
secretly: hand of his grandmother—to the
metropolis, speculating on the chance that his
talents and appearance, address and industry,

of | i tl ‘ousing himse
to depart half an hour afterward a tee aa Same av : it

 

‘could scarcely to achieve a position. It was
further known that he had a brother, an attorney
in Gray’s Inn, who visited him very frequently ;
that he had few other friends or acquaintances;
that he was a shining example of steadiness an
sobriety ; that he was on thé. sunnier side of
a a bachelor, and very -looking ; and
that his household ‘was comprised of a grim-vis-*
aged, active old woman imported from Barling-
ford, a girl who ran errands, and a boy who
opened the door, attended to the consulting-
room, and did some mysterious work at odd
times with a file and sundry queer lumps of
laster of Paris, beeswax, and bone, in’ a dark
ittle shed abutting on the yard at the back of
we house. This ee had = inha! ae os
eee ‘e stree vered ' res ing ‘
Shel one when he had been among them four
peas but they had discovered no more, He
made no local acquaintance, nor had he
sought to make any..Those_ of his neighbors
who had seen the interior of his house had en-
tered it as patients. They left-it as much pleased
with Mr. Sheldon as one can be with a man at
whose hands one has just undergone martyrdom,
and circulated a very flattering report’ of the
dentist’s agreeable manners and delicate white
handkerchief, fragrant with the odor of eau de
Cologne. For the rest Philip Sheldon lived his
own. life, and dreamed. his own dreams, His
opposite neighbors, who watched him on. sultry
summer evenings as he lounged near an open
window smoking his cigar, no more knowl-
edge of his thoughts.and fancies than they
would have had if he had been a Calmuck Tar-
tar or an Abyssinian chief.

 

CHAPTER II.
PHILIP SHELDON READS THE ‘‘ LANCET.”

FItzGEORGE STREET was chill and dr of
aspect, under a gray March sky, when Mr. Shel-
don.returned.to it_after.aweek’s. absence from
London. He had been to Little Barlingford,
and had spent his brief holiday among old friends
and acquaintances. The weather ha d not been
in favor of that driving hither and thither in
ee or riding ho: long distances
to beat up old companions, which is accounted.
pleasure on such occasions. The blusterous
winds of an unusually bitter March had buffeted
Mr. Sheldon in the streets of his native town.
and had almost blown him off the door-steps ot
his kindred. So it is scarcely strange if he re-
turned to town looks none. the better for his
excursion, He looked considerably the worse
for his week’s absence, the old Yorkshire woman
said, as she waited upon him while he ate a chop
and drank two large cups of. very ee tea.

Mr. Sheldon made short work of this im-
promptu meal. He seemed anxious to put an
end to his oes affectionate interest in
himself and his health, and to get her out of the
room. She had nursed him nearly thirty years
before, and the recollection that she had been
very familiar with him when he was a hand-
some black-eyed baby, with a tendency to be-
come suddenly stiff of body and crimson of vis-
age without any obvious provocation, inclined
her to occasional liberties now. She watch-
ed him furtively as he sat in a big high-backed
arm-chair staring moodily at the struggling fire,
and would fain have questioned hima little about
Barlingford and Bar’ ‘ord people. _

But Philip Sheldon was not a man with whom
even a superannuated nurse can venture to take
many liberties. He was a master, paid
his servants their wages with’ unfailing punctu-
ality, and gave very little trouble. But he was
the (person in the world upon whom a garru-
lous woman could venture to inflict her rambling
discourse; as Nancy Woolper—by courtesy, Mrs.
nogtbor, Men fain to confess to her next-door
n or, Mrs. plaeeon, when her master was
the subject of an afternoon gossip. The heads
of a household may inhabit a neighborhood for

te without becoming acquainted even with

outward aspect of their neighbors; but in
the lordly servants’ halls of the West, or the
modest kitchens of Bloomsbury, there will be
interchange of civilities and friendly “‘ droppings
in” to tea or supper, let the master of the ke
be never so ungregarious a creature. c ‘
“You can take the tea-things, Nancy,” Mr.

y from that somber reverie in which he had

One half of | been

f en pie for > ee heh eaa t st pore
ve usy , and I e
ir. rge in the domes of the eve) 5 Mind
Tam not at home to anybody but him.
The old woman arranged the tea-things on
her tray, but still kept.a furtive watch on her
master, who sat with his head a little bent, and

his bright black eyes fixed on the fire, with that
intensity of.gaze peculiar to eyes wi see some-
thing far away from the object they seem to con-

on rather curiously at all times, for she
had never quite got over a difficulty in realizing
the fact that the black-eyed baby with whom
she had been so intimate could have developed
into this self-contained inflexible young man,
whose thoughts were so very far awa m her.
To-night she watched him more intently than

«

ete She was in the habitof watching Mr.
Sheld:

| found her eyes

F ee

she was accustomed to do, for to-night there
was some change in his face which she was try-
ing, in a dim way, to account for.
e looked up from the fire suddenly, and
xed upon him. It may be that
he had been distur’ by a semi-consciousness
of that curious gaze, for he looked at her angrily
—‘ What are vg starting at, Nancy?”

I was not the first time he had encounter-
ed her watchful eyes and asked the same impa-
tient question. But Mrs. Woolper possessed that
north-country quickness of intellect which is gen-
erally equal to an emergency, and was always
ready with some question or suggestion which
went to prove that she had just fixed her eyes
on her master, inspired by some anxiety about
his interests.

“Tt was just a-thinking, sir,” she said, meet-
ing his stern glance unflinchingly with her little
sharp gra oe I was just a-thinking—you
said not at home to any one except Mr. George.
If it should be a person in a cab wanting their

teeth out sudden—and if ban could
toothache more general in thi
would be these
patient, sir, in a cab—” 2

The dentist interrupted her with a short, bitter

neighborhood it

likely to bring me peptone Nancy, on foot-or in
cabs, and you ae to know it. If it’sa patient,
ask him in, by all‘means, and give him last Sat-
urday week’s Times to read, while I get the rust
off my forceps. There, that will do; take your
tray, or, stop; ’ve got some news to tell you.”
He rose, and stood with his back to the fire and
his _— bent upon the hearth-rug, while Mrs.
Woolper waited by the table, with the tray packed
ready for removal, Her master kept her wait-
ing so for some minutes, and then turned his face
half away from her, and contemplated himself
absently in the glass while he spoke.

‘You remember Mrs. Halliday?’ he asked.

“T should think I did, sir; Miss ree
Cradock that was—Miss Georgy they called her,
your first sweet-heart. And how could she ever
marry that big, awkward Halliday ismore than
I can make out. Poor fondy! I suppose she
was took with those great round blue eyes and
red whiskers of his.” i

“Her mother and father were ‘took’ by his”
comfortable farm-house, and well-stocked farm,
Nancy,” answered Mr. Sheldon, still contempla-
tin self in the glass. ‘Georgy had very
little to do with it. She is one of those women
who let other people think for them. However,
Tom is an excellent fellow, and Georgy was a
lucky girl to catch such a husband. Any little
flirtation there may have been between her and
me was over and done with long before she mar-
ried Tom. It never was more than a flirtation;
and [ve flirted with a good many Barlingford
girls in my time, as you know, Nancy.”

It was not often that Mr. Sheldon conde-
scended to be so municative to his housé-
keeper. _The old woman nodded and chuckled,
eon by her master’s unwonted friendliness.

‘«T drove over to Hyley, while I was at home,
Nancy,” continued the dentist—he called Bar-
lingford home still, though he had broken most
of the links that bound him to it—‘‘ and
dined with the Hallidays. Georgy is as pretty
as. ever, and she and Tom get on capitally. %

“ Any chil ir?”

“One girl,” answered Mr. Sheldon, carelessly,
“‘She’s at school in Scarborough, and I didn’t
see her. I had avery pleasant day with the Hal-
lida Tom has sold his farm; that part of the
world doesn’t suit him, it seems; too cold and
bleak for him. He’s one of those big, burly-
looking men who seem as if they could knock
you down with a little finger, and who shiver at
every puff of wind.
bones, Nancy. But that’s neither here nor there,
I dare say he’s good for another ten years; or
I’m sure I hope so, on Georgy’s account.”

“Tt was right-down soft of him to sell Hyley
Farm, though,” said Nancy, reflectively; ‘“ ve
heard tell as it’s the best land for forty mile round
Barlingford. But he got a rare good price for
it, Til lay.”

“‘ Oh, yes; he sold the property uncommon!
well Me fells me. You know if a north-country-
man gets the chance of making a, profit, he ney-
er lets it ee through his fingers.” __
~ Mrs. Woolper received this compliment to her

1) with a gratified and Mr. Shel-
BBB re eet ee: P still 1 Sing at

-| don went on the reflec-
tion of his handsome face in the glass, and pull-
his whiskers meditatively.

*Now, as Tom was’/made for a farmer, and
nothing but a farmer, he must find land some-
where in a climate that does suit him; so his
friends have advised him to try a place in

myrties and roses over his roof, and grow green
aie the London markets as late as Novem-
There are such places to be had if he bides

ber. c
his time, arid he’s ag to town next week to
look about him. So as Georgy and he would be
about as capable of care of themselves in
London as a couple of , 1 have recom-

mended them to take up their quarters here.
Boy cee e ne jee ee Ae Botaing, and we

all chum er rkshire system;
for of course Fean't afford to keep a couple of

 

’

make |

arch winds—if it should bea ~

oe :
‘* Neither March winds nor April showers are _

T don’t think he’ll make old —

>

Dev- |
| onshire or Cornwall, where he may train his

ss

 

2 “ene

 

vn reer

Sn es ;

 
 

  

 

4

chair to the fire with a movement of impatience.

“You way be uncotnmonly clever, my dear

George,” soliloquized the dentist, ‘but you'll

~ never make a fortune by réading wills and hunt-
ing in parish registers for heirs-at-law. A big
lump of money is not very likély to-go a-beg-
ging while any one who can fudge up the faint-
est pretense of a. claim. to it is above ground.
No, io, my lad yeu must find a better way than
that before youl make your fortune,”

The fire had burned low again, and Mr. Shel-
don'sat staring gloomily at the blackening coals,
Things were very bad ‘with him—he had not
cared to confess how bad they were when he
had discussed his affairs with his’ brother.
Those neighbors and passers-by who ‘admired
the trim brightness of the dentist’s. abode had
no suspicion that the master of that respectable
house was in the hands of the Jews, ‘and that
the hearti-stone which whitened his door-step
was ptiit for out of Israclitish coffers. The den-
tist’s philosopliy ‘was all of this world, and he
know tias th» soldier of fortune, who would
faity bo a conqueror in the’ great battle, must

ES cae

er’s door. Philip heard him, and _ turned his,

»

FIRESIDE

ied. . ieee
diane a

‘back of.a Jetter, to, reduce everything in crea-
tion to figures. ~

“T had better read up that business before
they come,” he said, when he had to all appear-
ance ‘thought out * the subject of his reverie.
“No time so good as this for doing it quietly.
One never knows who is spying about in the
daytime.” .

e looked at his watch and then went to a

cupboard, where there were bundles of wood
and matches and old ne pers—for it was his
habit to light his own fire occasionally when he
worked unusually late at night or early in the
morning. He relighted his fire now as cleverly
as any housemaid in Bloomsbury, and stood
watching it till it burned briskly. Then he lit
a taper and went down-stairs to tie professional
torture-chamber. The tall horse-hair chair
looked unutterably awful in the dim glimmer of
the taper, and a nervous person could. almost
have fancied it occupied by the ghost of some

tient who had expired under the agony of the

orceps. _ Mr, Sheldon lighted the gas in a mov-
able branch which he,was in the habit of turn-
ing almost into the mouths of the patients who

nools koa) his Pine undrabbled and the | consulted him at night. There was a cupboard

Olio Li L530!
*vv.1113 99 never so desperate.

_Hivit; toad his attempt to establish a prac-
tice iv Wiss’) go stréet a failure, the only course
opsn’t’s Mi) Sheldon, as a man of the world,
wa3'to'tusier his failure to somebody ‘else:
with ‘5.0 o¢ less profit to himself: | To this én
he ae ‘vod the spotless purity of his muslin
ew

63) 510 1gh the starch that stiffened them |
and t #9 blswhing-powder that whitened them | he could carry. But he managed to
for which he was to | in his arms, and conveyed them safely to the

were b vis 1s with mone

pay sixiy scent... To this end he nursed that |

wan shvl> 7 of a practice, and sustained that

where ap 93'\e1ncee stands for so much, is in itself)
a kind of capital. It ase dull, dreary |
work to hold tho citadel of No. 14 Fitzgeorge |
street against the besieger_ Poverty; but Ee |
dentist ‘stoodhis ground pertinaciously, know- |
ing that; if he only waited long enough, the
dupe who was to be his victim would come, and |
knowing ‘also’ that ‘there’ might arrive a day’ |
when it would be very aseful for him to be able \
to. refer to ‘four years’ unblemished ‘respecta- |
bility as a Bloomsbury householder, He had”
his lines'set ih’ several shady ‘places for that un- |
happy fish with a small capital, and’ he'‘had |
beén tantalized by more than one ‘nibble; but. |
hemade ho open show of his’ desire to sell his |
business—since a business that is obviously in
the market | seems ‘scarcely’ worth any man’s |
purchase.
Thitigs had of late’ grown worse! with him
every day; for every interval of twenty-four
hours sinks a man ‘so much the deéper in the
miré when renewed accommodation-bills' with’
his name wpon them “are ripening in the iron
safes of Judah. © Philip ‘Sheldon found ‘himself |
sinking gradually and ‘almost ‘imperceptibly’ |
into that bottomless-pit of difficulty in’ whose
black depths tlie demon Insolvency holds ‘his
dréary court. While his little capital lasted he
had kept himself clear of debt; but that being
exhausted, and his practice growing worse day
by: day, he had been fain to seek assistance from
money-lenders; and now even the money~lenders
were tired of him. The chair in which he sat,
_the poker which he swung slowly to and fro, as
he-bent over his hearth, were not his own. One
of his» Jewish. creditors*had a bill of sale on his
furniture, and ‘he might come home any day to
find: the auctioneer’s bills plastered against the
wall:‘of his house, and the auctioneer’s clerk
busy with the catalogue of his’ possessions.” If
the expectéd victim camo now to buy his prac-
tice, the sacrifice would be made too. late ‘to
serve his interest. The men who had lent him
money would be the sole gainers by the bargain.
Seldom does a man find himself face to face
with a blacker prospect than’ that which lay be-
fore’ Philip Sheldon; and yet: his manner to-
night was not the dull, blank apathy of despair.
It was the manner of a man whose ‘brain is oc-
cupied: with busy thoughts; who has some eélab-
orate scheme to map out and arrange before he
is called upon to carry his plans into action. —_
“Tt would be a good business for me” he
aan ‘if I had pluck enough to carry it
‘ough, :
The fire went quite out as he sat swinging the
— backward and forward. The clocks of
loomsbury and St. Pancras struck.twelve, and
still Philip ree and plotted by that
dreary “hearth: servants had retired at
eleven, after a good deal of blundering with bars
arid shutters, and cumncockitans teinging of doors.
That unearthly silence peculiar to houses after
midnight’ reigned’ in Mr. Sheldon’s domicile,
and he could hear the voices of distant royster-
ers and the miauling of ‘neighboring cats with a
Ppacerametiattaces se-ho sat bi g in his si-
ent room. The fact that a mahogany chiffon-
nier in a corner gave utterance to a faint groan
occasionally,'as of some feeble creature in pain,
afforded him no-annoyance. He'was superior
to superstitious fancies, and all the = poles
and scratchings of spirit-land would have failed

his uniform untarnished, let | on each side of the mantel-piece, and it was in

these two cupboards, that the dentist kept his
professional et His books did not form a
very. valuable collection, but he kept the cup-
boards constantly locked nevertheless.

He took the key from his waistcoat pocket,

 

appearaiits of respectability which, in a world . through these volumes, , sto

| accounted’ monstrous:

 

to disturb his equanimity. | He was a nae
practical man—one of those men who are al-

opened one of, the Bangers, and took out a
pile of heavy books,. They were bound volumes
of the Lancet, and they were almost as much as
pack them

room above, where he ‘seated himself under the
as with the volumes before him. He sat’ look-
ing now and
then to read an article with studious attention,
and making numerous notes in a thick little ob-
long memorandum ‘book, until the Bloomsbury
clocks struck three. ce

CHAPTER. IIT.
“MR. AND MRS. HALLIDAY.

 

wo

Mr. SHELDON’s visitors arrived in due course. |

They were provincial people of the middle-class,
Ls mi y genteel in their own
neighborliood, but’ in nowise resembling London-
ers of the samo rank.
Mr, Thomas Halliday was a big, loud-spoken,
goo@-tempered Yorkshireman, who had inherit-
ed a.comfortable, little estate from a plodding,

| money-making’ father, and for whom life

been very easy..” He was a farmer, and nothing
but a’ farmer; a man for whom the supremest
pleasure of existence was a cattle-show or a
country horsé-fair. The farm upon which he
had been borri’ and’ brought up was situated
about six miles from Barlingford, and all thede-
lights of his aaa and youth were associated
with that small market-town. He and the two
Sheldons had been school-fellows, and afterward

+ boon companions, taking such pleasure as was
| obtainable in Barlingfor together ; flirting with

the same provincial ‘beauties at prim tea-parties
in the winter, and getting up friendly picnics in
the suznmer—picnics at which eating and drink-
ing were the leading features of the day’s enter-
tainment. ‘Mr. Halliday had always regarded
George and mee Sheldon with that reverential
admiration which a stupid man, who is conscious
of his}own mental inferiority, generally feels for
a clever friend and companion. But he was also
fully aware’of ‘the'advantage which a rich man

sé8 Over a poor one, and would not have
exchanged the fertile acres of Hyley for the in-
tellectual gifts of his school-fellows.. He had

found thé substantial value of his handsomely-

furnished house and well-stocked farm: when he
and his friend Philip’ Sheldon became suitors for
the hand of Georgina Cradock, youngest daugh-
ter of a oe ord attorney, who lived next
door to the Barlingford dentist, Philip Sheldon’s
father. Philip and the girl had been play-fel-
lows in the long-walled gardens behind the two
houses, and there had been a brotherly and sis-
terly intimacy between the juvenile members of
the two families. But when Philip and Geor-
gina met at the Barlingford tea-parties in later
years, the Lari powers frowned upon any re-
newal of that childish friendship. Miss Cradock
had no portion, and the worthy solicitor her fa-
ther was a prudent man, who was apt to look for
the promise ofdomestic happiness in the plate-
basket and the linen-press, rather than for such
ead qualifications as black whiskers and
white teeth. So poor Philip was ‘‘ thrown oyer

the bridge,” as he said , and Georgy Crad-
ock married “Mr, Halliday, with all ai ndant

‘ceremony and splendor, according to
“lights” of Barlingford gentry.

But this provincial bride’s story was no oe
sionate record of and tears. The
lingford Juliet had Romeo as much as she

_was capable of liking any one; but. when Papa

Capulet insisted on her union with Paris she ac-
cepted her destiny with decent resignation, and
in.the absence of any sympathetic father con-
fessor, was fain to seek consolation from a more
‘mundane individual in the a of the Bar-
lingford milliner. Nor did Phillp soon

Z ™ ‘a-

evidence of any extravagant despair

ways ready. with astump of lead-pencil and the | ther was something of a doctor as well as a den:

LIBRARY.

ee at the beginning of a little d

 

 

 

tist;-and there were plenty of dark little vials
lurking on the shelves of his surgery in which
the young man could have found ‘‘ mortal drugs”
without the aid of the apothecary, had he been
so minded. Happily no such desperate idea
ever occurred to him in connection with his grief.
He held himself sulkily aloof from Mr, and Mrs.
Halliday for some time after their iage, and
allowed pecple to see that he considered himself
very hardly used; but prudence, which had al-
ways been Philip Sheldon’s counselor, proved
herself also his consoler in this crisis of his life,
A. careful consideration of his own interests led
him to perceive that the successful result of his
love-suit would have been about the worst thing
that could have happened to him. 1
Georgina had no money. All was said in
that. As the young dentist’s philosophy of this
world ripened under the influence of experience
he discovered that the worldly ease of the best
man in Barlingford was something like that of
a canary-bird who inhabits a clean cage and is
pappled with abundant seed and water. . The
cage is eminently comfortable, and the sleepy,
r ble, elderly. bird. sighs for no better
abiding-place, no wider prospect than that noe
of the universe which he sees between the ;
But now and then there is hatched a wild young
fledgling, which beats its wings against the in-
exorable wires, and would fain soar away into

| that wide outer world, to prosper or perish in

its freedom. :

Before Georgy had been married a year her
sometime lover had fully resigned himself to
the existing state of things, and was on the best
possible terms with his friend Tom. He could
eat his dinner in the comfortable house at Hy-
ley with an excellent Seper for there was a
gut between him and his old love far wider
han any that had been dug by that ceremonial
in the parish church of Barlingford. Philip
Sheldon had awakened to the consciousness that
life in his native town was little more than a
kind of animal vegetation—the life of some
ulpy invertebrate creature, which sprawls
betp essly upon the sands whereon the wave
has deposited ‘it, and may be cloven in half
without feeling itself noticeably worse for the

‘operation.. He had awakened to the knowledge
that there was a wider and more agreeable
world beyond that little provincial borough, —
and that a handsome face and ery. and a vig- _

orous intellect were commodities for which there
must be some kind of market.

Once convinced of the utter worthlessness of
his prospects in Barlingford, Mr. Sheldon turned
his eyes Londonward,; and his father happening
at this time very conveniently to depart this
life, Philip, the son and heir, disposed of the
business to an aspiring young Pa and
came to the metropolis, where he made that fu-
tile attempt to establish himself which has been
described.

The dentist’ had wasted four years in London,
and nine years had gone by since Georgy’s wed-
ding; and now for the first time he had an op-
portunity of witnessing the domestic ee
or the domesti¢ misery of the woman who had
jilted him, and the man who had been his suc-
cessful rival. Hé set himself to watch them

-with the cool deliberation of a social anatomist,

and he experienced very little difficulty in the
performance of this moral dissection. They
were established under his roof, his companions
at every meal; atid they were the kind of peo-
ple who discuss their grievances and indulge in
their “little differences” with perfect freedom
in the presence of a third, or a ‘ourth, or even a
fifth party. ea af
Mr. Sheldon was wise enough to preserve a
strict neutrality. He would take ae a newspa-
ifference, and
ay it down when the little difference was finish-
ode with the most perfect assumption of uncon-
sciousness; but it is doubtful whether the mat-
rimonial disputants ere sufficiently ap recia-
tive of this good-breeding. ae would have
liked to have had Mr. Sheldon for a court of
appeal; anda little interference from him would
have given zest to their quarrels. Meanwhile
Philip watched them slyly from the covert of
his newspaper, and formed his own conclusions
about them. If he was pleased to see his false
love’s path was not entirel, rose-bestrewn, or if
he rejoiced at beholding the occasional annoy-
ance of his rival, he allowed no evidence of his
pleasure to ee in his faceor manner.
Georgina Cradock’s rather insipid prettiness

‘had developed into matronly, co eliness. Her

fair —— and pink ¢ had lost none
of their freshness. Her smooth auburn hair was
as soft and bright as it had been when she had
braided it preparatory. to a Barlingford tea-
party in the days of h ‘spinsterhood. She was
a pretty, weak little woman, whose elucation
never gone beyond the routine of a provin-
cial boarding-school, and who thought that she
had attained all necessary om in havin
mastered Pinnock’s abridgments of Goldsmith’s
histories and the rudiments of the French lan-
guage. She was a woman who thought that the
roliquedindes Aisi 00 spe ous gold chain, She
antique and a conspii gold chain. She
wan woman who dered a well-
house and a horse and gig the highest form of
earthly splendor or prosperity. ‘

 

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This was the shallow commonplace creature
whom Philip Sheldon had once admired and
wooed. He looked at her now, and wondered
how he could ever have felt even as much as he
had felt on her account. But he had little leis-
ure to devote to any such abstract and useless
consideration. He had his own affairs to think
about, and they were very desperate.

In the meantime Mr. and Mrs. Halliday oc-
cupied themselves in the pursuit of pleasure or
business, as the case might be. They were eager
for amusement; went to exhibitions in the day
and to theaters at night, and came home to coz;
little suppers in Fitzgeorge street, after whic
Mr. Halliday was wont to waste the small hours
in friendly conversation with his quondam com-

anion, and in the consumption of much bran-
y-and-water.

Unhappily for poor Georgy, these halcyon
days were broken by intervals of storm and
cloud. The weak little woman was afllicted
with that intermittent fever called jealousy ;
and the stalwart Thomas was one of those men
who can scarcely give the time of day to a femi-
nine acquaintance without some ornate and
loud-spoken gallantry. Having no intellectual
resources wherewith to beguile the tedium of his
idle prosperous life, he was fain to seek pleasure
in the companionship of other men; and had.
thus become a haunter of tavern-parlors and
small race-courses, being always ready for an
amusement his friends proposed to him. It fol-
lowed, therefore, that he was very often absent
from his commonplace, substantial home and
his pretty weak-minded wife. And poor Georgy
had ample food for her jealous fears and suspi-
cions; for where might a’ man not be who was
so seldom at home? She had never been par-
ticularly fond of her husband, but that was no
reason why she should ‘not be Sey, jeal-
ous about him; aud her jealousy betraye: itself
in a peevish worrying fashion, which was harder
to bear than the vengeful ferocity of a Clytem-
nestra. It was in vain ‘that Thotias Halliday
and those jolly good fellows his friends and com-
panions att ‘the Arcadian innocence of race-.
courses, and the ‘perfect ‘purity of ‘that smokey
atmosphere peculiar to tavern parlors. Mba |

pat

suspicions were too vague for refutation;
they were nevertheless sufficient ground for all
the alternations of temper—from stolid sulkiness

to peevish whining, from murmured lamenta
tions to loud hysteriesto which the female
temperament is liable. I
In the meantime poor honest, loud- spoken
Tom did all in his power to demonstrate’ his
truth and devotion. He pa his wife as many |
stiff silk pons and peudy arlingford bonnets
as she chose to sigh for.. He made a will in
which she pone legatee, and insured his lifé
ai nen offices to the amount of ‘five thousand
‘Dm the sort of fellow that’s likely to’ go off thé
hooks suddenly, ‘you know, Georzy,”” he ‘said,
“and your poor dad was Always anxious T should
make sings gears for you. oe oe
ou’re like marry again, my lass, so lve no
tba to 6 up Tanti ible toreane: T must.
trust some one, and I’d_better confide-in my’
own little wife than in some canting methodis-
tical fellow of a trustee, who = id speculate
my daughter’s money upon som k-exchange
Hata OTF de to Seat when it was =
swamped. ‘ou can’t trust me, Georgy: ;
let you see that I can trust you,” add Tom,
Tapreepeally TOs
ereupon* poor weak little Mrs. Halliday
murmured plaintively that she did not want for-
tunes or life-insurances, but that she wanted her
husband to stay at Hémeé, content with the calm
and rather sleepy delights of his’ own fireside
Poor Tom was wont to promise amendment, and’
would keep his promise faithfully so long as no
supreme temptation, in the shape of a'visit from
some friend o: the joll -good-fellow species, ai‘ose’
to rene his : resolutions. But a good
tempered, generous-hearted young man who:
farrae his own land, has three or four
horses in his stable, a decent ‘cellar of honest
port and shérry—none of’ your wishy-washy!
sour stuff in the way of hock or clatetilia nda
very comfortable balance at his banker’s, finds'
it no’easy matter to shake off friends of: the’
jolly- oodtellow fraternity. Is it not the'speci-
alty of “ jolly dogs” to be “here agaiti,” whether |
ee SEAS TA ° REPS ~ aaa
In London’ Mr, ee the spirit of
jolly-dog-ism rampant. ge Sheldon had al-'
ways been his favorite of the two brothers; arid
it ‘was’ George ‘that lu him from the safe
shelter of Fitzgeorge 'stréet and took him to-
m ous haunts, whence he returned long
af midnight, boisterous of manner and un-
— of gait, and with garments reeking of
6

tale tobacco-smoke. 5
‘He’ was always good-tempered, even ‘after
these diabolical orgies on some unknown Brock~

en, and protested ndistinctly that there was no
harm **"pon m’ wor’, ye know, ol’ gur’! Geor’
an’’ mé—half-doz? oyst'r—-o'gar.—botl’ pl ale—
str’t home,” and much’ more to the same effect.
When did any ied man ever take more than
half a dozen oysters—or take’ any ‘undomestic
ae for his own satisfaction? It is always

incorrigible bachelors, Thomas, Richard,
or Henry, who hinder the unwilling Benedict

 

\

 

ee a ea ol ener

from returning to his sacred Lares and Penates.
Poor Georgy was not to be pacified by protes-
tations about oysters and cigars from the lips of
a husband who was thick of utterance, and who
betrayed a general imbecility of mind and un-
steadiness of body.. This London excursion.

which had begun in sunshine, threatened to end
in storm and darkness. “George Sheldon ‘and
his set had takén possession of the young farmer;
and Georgy had no better amusement in the long
blusterous March evenings than to sit at her
work under the flaming gas in Mr. Sheldon’s

drawing-room, while that gentleman—who rare- |.

ly joined in the dissipations of his friend and his
brother—occupied himself with mechanical den-
tistry in the chamber of torture below.
Fitzgeorge street in general, always on the
watch to discover evidences of impecuniosity or
doubtful morality on the part of any one citizen
in particular, could find no food for scandal in
the visit of Mr. and Mrs. Halliday to their friend
and countryman. It’ had been noised abroad,
through the agency of Mrs, Woolper, that Mr.
Sheldon had been @ suitor for the lady’s hand,
and had been jilted by her. The Fitzgeorgians
had been, therefore, especially on the alert to
detect any sign‘of backsliding in the dentist.
There would have been much pleasant discus-
sion in kitchens and back parlors if Mr. Shéldon
had been particularly attentive to his fair guest;

‘| but it speedily became mee always by the

ye ae of Mrs. Woolper and that’ phenomenon
of idleness and iniquity, the’ London ‘girl,’
that Mr, Sheldon was not by any means atten-
tive to the fr young woman frém ‘Yorkshire
—but that he suffered her to sit aléiie hour after
hour in her husband’s absenee—with no amuse-
ment but her. needle-work wherewith to “pass
the time,” while he scraped and filed and polish-
ed those fragments of bone which were to assist
in the renovation of decayed beauty.

The third week of Mr. and Mrs. Halliday’s
visit was near its close, and as yet the young
farmer had arrived at no decision as to the sub-
ject which lad brought him to London. The
sale of Hyley Farm was an accomplished ‘fact*
and the purchase-money duly bestowed wt 'Tom’s
banker’s; but very little been done toward
finding ti ee tn which was to be a sub-
stitute for the estate his father and grandfather
had farmed “before him: ‘He’ had seen auction-
cers, and had brought home plans’ of estates in
Herefordshire and Devonshire, Cornwall and
‘their nn font vs aos things pore bone

eir way, most per. f imaginable—
Jand of such fertility as one would scarcely ex-
pect to find out'of Arcadia—live stock which
seemed beyond all price to be taken at a valua-
tion—roads ‘and surrounding neighborhood un-
pa ) if ener and ‘sonvenience—out-

ildings that must have. been’ the very arche-
ti of barns and stables—a house which'to in-
habit) would be to adore. - But as yet'‘he ‘had
seen ‘none of these’ peerless domains. He! was
waiting for decent weather in which ‘to ruir
down to the West and “look about him,” as he
said’ himself. In the’ meantime the blusterous’
March weather, which was so unsuited'to pn
railroad journeys, and all that waiting about
febena and at little windy stations on branch~°
incidental to the inspection of estates scat~
tered over a ae area of country,'served very
well for “ jolly-dog-ism ”—and what witha hand
at cards in George’ Sheldon’s chambers;‘and‘an-
other hand at’ cards in 'sémebody else’s cham-
bers, and @ run ‘down to an early meeting at
Newmarket, and ‘an evening ‘at ‘some rooms
where there was something’ to be seen which was
as near prize-fighting as the law’ allowed; and
other evenings In unknown regions, Mr! Halli-
day found time slipping by him, and his domes-:
tic é vanishing away. UOSI ue quod

Tt was on an evening at the end of | this third
week that Mr. Sheldon abandoned ‘his’ miechan-
ical dentistry fom once in a way and ascended to
the drawing-room, where poor Georgy sat er
with that eternal needle-work, ‘but for whic
melancholy madness would ‘surely ‘overtake
many desolate ‘matrons in houses whose com=-%
monplace comfort ‘and ‘respectable dullness are
more dismal than the pictu
a moated grange amidst the Lincolnshire fens. :
To the maculine mind this needle-work seems:
nothing more than” a purposeless ‘stabbing and
sowing of strips of calico; but to lonely woman-
hood itis the peter of the captive, it is
the spider of Latude. dlr GHot- 10,36

‘Mr, Sheldon: brought his. guest) an évening

news) a I ; OO» SKEET
\ -ié There'dazh account of the opening of Parlia-

ment,” he said, “which: you may perhaps ‘like
to see. Iowish I a pieeee; or Sonetlemadane:
quaintance to drop in upon you. Pm afraid.
en must be dull in. these-long evenings when

‘om is out of the way.” f i

‘fT am indeed dull,” Mrs Halliday answered,
peevishly; ‘‘and. if Tom) cared for me, he
wouldn’t leave me like this’ evening after even-
ing But he doesn’t care for me.”

. Sheldon. laid down the ne’ per; and
seated himself, opposite his guest. | He sat for a
few ——— in poees: aseehins se to some ae
agi ‘ with: the: tips: o' fingers on
old-fashioned taahdgany. table: Then he said,,
with a half-smile wpon his face:

“But surely Tom is the best of husbands! He

BIRDS OF PREY. _

tie dreariness of)

 

5

has-been a little wild since his coming to Lon-

don, I know; but then you see he doesn’t often
come to town,”
‘He's just as bad ‘in Yorkshire,” Georgy an-

swered; gloomily;‘‘he is always going to Bar- . * :

lingford with somebody,or; other; or to meet”
some of» his. old friends. ’m sure, if I had ~
known what he was, I would never have mar-
ried him.” 4

* roms I a he was such a good hus-
band, e was telling me only a few days ago
how’ he had made a will leaving you every six-

nce he possessesy without reservation, and

ow he has insured his life ‘for five thousand
ounds,” 9

‘*Oh, yes, I know that; but Ddon’t call that
being “a good: husband. don’t want: him«to
leave me his money. I don’t want him to die;
I want him to stay at home.”

‘“Poor Tom! Vm afraid he’s not the sort of
man for that kind of thing. He likes charge
and amusement. You:married a rich man, Mrs.
Halliday; you made: your choice, you "know,
without regard to the feelings of any one else.
You sacrificed truth and honor to your own in-
clination, or your own interest, Ido not know,
and I do not ask which. If the bargain has
turned out:a bad one that’s your look-out.”

Philip Sheldon sat with his :folded arms rest-
ing on ,the: little table, and: his eyes) fixed om
Georgy’s face. They could be very stern and

' hard and cruel, those bright black eyes, anid

Mrs. Halliday grew first red:and then pale un-
der their ‘searching gaze. She had seen! Mr;
Sheldon'very often during the years of her mar-
ried life, but this was the first time he had ever
said any thing to her that sounded like a re-
oe The dentist’s eyes softened a little as
e watched. her, not ‘with any:special tender-
ness, but with an expression of half disdainful
compassionsuch as a strong, stern man might
feel for a foolish child. He could see that this
woman was afraid of him, and it served. his in-
terests that she should fear him. He hada pur-
pose in everything he did, and his ‘purpose to-
night was to test the strength of his influence
over Georgina ‘Halliday; In the old: time be-
fore her marriage that influence ):cdil een very,
strong. It was for him todiscover hu whether
it still endured. acl
“You made pope choice, Mrs) Fvaliiday,” he
went on presen 3 ‘“and-it was a choice which
all prudent people must ‘have apy ruved. | What
chance a@ man, who 'was:only lic ix toa prac-
tice worth four or five hundred peuncs, against
the inheritor of Hyley Farm, with its tvo jun-
dred and fifty acres,-and three thevsnnd pounds’
worth of live-stock, plant, and wor hin g ce pital?
When do the a people ever tc p to con-
sider'truth and honor, or old promises, or an af-
fection that dates from childhood? o'bhcy ¢aleu-
late every thing by pounds, shillings and pence};
ando according ‘to their mode of recht ning you
were in thé right whem you jilted mete marry!
Tom’ Halliday.” |: " BBY ys bil
Georgy laid: down: her work and tool: owt her,
handker¢hief. » She was one of: those women;

‘who stake refuge in tears when, they find tlem-,

selves! at a disadvantage. » Tears; liad always,
melted honest Tom,) was his wrath never Ko dire,,
and tears would no doubt'subdue Philip Sheldon.
But Georgy had to discover that the dentist,
was madé of a stuff very different. from that
seftericlay which comy the rollicking good+
tempered: farmer, | Mr, Sheldon; watehed. her
tears with: the: cold-blooded deliberation, of .a,
scientific eense. He was: glad to find
that ‘he could «make herery.,iShe/was'a neces
sarylinstrument in the working out, of joertain,
plans that he had miade,for himself, and. he was
anxious! to discover whether. she, was to
be a plastic! instrument.” He knew. that,hor love
for: him:had never been worth much tt, its best,
and \that tixdpoor Jittle flickering flame had been
utterly extinguished -by nine ;years of «onnmon-
place domesticity and petty jealousy... But his
pe was ,one that would be) served. as well,
y her fearas by: her: love,,and:he had set, him-
= to-night to gauge his power jn) relation;to
his poor weak ereature; a" ring ;
‘Its: very uniind of :you to say such dreadful
things, Mr. Sheldon,” she whimpered, presently ;
“you! know. very well; that; my marriage with
Tomwas pa’s doing, and not, mine, | I’m) sure if
Td known: how he would: stay out night, after
night;-and come jhome fino such, dreadful. states,
time-atter times never would have consented

to him,” domb. sit on

Wouldn't you? Oh, yes, you would! If you
were a, widow to-morrow, and free to marry
again, you, would choose. just, such another man
as ‘Toma man who laughs, loud, and pays flour-
ishing compliments, and, drives..a gig with, ai
high-stepping horse... That’s the sort. of man,
women. like, and that’s the sort of man you'd

Ye T' sure) shouldn’t,marry at all,” answered
Mrs, Halliday, ina voice that was broken, by
little gas sobs... ‘I have seen enough of the
aes one parried BA oe ERE ds want aoa
to i as he .is, me. 20 Are, al>
ways “sayin, that he won't:make recta
ang puro X sometimes nakd ye waeehed

Sure, wre

abot him, as he knows, though he doesn't thank
me for it,

 

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- ity, isn’t it?-~only there are some things which

   

6

And here Mrs, Halliday’s sobs got the better
of her utterance, and Mr. Sheldon was fain. to
say something of a consolatory nature.

‘Come, come,” he said, ‘‘I won’t tease you
any more. That’s against the laws of hospital-

 

‘ou can’t expect a man to forget, you know.
“However, let: by-gones be by-gones. As for poor
old Tom, I dare say he'll live tobe a hale, heart;
old man, in spite of the croakers. People
always will croak about something; and it’s a
kind of fashion to say that a big, hearty,’ six-
foot man is a fragile blossom likely to be nipped
by any wintry blast. Come, come, Mrs, Halli-.
day, your husband mustn’t discover, that I’ve
been making you cry when he comes home. He
may be home early this evening, perhaps; and
if he is, we’ll have an oyster supper and a chat
about old times.”

Mrs. Halliday shook her head dolefully.

‘*Tt’s past ten o’clock already,” she said, “and
I don’t a Tom will, be home till after
twelve. e doesn’t like my sitting up for him;
but I wonder what time he would come home if
I didn’t sit up for him?”

“Let’s hope for the best,” exclaimed Mr,
Sheldon, cheerfully. ‘‘ I'll. go and see about the
oysters.”

“ Don’t get them for me or for Tom,” protest-
ed Mrs. Halliday; ‘‘ he will have had his supper
when he comes home, _— may be sure, oo I
couldn’t eat a morsel o: oe ey 8 2

To this resolution Mrs. Halliday adhered; so
the dentist was fain to abandon all jovial ideas
in relation to oysters and pale ale. But he did
not go back to his mechanical dentistry. He
sat opposite his visitor and watched her, silent]
and thoughtfully, for some time as she worked.
She had brushed away her tears, but she looked
very peevish and miserable, and took out her
watch several times in an hour. Mr, Sheldon
made two or three feeble. attempts at conversa-
tion, but the talk languished) and expired on
each occasion, and they'sat on in silence.

Little by little the dentist’s attention seemed
to wander away from his guest.. He wheeled
his chair round and sat looking at the fire, with
the same fixed gloom upon his face which had
darkened it on the tof his return, from
Yorkshire. Things been so desperate with
him of late that he had lost his old orderly habit
of thinking out a business at one sitting, and
making an end of all deliberation and hesitation
about it... There were subjects that forced them-
selves upon his thoughts, and certain ideas
which repeated themselves with a: stupid. per-
sistence. He was such an eminently practical
man that this disorder of his brain troubled him
more even than the thoughts. that made the dis-
disorder. He sat in the same attitude for a long
while, scarcely conscious of Mrs;.; Halliday’s
[memo not at all conscious of the progress of

Georgy had been right in her gloomy fore-
boding of bad behavior on the part. of Mr. Hal-
liday. It was nearly one o’clock when a loud
doubi knock announced) that’ gentleman’s re-
turn; The wind had been howling drearily,
and a sharp, slanting rain had been pattering
ainst’ the windows for the last half. hour,
while Mrs. Halliday’s breast had been racked
b . contending emotions of anxiety and: in-
on. ‘ i
*1 suppose he couldn’t get a cab,” she ex-
mod; as $hé knook startled her. from tier list-
e anes for however intentlya midnight
watcher may be listening for the returning wan-
derer’s knock, it is not the less startling when it
comes. ‘And he has walked home thro C)
wet, and now he’ll have a violent cold, [dare
say,” added Georgy, peevishly. | — ;
‘Then it’s Aueky or him he’s in a doctor's
house,” answered Mr, Sheldon, with a smile,
He was a handsome man, no doubt. according
to the popular idea of masculine pertection, but
he‘had not a pleasant smile. “1 went through
the regular. routine, you know, and am as well
able to see a patient safely through a cold or a
fever as I am to make him a set of teeth.”

Mr. Halliday burst into the room at this mo-
ment, singing a fragment of the ‘*C and
Crow” chorus, very much out of tune. He was
in boisterously high spirits, and very little the
worse for liquor. He had — walked’ from
Covent Garden, he said, and taken ae
but atankard of stout and a Welsh rarebit.
had been hearing the divinest singing—boys |
with the voices of angels—and had been taking
his supper in a place which duchesses themselves
did not disdain te > nag at from the sacred re-
cesses =a loge Ao ae Sheldon had wes
him. r country- Georgina Halli
would not believe in the duchesses, or the atipele
singing boys, or the primitive simplicity of
Welsh rarebits.’ She had a vision of beautiful
women, and halls of dazzling light; where there
was the mad music of perpetual horn galops,
with a riotous accompaniment of “huzzas, an
the Popping of cham @ corks; where the
sheen of satin and the glitter of gems bewildered
the eye of the beholder. She had seen such a

Picture once on the stage and had vaguely as-
Sociated it with all Tom’s *
ever afterward. °

3 midnight roysterings

THE FIRESIDE

| lost alike his appetite and his spirits,

entreated him to change them for dry ones, or
to go to bed immediately... He stood before the
fire relating his innocent adventures, and trying
to dispel the cloud from Georgy’s fair young
brow; and, when he did at last consent to go
to his room, the dentist shook his head omin-

ously,
tf Youll have a severe cold to-morrow, depend
upon it, Tom, and you'll have yourself to thank

for it,” he said, as he bade the good-tempered °

reprobate geodnight,

‘ Never mind, old fellow,” answered Tom; ‘‘if
Iam ill, you shall nurse me. If one is doomed
to die by doctor’s stuff, it’s better to have a doc-
tor one does know than a doctor one doesn’t
know for one’s executioner.”

After which graceful piece of humor Mr. Hal-
liday went blundering up the staircase, followed
by his aggrieved. wife.

Philip Sheldon stood on the landing looking

-after his visitors for some minutes, Then he
went slowly back to the sitting-room, where he
replenished the fire, and seated himself before it
with a newspaper in his hand.

‘““What’s the use of going to bed if I can’t
sleep?” he muttered, in a discontented tone.

CHAPTER IV.
j A PERPLEXING ILLNESS.

Mr. SHELDON’sS prophecy was fully realized.
Tom Halliday awoke the next day with a vio-
lent cold in his head. Like most big boisterous
men of Herculean build, he was the veriest cra-
ven in the hour of physical ailment; so he suc-
cumbed at once to the malady which a man
obliged to fage,the world and fight for his daily
bread must needs have made light. of.

The dentist rallied his invalid friend.

“Keep your bed, if you like, Tom,” he said,
“but there’s no necessity for any such coddling,
As your hands are hot, and your tongue rather
queer, I may as well give you a saline draught.
You'll be all right by.dinner-time, and Pll get
George to look round in the evening for a hand
at cards,” ;

Tom obeyed his professional friend—took his
medicine, read the r, and, alent eway the
best 6 of the d arch day. t half past
five he got up and dressed for.dinner, and. the
evening Passo very pleasantly ; so pleasantly,
indeed, that. Georgy was half “inclined to wish
that her husband aunt be. aftiicted, with, chronic
influenza, whereby he would, be eompelled to
stop at home. She sighed when. Philip Sheldon
slapped his friend’s broad shoulder, and told him
cheerily that he would. be. ‘all. right,.to-mor-
row.” He would be well again, and there would
be more midnight roystering, and she, would be
again tormented by that vision.of lighted halls
and beautiful diabolical creatures . revolving
madly to the music of the Post-horn; Galop,,

Itseemed, however, that poor . jealous, Mrs.
Halliday was to be spared her nightly agony for
some e to come. Tom’s cold laine
than he had expected, and the cold was succeed-
ed, by a low fever—a bilious fever, Mr. Sheldon
said. There was not the least occasion for alarm,
of course. The invalid and the invalid’s. wife
trusted implicitly in the friendly doctor, whoas-
sured. so Let eee ee oped was the most
ordinary o gy a le wearing,.. no
doubt, but entirely without danger. ,. He had. to
rej this assurance very often to, Georgy,
whose angry feelings had eee. place to ex-
treme tenderness and affection now that Tom
was an invalid, quite eae for the society. of
jolly-good-fellows, and willing to receive, basins
of -tea. and arrow-root meekly from his
wife’s hands, instead of those edibles of iniquity,
oysters and toasted cheese.

Mr; Halliday’s. illness was very tiresome. It
was one of those perplexing complaints. which
keep the patient ,himself, and. the ,patient’s
friends an attendants, in perpetual uncertain-
tye A little worse one day, anda shade. better
the next; now gaining a little strength, now
losing a trifle more than he had pened the pa-
tient declined in an. imperceptible er, and
it was only when he been ill three w
and was no longer able to leave his bed, and
: it was then
only that Georgy awoke to the fact that this ill-
ness, hitherto considered so lightly, must be
very serious. |

“T think, if—if
should like to see another doctor,
she said, one day, with considerable embarrass-
ment of manner. She feared to offend her host
by any doubt of his skill. ‘‘ You see—you—you
are so much employed with tecth—and—of,
course you know I am quite assured of your tal-
ent—but don’t you think that a doctor who had
more experience in fever cases might bring Tom
round a icker? He has been ill so long now;
and real y he doesn’t'seem to get any better.”

Philip Sheldon shrugged his shoulders.

‘As you pleat: my dear Mrs. Halliday,” he
said, carelessly ; “oy don’t wish to press my ser-
vices upon you, It is quite a matter of/friend-
ship, you know, and I shall not profit_ sixpence

 

you: have no_ objectio:

by my attendance on poor old Tom. Callin an-.

other doctor, by all means, if you think fit to do
so, but, of course, in that event, I must with-
draw from the case. The man you call in ma

 

wet, and
ip Sheldon’

. The roysterer’s garments were ve
it was eran that t

his wife and

¥
be clever, or he may be stupid and ignorant. It’s
all a chance, when otie doesn't know one’s man;

LIBRARY.

I
Mr. Sheldon,”

 

 

 

and I really can’t advise * upon that point,
for I know nothing of the London profession.”

Georgy looked alarmed. This was a new
view of the subject. She had fancied that all
regular Rae anes were clever, and had only
doubted Mr, Sheldon because he was not a regu-
lar practitioner. But how if she were to with-
draw her husband from the hands of a clever
man to deliver him into the care of an ignorant

retender, simply because she was Over-anxious
tor his recovery

““Talways am foolishly anxious about things,”
she thought. © at

And then she looked piteously at Mr. Sheldon,
and said;

“What do you think I roa todo? Pra
tell me! He has eaten no breakfast again this
morning; and eyen the cup of tea which I per-
suaded him to take seemed to disagree with him.
And then there is that. dreadful sore throat
which torments him so. What ought I to do,
Mr, Sheldon?”

‘Whatever seems best to yourself, Mrs. Hal-
liday,” answered. the dentist, earnestly. ‘‘ It is
a subject upon which I cannot pretend to advise
you. It is a matter of feeling rather than of
reason, and it is a matter which you yourself
must determine. If I knew any man whom I
could honestly recommend to you it would be
another affair, but I don’t. 'Tom’s illness is the
simplest thing in the world, and I feel myself
quite competent to pull him through it, without
fuss or bother; but if you think otherwise, pray

ut me out of the question. There’s one fact,

owever, of which I am bound to remind you.
Like many fine big, stalwart fellows. of his
stamp, your husband is as nervous as a hysteri-
cal woman; and if yourcall in a sirengy octor,
who will pull long faces and put on the profes-
sional solemnity, the chances are that he'll take
alarm, and do himself .more mischief in a few
hours than your new adviser can undo in {
many weeks,” 7

There was a little pause after this. Georgy’s
opinions, and suspicions, and anxieties were

ike vague; and this last suggestion of Mr.
Sheldon’s put things in a new and alarming
light. She was. really anxious about her hus-
band, but she had been, accustomed all her life
to eteene the opinion of other. people in prefer-
ence to her own, ee oe

“Do 7 really think that Tom will soon be
well an Sea: again?” she asked, presently.

“Tf I thought otherwise L should be the first
to advise other measures, However, my dear
Mrs., Halliday, call in some one else, for your
Oto said Georgy, sighing. flanutividy, “it

0,” sai eor sighing plaintively,
might trighten roe "You. are quite Fight, Mr.
Sheldon; he is very nervous, and the idea that
Iwas alarmed might alarm him, “I'll trust in
you.. Pray try to bring him round omni, You
will try, won't you?” she asked, in the childi

leading way which was ular to her,’ cr 3
: The entist was searching or something: in
the drawer,of a table, and his back was turned
upon that:anxious questioner. ¢ ee

“You, may serene upon. it I’ll do my best,
Pe Halliday,” he answered, still busy at, the
awer. : ;

Mr. Sheldon the younger had paid many visits
to Fitzgeorge, street_during Tom sales 6 ill-
ness. George and Tom had been. the Damon
and aa of Barlingford; and George seem-
ed. really distressed when he found his friend
changed for the worse, The changes in the in-
valid were so puzzling, the alternations from
better to worse, and from. worse to better, so
frequent, that fear could take no hold upon the
minds of’ the patient’s friends. It seemed such
avery slight affair this low fever, though suffi-
ciently inconvenient. to,the are himself, who
suffered a good deal from thirst and sickness,
and showed an extreme disinclination for food,
all which symptoms Mr. Sheldon said were the
commonest and simplest features of a very mild
attack of bilious fever, which would leave Tom
a better, man than it had found him. ;
There had been several pleasant little card-
bane during the earlier stages of Mr. Halli-
ys illness; but within the last. week the pa-
tient had been too low and weak for cards; too
weak to read tke, news or even to bear
having it read to him. en George came to
look at his old. friend, “‘ to cheer you up a little.
old fellow! you know,” and so on, e found
Tom, for the time being, past all Capenility, of
being cheered, even by the genial society of his
favorite. jolly-good-fellow, or by tidings of a
steeple-chase in Yorkshire, in which a neighbor
had gone to grief over a double fence.
f Frat chap npaeis seems rather queerish,”
George had said to his brother, after finding
a ower aay eeaher Se usual. “
way, isn’t he, Phil? af
‘No a there's nothing serious the matter with
him. He’s rather low Sige that’s all. ‘
‘Rather low!” echoed George Sheldon, _ “He
seems to me so very low that he can’t sink much
lower without going to the bottom of his grave.
I'd call some one in if I were yo ;
The dentist shrugged his shoulders, and made
a little contemptuous noise with his lips. ;
“Tf you knew as much of doctors as I do, you.
wouldn’t be in any hurry to trust a friend to the

4

 

He’s ina,

—

iit reriatadle

awe

¢ erates

 

 
 

BIRDS OF PREY.

 

9

 

interest, he had manipulated. so cleverly on the | for the regular one.’ Mr, Burkham listened def-

previous eve:
show of deliberation.

“Youre right, Tom!” he exclaimed, present-
1 ry. ‘The twenty-one days’ grace expires to-
day. You'd better write me a check at once,
and Pl send it on.to the office by hand.,- Where’s
your check-book?” .

“Tn the pocket of coat hanging up there.”

Philip Sheldon found the check-book and
brought it to his friend, with Georgy’s portfolio,
and the frivolous little een. glass inkstand in
the shape of an apple., He adjusted the writing
materials for the sick, man’s use with womanly
gentleness. .His arm) supported the wasted
frame as Tom Halliday slowly and laboriously
filled. in the check; and when. the signature was
duly. appended, to, that document, he, drew. a
long breath, which seemed to express infinite re-
lief of mind. :

‘* You'll be sure it goes on to the Alliance Of-
fice, eh, old fellow?” asked Tom, as he tore out
the oblong slip, of paper, and handed it. to’ his
friend. . ‘‘ It was kind of you to jog my memory,
about this business. I’m such a fellow for pro-
crastinating matters. And I’m afraid I’ve been
a little off my head during the last week.”

‘¢ Nonsense, Tom! not you.”

“Ob, yes; Thave. T’vé had all sorts of queer
fancies,. Did, you come into this room the night
before last when Georgy. was asleep?”

», Mr: Sheldon, reflected for a moment before

answer: .
wae No,” he said;, ‘not the night before last,”

“ Ah! I thought as much,” murmured. the .in-
valid... ‘‘T-was off my head~that night then,
Phil, for I fancied I-saw you; and T fancied i
heard the bottles and glasses jingling.on the lit-
tle table behind, the curtain.”

“You were dreaming, perhaps.”

“Oh, no, .L wasn’t dreaming. I wasvery rest-
less and wakeful that night. . However, that’s
neither here nor there. I lie in a stupid. state
sometimes, for hours and hours, and. I -feel as
weak as a rat, bodily and mentally; so while T
have my. wits about me I’d better say what I’ve
been wanting to say ever so long. You’ve been
a good and kind friend to me ‘all through this
illness, Phil, and I’m‘ not ateful for your
kindness. . If it dées come to the worst’ wi me
—as I believe it will—Georgy shall give you a
handsome mourning ring, or fifty pounds to buy
one, if -you like it better, And now let me
shake hands with you, Philip Sheldon, and say
thank you heartily, old fellow! for once and
forever.”

The, invalid stretched outa poor, feeble, at-
tenuated hand, and, after a moment’s, pause,
Philip,Sheldon clasped it in his, own muscular
fingers, He did hesitate for just one instant,
before taking that hand, ; ‘

He was.no studént of the Gospel; but when he
had Jeft the, sick chamber there arose before him
suddenly, as if written in letters of fire on the

wall opposite to him, one.sentence which had
been. farailiar to him in school days at Bar-
lingford:

And as soonas he was come, he goeth straight-
way.to him, and saith, Master, Master; and
kissed him... . . ss

The new. doctor came twice a.day to. see his
patient. He seemed rather anxious about the
case, and just a little puzzled by the symptoms.
Georgy, had sufficient penetration to perceive
that this new adviser was in some manner at
fault: and she began to think that Philip Shel-

don was, right, and that regular practitioners-

were.very stupid creatures. . She communicated
her agape i oe Sheldon, and sug; 8 aa
@ iency,of ¢: some grave elderly doc-
for to supersede ME Burkham, But against
this the dentist protested very strongly.
“You me to in a stranger, Mrs.
Halliday, and [have done s0,” he said, with'the
dignity of an offended man. “You must now
abide by his treatment, and content; yourself
with his, advice, unless he chooses to’ Summ
further assistance.” or ;
Georgy was fain to submit. . She gave a little
plaintive sigh and went back to her husband’s.
room, where she sat and wept silently behind
the bed-curtains. There was _a double watch
kept in the ae chamber now; for Nancy Wool-
per rarely leff-it, and rarely closed her eyes. it
was altogether a sad time in the dentist’s house:
and Tom Halliday apologized tohis friend more
than once for. the trouble he had brought upon
him. If he had been familiar with, the details
of modern history he would have quoted Charles
Stuart, and begged pardon. for g so long

But anon there came a gleam. of hope. The
patient seemed decidedly better; and Georgy was
peaked to eh pao ae T eae ated

ury surgeon, as. the and al st of m
Those shadows. of doubt and perplexity which
had. first obscured Mr. Burkham’s brow cleared
away, and he spoke very cheerfully. of the in-

valid. ke elle
~ Unhappily this state of things did not last long.
The. young surgeon came one morning, and was
WA BSLY, alarmed by the appearance of his Pa:
tient. . He told Philip Sheldon as much, but that
tleman made very light of his fears. As the
wo men discussed case it was very evident

thatthe irregular practitioner was quite a match

x

 

, and read the letter with all | erentially, but departed only half convinced,

| He walked briskly away from the house, but
came.to a.dead stop directly after, turning ‘out
| of Fitzgeorge iieek: :
‘What ought, I to do?’ he asked himeelf.
“What course ought I to take? If Lam right
| [should be a villain to Jet things go on. If
am wrong, anything like interference would
ruin. me for life.’

He had finished his morning round, but he did
not go straight home. He lingered at the cor-
ners of quiet streets, and walked up and down
the unfrequénted side of a gloomy square. “Once
he turned and retraced his steps inthe direction
of Fitzgeorge street. But after all this hesita-
tion he walked home, and ate his dinner very
thoughtfully, answering his young wife at ran-
dom’ when she talked.to him. He was a strug-
gling man, who had invested his small fortune
in the purchase of a practice which had turned
out a very poor one, and he had the battle of life
ote him.

-  There’s somethi
sure, Batty.” his
ended.
Well, yes, dear,” he answered; “Dve rather
a difficult case in Fitzgeorge street, and T’manx-
ious about it.” ts 4 :

The industrious little wife disappeared after
dinner, and the young’ surgeon ‘walked uP and
down the room alone, ing over that diffi-
cult case in rere re street.” After spending
nearly.an hour thus he snatched his hat'sudden-
ly from the table on which he ‘had, set it down,
and.hurried from the house,

11] have advice and assistance, come what
may,” he said to himself, as he walked rapidly
in fhe direction of Mr, Sheldon’s ‘house, “Tite
case may be straight enough—I Seta can’t
see that the man has any motive—but [il have
advice.” :

He looked up at the dentist’s spotless tyes
as he crossed the street. The blinds were
down, and the fact that they were so sent a sud-
den chill to his heart. But the April sunshine
was full upon that side of, the street, and there
rapa be no significance in those closely-drawn

on.

your mind to-day, I’m
ife sai

before the meal was

linds. The door was opened by a.sleepy-lodk-
ing boy, and in the passage Mr.:Burkham met
Phili eldon.. ‘

“T have been rather, anxious about my patient
since this morning, Mr. Sheldon,” said’ the sur-
geon; ‘“and Pve come to the conclusion that T
ought to ‘confer with a man of Pen standin,
than myself. Do you think Mrs. Halliday will
object to such @ course?”

‘“T am'sure she would not have objected to it,”
the dentist answered, very gravely, ‘if you had
sug; dit, sooner.» I am sorry to say, he sug

on. comes too late. My poor friend breathed
fis last half an hour ago.’ ee 5
‘BOOK IlL—THE TWO MACATRES:’

5 iS DUNE JOO PI Tee S i

: ston aay GODD EN Sm Ls COE’

In the very midst of the Belgian iron country;
under the shadow of ‘tall sheltering ridges 0
pine-clad mountain-land, nestles the fashionable
‘ittle watering-place called Foretdechene.
or three me’ hotels; a bright white new.
pile of building, with vast windows of shining
plate-glass, and a, stately quadrangular court-
yard; a tiny street which looks as if a fragment
of English Brighton had been fictped into this

Belgian valley; a stunted semi-classic temple;
which is at once ‘a post-office and a shrine where-
at invalids perform their worship of ‘Hygéia by.
the consumption of ~ ably disagreeable
'mineral-waters; afew white villas scattered
here and there ‘upon thes of pine-clad
hills; and a yery uncomfortable railway station
—constitute the chief! features ‘of ‘“Foretde-
chene. But right'and ‘left of that little cluster
of shops and hotels the re: stretch ine somber
avenues of oak, that look like sheltered ways to
P. i id. the rey deep ‘blue of the Au-
gust sky, and the pure breath of ‘the wartn, soft
air, and the tender green of, the young Rite
woods that clothe the sandy hills, and the deli-
cious tranquillity that pervades the sleepy. little
town and bathes the hot landscape in a langubr-
ous mist, are charms that render Foretdéchene a
leasant oasis amidst the lurid woods and moun-

ins of the iron coun

Only-at stated interval te que of this sleepy
hollow is broken b g

the ro of wheels,’ the’
jing! of the cracking of whips,. the’
ejaculations of drivers and supplications of tout-
ers: only when the’ railr carries away. de-
visitors, or brings frésh ones, is
like riot or confusion in the little town

i"
{

and confusion are of a very mild order, and ¢re-

ate but a transient discord among the’ 0-

wt of oe ie : ee See wility’ ay
nd yet, despite the Arcadian ity’'6

the landscape, the drowsy quiet of the pine

aig deep and solemn’ shade of ’ those’
dark avenues, where’ one’

find some Druidess lingering
of the oaks, there'is excitement of no conimon
order to be found in the miniature Senate
place of Foretdechene; and the, reflective anc
observant traveler, on a modern sentimentiil

 

 

anything
under the pine-clad hills—and even then thé riot”

ight’ fondly hope ‘to
th the shelter’

 

journey, has only to ‘enter the stately white’

building with the glittering plate-glass windows
in order to behold the master-passions of the
human. breast unvailed for his pleasure and edi-
fication.

The eoreot traveler, impelled by curiosity,
finds no bar to his entrance. The doors are ‘as
wide open asif the mansion were @ hotel; and
yet it is not & hotel, though a ae which he
passes informs the traveler that he may have ices
and sorbets, if he will; nor is the bright, fresh-
looking buildin, a theater; for another placard
informs the visitor that there are’ dramatic per-
formances to be witnessed ‘every evening in a
building on one side of the quadrangle, which
is a mere subsidiary attachment to the vast
white mansion. The traveler, passing on his
way unhindered, save by a man in livery, who
deprives him of his cane, ascends a splendid
staircase and traverses a handsome antecham-
ber, from which a pair of plate-glass doors open
into a spacious saloon, where, in the warm’ At
gust sunlight, ‘a circlé of men and women are
gathered round a great green table, gambling.

The ignorant traveler, unaccustomed’ to the
amusements of a’ Continental watering-place,
may petbape feel a little ‘sense 6f* surprise—a
sométhing almost akin to shame—as he con-
templates that silent crowd; whose occupation
seems so much the more strangé’to him because
of their silence. There is no ively bustle; none
of that animation which genérally attends every’
kind 6f ‘amusement, none’ 6f the clamor of thé
pene te, or the exchange: \ Thé ganiblers ab
Foretdechene are terribly im “earnest; and the
ignorant, visitor unconsciously adapts himself to
the solemn hush of the Vena and ‘steps ‘softy’ as
he approaches the table round which-they ‘are
clustered—as many” sitting as’ dan’ find room
round the green-cloth covered board ; ‘whilé be-
hind the sittérs there are people; re two or
three rows deep, the hinderniost watehingthe
table over the shoulders of their ‘neighbors.
placard upon the wall informs visitors that only
constant’players are permitted to remain seated
at that sacred table. Perhaps a third of the
players anda third of the Jookers-on ‘are wo-
men. And if there’ are lips’ more tightly’ con-
tracted than other Tips, ‘and xe with a harder;
greediér light in them than other eyes, those lips
and, those ve belong to the women. © The un
ploved feminine hands hayé a claw:like ‘aspect;
as they scrape the glittering piéces of silver over
the green cloth; the feminine throats look weird
and sera; as they Crané themselves over mas-
culine shoulders; the feminine 6yes have some-
thing demoniac in their steely glare as they keep
watch ‘upon the rapid progress of the game.

Half a dozen moderate fortines seem to be
lost and won while the traveler looks ‘on from
the back-ground, unnoticed’ and unseen; for if
those plate-glass doors’ swuiig suddenly open°to
admit the’seven an; of the A poctilypse, car-
rying thé Seven golden vials filled with the wrath
of God, it is doubtful whether the ‘splendor of
their awful glory, or the trtimpet-notes that her~
aldéd their coming, would have power to arouse
ener from their profound abstraction.‘ '

alfa dozen Comfortable: little ‘patrimonies
seem to have changed hands while the traveler’
has been looking on; and yet héhas only watched
the ‘table’ for ‘about ten ‘minutes; “and | this
splendid salon is but an outer chamber, where
one may stake as shabby a sum as two franes,
if one is shabb Sat to wish to do ‘so, and
where playing for half aft hour or so on a pleas*
ant stimmer morning ‘one’ could scarcely Jose:
more thai fifty or sixty pounds.’ Another pair
of plate-glass doors open into an ‘inner chamber
where the silence is still more profound, and
where ‘ardund'a larger table'sit one row of play-
érs; while only heré and there'a little group of
outsiders stand behind théir' chairs) ere is:
more gilding on the walls and ceiling of this’
chamber; the frescoes are ‘more delicate; ‘the
erystal chandeliers are adorned with richer clus)
ters Of sparkling Meche that twinkle like dia*’
monds in the’ san. is is the temple of ‘gold;
and in this ‘splendid chamber one may hazard
no smaller stake‘than half’ a napdleon. There
are women here; but not so many women as iit?
the outer saloon, and the’ women here are’
younger and prettier and more carefully dressed’
than those who stake only silver: 1SEOOR
~The prettiest and the youngest woman in this’
golden chamber on one eular August after-
noon, hine years after the'death of ‘Tom Halli-
day, was a girl who stood behind the chair of ‘@
military, looking Englishman, an old mani whose’
handsome ‘face was a little disfigured by those
traces which late hours anil dissipated habits are
su d to leave behind them. | f

6 girl held a card in/oné hand and a’pin in
the other, and was occupied in‘ some mysterious
process, by which ‘shé kept note of the English-
man’s play, She was‘very youtigy with a delicate
face, in ‘whose’ softer lines ‘there was \a refined)
likeness 'to the features of the man whose play
she watched, But while his eyes were hard and

cold and gray, hers were that’ densé black ‘in’
which there séems such an‘ unfat le and’
mysterious depth. As she was the est, -

so she was also the worst doer ed woman in the:
room. Her’ flimsy silk ‘mantle had’ faded trom

black to ‘rusty brown; the straw hat ‘which’
shaded hér'face was sunburnt; the ittene tie
lost ‘their brightness; but there was an air of ab

 
 

- a

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

tempted fashion in the puffings and trimmings of
her alpaca skirt;.and there was evidence of a
struggle with poverty in the tight-fitting laven-
der gloves, whose streaky lines bore witness to
the imperfection of the Cleaner’s art, legant
Parisians and the select of Brussels glanced at
the military Englishman and his handsome
daughter with some slight touch of supercil-
ious surprise—one has no right to find shabbily-
dressed young women in the golden temple—and
it.is scarcely necessary to state that it was from
her. own countrywomen the young person in
alpaca received the most chilling glances. But
those Parthian arrows shot from feminine eyes
had little eer to wound their object just now.
The girl. looked, up from her perforated card
very seldom; and when ,she raised her eyes, it
was always to lookin one direction—toward the
t glass doors opening from the outer saloon,
ungers came and went; the doors swung Re
and closed again as noiselessly as it is possible
for well-re ted doors to open and shut; foot-
steps sounded on the polished floors; and some-
times, when the young SD in alpaca lifted
her eyes, a passing shadow of disappointment
darkened. her face. A- modern wrence
Sterne, on a new Sentimental Journey, might
have deriyed some interest. from the study
of the girl’s countenance; but the reflective
and observant traveler is not to be encount-
ered very. often in this age of excursionists;
and Maria and her goat may roam the
Behwevn and byways for a long time before
she will find any dreamy loiterer with a mind

attuned. to sympathy. .

The shabbily-dressed_ girl was looking for
some one.. She watched her father’s play care-
fully—she marked her card with unfailing pre-
cision; but she performed these duties with a
mechanical air; and it was only when she
lifted her eyes. to the at shining plate-glass
doors. which opened into this dangerous Para-
dise that any ray of feeling animated her coun-
tenance, e was looking for some one, and
fe pores watched for was.so long coming.

’

Se

ow difficult for the arithmetician to num-
ber.,the crushing disappointments, the bitter
agonies that one woman can endure in a single
half hour! This gir] was so young—so young;
and already she had learned to ‘er.
The man played with the concentrated atten-
tion and the impassive countenance of an ex-
rienced gamester, rarely lifting his eyes from
fre green cloth, never looking back at the girl
who stood behind him. He was.winning to-day,
and he accepted his good. fortune as quietly as
he had often accepted evil fortune at the same
table. He seemed, to, be playing on some sys-
tem of his own; and the neighboring players
looked at him with envious eyes, as, they saw
the pile of gold grow, larger under
nervous hands. Ignorant esters who
aloof after having lost two or three napoleons,
contemplated, the Rey MOSHE AD: and won-
dered about him, w some touch of pity
leavened the envy. excited by his wonderful
fortune;..He looked like a decayed gentleman
—a man who had been a military dandy in the
days that were gone, and who. had all the old

yenoneiens still, without the power to support |

em—a Brummel engaishis at Caen; a Nash
wasting slowly at Bath.
At last the girl’s face brightened suddenly as
she glanced upward; and it would have been
easy for the  obgervant traveler—if any
su ae had i —to construe aright
that bright in her.countenance, The
sone cite she + been watching for had ar-
rived,

The doors swung open to. admit a man of
about five-and-twenty, whose darkly-handsome
face and careless..costume had something of
that air which was once wont to be associated
with the Beet and the poetry of George Gor-
don Lord Byron. The new-comer was just one
of those men whom very young women are apt
to, admire, and whom worldly-minded people
are prone to distrust. .There was a perfume of
Bohemianism, a flavor of the Quartier Latin,
about the loosely-tied cravat, wide. trow-
sers, and black-velvet morning-coat, with which
the young man outrage the opinions of. the re-
spectable visitors at oretdec There was

a semi-poetic vagabondism. in the half-indiffer-
en contemptuous expression of his face,
with its fierce mustache, and strongly-markex

eyebrows overshadowin; sleepy) prey’ eyes—
eyes that were half hidden by their long, dark
lashes; as still pools of blue water lie sometimes
aarn among the rushes that flourish round

em.

He was handsome, and he knew that he was
handsome; but he affected to despise the beauty
of his proud dark face, as he affected to i

despise

all the mart and cee Pama tains non

earth; an Fat shore mie 5 Snamnenaie ind of

foppe: in his costume that qontramiod ba ly
tlemanly dand, 0 8

Citing ae the eae There .was :

of nearl halt a century epee ne
styl of the Regency dandy an the Quartier

The girl watched , er with sad
earnest ¢ cons ke ae aloriy toward the
table, and a faint blush kindled in her cheeks as
he came nearer to the spot where she stood.

her father who co

 

 

He went by her presently, carrying an atmo-
sphere of stale tababco with him iS he went;
and he gave her a friendly nod as he passed,
and a ‘*Good-morning, Diana!” but that was
all. The faint blush faded and left her very
pale: but she resumed her weary task with the
card and the pin; and if she had endured any
disappointment within those few moments, it
seemed to be a kind of disappointment that she
was accustomed to suffer.

The young man walked round the table till he
came % the only vacant chair, in which he
seated himself, and after watching the game
for a few minutes pepen to play. From the
moment in which he dropped into that vacant
seat to the moment in which he rose to leave
the table, three hours afterward, he never lifted
his eyes from the green cloth, or seemed to be
conscious of anything that was going on
around or about him. The girl watched him
furtively for some little time after he had taken
his place at the table; but the stony mask of
the professed gambler is a profitless object for a
woman’s earnest scrutiny.

She sighed ey and laid her hand
heavily on the chair behind which she was
standing... The action aroused the man,who sat
in it, and he turned and looked at her for the
first time.

eae are fine, Diana, ea

es, papa, I am ve red,

“Give me your earns then, and go away,”
the gamester answered, peevishly; ‘girls are
always tired.”

She gave him the mysteriously-perforated
eard and left her post behind his chair; and
then, after roaming about the great saloon
with a weary, listless air, and wandering from
one open window. to another to look into the
sunny Gear ore where well-dressed people
were sitting at ittle tables eating ices or drink-
ing lemonade, she went away altogether, and
roamed into another chamber where some chil-
dren were dancing to the sound of a feeble
violin, She sat upon.a velyet-covered bench
and watched the, children’s lesson for’ some
minutes, and then rose and wandered to an-
other open window that overlooked the same

le, where the well-dressed le
ware Cniopig themselves in, the jot August

sunshine.
“How extravagantly everybody dresses!”
she thought, “and what a shabby, poverty-

stricken creature one feels among them! .And
yet if I ask papa to give me a couple,of na-
poleons out of the money he won, to-day he will
only look at me from head to foot and tell me
that I have a gown.and a.cloak and a bonnet,
and ask me what more I can want, in the name
of all that is unreasonable? And I see girls
here whose fathers are so fond of them and so
proud of them—ugly girls, deckéd out in silks
and muslins and ribbons that have cost a small
fortune—clumsy, awkward girls, who look at
me as if I were some new. kind. of wild animal.”

The saloons at Foretdechene were rich in mon-
ster sheets of looking-glass; and in wandering
Cie etay, Seca the room Diana Paget saw
herself reflected. many times in all her shabbi-
ness. It was only very lately she had discovered
that she had some pretension to good looks; for
'd not or, would not educate
her decently or clothe her creditably, took a
very high tone of morality in his paternal teach-
ing, and in the fear that she might one day grow
vain of her beauty, had taken care to impress
upon her at an ear! Hoge that she was the very
incarnation of all that is lean and sallow and
awkward.

 

CHAPTER. II.
THE EASY DESCENT.

AMONG the many imprudences of which Ho-
ratio Envir once a captain in a crack cavalry
regiment, always a coment in his intercourse
with the world—had nm. guilty during the
course of a long career, there was none for which
he so bitterly reproached himself as for a cer-
tain foolish ‘marriage which lie had made, late
in life. It was when he had thrown. away the
last. chance that an indulgent destiny had given
him, that the ruined. fop of the Regency, the
sometime member of the Beef-steak Club, the
man who in his earliest youth had worn a silver
gridiron at his button-hole, and played -piquet
in the gilded saloons of Georgiana of Devon-
shire, found himself laid on.a bed of sickness in

London lodgi and nearer death than
he ever been in the course of his brief mili-
career; so nearly gliding from life’s swift-
flowing river into eternity’s trackless that,
the warmest. thrill of palais which ever
stirred the slow pulses of his cold heart quicken-
ed its beating as he clasped. the hand that had
held him from the unknown region whose.
icy breath had chilled him with an awful fear,
Such, men as, Horatio Kage! ane abt to feel a
strange terror when the ‘ht drops sud-.
denly down upon and

man’s” voice sounds hollow and, mysterious in,

the darkness, announcing that the ocean is near..
The hand that held the ruined, Bahri ba
when the current swept so swiftly ocean a
was a wi ’s tender :and Heaven only.
knows that patient wate 988, what careful:
administration of medicines and unwearying

the * Gray, Boat- wi

 

preparation of broths and jellies and sagos and
| ee what untiring and devoted slavery, had

n necessary to save the faded rake; who
looked out upon the world once more, a ghastly
shadow of his former self, a penniless, helpless
burden for any one who might choose to support

“Don’t thank me,” said the doctor, when his
feeble patient whimpered, flourishing protesta-
tions of his gratitude, whabashed by the con-
sciousness that such grateful protestations were
the sole coin with which the medical man would
be paid for his services; ‘thank that youn
woman, if you want to thank anybody; for
it had not been for her you wouldn’t be here to
talk about gratitude. d if ever you get such
another attack of inflammation on the lungs,

‘ou had better pray for such another nurse,
hough I don’t think you're likely to find one.”

And with this exordium, the rough-and-ready
surgeon took his departure, leaving Horatio Pa-
get alone with the woman who had saved his

©,

She was only his landlady’s daughter; and his
landlady was no. prosperous householder in
Mayfair, thriving on the extravagance of
wealthy bachelors, butan honest widow, livin,
in an obscure little street leading out of the Ol
Kent Road, and letting a meagerly-furnished
little parlor and a still more meagerly-furnished
little pedeton to any pine gentleman whom
reverse of fortune might lead into such a lo-
cality. Captain Paget had sunk very low in the
world when he took possession of tha’ wretched
parlor and laid himself down to rest on the
widow’s flock-bed.

There is apt to be a dreary. interval in the life
of such a man—a blank, dismal interregnum,
which divides the day in which he Rat his
last shilling, from the hour in which he aes
to prey de! iberately upon the purses of other

ple. It was in that hapless interval that
oratio Paget established himself in the widow’s
arlor. But though he slept in the Old Kent
Road, he had not ear brought himself to endure
existence on the Surrey side of the water. He
emerged from his lodging every morning to
hasten westward, Frpplendeny in clean linen and
exquisitely-fitting gloves, an. unquestionable
overcoat, and varnished boots.

The wardrobe has its Indian summer; and the
lory of a first-rate tailor’s coat 1s like the splen-
or of a tropical sun—it is glorious to the last,

and sinks ina moment. Captain Paget’s ward-
robe was in its Indian summer in these days
and when ‘he felt how fatally near the Bon
street, pavement was to the soles of his feet, he
could not refrain from a fond admiration of the
boots that were so. beautiful in decay,

He walked the West End for many weary
hours every day during this period of his deca-
dere He wriga to live in an Ee
m: borrowing money of his friends,
or aecomnetny: an accommodation-bill obtaine
from some innocent acquaintance who was de-
luded , by Iie brilliant, Shea and specious
tongue, into a belief in the transient nature of
his difficulties. He spent his. days in hanging
about the halls and waiting-rooms of clubs—o
some of which he had once been a member; he
walked weary miles between St. James and
Mayfair, Kensington Gore and Notting Hill
leaving little notes for men who were not a
home, or writing a little note in one roon: while
the man to whom he was writing hushed his
breath in an adjoining chamber. People who
had once been Cap’ Paget’s fast friends
seemed to have simultaneously decided upon
Sean existence out of doors, as it ap-
peared. to the im nious captain. The ser-
vants of his friends were affli with astrange
uncertainty as to their master’s movements. At
whatever hall door Horatio Paget presented him-
self, it seemed equally doubtful whether the pro-
eae of the mansion would be home to dinner

t day, or whether he would be at home any
time next day, or the day after that, or at the
end of the week, or indeed whether he would
ever come home again, Sometimes the cap-
tain, calling in the evening dusk, in the faint
hope of gaining adniittance to some friendly
dwelling, saw the glimmer of light under a din-
esyeut door, and heard the clooping of corks
and the pleasant jingling of oI and silver in
the innermost recesses of a butler’s pantry: but
still the answer was—not at home, and not
at home. All the respectable world was to be
out henceforth for Horatio Paget, But now
and then at the clubs he met some young man,
who had no wife at home to keep watch upon
his purse and to wail piteously over a five-pound
note ill bestowed, and who took com on on
the fallen spendthrift, and believed, or pretend-
ed to believe, his story of temporary embarrass-
ment: and then the captain dined sumptuous!
it a little ‘French urant in Castle street,

x square, and took a half-bottlé of
chablis with his o and warmed himself
ith chambertin that was brought to him ina
cnsty _cobweb-shrouded bottle reposing in a

er-
_ But in th latter days such glimpses of sun-
akin ery rarely ftiumned the dull stream of
the captain’s life. Failure and disappointment
eng me the rule of his existence—success

tare exception, Crossing the river now on

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

12 - THEY FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

stand. ..You will be my, wife;, and-a-very,good,
kind, obedient. little wife, I. have no, doubt. e That
is all settled... As for working forme, my love,
it would be, about.as much, as: these r little
hands. could do-to,earn me a cigar.a,day—and I
seldom smoke less than -halt.a dozen -cigars; 80;
you see, that is all so much,affectionate nonsense;
And now, you may, wake-your, mother, my dear ;
for. I-want to take alittle nap, and, I,can’t close
my. eyes while. that good. soul is.snoring so,intol

erably ; but not a word about our little arrange-
ment, jMary Anne, till you. and your mother are
alone.

And hereupon the. captain, spread a. handker-
chief over his face and subsided into,a,gentle
slumber... ‘The little scene; had. fatigued: him,
though it had, been so,quietly enacted that Mrs.
Kepp had slept on undisturbed. by the,.brief
fragment of domestic drama, performed within
a few yards. of .her,,uneasy arm-chair.;,, Her
daughter awoke her res and she resumed
her needle-work, while:Mary Anne made. some
tea for the, beloved sleeper, ; The cups. and.saucers
made more noise to-night, than. they. were wont
to make in the girl’s,careful han The flut-
tering. of her heart,seemed.to communicate it-
self .to the tips of her, fingers, and, the jinglin,
of the crockery-ware betrayed the, intensity. o:
her.emotion.,, He was. to, be her husband!..She
was to have a, gentleman for a husband; and
si9b a gentleman! Out of such base trifles as a
West End. tailor’s coat. and a West, End work:
man’s, boots may be engendered, the purest blos-
som» of.. womanly love and devotion..; Wisely,
may the modern philosopher cry that, the his-
tory of the worlds only, a story of old clothes.
Mary. Anne had .begun, by admiring: the: graces
of Stultz and Hoby,.and now she was ready to
lay. down her. life for, the man who wore the per-
ishing garments!

Miss Kepp. obeyed, her, lover’s. behest ;,and .it
was.,ouly on the,following day, when;she; and
her mother were alone together in the. dingy lit-
tle-kitchen ;below Captain. Paget’s,.apartments,
that she informed, that, worthy woman, of the
honor; which, had.been. vouchsafed: to her... And
thereupon Mary Anne endured, the first of the
long series of disappointments, which, were to
arise out.of her affection for the, penniless cas
tain.; The widow was a.wo of the: wor
and was, obstinately blind to, the advantages of
a union with a ruined. gentleman, of fifty.

“ How’she;to keep you, L.should like to know?”
Mrs, Kepp exclaimed, as the girl stood blushing:
before her after having told -her.story; ‘‘if he
can’t pay mae regular—and, you ‘know the, diffi-
culty Me had to get his money, Mary Anne. If
he can’t.keep hisself, how’s he to,keep you?” —;

“Don’t talk like that, mother,” lad the girl,
wincing under Seger ee practical arguments;
“you goon. as if I, cared.for. was being fed
and clothed. Begides, Captain. Paget is. not go-
ing, tobe poor,always. , He told meso last night,
when ber? Sa
| _He.told you so!” echoed the, honest, widow.
with unmitigated scorn;.‘‘hasn’t..he told me
times, and, often.that I should haye;my, rent
regular after this week, and regular. after. that
week’ and have L ever had.it ar? And ain’t
Lkeeping him,out of the charity now—a_poor
widow-woman like me—which. I maybe. want-
ineroarity myself before long; and if it. wasn’t

r your whimpering .and; going on he’d have
been out of the house three weeks ago, when the
doctor, said.he .was,well, enough. to be moved;
for.I.ast him.” 5 ac

“ And you'd have turned him out,to die in the
streets, mother!” cried Mary ; ‘I didn’t think you
were §0,,’a. a . ; ba ;

From, this. time, theré.was -ill-feeling >between
Mrs. Kepp, and. her, daughter,; who, -had been
hitherto one.of the most patient and obedient of
children. The fanatic can never, forgive the
wretch who. disbelieves in. the divinity of -his
god;, and women who loye as blindly and fool-,
ishly, as Mary, Anne Kepp are the most bigoted;
of worshipers. The, girl could. not, forgive her.
mother’s disparagement of her idol—the. mother.
had, no, merey upon her daughter’s folly; and:
after much wearisome contention na domestic.
misery—caretully hidden from, the. penniless,
exbarite in: the, parlor—-after, many tears. and

eart-burnings, and wakeful nights and prayer-
ful,.watches,,Mary ,Anne ;Kepp consented to
léave the house quietly one morning, with, the,
genblemanedg er while the, widow had gone to
market. spp left a, piteous little note for.
her “mother, :rather ungrammatical, but -very
womanly and tender, implori “pardon for. her
want. 0. quits ani 0 , mother, if you knew.,
how good and. noble,he is Youeoudent be gery.
with me for luving.him as, TI, do, and wo shall
come. back to you, after houre ore aicn you
will be pade up lionorabel. to, the last farthin.”

After writing this epistle in the kitchen, with,
more deliberation and more sm B A :
tain Paget would have cared to behold init

bride of.-his choice; Mary; Anne attired )

ia he Bebbathdsy reiteout and. lett Tulliver's,
terrace-with the captain in a,cab,. She would |
fain have taken. es does layender-pa’ r-covered ,
box that contained t] een oF hie -ward-
robe; but after surveying: it with a shudder,’
Captain Paget told her that such a box woul
condemn them anywhere. 04)

.| terious

 

 

on‘ You may, get on sometimes without luggage,
my dear,” = said,, sententiously;, ‘‘ but with
such lu, e as that, never!”
«The, girl. obeyed without comprehending. . It
was, not often that she, understood, her lover's
meaning; nor did he, particularly care, that she
should understand him. He talked to her rath-
er, in| the, same. spirit in; which one talks to a
faithful... canine., companion—as,, Napoleon ‘III.
may talk to, his favorite,Nevo: ‘‘l“have great
plans. yet unfulfilled, my, honest, Nero, though
you. may’ not; be wise enough to, guess. their
nature.. And we must have another Boulevard,
old fellow! and we must make. things secure in
Mexico; and. settle, that, little, dispute; about
Venetia; and we must do.something for those
unfortunate Poles, eh—good, dog?’ and so on,
Captain Paget drove straight to a registrar’s-
office, where the new. marriage-act enabled, him
to unite himself to, Miss, &epp, sans facon,; in
resence,of, the-cabman, and a woman who had
Becta cleaning the door-step.. The captain. went
through, the brief. ceremonialas coolly asif ithad
been the settlement of a water-rate, and was an-
gered by the tears. that poor Mary Anne, shed
under her, cheap black vail... He had songntion
the poetic. superstition.in favor of .a wedding-
ring, but. he. slipped. alittle onyx ring off his
own finger,and put it. on: the clumsier finger of
his bride. It was the last of his jewels—the re-
jected of, the,.pawnbrokers, who, not. being
earned in antique intaglios, had condemned the
ring as trumpery. There .is. always something
a. little ominous. in ;the.,bridegroom’s forget-
fulness of,,.that, simple-golden., circle. which
typifies an .eternal union; and, a, superstitious

person might have drawn, a sinister augury. |

rom the, .subject., of Captain. Paget’s. intag-
lio, .which .was a head..of Nero—an: emperor
whose wife. was.by_no. means the, happiest of
women... But.as neither, Mary, Anne ;nor. the
registrar; neither the, cabman, nor the char-wo-
man who. had, been, cleaning: the di step; had.
ever heard of Nero, and, as isorabiantieant was
much. too indifferent #0 be. superstitious, there
Was. no.one.to,draw, evil, inferences; and Mar

Anne, went.away, with. her gentleman, husband,
proud, and; happy, with a.happiness that was

only disturbed now and then by the image of an,

infuriated mother. ;

» Captain. Paget took his bride to some charm-
ing, apartments in, Half-moon street, Mayfair;
and.she was surprised to hearhim tell, the land-
lady that.he;and his wife had just arrived from
Devonshire, and that they meant to stay a week
or so in London, en passant, before starting for
the Continent.......;;; ; .

, oe wife has Aeeerd She best rere pt her ute
in.the country, t the capt ‘so Isuj

must one some of the sights of Afton in
spite of, the abominable weather,; But the deuce
of .it,is that my servant has misunderstood my
directions, and gone .on to Paris with: the lug-
gage. However, we can set that all straight to-
morrow.” [

Nothing could..be, more. courteously acquies-.

cent than the manner of the landlady ; for Ca
tain. Paget-had offered her references, and the
people. to. whom. he, referred. were among the
magnates of the land..; The captain. knew enough
of human nature to know that if references are
only sufficiently imposing they, are very unlikely
to. be 'verified;,..The swindler who refers his
to the Duke of Sutherland and. Baring
Brothers has a very good chance of getting his
respectability, accepted without inquiry, on the
mere, strength of those sacred names.

From, .this.time until, the. day. of her death
Mary Anne, Paget..very, seldom heard her hus-
band make any, statement which, she did not
know tobe false.,..He had. joined; the ranks. of,

| the vultures.. He hadlain down upon. his. bed
of, sicknéss a gentlemanly beggar; he arose from.

that. couch pa pets and weariness a swindler.
Now began those petty shifis and miserable
Sie feabions a Fare Tne, Beng Ge prey thrive
u © °. ess. pigeons.
Now the dovecotes were fluttered aa new. de-
stroyer—a, gent:
cents and perfect manners were fatal to the un-
wast Henceforth Horatio Cromie Nugent, Pa-
fay urished and fattened upon, the folly of his
ow-men.’..As, promoterof joint-stock .com-
manies that never saw the. light; as treasurer of
oan-Offices where money was. never lent; as a
gentleman. with capital .about. to introduce. a
novel article of, manufacture from the. sale of
which a ape of five thousand. a year would in-
fallibly be: realized, and desirous to meet with
another. .pentleman i fe ca capital; as the mys-
» YZ. who will—for so small a recom-
pense as thirty postage-stamps—impart the se-
cret, of an. elegant, and. pleasing employment,
whereby seven-pound-ten..a, week may be made
by any indiyidual, male or female; under every
msy disguise with which the swindler hides

|| his execrable..form,, Captain Paget’ plied his
a tae

crueh.trade, and, still, contrived
dupes... Of course there were occasions when the

‘ould | pigeons were slow to flutter into the SARC DANE
0

snare, and, when thevulture had a bad time

it; and.it was.a common thing for Captain Pa-
to. sink from..the splendor of Mayfair or
James, street into some dingy transpontine

hiding-place... But he never went back to Tulli-

Jemanly vulture, whose suave ac-..

 

ver’s terrace, though Mary Anne. pleaded. pite-
ously for. the payment of her poor, mother’s
debt... When -her husband was in. funds, he
patted, her head, affectionately, and told. her
that he would see/about it—7. e.; the payment
of Mrs. Kepp’s. bill; while, if she ventured to
mention the subject to him when his purse was
scantily furnished, he would ask her. fiercely
how he-was to satisfy her mother’s extortionate
claims when he had not so much as, a sixpence
for his own use? .

Mrs., Kepp’s bill was never paid; and Mary
Amne never saw her mother’s face again... Mrs,
Paget. was one of those, meek, loving. creatures
who are essentially cowardly... She could. not
bring herself to encounter -her. mother without
the money owed by the captain; she could not
bring herself to endure the widow’s.reproaches,
the questioning that.would, be,so horribly pain-
ful to answer, the taunts that would torture her
poor sorrowful heart.

Alas for»her brief dream of, love, and haypi:
ness! Alas for her foolish worship of the gentle-
man lodger! She knew now that her mother had
been. wiser than: herself; and that it,would have
been. better, for, her if she. had renounced the
shadowy. glory of an alliance with Horatio Cro-
mie Nugent Paget; whose string of high-sound-
ing names, written on. the cover of an old wine-
book, had not been without its influence on the
ignorant girl. The widow’s daughter knew very,
little happiness during the few years of her =
ded life....To be hurried.from place to. place, to
dine.in.Mayfair to-day, and, to. eat your dinner,
at: a_ shilling ordinary in Whitecross. street, to-
morrow; to wear fine clothes that have not, been
paid for, and.to, take them off your, back at a
moment's notice when they are required for the
security of the friendl wnbroker,; to know
that. your life; is.a. falsehood and a snare, and
that leave. a place is to.leave contempt and
execration behind you—these Ua ate ying
the burden of a woman whose husband lives. by.
his, wits.. And. over and. above. these miseries,
Mrs. Paget had to endure all the variations of,
temper to which the schemer is subject... If. the
Higeons dropped. readily into the.snare, and, if

heir plumage, proved well worth, the, picking,
the captain was. very kind to his-wife, after his
own fashion; that is to say, he took, her. out
withhim, and after lecturing her angrily because
of. the,;shabbiness, of hher. bonnet, bought her. a
new,one; and gave her a dinner that. made her
ill, and then sent her home in a cab, while he
finished the evening in,,.more congenial society.
But.if the times were bad for the vulture tribe—
oh, then, what.a gloomy. companion..for the do-
mestic hearth was. the elegant Horatio! After;
smiling his false smile all day, while rage. and
Gepprenineny were gnawing at his heart, it was
akind of relief to the captain, to be moody and,
savage by his own fireside. _The human. vulture
has something of the ferocity of his. feathered
prototype. e man who lives upon his fellow-
men has need to harden his heart, for one sen-
timent of compassion, one touch of human pity,
would shatter. his finest scheme in. the hour of its
fruition. . Horatio Paget and compassion p
fellowship very early in the course of his ,un-
scrupulous career. tif the, pigeon has. a
widowed , mother pepe ndeth on. his. prosperity,
or half a dozen children who will be involved
in his ruin? Is the hawk to, forego his natural
prey for any such paltry consideration as a.vul-
gar old woman or a brood of squalling brats?

Captain Paget was not. guilty, of any. persist-
ent unkindness, toward the woman whose fate
he had deigned.to_ link with his own... The con-
sciousness that he had conferred a supreme hon-
or on Mary Anne erp by, offering her his hand
and a share of his difficulties never deserted
him, He made no attempt to elevate the. igno-
rant girl into companionship with himself. He
shuddered. when, shé. misplaced her h’s, and
turned from her peevishly with a muttered oath.
when she was more than usually ungrammat-
ical: but though he found it disagreeable to hear
her, he would. have found it troublesome to set
her right, and trouble was. a thing which Hora-
tio Paget held, in .gentlemanly aversion. The
idea, that the mode of his existence could be re-

ulsive to his wife—that. this low-born and low-
red girl could have scruples that he never felt,

and might suffer agonies. of remorse ani shame
of which his coarser, nature was, iacapable;
never entered the captain’s mind. It would have
been too t an absurdity for the daughter of
plebeian Kepps to affect a tenderness of con-
science unknown to the scion of Pagets and Cro-
mies and Pees, - Mary Anne was afraid of
her elegant husband; and she worshiped and
waited Boch him in meek silence, keeping the
secret of her own sorrows, and keene itso well
that he never guessed the. manifold ; sources of
that pallor of countenance and hollow bright-
ness of eye which had of late annoyed him when,
he looked at his wife. She had borne hima.
child; a.sweet girl-baby, with those: great black,
eyes that always have rather a weird look in the.
face of infancy; and she would fain have clung;
to the infant'as the hope and consolation of her,
oyless life. But the vulture is nota domestic.
bird, and a baby would have been. an Ce
ment in the rapid hegiras which Captain Paget
and his wife were wont to e, ‘The captain,
put an advertisement in a daily paper before the

 

 

 
 

 

 

child was a week old, and in ‘less than a ‘fort-
night after Mary Aune had looked ‘at the baby
face for the first time, she was called’ upon to
surrender her treasure’ to’an elderly, woman of

fat/anid preasy aspect; who had agreed to bring:

the infant up ‘by hand ”. in a miserable little
street in a remote and dreary district lying be-
tween Vauxhall and Battersea. 2

Mary Anne gave up the child uncomplaining~
ly; as meckly as she would have ‘surrenderéd
herself if the captain had brought a masked ex-
ecutioner to’ her bedside, and had told her
block) was prepared for’ her in: the ‘adjoining
chamber. “She had novidea of: resistance to the
will of her husband. She endured her existence
for nearly five years after the birth of her child;
and during those miserable, years the one effort
of her life was to secure the miserable’ stipend

id for the little girl’s maintenance, but before
Phe child’s fifth birthday the: mother faded. off
the ‘face of the earth. She died in a miserable
lodging not very far from Tulliver’s terrace,
expiring in the arms of a landlady who tom-
forted her in her hour of need. as jshe had -com+
forted the ruined a Captain Paget
was & prisoner in itecross street at the time
of his wife’s death, and was much surprised@when
he missed her morning visits and» the little tux-
uries she had been wont to bring. him.

He had missed her for more than a week, and
had written to her twicerather angrily on the
second occasion—when a rough; unkempt boy in
corduroy waited upou-him in the dreary ward
where he and half a dozen other depressed an
melancholy men sat at littlé tables*writing let-
ters, or pretending to read newspapers, and look-
ing atone another furtivelyevery now and then.
There is no prisoner so distracted: by his. own
cares that he will not find time to wonder what
his neighbor is ‘in for.” I

The boy had received instructions to be care-
ful how he imparted his dismal tidings) to the
‘“pnoor dear gentleman,” but the lad grew nerv-

ous and bewildered at sight of the captain’s %

fierce hook-nose and scrutinizing’ gray eyes, and
blurted out his news without any dis: note of
warning: } is

“The lady died .at two o'clock this morning,”

please, sir; and mother said [was to comé ani
tell you, please, sir”

Captain Paget staggered under the blow.

“Good God!” he cried, as he dropped upon ‘a.
) wider ‘his |] (wi
weight; “ and I did not even know that she was’

rickety Windsor ‘chair, that creak

ill’

Still less did he know that all her married life
had been one long’ heart-sickness—one monot-
onous agony of remorse and shame,

CHAPTER) TIL
“HEART-BARE, HEART-HUNGRY, VERY POOR.”
DranA Pager left the Kursaal,’and walked
slowly along the pretty rustic street ,;now daw-
pone before a) little print-shop whose: contents
sl

 

she had just quitted ;

“What do they care what becomes: of me?”
she thought; as she’ looked up ‘atthe! blank, va-
cant windows, for the last time before she left
the main street of Foretdechene, and turned into
a‘straggling side-street, whose rugged pavement
sloped upward toward the pine-clad hills. ‘The
house in which ihe Paget had taken up his
abode was a tall, white habitation, situated in the
narrowest of the narrow by-ways that intersect
the'main street of the pretty Belgian watering-
place; a lano in which the inhabitants of oppo-
site houses may shake hands with one another
out of the window, ‘and. where the odor of tho
cabbages and onions so liberally employed in
the cuisine'of the native offends
foreigner from sunrise to sunset.

Diana paused for a niomerit at the entranvo

to: this lane, but, after a brief deliberation,”

walked onward |
“What is the use of my going home?” ‘sho

thought, ‘‘they won’t be home for hours \to

come.” ;

She walked slowly along the hilly street, and

from the street into a narrow pathway winding
upward through ‘the pine-wood. — Here she was
quite alone, and the stillness of the place soothed
her. She took off her hat and slung the» faded
ribbons across her arm; and the warm breeze
lifted the loose hair from her forehead as she
wandered upward » It was a very’ beautiful
face from which that loose, dark hair was lifted

ind. Diana Paget inherited!
by the summer win Anes

something of the soft: loveliness ©

Kepp, and a little of the’patrician beauty of the
Pagets. The eyes wake Hike those which had

watched Horatio Peet on his bed of sickness in’

Tulliver’s terrace. The resolute curve of the

thin, flexible lips and the fine modeling of the

chin were hereditary attributes of the Huge

Pagets; and a resemblance to the lower part of

Miss Paget’s face might have been ‘traced in

pe: a somber “portrait of dame and ‘cavalier
0

rpehaven Manor, where a Nugent’ Paget
who acknowledged no Kindred with the disropu-
table captain, was now master, : I
Phe gitl’s reflections as she slowly climbed:the
hill were not pleasant. The thoughts of youth
should be very beautiful; but youth that’ has
been spent in the companionship of reprobates

RE 7

 

ew by heart, now looking ‘back at the |
great windows ofthat templé of pleasure which »

enose of thie |

BIRDS OF! PREY.

43

 

and tricksters'is'something worse than , for
experience has taught it to be better, while. time
has not taught it tobe patient.» For! Diana: Pa-
get’ childhood had been joyless, and: girlhood:
lonely.>® That blank and. desolate region, that
dreary) flat of. fenny ‘waste. groun bebween
Vauxhall and Batterséa, on: which the ‘child’s
eyes had first: looked, ‘had: been typical of her
loveless Childhood.» With oher’ mother’s» death
faded:the one: ray of: hght that: had: illumined
her desolation, She was shifted from one nurse
to:andther {and her imarses Were nob allowed ‘to
love her, for she remained with them, as ai, in-
cumbrance and a burden. It was so difficult
for the:captain to pay thé pitifulsum demandéd
for his daughter’s support; or, rather; it wasso
much éasier for him hot to pay ito! So:there fal-
ways came a time when Diana was delivered:at
her father’s lodgings like:a parcel, by an:indig-
nant/nurse who proclaimed the story of her
wrongs in<shrill,! feminine; treble, and who was!
politely informed by the captain that her ‘claim
was:acommon debt, aid that’ she had the remedy
imher own hands, .but that ‘the same code of
laws which provided her with that remedy for-
bade any obnoxious demonstration of her-anger
in a gentleman’s ‘apartment. ‘And>then ‘Mi

Paget, after hearing all the tumult and discus-

_| siony would be left alone with’ her father, and

would speedil srceive that her presence was
disagreouibbe:to bith. I |

When she outgrew: the age. of) humble. foster-
mothers and cottages in the dréariest of the out-
lying suburbs, the captain sent -his; daughter) to

patronizing a person who:he had oneesbeen too
proud-to: remember saniong the list of. his ‘kin-
dred. © There are

pee every | f ¢

‘horpehaven had! needy cousins, who, in. the
mighty ‘battle of ‘life;| were! corhpelled, to. fight
among the rank! and/file»'),Oneoof ‘these poor
cousins was a Miss Priscilla’ Pagety; who at:an
early age had exhibited that affection) for) intel-
lectual-pursuits, and -that:carelessness.as to ithe
duties of ‘the toilet which are supposed to distin-
gulith the predestined:blie-stockingy» | Left quite
aloné in the world, Priscilla:put-her-educational
capital toi gooduse and after holding: the: posi-

‘| tion of» principal governess « for nearly twenty

ony she ¢ollowed: her late-employer to her grave
} punaffécted: sorrow, and within a month of
the ftineral invested her savings in:the purchase,
of the business;;and ‘established as) Dais-

tressjof the mansion. eal vidt-y lie 1
rege confided his daugh-
ny

pear in a prosperous: ae Sines at, Bromp-

To this lady Captain
ter’s education; and. in» Priscilla “Paget’s house
Diana found. a shelter that was: almost) like a
home, until her kinswoman became: weary: of
promises that were never kept, and. pitiful sums
paidon account of a debtithat grew bigger every
y—vory weary likewise of Renna tory: ham-
pers of game and barrels of oysters, and all. the
flimsy devices of a debtor who is-practiced in the
varied arts of the gentlemanly swindler... } |.
The day came when Miss Paget resolved.to,be
rid of her profitless charge ; and once more Diana
found herself delivered ikea parcel of unorder-
| ed goods at the door of her father’s lodging.
Those are \precocious » childreén,who-.-learn. the
first. lessons in ‘the. school, of poverty; andthe
girl had been ‘vaguely, conscious of the degrada-
tion involved in this process: at) the age of five
How much more keenly did she feel the shame
atithe age of. fifteen! riseilla!.did.‘her best to
Jessen’ the pain.of her pupil’s departure, ‘
“Tt isn’t that Pve any fault to find with, you,
Diana, though: you; must remember, c
heard some complaints! of your :temper,”’.she
said, with. gentle gravity ;-‘‘but your father, is
too trying! | If he! /b:make me any promises
I shotld, think »better of him, .,Tf he told .me
frankly that he couldn't pay me, and -asked. me
tokeep-you out of charity”—Diana, drew her-
aoe with'a ne shiver at this Fuori wba
mi turn it.over in, mymind, and. see if i
cotild be, done... But to, be deceived time after
time,as;I' liave been deceived--you, know the
solemm: your father -has used, Diana,
for you’ve heard “him; ana ee: upon a sum
of money’ on ai: certain date, as) lhave relied
again and again, after, Horatio’s assurance, that

it’s. more anyone, can you
were tio or three years older, and) further ad-
vanced in your education, [ might mai todo
something for you b.
the) little: ones; but

and clothe you during the next) three -years: for
nothing, and«so» Ihave no alternative. but to

ccs aaat a Friendly and Philanthropic, Loan.

But no very cordial welcome awaited Diana
in thé gaudily-furnished drawing-room over, the
toy-shop.' »found her father sleeping, placid-
ly in his easy chair, while a young man, who
was a” er to her, sat ab a near the
window, writing letters. It was.a dull Novem-
ber day—a very dr day on which. to find,
one’s self thrown lenly on a still drearier

 

school: and on this occasion he determinédoons

 

r and stragglin; & branches |
ahhitea ibaa and the agets: of | Horatio Paget. believed himself -the -victim,of

(| that,.she. had, none.Jeft,.to

feelin;

I might eee upon him-+it’s. too, bad, Diana,

making. you; useful with’
ee aioe

sendiyowhonie.tyiiaiow oz!) a0} olagrad. ytelgiot

The “home” to which Diana Paget “was,
taken! upon this occasion 'was.a lodging, over: a
toy-shop in the Westminster road, where), the,
captain lived in ‘considerable comfort,,on | the

 

world;)and»in»the Westminster bridge: rodd
the lamps were already making yellow patches)
of sickly light amidstthe afternoon fog.

The captain twitched his silk handkerchicf off
his face! with an impatient gesture as Dians) en+
tered the room: i
Jt Now, then, what is it?”,he asked, peevishlyy
without looking at the intruder. W

Hexecdgnized her sin the next moment;) bu
that first. impatient: salutation was about’ as
warm a welcome ‘as any which Miss Paget, re
ceived from her father, In sad and bitter truth,
he did mot: care :for ‘her... His marriage with
Mary Anne:Kepp had been the one grateful im-

vulse of his life; and even they sentiment which
prompted that, marriage -had: been by:no:
means free from the taint of selfishness. Butyhe
had been oe unprepared to find thatthis grand)
sacrifice of his life should: involve another sacri+
fice) in the maintenance.of}a daughter he didnot
want, and heavas very touch«inclined to, quar
rel with thé’ destiny that ‘had given hin» this

burden, i a E

**Tf-you had) been, a, boy, | might: ave made
you useful \to. me sooner Orolater,” the! captain
said. to his daughter, when he) found) himself
alone with her on the night/of her return; but
what on earth-am lto do witha daughtersin
the unsettled: life: Tlead?, However, since | that
old harridan has sent you back; you -must-man-
age in the best way:you. ean,” concluded. Cap-
tain Paget, with a discontented sigh.

f m. this) time Diana Paget -had inhabited
the, nest. of the vultures, and every: day had
brought its» new lesson of trickery and false-~
hood. . There are men—and badomen, toowho
would have tried to keep theseeret of their shifts
and meannesses hidden from an only, child; but

man’s ingratitudepand -his misdoings the neces-
sity, of am evil destiny. Ib is \nobt:easy, for the
unsophisticated. intellect. too gauge those moral
de} to which the man who lives by; his wits
must sink before his career is finished, or to un-;
derstand how, ‘with-every step in, the swindler’s
downward. » the conscience grows tougher,
the perception of shame blunter, the savageself-
ishness of the ‘animal, nature stronger.) Diana
Paget had discovered some of-her father’s weak-
nesses during her miserable childhood; and in
the days of her, unpuid-for schooling she had
known that his. most,solemn promisesswere mo
more to be'relied on than the -eapricious breath
of @ summer breeze,. So the revelations: which
awaited her junder, the paternal roof were not
utterly strange or entirely unexpected... Day by
day she grew more accustomed to that, atmus-
phere, of fraud. and -falschood.". The , sense of
shame neverdeft her, for there is a-pride;that
thrives amidst, poverty and degradation,;and of
such pride, Diana, Paget possessed. no sinall'shane.
She writhed under..the consciousness that she
was the daughter of a man.who had forfeited all)
right..to the esteem, of) his fellow-men..;She'
eat ithe. good. opinion of others,.and would
fain. have. been -beloved and admired, trusted
end.reapectad for,she,,was ambitious, andthe
thoueh ‘that:she might, one. day do. something,
which should lift. her, above the vulgar level was)
the.day-dream that had .consoled-her in many
an hour of humiliation and. discomfort.» Diana;
Pages felt the captain’s shame.as keenly as her;
mother had felt it; but the remorse; which had.
agonized gentle Mary Anne, the tender compas-
sion for others whieh had wrung that, fond..and

faithful heart, no place in the breast..of the;
captain’s dau, , jon et oiedt
‘Diana felt. so,mueh, compassion for, herself,

i tow upon other
ple. Her father’s victims might be misera-
vie. but was not she infinitely more wretched?
The landlady, who, found her apartments sud-
denly. tless and. her Robt. Hnpaid might
complain of, the hardness of. her fortune; but,
was it not harder for Diana, with the sensitive
and the. keen pride of the Eagets, to en-

dure all the degradation involved in the stealth
carrying away of luggage, and a secret denare:

ure under cover of nisin b

. At first, Miss Paget been, inclined. to. feel
aggrieved by the presénce of the, young ;mam
whom she had seen writing letters in the elaomy
dusk of the November afternoon; but. in, due,
time, she came to. accept him as. a, companion,
and to feel that, her joyless life would have been
drearier without him. He was the secretary of
the..Friendly and Philanthropic Loan, Society,
and of any other society organized by the cap-
tain. . He was Capea Bi t's amanuensis, and.
representative ptain, cages tool, but not
Captain.,Paget’s dupe, for Valentine. Hawke-
hurst was not of. that stuff of which dupes are

“tbe aman who liges. by his “re has needle a

friend an ower. chief o e
Rene must not be approach oe easily
There must.be, a, preparatory waeat an) outer
chamber to be passed, before the;wietim, is intro~

  
 
 

hy

duced.to the. sanctuary which is irradi by

the silver vail of pau Cap iy Pago

founda Able GOPHERS iP, ale —
y WAO answ: thew Lee?)

vertisements. in. hich. B. Cod DP) Save Ae WAS

wont, to offer.a. wie vk three hundred a year

to an tlemanly person capabl
ing the duties of secretary to a newly -etabliate

a3

i
1

Pe a

ial

OTT

 
   

 

 

re eee

 

T may as well go and see how ‘your father is
getting on yonder,” he said, as the spark of light
vanished in the darkness below. ©‘ Good-night,
Diana. Don’t sit too long in the cold night-air;
and don’t sit up for r fatherthere’s’ no
knowing when he’ may be home.” ’

The girl did not answer him,” She listened to
the shutting of the door as:it closed: behind him,
and then’ folded her arms upon’ the iron rail of
the balcony, laid her head ee them, and ‘wept
silently, Her life was very rank? and it séém-
ed to her as if the last hope which had sustain-
od her against an unnatural despair had been
taken away from her to-night.

Twelve o’clock sounded with a feeble: little
carillon from one of the steeples; and still she
sat with her head resting upon her folded arms.
Her eyes were quite dry by this time; for with
her tears were very rare, and the passion which
occasioned them must needs be intense, —The
ee grew chill and damp; but although she
shivered now and then beneath that’ creeping,
penetrating cold which is peculiar to night-air,
she did not stir from her place in’ the balcony
till she was startled by the opening of the door
in the room behind her.

All was dark within; but)Diana Paget was
very familiar’with the footstep which sounded
ony tity carpetiless floor. It was Valentine Hawke-
hurst, and not her father, whose'step her quick
ear distinguished: t

“Diana!” he called; and then he muttered in
a tone of surprise, ‘all dark still. Ah! she has

‘one to bed, I ‘suppose: That’s a pity.” The
figure in the balcony caught’ his eye at this mo-
ment.

“What in goodness’ name has kept’ you out
there all this time?” he asked; ‘‘do you want-to
catch your death of cold?”

He was sending ey the mantle-piece lighting
a candle as he this unceremonious ques-
tion, The light of the candle shone full upon
his face when Diana came into the room, and
she could see that he was paler than usual.) «

“Ts there anything the matter” she asked;
anxiously. f

‘Yes; there is a great deal the matter. You
will have to leave Foretdechene by the earliest
train to-morrow eae on the first stagetot

our journey to England. Look here, my girl!
t can give you just about the money that will
‘ou safely to London; and when youre

once there Providence must do the rest.” ">

“Valentine, what do you mean?” ONTy

“I méan that you cannot get away from
this place—you cannot dissever yourself from
the people you have been living with too soon:
Come, eome, don’t shiver, child) Take‘a’ few
drops of this cognac, and let’) me see the. color
come back to your face before I say any more.”

He poured the dregs of a bottle of brandy
into a glass, and made ‘her drink’ the’ spirit.
He was obliged to force the rim of the glass be-
peo her set teeth before he could succeed in
ti

“Come, Diana,” he said, after she had drank,
“you have beeu a pupil in the school of ad-
versity so long that you ought to be able to take
misfortunes pretty quietly. There’s a’ balance
struck somehow or other, depend upon it, my
git; and the prospérous eee who pay their

ebts have to'suffer as well as the Macaire fam-
ily. Pma scamp and a scoundrel; but I’m your
true friend nevertheless, Diana; and you must
promise to take my advice. Tell me that you
will trust me.”

‘*T have no one else to trust.”

“‘No'one else in this'place. But in England
you have’ your old friend—the' woman with
whom ‘you were at school. Doyou think she
would refuse to give you a temporary home if
you sued to her in forma pauperis?”

“No, I don’t ne oe a cal She
was very good to me. But why am I to
back to London?” - °.

“ Because to stay here would be ruin and dis-

to Pou because the tie that links you to
Friewtio aget must be cut at any hazard.”

“But why?”

For the best or worst of reasons; Your
father has been trying a trick to-night which
has been hitherto so infallible that I suppose he
had grown careless as to his execution of it.
Or perhaps he took a false measure of the man
he was playing’ with. In any case, ‘he has
a found’ out, and has been’ arrested by the

ee. corn
at Arrested, for cheating at’ cards!” exclaimed
the girl, with a look of unspeakable disgust and
Der ta sic ha chrvern aye yusisgmn Of fale
er; if she shown any symptom ng;
but she did not; She stood erect before him,
very pale, but firm as’a rock. ee

“And you want me to\go away?” she said.

“Yes, I want you to disappear from this
aera you “become motsrious as ‘your

*s daughter. That would be about the
worst reputation which you could carry through
eve me. ‘that I wish you well, Diana,

be by me.” (

““T will,” she aoe ered sn ne §
pairing r ition. | seems very dreary
go back to ; ‘dd to! face 'the oridiail alone,
T will doas'you'tell'me,” 1962

‘She did ‘hét express any syt for het ta-
ther, then Tanguishinewunter whereby she

pie Ari

Jow fever of his. You did your best, no doubt,

 

roe herself ‘very wicked and unwomanly, no
loubt. » But neither womanly virtues nor Chris-
tian — are wont to flourish in the school in
which Diana Paget had been reared. She obey-
ed Valentine’ Hawkehurst to the letter, without
any’ sentimental lamentations whatever, Her
scanty possessions were collected; and neatly
packed, in little‘ more than an hour. At three
o’elock she lay down in her tawdry little bed-
chamber to take what rest’ sho might ‘inthe
space of two hours. At six'she stood by Valen-
tine Hawkehurst‘on the Leena of the railway
station, with her face hidden by a brown gauze
vail, waiting till the train was made ready to
start: (>

It was‘ after she was seated in the carriage
that she spoke for the first time of her father.

“Isit hkély to: go very hard: with him?’ she
asked;

“I hope not. We must oe to pull him
througit as well as'we can; 6 charge ‘ma
— down atthe first’ examination Good

Y ;
zs reais Valentine.”
They had just time to'shake hands before the
train: moved off. Another moment’ and’ Miss
— ‘and ‘her fellow-passengers were ‘speeding

Mr. Hawkehurst drew his hat over his eyes
as he walked away from the station.

“The world will seem very dull and empty
to me without her.” he said to himself “T have
done an unselfish’ thing for once’ in my life. I
wonder whether the recording angel will onan
that aie my credit, and whether the other fel-
low will blot out any of the old score in consid~
eration of this one little bit of self-sacrifice.”

BOOK III,—HEAPING UP RICHES.
CHAPTER. I.
A FORTUNATE MARRIAGE

TEN years had passed’ ate enough over the
glossy raven locks of Mr. Philip Sheldon.’ There
aresome men with whom Time deals gently,
and he was one‘of them,’ The hard black eyes
had lost none of their fierce brightness; the
white teeth flashed with all ‘their old brilliancy;
the complexion, which had always been dusky
of hue; was perhaps a shade or two darker, and
therfierce ‘black eyes seemed all the blacker by

reason of the purple t beneath them’ But
the Philip: Sheldon of to-day was, taken alto-

 

ther, a handsomerman than the Philip Shel-
on of ten it ago.
| Within those ‘ten years the Blooms! den-

tist had acquired a higher style of dress and bear-

ing, and a certain improvement of tone and

manner. He was still an eminently respectable

man, and a man ‘whose chief claim to the esteem

of his fellows lay in the fact of his unimpeach-

able respectability; but’ his oa aetomes of to-
at of ten

day, as com’ with th years before,
was as the respectability of Tyburnia when con-
trasted with that of St; Pancras. He was not

an aristocratic-looking’ man, or an elegant man,
but: you felt, as you contemplated him, that the
bulwarks of the citadel of English respectability
are defended by such as he

Mr. Sheldon no are experimentalized with
lumps of beeswax and plaster of Paris. All the
appalling’ paraphernalia of his cruel art had
long since been’ handed over to an aspiring

oung dentist, together with the respectable
ouse in Fitzgeorge street, the furniture, and—
the connection. d thus had ended Philip
Sheldon’s career as a surgeon -dentist’ Within
a year of Tom Halliday’s death his disconsolate
dow had given her d to her first sweet-
heart, not forgetful of her dead husband or’ un-
grateful for much kindness’ and affection expe-
rienced at) his hands, but yielding rather to
Philip’s suit because’she was unable to advance
any fair show of reason whereby she might re-
ject him.

“T told you she’d be afraid to refuse you,”
said George Sheldon, when the dentist came
home from Barlingford, where Georgy was liv-
ing with her mother.

Philip had answered his brother’s questions
rather ambiguously at first, but in the end had
been fain to confess that he had asked Mrs: Hal-
liday to marry him, and that his suit had pros-

red.

ee That way of putting it is not very compli-
mentary to me,” he said, drawing himself up
rather stiffly. & Georgy and I were attached to
— other long ago; ‘and it is scarcely strange |

“Tf you should maké a match of it, Tom be-
ing gone. Poorold Tom! He and I were such
cronies. «I've tae et had an idea that neither

w nor the other fellow quite understood that

but I think — ought to‘have pulled him throu
somehow, “However; that’s not a pleasant su
ject to talk of just now; so T’ll drop it, and wish
you Joy, Phil. aaa nr a good aoa aor
ou, 1° 3? a oy temp)
other witty a nervous fwitthing of his DS
which su ‘that his mouth watered as
vin of Philip’s fortune. .
\“ It's a very'nice you drop into, old fel-|
low, isn’t it?” he asked presently, seeing that his
pes a disinolined to discuss the
subjec :

 

Us You know the state of my-affairs well

— ee eretee enter meta tdeeman taaseeenanaaadieapateeemam-cumenmpaersmamsensseaaeemeeneneneammmmetnl

15

enough to be sure that I couldn't afford to marry
a poor woman,” answered Philip.

‘And that it has been fora long time a vital
necessity ‘with you to marry a rich one,” inter-
jected his brother,

“Georgy will have a few hundreds, and—”

“A few thousands you mean, Phil,” cried
Mr. Sheldon the younger, with agreeable brisk-
ness, ‘shall I tot it ap for you®”’

He was always eager to “ tot” things up, and
would scarcely have shrunk from setting down
the stars of heaven in trim double columns of
figures, had it seemed to his profit to do so.

“Let us put it in figures, Phil,” he said,
etting his fingertips m order for’ the fray.
‘There’s the money for Hyley Farm, twelve
thousand three hundred and ‘fifty, I had it
from poor Tom’s own lips. ‘Then there’s that
little property on Sheepfield Common—say 'sev-
en fifty, eh? well, say seven hundred, if you like
to leave a margin; and then there are the in-
surances, three thou’ in the Alliance, fifteen
hundred in the Phenix, five hundred in the
Suffolk Friendly: the total of which, my dear
boy, is eighteen thousand five himdred pounds;
and a very nice thing for you to drop into, * ee
as affairs were looking about as black as they
could look,”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Sheldon the elder, who
appeared by no means to relish this “ tobting-
up” of his future wife’s fortune, “I have no
doubt I ought to consider myself a very lucky
man,

“So Barlingford folks will say when they hear
of the business. And now I ‘hope you're not
going to se iuadaer promise to me.”

“¢ What promise?”

“That if you ever did geta stroke of luck I
should have a share of it—eh, Phil?”

Mr. Sheldon caréssed his chin and looked
thoughtfully at the fire.

‘* Tt my wife lets me have the handling of any
of her ae you may depend upon it I'll do
what I can for you,” he said, after a pause.

‘* Don’t say that; Phil,” remonstrated George.
“When a man says he'll do what he can for you,
it’s a sure sign he means to do nothing. Friend-
ship and brotherly feeling are at an end when it
comes toa question of ‘ifs’ and ‘cans: Jf your
wife lets you have the handling of any of, her
money!” cried the lawyer, with unspeakable de-
vision; ‘that’s too good’a joke for you to ‘in-
dulge in with me. Do you I believe you
will let that r Little woman keep custody of
her a a‘day after she is your wife, or that
‘you will let her friends tie it up for‘her before
she marries’ you? No, Phil; you didn’t lay your
ae ios one .

at do you mean my laying plans?”
asked the denthat, dant olan te

“Thats a, = we won't discuss, Philip,”
answered the lawyer, coolly. “You and I un-
derstand each other very well without entering
into unpleasant details, You promised me a
year ago—before Tom Halliday’s death—that if
ton ever came into a good thing I should share

ic. You have come into an uncommonly good
thing, and I shall expect you to keep your

mise

“Who says I’m going to break it?” demand-
ed Philip Sheldon, with an injured air ‘You
shouldn’t be in such a hurry to cry out, George.
You take the tone of a social Dick Turpin, and
might ‘as well hold a pistol to my head while

ou’re about it Don’t alarm yourself. I have

old you I will do what I can for you, T can-
not, and I shall not, say more.”

The two men looked at each other. The
were in the habit of taking the measure of
ereation in ther own eminently practical way,
and they took each other’s measure now. After
having done which, they parted with all cordial
expressions of good- and brotherly Eee
George went home to his @ chambers in
Gray’s Inn, and Philip prepaid for his return
Sienaanitn and his marriage with Georgina

‘Ys

For nine years Georgy had been Philip Shel-
don’s wife, and she had found no reason to com-
lain of her second choice. The current of her
ife had flowed mage g enough since her first
lover had become her husband, She still wore
moire-antique dresses and gold chains; and if
the dresses fitted her better and the chains were
less obtrusively displayed, she had to thank Mr.
Sheldon for the refinement in her taste. Her
views of life in general ee under Mr.
Sheldon’s influence’ She no ‘ton, thought a
high-wheeled dog-cart and_ a’ ski mare the
acme of earthly splendor; for she had a carriage
and at her service, and a smart little page-

boy to leap off the box in attendance on her °

when she paid visits or went shopping. Instead
of the big, comfortable old-fashioned farm-house
at Hyley, with its mysterious and im-
penetrable obscurities in the way of ee
she “sig a bright, glistening little detach
villa in Bayswater, in which the eye that might
chance’ to grow wi of and glitter
would’ have sought {a-vain for a dark corner
wherein to re itself, ‘

pose —

Mr. Sheldon’s fortunes had ae since
his marriage ‘with “his friend’s widow, For a
man of his practical mind and energetic temper-
ament eig! ‘thousand pounds was a strong

 

 

  

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starting-point... His first:step was to clear off all
old engagements with. Jews and, Gentiles, and
to turn, his back on_the, respectable) house: in
Fitzgeorge street. . The, earlier, months, of . his
married life he devoted to a pleasant tour on
the continent, not wasting time in picturesque
by-ways,, or...dawdling, among) inaccessible
mountains, or mooning about drowsy. old cathe-
drals, where there were pictures with curtains
hanging before them, and. .prowling . vergers
who expected money for drawing aside, the cur-
tains; but rattling at the highest continental
speed from one big commercial city to another,
and. rubbing off the dust of Bloomsbury in the
exchanges. and on, the quays of the .busiest
laces in Europe. The time which Mr. Sheldon
orebore, to squander in, shadowy Gothic aisles
and under the shelter;of Alpine hights he ac-
counted well bestowed in crowded cafes, and at
the public tables of noted, hotels where commer-
cial. men were. wont to congregate, and as
Georgy had no. aspirings for, the sublimity. of
Van yke and Raphael, or the. gigantic. splen-
dors .of, Alpine »scenery, she. was: .very well
leased to. see continental. life with the,eyes of
ilip Sheldon. .How could: a, half-educated
little. woman, -whose worldly experience: was
bounded by the suburbs of Barlingford, be other-
wise than, delighted by the glare and glitter of
foreign » cities? Georgy. was coacienhy enrap-
tured with everything she saw, from the,sham
diamonds and rubies of the Palais Royal to the
fantastical bonbons of Berlin. ¢
Her husband was very kind, to her—after his
own particular fashion,-which was very different
from blustering Tom. Halliday’s weak) indul-
gence. He ‘allotted and regulated her life to
suit his .own.convenience,.it is true; .but» he
bought her handsome dresses, and took. her with
him in hired carriages when he drove about the
strange cities. He was apt,to leave Georgy and
the hired carriage:at the corner, ofsome street
or before the door of some cafe, for an’ hour to-
gether sometimes, in the course of his peregrina-
tions; but she speedily became accustomed: to
this, and provided herself with the Tauchnitz

‘edition of a novel, wherewith.to beguile the tedi-

um_ of, these intervals in the day’s amusement.
If Tom Halliday had left her for an hour,at.a
street-corner, or before the door of,a cafe, she

would have tortured herself and. him: by all man-

ner of jealous suspicions and vague imaginings,
But there was a ter gravity. in Mr, Sheldon’s
character, which precluded the possibility of aay
such shadowy. fancies., Every action of his life
seemed to involve such serious motives, the
whole tenor of his existence was so orderly, and
business-like, that his wifé was fain to submit, to
him. as she-would have submitted to some pon-
derous infallible machine, some monster of mod-
ern ingenuity and, steam-power which cut, asun-
der sO many, bars of;iron.or punched, holes in
so many paving-stones in.a given number. of
seconds, and was. likely to go on dividing iron or
piercing paving-stones for ever and ever. 8

She obeyed him, and, was content. to fashion
her life according to. his will, chiefly because she
had a vague consciousness that to argue with
him, or to seek to influence him, would be to at-
tempt the impossible, .. Perhaps there wassome-
thing more than this.in her mind—some; half-
consciousness that there was,a, shapeless and. in-
vertebrate. skeleton, lurking in. the .shadowy
back-ground of her new life; a: dusky. and im-
ee le creature which, it would not be, well

or her to examine.or understand. She was,a
cowardly little woman, and finding herself tol-
erably happy in the present, she did not care to
pierce the vail of the future, or to cast anxious
glances backward to the past. She shenenh i
ple. in, the
world base enough to hint that Philip Sheldon
had married her for love of her eighteen thous-
and pounds rather than from pure devotion. to
herself. She knew that certain prudent friends
and kindred in Barlingford had elevated their
hands and eyebrows in speechless horror when
they discovered that she had married her second
husband without a, settlement; while one. grim
and elderly uncle had asked her whether she did
not expect her father to, turn in, his grave by
reason of her folly, ;

Georgy had shrugged her shoulders peevishl,
when her Barlingford friends remonstrated wit!
her, and had declared that people were very
cruel to her, and that it was a hard thing she
could not, choose for herself for once in her life.
As to the settlements that people talked of, she
protested indignantly that she was not so mean
as to fancy her future husband a thief, and that
to tie up her money in all sorts of ways would
be to imply as much, And then, as it was only
a year since poor dear Tom’s: death, she had
been anxious to marry. without fuss or parade.
In fact, there were a hundred reasons against
legal interference and legal tying up of the
Money, with all that, dreadful jargon about
“whereas,” and ‘‘ hereinafter,” and ‘provided
always,” and “‘ nothing herein contained,” which
coera Somedue zinc spits OF Tie 80. closel
that it is doubtful whether the actual owner wi
ever be free to spend a sixpence of.it after the
ie document intended

rge Sheldon said something very near
the truth when he had told Philip that Mrs.

ermal stele:

 

Halliday would be afraid to refuse him. The
fair-haired, faix-faced little woman was afraid
of the first lover of her girlhood. She had be-
come his wife, and so far all things had gone
well with her; but if misery and despair had
been the necessary consequences of her union
with him, she must. have married him all the
same, so dominant was the influence by which
he ruled her. , Of course Georgy. was not herself
aware of her own dependence.» She accepted. all
things .as they were. presented ‘to her by a
stronger» mind. than her own. She wore her
handsome sill: dresses, and was especially parti-
cular as to the adjustment of her bonnet-strings.
knowing that the smallest impropriety of attire
was obnoxious-to the. well-ordered mind of her
second husband... She obeyed him very muchas
a'child, obeys a strict but not unkind. schoolmas-
ter. When he took her toa theater or a race-
course she sat atjhis side meekly, and felt like a
child who has been, good and tis reaping the re-
ward of goodness, d this state of things was
in nowise disagreeable to her. She was perhaps

ite as happy as it was in her nature to.be; for

e had. no exalted. capacity for mepinae or
misery. She, felt that it was pleasant to:;have a
handsome man, whose costume was always irre-
proachable, for her husband. Her only notion
of a bad husband ;was a man who staid out late,
and came home. under, the influence. of. stro:
liquors ; consumed in unknown localities’ an
among’ unknown people. So, as, Mr. Sheldon
rarely went out after dinner; and was on all.oc-
easions the most temperate of men, she naturally
considered, her second husband. the very model
of conjugal perfection. Thus it was that domes-
tic life had passed smoothly enough for Mr. Shel-
don and his wife during the nine years which had
clapestt sinee their marriage: .

to the eighteen thousand pounds which
she had brought, Philip Sheldon Georgy asked
no questions... She knew that she enjoyed luxu-
ries and splendors which had never been: hers)in
Tom Halliday’s lifetime, and she was content to
accept the goods which her second. husband pro-
vid Mr. Sheldon had become a stock-broker,
and had an office in some dusky court within a
few, hundred yards of the Stock sseoharsge
and according to his own account had treb fed
Georgy’s thousands during the nine years in
which, they had been in his hands. ‘How the
unsuccessful, surgeon-dentist. had blossomed all
at once into a fortunate speculator was. a prob-
lem too profound for eons consideration,
She knew that her husband allied himself
to. a certain..established firm of stock-brokers,
and that the alliance had. cost him some.thou-
sands of Tom Halliday’s money. . She had heard
of preliminary seepe to be taken to secure his ad-
mission.as a member of some mysterious confra-
ternity vaguel, spoken of as ‘ House;” and
she knew. that Tom Halliday’s thousands had
been. the seed from which had sprung other thou-
sands, and that her husband had been altogether
triumphant and successful.

It may be that it is easier to rig the market
than to induce a given number of people to re-
sort to a certain dull street in-Bloomsbury for
the purpose of having, teeth extracted by an un-
known practitioner. It is possible that the stock+
broker is like, the poet, a creature who is born
and not made; a gifted and inspired. being, not
to be perfected by any specific education; a child
of spontaneous instincts and untutored faculties,
Certain it is that the divine afflatus from the
nostrils of the god Plutus seemed to have de-
scended. upon’ Philip Sheldon; for he had en-
tered. the Stock Exchange an inexperienced
stranger, and he held his place there among
men. whose boyhood spent in the
ee ee of Capel Court, and whose
youthful strength had been nourished in the
hopes of Finch, lane and Threadneedle
street.

Mrs,, Sheldon ;was satisfied with-the general
knowledge that Mr. Sheldon had been fortun-
ate, and had, never sought any more_ precise
knowledge of her husband’s affairs. or did
she seek, such ‘knowledge. even now, when her
daughter, was sppronching womanhood, and
might ere long have need of some dower out of
her mother’s fortune. Poor Tom, trusting im-
plicitly in the wife he loved, and making his will
only as a sprecansiqnery, measure, at a time when
he seem for me vyears of life and
strength, had not troubled himself about remote
contingencies, and in nowise foreseen the
probability of a second husband for Georgy and
a step-father for his child. t :

_ Two children had been born to Mr, Sheldon
since his marriage, and both had died in infancy,
The loss of these children had fallen very heavily
on the strong hard man, though he had never
shed a tear or uttered a lamentation, or wasted
an hour of his business-like existence by reason
of his sorrow. Georgy had just sufficient pene-
tration to perceive that her husband was bitterly
disappointed whgn no more baby strangers came
to replace th r frail little lives which had
withered away and. vanished in spite of his
anxiety to hold them.

“Tt seems as if there was a blight. w my
children,” he once said, bitterly; and this, was
the only occasion. on which his wife heard him
complain of his evil fortune,

But one day when he had been particularly

 

lucky in. some, speculation,..when,he, had: suc-
ceeded. in achieving what his, brother George
ke of asthe ‘biggest line” he had ever done,
ilip Sheldon came home to the Bayswater villa
in a particularly bad humor, and for the first time
since her marriage,\Georgy heard, him quote a
line of Scripture.

‘Heaping up riches,” he muttered, as he paced
up and down the room; ‘‘heaping) up, riches,
and ye can not tell who shall gather,them.” .

His wife knew. then. that, he was) thinking of
his children. . During the brief lives of those two
fragile .boy-babies the, stock-broker had. been
wont to talk much of future successes in the way
of money-making to be achieved by him for the
enrichment; and exaltation of , these, children.
They were gone now, and no more.came/to re-

lace them.» And though. Philip Sheldon - still
davoted himself. to, the. sublime art, of money-
ing, and still took delight in .suecessful time-
bargains and all. the scientific; combinations of
the money-market, the salt of life had lost, some-
thing of its savor, and the chink, of, gold had
lost somewhat of its music. ‘ f

CHAPTER ji.
‘ CHARLOTTE, oliph pay.

TxHE little villa at Bayswater was looking its
brightest on a resplendent midsummer afternoon,
one year after, Diana Paget’s hurried, hegira
from Foretdechene. If the poor. dentist’s house
in dingy Bloomsb' had been fresh and brilliant
of aspect, how much more brilliant was the west-
ern home of the rich stock-broker, at whose gate
was within five minutes’ walk of the aristocratic
Eden, Kensington Gardens. Mr. Sheldon’ssmall
domain was called The, iawn; and consisted: of
something over ‘half an acre of flower-garden
and shrubbery, a two-stall stable, and ,coach-
house, a conservatory ahd fernery,, and a moder-
ate-sized house in the Gothic or,mediaval style,
with mullioned windows in the dining-room an
oriels in the best bedroom, and with a great'deal
of unnecessary stone-work and, wooden excres-
cence in every direction. . B al»

The interior of Mr. Sheldon’s dwelling; jbore
no trace of that solid old-fashioned, clumsiness
which had distinguished his house in, Fitzgeorge
street. Having surrendered his ancestral chairs
and tables in. liquidation of his liabilities, Philip
Sheldon was free to go with the times, and, had
furnished his Gothie villa in the most approved
modern style, but without any attempt at artistic
grace or adornment... All was bright and, hand-
some and neat and trim; but the brightness and
the neatness, savored just a little of furnished
apartments at the seaside, and the eye sought
in vain. for, the graceful disorder, of , an, elegant
home. , The dining-room, was, gorgeous with. all
the splendor of new mahogany and ¢rimson.mo-
rocco; 'the drawing-room. was. glorified by, big
looking-glasses, and the virtual freshness of gilt
frames on which the feet.of agile. house-fly.or
clumsy blue-bottle had never rested. . The crim-
sons and blues and greens and drabs of the Brus-
sels ¢ ts retained, the vivid: brightness of the
loom. e drops ,of the, chandeliers twinkled
like little stars in the sunshine;) the, brass bird-
cages were undimmed by theshadow of dullness,
To Georgy’s mind.the Gothic villa was the very

rfection of a dwelling-place. . The Barlingford

ousekeepers were wont to, render, their, homes
intolerable by extreme -neatness.... Georgy still
believed. in the infallibility of her native town,
and the pear of Barlingford.reigned supreme
in the Gothic villa. There were no, books, seat-
tered on the polished walnut-wood tables in-the
ria maig Zeon no-cabinets crammed with scraps
of old, china, no pic no queer old. Indian
feather-screens, no marvels of Chinese carving in
discolored ivory; none of these traces which the
footsteps of the ‘collector ” always leaye behind
him. Mr. Sheldon had no leisure for collecting ;
and Georgy preferred the, gaudy pink-and-blue
vases of a Regent street Shinn kop to all the

i chefs-V oeuvre of a: Wedgewood, or ‘the

t shepherds and shepherdesses of Chelsea.
for books, were there not four or five resplen-
dent volumes primly dis on one of, the ‘ta-
bles; an. illustrated edition of Cowper’s,lively
and faniling poems;,a. volume of, Rambles in
Scotland, with copperplate engravings of ‘‘ Mel-
rose by night,” and Glasgow Cathedral, and Ben
Nevis, an other scenic and architectural glories
of North Britain; a couple of volumes of Punch,
and an illustrated Vicar of Wakefield; and what
more could elevated taste demand in the way of
literature? Nobody ever read. the books; ‘but
Mr Sheldon’s visitors. were sometimes glad to
take in the Scottish scenery aud the pic-
torial Vicar, during that interval of dullness an
indigestion which succeeds a middle-class din-
ner. Georgy read a great many books; but
they were ail novels, procured from the Bays-
water branch of a fashionable circulating libra-
ry, and were condemned unread by Mr, Sheldon,
who considered all works of. fiction perfectly
equal in demerit, and ama bene them, ina one
eral way, as ‘‘ senseless trash.”.. He had tried;to
read novels in the dreary days of his Bloomsbury
bation ;, but he had found that the heroes of
em. were impr ble beings, who, were’ al-
ways talleng at honor and chivalry, and always’
sacrificing their own interests in an;utterly pre-
us manner; ee had thrown «aside

 

~ after story in

 

 

 
 

 

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as nw a en ae

“Give me a book that is something like life,
and Tl read it!’ he exclaimed, impatiently
“but I can’t swallow the high-flown prosings of
impossibly virtuous inanities.”

ne day, indeed, he had been struck by. the
power of a book, a. book written by a certain
Frenchman called Balzac. He had been riveted
by the hideous cynicism, the supreme power of
Ponechatiee into the vilest corners of wicked
1earts; and he had flung the book from him at
last with an expression of unmitigated admira-
tion.

‘“‘ That man knows his fellows,” he cried, ‘‘ and
is not hypocrite enough to conceal his knowledge
or to trick out his puppets in the tinsel and rags
of false sentiment in order that critics and pu
lic. may ery, ‘See, what noble instincts, what
generous impulses, what unbounded sympathy
for his fellow-creatures. this man has)’ . This
Frenchman is an artist, and is not afraid to face
the difficulties of his art.. What a scoundrel
this Philippe Bridau is! And after wallowing
in the gutter, he lives to bespatter his virtuous
brother with the miré from tie Gated, ‘e-wheels.
That is real life. . Your English novelist would
have made his. villain hang himself with the
string of his waistcoat in acondemned cell, while
his amiable hero was declared heir to a duke-
dom and forty thousand a year. But this fellow
Balzac knows better than that.”
~The days had fre when Mr. Sheldon had
leistre to read Balzac He read nothing but
the newspapers ._now, and. in the newspapers he
read very little more than the One articles,
and such political news as seemed likely to af-
fect the money market. There is no such sole
absorbing pursuit as the race which men run
whose goal is the glittering temple of Plutus.
The golden apples which tempted Atalanta to
slacken her pace are always rolling before the
modern runner, and the greed of gain lends the
wings of Hermes to his feet. Mr. Sheldon had

sighed for pleasures sometimes in the days of |
his Bloomsbury martyrdom. He had sat by his |
open window on sultry.summer evenings, smok- |

ing his solitary cigar, and thinking moodily of
all the pleasant pestle places from which other
men were looking ou
sky, deepening into crimson and melting into
purples which even the London smoke could not
obscure. He had sat alone, thinking of jovial
parties lounging in the bow-windows of Green-
wich taverns, with cool, green hock-glasses and
pale amber wine, and _a litter of fruit. and flow-
ers on the table before them, while the broad
river flowed past them with all the glory of the
sunset on the rippling water, and one black brig
standing sharply out against the yellow sky.
He had thought of Richmond, and the dashing
young men who drove there every summer in
drags; of Epsom. and the great Derby mob;
and of all those golden goblets of pleasure which
rosperous manhood drains to the very dregs.
Fie had fancied the pie aacnS which would
his if ever he were rich enough to pay for them.
And now he was able to afford such. pleas-
ures he cared nothing for them; for the ecstasy
of making money seemed better than any mas-
culine dissipation or delight. He did sometimes
dine at Greenwich. ew the menus of the
different taverns by heart, and had discovered
that they were all alike vanity and indigostion;
but he never seated himself at one of those glis-
tening little tables, or deliberated with an ob-
sequious waiter over the mysteries of the wine
carte, without a settled purpose to be served by
the eating of the dinner and a definite to
be achieved by the wine he ordered. He gave
many such entertainments at home and abroad:
but they, were all given tc men who were likely
to be useful to him—to rich men, or the toadies
and. hangers-on of rich men, the grand viziers
of ‘the sultans of the money-market. Such a

thing as pay or hospitality pure and simple
had no place in the plan of Mr. Sheldon’s life.
The race in which he was running was not to

be won by 4 loiterer. The golden apples were
always rolling on before the runner; and woe be
to him who turned away from the course to dal-
ly with the flowers or loiter by the cool streams
that beautified the way-side! sarin

Thus it was that Mr. Sheldon’s existence grew
day by day more completely absorbed by busi-
ness pursuits and business interests. Poor
Georgy complained peevishly of her husband’s
neglect; but she did not dare to pour her lamen-
tations into the ear of the offender. It wasa
kind of relief to grumble about his busy life to
servants and humble female friends and confi-
dantes; but what could she say to Philip Sheldon
himself? What ground had she for complaint?
He very seldom staid out late; he never came
home tipsy. He was quite as cool and clear-
ease and pastas e, and as sare to
“tot up” any given figures upon the of an.
envelope after one @ hoe at lomatic little
Greenwich dinners as he was the first. thing
after breakfast. It had been an easy thing to ty-
rannize over poor Tom Halliday ; but thismanwas

. a grave inscrutable creature, a domestic enigms

But so completely . did ion his
wife that when he informed inferentially
that she was a very happy woman, she accepted
his view of the subject, and was content to be-
lieve herself blessed.

which Georgy was always RPP. in di
‘her

ed Pr

at that. golden western |

ay a Fn eerste SRR Rte ee me ae a SE aN AR etnvateeenei NM

BIRDS

a

In spite of those occasional om to ser-
vants and female friends Mrs. Sheldon did think
herself happy. Those occasional complaints
were the minor notes in the harmony of her
| life, and only served to make the harmony com-
| Rees She read her novels, and fed a colony of
| little feeble twittering birds that occupied a big
wire cage in the breakfast-parlor, Ne execu-
ted a good. deal of fancy-work with beads and
Berlin wool; she dusted and arranged the splen-
dors of the drawing-room with her own hands;
and. she took occasional walks in Kensington
ens.

This was the ordinary course of her existence,
now and then interrupted by such thrilling
events as a dinner given to some important ac-
quaintance of Mr. Sheldon’s, or a visit to the
school at which Charlotte Halliday was complet-
ing. her education.

, That young lady had been removed from the
Scarborough boarding-school to a highly re-
spectable establishment at Brompton, within a
few months of her mother’s marriage with Mr,
Sheldon. She had been a rosy-cheeked young
damsel. in Pinctares at the time of that event,
too young to express any strong feelings upon
the subject of her mother’s second choice; but
not too Cree feel the loss of her father very
deeply. Tom Halliday had been fondly attached
to that bright-eyed rosy-cheeked damsel of seven,
| and the girl had fully Pee his affection,
| How often they had talked together of the
future, which was to be so delightful for them
| both; the new farm, a ee 0 3 such a a
adise in’ com: m to Hyley; the pony that
Charlotte partes ride when she should be old
enough to wear a habit like a lady,.and go about
with her father to market-towns and corn-ex-
changes. The little girl had remembered all
this, and had most bitterly lamented the loss
of that dear and loving father.

She remembered it all to this day; she regret-
ted her loss to this day, though she was nineteen
rons of oR, and on the point of leaving school

orever. To say that she disliked Mr. Sheldon
is only to admit that she was subject to the
natural prejudices of humanity. He had usurped
the place of a beloved father, and he was in
every way the Papo of that father. He had
come between Charlotte Halliday and her
mother, and had so absorbed the weak little
woman into himself as to leave Charlotte quite
, alone in the world, And yet he did his duty as
| few step-fathers do it. Charlotte admitted that
, he was yery kind to her, that he was an excel-
, lent husband, and altogether the most conscien-
; tious and respectable of mankind; but she ad-
| mitted with equal candor that she had never
been able to like him. ‘‘Idare say it is very
wicked of me not to be fond of him, when he is
so. good and generous to me,” she said to her
chosen friend and companion; ‘‘ but T never can
feel quite at home with him. I try to think of him
as a father sometimes, but I never can get
over.the ‘step.’ Do you know IL have dreamed
of him sometimes; and though he is so kind tc
me in reality, I always fancy him cruel to me in
iny . Isup it is on account of his
black eyes and Eyehk. shire ” added Miss Hal-
liday, in a meditative tone. “It is certainly a
mintcbtne for a person to have blacker eyes and
whiskers than the rest of the world; for there
seems something stern and hard, and_ almost
murderous, in such excessive blackness.”

Charlotte. Halliday was a very different crea-
ture from the mother whom Mr. Sheldon had
absorbed into himself. was one of the
women who have no “characters at all,” but
Georgy’s daughter was oP to’ the charge of
pee oad rather than of inanity. She was a
creature of fancies and impulses. She had writ-
ten wild verses in the secrecy of her own cham-
ber at midnight, and had torn her poetic effu-
sions into a thousand ents the morning
after their composition. She played and sang
and drew and danced admirably, and did every-
thing in a wild way of her own, which was in-
finitely more than the commonplace

rfection of other women. She was not a beau-
y, oe ee those established rules which
everybody believes in until they meet a woman
who defies them all and yet is beautiful. Miss
Halliday had thick black eyebrows, and large

‘ay eyes which people were apt to mistake for
lack,” She had a composite nose, and one of
the sweetest mouths that ever smiled upon en-
FG mankind. Nature had given her just
a little more chin than a Greek sculptor would
have allowed her; but, by way of make-weight,
the same careless Nature had wed upon her
a throat which Phidias himself might have sought
in vain to improve upon, And Nature had

lanted this young lady’s head upon her shoul-

ers with a e so rare that it must needs be
a happy accident in the workmanship of that
immortal artist. Indeed it seemed as if Charlotte
Halliday owed her charms toa series of happ
accidents. The black eyebrows which mad ie
her face so piquant might have been destruction
to another woman. e round, column-like
throat needed a fine frank face to surmount it,
and the fine frank face was rendered gracious
and womanly by the wealth of waving dark hair
which it. The girl was one of those
bright happy creatures whom men worship and
women love, and whom envy can scarcely dis-

 

 

rf

 

 

like. She was so infinitely superior to both
father and mother that.a believer in hereditary
attributes. was fain to invent some mythical
great-grandfather from whom the girl’s graces
might have been derived. But she had some-
thing of her father’s easy good-nature and im-
prudent generosity; and was altogether one of
those impulsive creatures whose lives are perpet-
ual difficulties and dilemmas. More lectures
had been delivered for her edification than for
any other young lady in the Brompton boarding-
school, and yet she had been the favorite and
delight of everybody in the establishment, from
the mistress of the mansion down to the iniqui-
tous boy who cleaned the boots, and who was
hounded and hunted, and abused and execrated,
from dewy morn to dusky eve.

“Tallus puts plenty of elbow-grease on-your
boots, Miss ’Allundale, though cook does heave
saucepan-lids at my ’ed and ‘call me a lazy
wiper,” this incorrigible imp protested to Char-
lotte one morning when she had surprised him
if tear’s and had consoled his woes by a donation
of pence, ¢

“All things love thee, so T do,” says the lover
to his mistress; and it is almost impossible not
to adore a young lady who is universally: be-
loved, for the simple reason that this general af-
fection is very rarely accorded to any but _a‘lov-
ing nature. ‘There is an instinct in these’ things.
From all the ruck of See a Vagrant dog
will select’‘the man who has most: toleration
for the canine species, and is most likely to give
him shelter. A little child coming suddenly into
a circle of strangers knows in which lap it may
find a haven, on which bosom it may discover
safety and comfort, If.mistress and school-fel-
lows, servants and. shoe-black, dogs and’ cats,
were fond of Charlotte Halliday, their affection
had been engendered by her own sweet smiles
and loving words, and helping ‘hands always
ready to give substantial succor or to aid by
active service.

She had been at the Brompton’ gyng@ceum
nearly nine years—only leaving it for her holi-
Cort ae now her education was declared to be
finished, and in less than a week she was to leave
school forever. ;

To most damsels of nineteen this would have
been a subject for re forcing j but it was not so
with Charlotte. She did not like her step-father:
and her mother, though very affectionate and

ntle, was a person whose society was apt to

ome wearisome any time after the first half-
hour of social intercourse. ' At ‘Hyde Lodge
Charlotte had a great deal more of Lingard and
condensed and expurgated Gibbon than was
quite pear she had to get up at a:preter-
natural hour in the morning and_to devote her-
self to ‘‘studies of velocity,” whose monotony
became wearing as the drip, drip, drip of water
on the skull of the tortured criminal. She was
very tired of all the Hyde Lodge lessons and
accomplishments, the irregular French verbs—
the “barires” and “traires”” which were ‘so
difficult to remember, and which nobody ever
could want to use in polite conversation—the
ruined. castles and dilapidated wind-mills, the
perpetual stumpy pieces of fallen timber and
Ja posts executed with a BBB hee the
chalky expanse of sky with that inevitable fight
of crows scudding across it: why must there Bs
always crows scudding across a drawing-mas-
ter’s sky, and why so many jagged posts in a
drawing-master’s ideal of rural beauty? Char-
lotte was inexpressibly weary of all the stereo-
roe studies; but she liked Hyde Lodge better
than the Gothic villa. She liked the friendly
school-fellows with their loud talk and boister-
ous manners, the girls who called her “ Halli-
day,” who oe always borrowing her ‘reels of
crochet-cotton and her coon her collars and
pocket-handkerchiefs. e liked the free-and-
easy school-girl talk better than her mother’s
tame discourse; she preferred the homely litter
of the spacious school-room to the prim splend-
ors of ee state chambers, and the cool
lawn and bberies of Hyde Lodge were a
hundredfold more ‘pleasant to her than the stiff
little parterre at Bayswater, wherein scarlet
geraniums and calceolarias flourished with an
excruciating luxuriance of growth and an aggra-
vating eS of color. She liked an ‘
better than the hearth by which Philip Sheldon
brooded with a dark, thoughtful face, and a
mind absorbed by the mysteries and complica-
tions of the stock-exchange.

On this bright June afternoon other girls were
chattering gayly about the fun of the breaking-
up ball and the coming delights of the holidays,
but Charlotte sighed when they reminded her
that the end of her last half was close at hand,

She sat under a up of trees on the lawn,
with a het antimacassar ing in her lap,
and with her friend and favorite, Diana’ Paget,

ae by her side. -_-
Hyde Lodge was that very establishment over
which Priscilla Paget had nF ag supreme for
i aaa erate her aie and ae
le pups ina’ sc! some forty or y girls
Diana was the one whom Charlotte Hallida
had chosen for her dearest companion and confi-
dante, oinging to her with a constancy not to be
shaken by ill-fortune orabsence. The girl knew
very well that Diana Paget was Say relation
and dependent; that her bills never been

 
 

 

 

ey a a I ee

 

BIRDS OF. PREY.

19

 

am very often inclined to quarrel with happy
people without rhyme or reason, or only because
they are happy,” she said, in explanation of her
impatient temper. ‘

“ But who knows what hegpepes may be wait-
ing for you in the future, Dil’ exclaimed Miss
Halliday. ‘‘ You will marry some rich man by-
and-by, and forget that you ever knew what
poverty was.” ‘ :

“‘T wonder where the rich man is to come
from who will marry Captain Paget’s daugh-
ter?” Diana asked, contemptuously.

‘Never mind where he comes from; he will
come, depend upon it! The handsome youn
prince with the palace by the lake of Como wi
come to fall in love with my beautiful Diana,
and then she will go and live at Como, and de-
sert her faithful Charlotte, and live happy ever
afterward!”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Lotta!” cried Miss
Paget. ‘‘ You know what kind of fate lies be-
fore me as well as I do. I looked at myself this
morning, as I was plaiting my hair before the
glass—you know how seldom one gets a turn at
the glass in the blue room—and I saw a dark,
ugly, evil-minded-looking creature, whose face
frightened me. I have been getting wicked and
ugly ever since I was a child. An aquiline nose
and black eyes will not make a woman a beauty;
she wants happiness and hope and love, and all
manner of things that I have never known, be-
fore she can be pretty.” ,

“T have seen a beautiful woman sweeping a
crossing,” said Charlotte, doubtfully. :

“Yes, but what sort of beauty was it?—a
beauty that made you shudder. Don’t talk
about these things, Charlotte; you only encour-
age me to be bitter and discontented. 1 dare say
I ought to be very happy, when I remember
that I have dinner every day, and shoes and
stockings, and a bed to lie down upon at night;
and I am happier, now that I work for my liv-
ing, than I was in the old time, when my cousin
was always grumbling about her unpaid bills.
But my life is very dreary and empty; and
when I look forward to the future, it seems like
looking across some level plain that leads
nowhere, but across which 1 must tramp on
forever and ever, until I drop down and
die.”

It was something in this fashion that Miss
Paget talked, as she sat in the garden with Char-
lotte Halliday at the close of the half-year. She
was going to lose her faithful friend—the girl
who, so much richer and happier and more
amiable than herself, had yet clung to her so
fondly; she was going to lose this tender com-
panion, and she was more sorry for the loss than
She cared to express.

“You must come and see us very often,”
Charlotte said,for the hundredth time; ‘“‘mam-
ma will be so glad to have you, for my sake;
and my step-father never interferes with our ar-
rangements. Oh, Di, how I wish you would
come and live with us altogether! Would you
come if I could manage to arrange it?”

“How could I come? What Quixotic nonsense
you talk, Lotta!”

‘*Not at all, dear; you could come as a sort
of companion for me, or asort of companion for
mamma. What does it matter how you come,
if I can only have you? My new life will be so
dreary in that dreadful new-looking house, un-
less T have a companion T love, Will you come,
Di?—only tell me you will come! Iam sure Mr,
Sheldon would not refuse, if I asked him to let
you live with us, Will you come, dear?—yes or
no? ‘ You would be glad to come if you loved
me,

‘And I do love you, Lotta, with all my
heart,” answered Miss Paget, with unusual fer-
vor; ‘‘but then the whole of my heart is not
much. As to coming to live with you, of course it
would be a hun thousand times pleasanter
than the life I lead here; but it is not to be sup-
posed that Mr. Sheldon will consent to have a
stranger in his house just because his impulsive
step-daughter chooses to take a fancy to a
sehooltallow who isn’t worthy of half her affec-
ion.”

“Let me be the judge of that. As to m
step-father, I am almost sure of his consent,
You don’t know how indulgent he is to me;
which shows what a wicked creature I must be
not to like him. You shall come to us, Diana,
and be my sister; and we will aon ar duets
together, and be as happy as two birds in a

ra good deal happier, for I never could
quite understand the ecstatic delights of per-

tual hemp-seed and an occasional peck at a
sity tam of sugar.” 5

there:came all the bustle of oo
and preparation for departure, and a kind o
sal prevailed at Hyde Lodge—a saturna-
lia which terminated with the breaking-up ball:

who among the crowd of fair young dancers
so bright as Charlotte Halliday, dressed in the
school-girls festal robes of Glond like muslin, and
with her white throat set off by a black ribbon
and a gold locket?

Diana sat ina corner of the school-room to-
ward the close of the evening; very weary of her
share in the festival, and watched her friend,
half in sadness, half in envy. :

Af ans if I were like her he would love’

me,” she thought.

hires, . : ae aa

 

 

 

CHAPTER ITI.
GEORGE. SHELDON’S PROSPECTS,

For George Sheldon the passing years had
brought very little improvement of fortune. He
occupied his old dingy chambers in Gray’s Inn
which had own more dingy under the hava of
Time; and he was wont to sit in his second-floor
window on sultry summer Sundays, smoking his
solitary cigar, and listening to the cawing of the
rooks in the gardens beneath him, mingled with
the voices of rebellious children, and ill mo-
thers threatening to ‘‘do for them,” or to “flay
them alive,” in Somebody’s Rents below, The
lawyer used to be quite meditative on those
Sunday afternoons, and would wonder what sort
of a fellow Lord Bacon was, and how he con-
trived to get intoa mess about, taking bribes,
when so many other fellows had done it so quiet-
ly enough before the Lord of Verulam’s day, and
even yet more quietly since; agreeably insti-

ated thereto py he pleasant causistry of Esco-

r. Mr, Sheldon’s peaeere were by nomeans
promising. From afar off he beheld his broth-
er’s star shining steadily in the commercial firm-
ament; but except for an occasional dinner, he
was very little the better for the stock-broker’s
existence. He had reminded his brother very
often, and very persistently, of that vague prom-
ise which the dentist had made in the hour of
his adversity—the promise to help his brother
if heever did ‘‘drop into a g 7? But
as it is difficult to prevent a man who is dis-
posed to shuffle from shuffling out of the closest
agreement that was ever made between Jones
of the one part,and Smith of the other .
duly signe and witnessed and stamped with the
sixpenny seal of infallibility; so is it still more
difheult to obtain the performance of loosely-
worded promises, uttered in the confidential in-
tercourse of kinsmen.

In the first year of his married life Philip
Sheldon gave his brother a hundred pounds for
the carrying out of some grand scheme which
the lawyer was then engaged in, and which, if
successful, would secure for him a much larger
fortune than Georgy’s thousands, Unhappy,
pai grand eee was a fener oe pa un-

un me, George app!
to his brother, Seen aeu g him once more of that
promise made in Bloomsbury. But on this oc-
casion Mr, Sheldon plainly told his kinsman
that he could do no more for him,

“You must fight your own battle, George,”
he said, ‘as I have fought mine.”

“Thank you, Philip,” said the younger broth-
er; ‘‘I would rather fight it any other way.”

And then the two men looked at each other,
as they were in the habit of doing sometimes,
with a singularly intent gaze. 4

“Youre very close-fisted with Tom Halli-
day’s money,” song said. eney- Sr
asked poor oid Tom himself P’m sure he wouldn’t
have refused to lend me two or three hundred.”

“Then it’s a pity you didn’t ask him,” Mr.
Sheldon answered, with supreme coolness.

“T should have done so, fast encugh, if I had
thought he was going to die so suddenly. It
was a bad day for me, and for him too, when he
came to Fitzgeorge street.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Mr.
as oe salay vel eaning, I

ou can pretty well guess my m
should think,” George answered, me sulky tone.

“No, I can’t; and what’s more, I don’t mean
to try. Til tell you what it is, Master George,
you’ve been treating me to a good many hints
and innuendoes lately; and you must know
very little of me if you don’t know that I’m the
last kind of man to stand that sort of thing from
have or from any one else. You have tried to

e the tone of a man who has some kind of
hold upon another. You had better understand
at once that such a tone won’t answer with me.
If you had any hold upon me, or any power
over me, you’d be quick enough to use it; and
you ough to be aware that. I know that, and
can see to the bottom of such a shallow littile
game as yours.

Mr. Sheldon the younger looked at his brother
with an expression of surprise that was not en-
tirely unmingled with admiration.

“ Well, you are a cool hand, Phil!” he said.

Here the ames ended. The Eee La,
ers were very good frien an ge
presented mse at the Gothic villa whenever

received an invitation to dine there, The
dinners were good, and the men who ate them
were men of solidity and standing in the com-
mercial world; and George was very glad to
eat good dinners, and to meet a men; but
he never again asked his brother for the loan of
ot oe bl best he mi; in the dingy

© grubbed on, as ight, e
Gray’s Inn chambers, He had lithe business
—business which lay chiefly prongs spent who
slope required guiaance iaroaghe tae quagmire

req
of tie Eeunaney Court. ie jusb-comiateed 40
keep his head above water, and his name in the
ne by — at such ee but the
great scheme of ‘e remained as yet unvip-
Cnt San shadow to which he had
in vain attemp ve a substance.

The leading idea sebouge Sheldon’s life was

the idea that there were great fortunes in the
world waiting for claimants; and that a

share

 

of some such fortune was to be obtained by any
man who had the talent to dig it out of the ob-
scurity in which it was hidden. He was a stu-
dent of old county histories, and a searcher of
old en and his studies in that line had
made him ‘amiliar with many strange stories—
stories of field laborers called away from the
plow to be told they were the rightful owners
of forty thousand a year; stories of old white-
haired men starving to death in miserable gar-
rets about Bethnal Green or Spitalfields, who
could have claimed lands and riches immeasur-
able had they known how to claim them; stories
of half-crazy old women, who had wandered
about the world with reticules of discolored pa-
pers, clamorously asserting their rights and
wrongs unheeded and unbelieved, until they
encountered sharp-witted lawyers who took up
their claims, and carried them triumphantly
into the ownership of illimitable wealth,
George Sheldon had read of these things un-
til it had seemed to him that there must be some
such chance for any man who would have pa-
tience to watch and wait for it. He had taken
up several cases, and had fitted link after link
together with extreme labor, and had hunted in
parish registers until the cold moldy atmo-
sphere of vestries was as familiar to him as the
air of Gray’s Inn. But the cases had all broken
down at more or less advanced stages; and after
infinite patience and trouble, a good deal of mo-
ney spent upon traveling and small fees to all
manner of small people, and an incalculable
number of hours wasted in listening to the ram-
bling discourse of ish-clerks and oldest. in-
habitants, Mr, Sheldon had been compelled to
abandon his hopes time after time, until a man
with less firmly-rooted ideas would have given
up the hunting of registers and grubbing up of
genealogies as a delusion and a snare.

George Sheldon’s ideas were very firmly root-
ed, and he stuck to them with that dogged per-
sistency which so often achieves great ends that
it seems a kind of genius. He saw his brother’s
success, and contemplated the grandeurs of the
Gothic villa in a cynical rather than an envious
spirit. How — would it all last—how long
would the stock-broker float triumphantly
onward upon that wonderful tide which is con-
stituted by the rise and fall of the money-
market?

“That sort of thing is all very well while a
man keeps his head cool and clear,” thought
George; ‘but somehow or other men always
seem to_lose their heads on the Stcck Exchange
before they have done with it, and I dare say
my wise brother will drop into a nice mess soon-
er or later, Setti de all other considera-
tions, I think I would rather have my chances
than his; for I speculate very little more than
my time and trouble, andI stand in to wina
bigger sum than he will ever get in his line, let
oe rise and fall as they may.”

During that summer in which Miss Halliday
bade farewell to Hyde Lodge and her school-days,
George Sheldon was occupied with the early
steps in a search which he hoped would end in
the discovery of a prize rich enough to reward
= for ae ware time spa aa

early in ear there appeared
the following brief nate in the Observer:

“The Rev. John Haygarth, late vicar of Tilford
Haven, Norfolk, died lately, without a will, or rela-
tion to claim his property, £100,000, The Crown
therefore claimed it, And last court-day the Preroga-
tive Court of Canterbury decreed letters of admin-
istration to Mr. Paul, the nominee of the Crown,”

Some months after this an advertisement had
been inserted in the Times newspaper to the
following effect:

“Next or Kin.—If the relatives or next of kin of
the Rev. John Haygarth, late vicar of Tilford Haven,

in the County of Srfolk, clerk, deceased, will a) >
either personally or by letter, to Stephen Paul, 5

solicitor for the affairs of her eaty's Treasury, at
th Chambers, Whi' , London, they

e
may hear of some
Rev, John Haygarth is supposed
son of John Haygarth, late of the parish of St. Ju-
dith, Lenton, and Sarah his wife, formerly Sarah
Copeland, spinster, late of Langford court, Soho, in
the County of Middlesex; both long since deceased.”

Upon the strength of this advertisement
George Sheldon began his search. His theory
was, ee be arrays eared Se hansen
somewhere, peop: 8 WO 0 ve the
none to hunt him or her , Subs and he ee

lures rather a want 0)
on aaa part than to the breaking down of
his pet theory.

On. this occasion he began his work with more
than usual determination,

“This is the biggest chance I’ve ever had,”
he said to himself, “and I should be something
worse than a fool if I let it slip through my

ers.”
fie work was very dry and dreary, involving

interminable hunting of and question-
ing of oldest inhabitants. d the oldest inhab-
itants were so stupid, and the records of the
registers so bewil . One after another
Mr. Sheldon lines of

set himself to one. the lines
the intestate’s kindred and ancestors: his father’s
brothers and sisters, his ther’s brothers
and sisters, and_ even to the brothers and. sisters
of his great-grandfather. At that point the
Haygarth family melted away into the impen-

   

 
=

Sa TP” aR PET TE Ee

7 rh ge yore

ER

et

 

a

 

20

etrable darkness of the past. They were no high
and haughty’ race of soldiers and scholars,
¢bureh-men and lawyers, or the tracing of them
would have been a much easier matter. Burke
would have told of them. There would have
been old country houses filled with portraits,
and garrulous old hovwsekeepers learned in the
traditions of the. past. There would have been
moldering tombs and tarnished brasses im quiet
country churches, with descriptive epitaphs, and
many éscutcheons.’ There would have. been

_ erumbling ne a recording the prowess of

Sir Reginald, knight, or the learning of Sir Ru-
pert, counselor and judge. ‘The Haygarths were
a race of provincial tradesmen; and had left no
better record of their jog-trot journey through
this world than the registry of births, mar-
riages, and deaths, in obscure churches, or an
occasional en in the fly-leaf of a family Bible.

At prese’’“’ Mr. Sheldon was only at the ‘be-
ginning of his work.’ The father and grandfa-
ther and uncle and great-uncles, the great-grand-
father and gréat-great-uncles, with all their
progenies, lay before him in a maze of entangle-
ment which it would be his business to unravel.
And as he was obliged to keep his limited legal
connection together, while he devoted himself
to his task, the work promised to extend over
months, or indeéd years; and in the meanwhile
there was always the fear that some one else, as
quick-witted and indefatigable as himself, would
take up the same tangled skein and succeed in
the unravelment of it,, Looking this fact full in
the face, Mr. Sheldon decided that he must have
an able and reliable coadjutor; but to find such
a coadjutor, to find a man who would help him,
on the chance of success, and not claim too large
a share of the prize if success came, was more
than the speculative attorney could hope. In
the meantime his work progressed very slowly ;
and he was tormented by perpetual terror of
that other sharp practitioner who might be fol-
lowing up the same clew, and whose agents
might watch him in and out of parish churches,
and. listen’ at’ stréeet-corners when he was hunt-
ing the oldest inhabitant.

CHAPTER Iv.
DIANA FINDS A NEW HOMK.

~ "Tre holidays at Hyde Lodge brought at least:
repose for Diana Paget. The little ones had
gone home, with the exception of two or three
young colonists, and even they had perpetual

iberty from léssons;'so Diana had nothing to
do but sit in the shady garden, reading or think-
ing, in the drowsy summer afternoons. Pris-
cilla Paget had departed with the chief of the
teachers for a seaside holiday; other gover-
nesses had gone to their homes; and but_for the
presence of an elderly French woman, who slept
through one-half of the day, and wrote letters
to her kindred during the other half, Diana
would have been thé only responsible person in
the deserted habitation.

- She did not complain of her loneliness, or
éenvy the delights of those who had departed.
She was very glad'to be quite alone, free to think
her own thoughts; free to brood ovét those un-
forgotten years in which she had wandered over
the face of the earth with her father and Valen-
tine Hawkehurst.. The few elder girls remain-
ing at the Lodge thought Miss Paget. unsociable
because she preferred me corner in the gar-
dens and some battered old book of namby-
pamby stories to the delights of their society,
and criticized her very severely as they walked
listlessly to and fro upon the lawn with big gar-
ow and arms entwined about each other's.
waists.

Alas for Diana, the battered’ book was onl
an excuse for solitude, and for a morbid indul-
gence in her own sad thoughts! She had lived
the life of unblemished respectability for a year;
and looking back now at the Bohemian wander-
ings, she regretted those days of humiliation and
misery, and sighed for the rare delights of that
disreputable past! Yes, she had sovnited anninat
the degraded existence; and now she was sorry
for having lost its uncertain pleasures, its fitful

limpses of sunshine. Was that true which

alentine had said, that no man can eat beef
and mutton every day of his life; that it is bet-
ter to be unutterably miserable one day and up-
roaviously happy the next, than’ to fread one
level path of dull content? Miss Paget eee
to think that there had been some reason in her
old comrade’s philosophy; for she found the
level path very . She let her thoughts
wander whither they would in this quiet holida
idleness, and they went back to the years whic:
she had spent with her. father, She thought of
winter evenings in’ London when Valentine had
taken her the round of the theaters, and they
had sat) together in stifling upper boxes—she
pleased, he critical, and with so much to say to
each other in the pauses of the performance.

How kind hé had been to her; how good, how
brotherly! And then the pleasant walk: home,
through crowded; noisy thoroughfares, and anon
by: long lines of quiet st: in which they used
to look up at the lighted windows of houses where
ae were being given, and sometimes stop to

i to the music and watch the of the
dancers flitting across the blinds.
of the journeys she had traveled with her father
and Valentine by land and sea; the lonely moon-

 

he ‘thought:

TH

 

SG a a oa

light watches on the decks of steamers; the Jong,
chill nights in railway-carriages under the feeble
glimmer of an oil-lamp, and how she and Valen-
fine had beguiied the tedious hours with wild,
purposeless talk while Captain Paget slept. She
remembered the emai cities which she and
her father’s protege looked at side by side;
he with a calm listlessness of manner, which
might either be real or assumed, but which never
varied; she with an inward tremor of excitement
and surprise. They had been very happy to-
gether, this lonely, unprotected girl and the reck-
less adventurer. If his manner to her had been
fitful, it had been sometimes dangerously, fa-
tally kind. She looked back now, and remem-
bered the days which she had spent with him,
and knew that all the Peete possible in a

rosperous and successful life could never bring

‘or her such delight as she had known in the
midst of her wanderings; though shame and
danger lurked at every corner, and pore dis-
guised in that tawdry masquerade habit- in
which the swindler dresses it, accompanied her
wherever she went.

She had been happy with him because she had
loved him. That close companionship, sisterly
and brotherly though it had seemed, had been
fatal for the lonely and friendless daughter of
oe Paget. In her desolation she had clung

the one creature who was kind to her, who
did. not advertise his disdain for herself and her
séx, or openly avow that she was a nuisance and
an incumbrance. . Every slight put upon her by
her father had strengthened the chain that bound
her to Valentine Hawkehurst; and as the friend-
ship between them grew closer day by day until
all’ her thoughts and fancies took their color
from his, it seemed a matter of course that he
should love her, and she never doubted his feel-
ings or questioned her.own. There had been
much in his conduct to justify her belief that she
was beloved; so this inexperienced, untutored
girl may oa be forgiven if she rested her faith
in that fancied: affection, and looked forward to
some shadowy future in which she and Valentine
would be man and wife, all in'all to each other,
free from the trammels of Captain Paget’s elab-
orate schemes; and living honestly, somehow or
other, by means of literature, or music, or pen-
and-ink caricatures, or some of those liberal arts
which have been always dear to the children of
Bohemia, They’ would have lodgings in some
street near the Thames, and go to a theater or a
concert every evening, and spend a nd
days in suburban parks or on suburban com-
mons, he lying on the grass smoking, she talk-
ing to him or reading to him as his Sama might
dictate. Before her twentieth birthday the
roudest woman is a to regard the man she
oves asa grand and superior creature; and
there had been a certain amount of reverential
awemingled with Diana’sregard for Mr. Hawke-
hurst, scape-grace and adventurer though he

was.
Little by little that bright girlish dream had
faded away. Fancy’s enchanted palace had
been shattered into a heap of shapeless ruin by
those accidental scraps of hard, worldly wisdom
with which Valentine had pelted the fairy fab-
ric. Hoe a man to love, or to marry for love!
Why, he talked like some hardened, world-
weary sinner, who had done with every human
emotion, The girl shuddered as she heard him.
She had loved him, and believed in his love.
She had fancied a tender meaning in the -voice
which softened when it spoke to her, a pensive
earnestness ‘in’ the dark eyes which looked at
her; but just when the voice had seemed softest
and sweetest, the pensive eyes most eloquently
earnest, the adventurer’s manner had changed
all at once, and forever. He had grown hard
and cold and indifferent. He had scarcely tried
to conceal the fact that the girl’s companion-
ship bored’ and. wearied him. He had yawned
in her face, and had abandoned himself
to moody abstraction when accident obliged
him to be alone with her. Miss i ide
had been equal to the occasion. Mary Anne
Kepp’would have dissolved into tears at the
first unkind word from the lips of her beloved;
but Mary Anne _——, daughter, with the
blood of the Cromie Pagets in her veins, was
uite a different. person. She returned Mr.
wkehurst’s indifference’ with correspondin,
disregard. If his manner was cold as a blea
autumn, hers ‘was icy’as a severe winter; only
now and’ then, when she was very tired of her
joyless existence, her untuto womanhood
asserted itself, and she betrayed ‘the real state
of her feelings—betrayed herself as she had
done on her at Foretdechene, when
she and Valentine had looked down at the
lighted windows’ shining dimly through the
vaporous ee of the summer night.» She
looked back at the past now in the quiet of the
school-garden, and tried to remember how mis-
erable she ‘had been, what ye of despair
she had suffered, how brief been her de-
lights, how bitter her disappointments. She
tried to remember what tortures:she had suf-
fered’ from that wasted passion, that useless de-
votion. She’ tried ‘to rejoice in the conscious-
ness of the peace and Se of her
present life; but she could not. That pas-
sionate yearning for the past her so
strongly. ‘She could remember nothing except

FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

——== ;
' that she had been with him. She had seen his

face, she had heard his voice; and now how
long and weary the time might be before she
could again see that one beloved face or hear
the dear familiar voice! The brightest hope
she had in these midsummer holidays was the
hope of a letter from him; and even that might
be the prelude of disappointment. She wrestled.
with herself, and tried to exorcise those ghosts
of memory which haunted her by day and wove
theniselves into her dreams by night; but thoy
were not to be laid atirest. She hated her folly;
but her folly was stronger than herself:

For three weeks Diana Paget had no compan-
ions but her sorrowful memories—her haunting
shadows; but at the end of that time the stag-
nant mill-pond of her life-;was suddenly ruffled
—the dull course of existence was disturbed by
the arrival of two letters. She found them ly~
ing by her plate upon ‘the breakfast-table one
bright July rine « F and while she was yet far
away from the table she could'see that one of
the envelopes bore a foreign stamp, and was
directed by the hand of Valentine Hawkehurst.
She seated herself at the table in a delicious
flutter of emotion, and tore open that foreign
envelope; while the French governess poured
out the tea, and while the little group of school~
girls nudged one another and watched her eager

ace with insolent ee

The first letter contained only a few lines.

“My Dear D1ana”’—wrote the young man—“ your
father has decided on returning to London, where IT
believe he really intends to make a respectable start
if he can only get the opening and the help he wants.
I know you will be glad to hear this. . I don’t exactly,
say where we shall take up our quarters; but the cap-
tain will of course come to see you; and if I can
chasten my outward semblance sufficiently to ven-
ture within the sacred precincts of a lady’s school, I
shall come with him. Direct to the old address if
you write before the end of the month; and believe
me, as always, your friend, VALENTINE.”

The second letter was in Charlotte Halliday’s
big bold ‘hand, and was frank, impetuous, and.
loving as the girl herself.

“My own pEAREsST D1,—It is all arranged”’—wrote
Miss Halliday, dashing at once into the heart of the
subject—‘'I talked mamma over the very first day
after my return, and then there was Tothing more
to be done than to talk over Mr, Sheldon. Of course
there was. just alittle difficulty in that, for he is ‘so
ory practical; and he wanted to know why I
wanted a companion, and what wse you would be in
the house; as if the very last thing one required in a
opens was ebrnpiehicgiehips Pm almost afraid
to tell you the iniquitous fables linvented about your
extreme usefulness; your genius for millinery, and
t ints of money you would save by making-up
manima’s flimsy little caps; your taste for drtess-
making, etc., ete., etc. You are the cleverest crea-
ture in the world, you know, Di; for you must re-
member how you altered that green-silk dress for
me when Miss Porson had made me a square-shoul-
dered fright. So, after a great deal of humming and
ha-ing and argufication—és there such a word as
‘argufication,’ [ wonder?—my step-father said that
if my heart was set upon having you, and if I
a you would be useful, you might come to us;
but that he could not afford to give you any salary,
and that if you wanted a new dress now and then
I must buy it for you out of my own allowance;
and I will, darling, if you will only come and be my
friend and sister. My life is dreadfully dull without
you. IT walk up and down the stiff little gravel
a and stare at the geraniums and calceolarias.

riana might have been dreary in her moated
grange; but I dare say the Lincolnshire flowers

w wild and free,and she was spared the abom-
nation of gaudy little patches of red and yellow, and
waving ribbons of blue and white, which constitute
the glory of modern ee Do came to me,
dear. Ihave no one to talk to, and nothing to do.
Mamma is a dear, good, affectionate soul; but she
and I don’t understand each other. I don’t care for,
her twittering little birds, and she doesn’t care for
my whims and fancies. Ihave read novels until I
am tired. Iam not allowed to go out by myself, and
mamma can scarcely walk to Kensington Gardens
without sinking under the exertion. We drive out
sometimes; but I am sick to death of crawling slow-
ly up and down by the Serpentine oe 5) at peo-
ple’s bonnets. I might enjoy it, perhaps, if [had you
with me to make fun out of some of the bonnets.
The house is very comfortable; but it always
seems to me unpleasantly like some philan-
thropi¢ institution in miniature, I long toscratch the
walls, or break the windows; and I begin to under-
stand the feelings of those unhappy paupers who tear
up their clothes; they get utterly tiredof their stag-
nation, you see, and must do something wicked and
rebellious rather than do nothing at all. You will
take pity upon my forlorn state, won’t you, Di? T
shall come to Hyde to-morrow afternoon with
mamma to hear your ulti—what’s its name?—and in
the meanwhile, and forever afterward, believe me to
be your devoted and unchanging Lorra.”

Diana Paget’s eyes grew dim as she read this

letter.
“T love her very dearly,” she thought, “but
_ one hundred-fold as much as I ought to love
er.
And then she'went back to Mr. Hawkehurst’s
epistle, and read and're-read its half dozen lines
wondering when he would come to London, an

whether she would see him when he came. To
see him in! The ae of that possibility
seemed like a spot of vivid light, which dazzled

her eyes and made them blind to anything
around or beyond it. As for this offer of a
strange home in the household of Mr. Sheldon,
it seemed to her a matter of so very little im-
ner where she went or what became of her,

hat she was quite willing to let other le de-
cide her existence.

Anything would tier

 

 

 
 

 

 

— Se

a a Le FN a” pe ~

 

BIRDS OF PREY.

 

At

 

than the monotony of Hyde. Lodge. If Valen- | had learned more in her three years of discom-

tine Hawkehurst came to see her at Mr. Shel-
don’s house, he would be permitted to see her
alone, most likely, and it would be_ something
like the old times; whereas. at the Lodge Pris-
cilia Paget or one of the governesses would un-
doubtedly be present at any interview between
Diana and her old friend, and the real Valen-
tine would be hidden under the semblance of a
respectable young man, with very little to say
for himself. Perhaps this one thought exercised
considerable influence over Miss Paget’s decis-

 

fort with her father than in all the undeviating
course of the Hyde Lodge studies; she had im-
proved her French at one table Whote, her Ger-

| man at another; she had caught some new trick

ion. She wanted so much to see Valentine alone, |

to know whether he had changed, to see his |

face at the first moment of meeting, and to dis-
cover, if possible, the solution of that enigma
which was the grand mystery of her life—that
one perpetual question which was always re-
peating itself in her brain—whether he was alto-
gether cold and indifferent, or if there was not
some hidden warmth, some secret tenderness be-
neath that repelling outward seeming?

In the afternoon Miss Halliday called with
Mrs. Sheldon, and there was a long discussion
about Diana Paget's future life. Georgy aban-
doned herself as unhesitatingly to the influence
of her daughter as she did to that of her hus-
band, and had beon brought to think that it
would be the most delightful thing in the world
to have Miss Paget for a useful companion.

“And will you really make my caps, dear?”
she said, when she had grown at her ease with
Diana. ‘‘Miss Terly, in the Bayswater road,
charges me so much for the simplest little lace

head-dress; and though Mr. Sheldon is very-

good about those sort of things, I know he some-
times thinks my bills rather high.”

Diana was very indifferent about her future,
and the heart must have been very hard which
could have resisted Charlotte’s ten Sy et
so it was ett decided that Miss Paget
should write to her kinswoman to describe the
offer that had been made to her of a new home,
and to inquire if her services could be conven-
coer dispensed with at Hyde Lodge. After
which decision Charlotte embraced her friend
with enthusiasm, and departed, baaring off Mrs.
Sheldon to the carriage which awaited them at
the gates of Priscilla Paget’s umbrageous domain.

Diana sighed as she went back to the empt:
school-room. Even Charlotte’s affection ebalt
not altogether take the sting out of dependence.
To go into astrange house among strange peo-
ple, and to hold a place in it only on the condi-
tion of being en useful and unfailingly
good-tempered and agreeable, is scarcely the
pleasantest prospect which this world can offer
to a proud and beautiful woman. Diana remem-
bered her bright vision of Bohemianism in a
lodging near the Strand. It would be very de-
lightful to’ ride on sufferance in Mrs. Sheldon’s
carriage, no doubt; but, oh, how much pleasanter
it would have been to sit by Valentine Hawke-
hurst in a hansom cab spinning along the road
to Greenwich or Richmond! ;

She had promised to dispatch her letter to
Priscilla by that afternoon’s Rost, and she kept
her promise. ‘The reply came by return of post,
and was very kind. iscilla advised her By all
means to'accept Miss Halliday’s offer, which
would give her a much better position than that
which she occupied at Hyde eae She would
have time to improve herself, no doubt, Priscilla
said, and might be able to hope for something
still better in the course of two or three years;
“for you must look the world straight in the
face, Diana,” wrote the school-mistress, “as I
did before T was your age; and make up your
mind to rely upon your own exertions, since you
know what your father is, and how little you
have to hope for from him. As you are to lave
no salary with the Sheldons, and will no doubt
be expected to make a good appearance, I shall
do what I can to help you with your wardrobe.”

This letter decided the fate of Captain Paget’s
daughter. A week after Miss Halliday’s visit to
Hyde Lodge a hack cab carried Diana and all
her earthly possessions to the Lawn, where Char-
lotte received her with open arms, and where she
was inducted into a neatly-furnished bedcham-
ber adjoining that of her friend. Mr, Sheldon
scrutinized her keenly from under the shadow
of his thick black brows when he came home to
dinner. He treated her with’ a stiff kind of po-
liteness diiring the orderly progress of the meal;
and once, when he looked at her, he was’ sur-
prised to find that she was contemplating him
with an expression of mingled wonder and rev-

erence,

He was the first eminently respectable man
whom Miss Paget had ever encountered in fa-
miliar intercourse, and she was regarding him
attentively, as an individual with scientific
might regard some natural curiosity.

CHAPTER V.
AT THE LAWN.

Lire at the Lawn went by very smoothly for
Mr. Sheldon’s family. Georgy was very happy
in the society of a companion who seemed re
to have a natural for the manufacture of
pretty little head-dresses from the merest frag-
‘ments of material in the way of lace and ribbon:
‘Diana had all that versatile cleverness and ca-
pacity for expedients which js likely to be ac-
quired in a wandering and troubled life. She

 

 

of style in every concert-room, some fresh com-
bination of costume on every race-course; and
being really grateful for Charlotte’s disinte:
affection, she brought all her accomplishments
to bear to please her friend and her friend’s
household.

In this she succeeded admirably, Mrs. Shel-
don found her daughter’s society much more
delightful now that the whole pressure of Char-
lotte’s intellect and vitality no longer fell en-
tirely upon herself. She liked to sit lazily in her
arm-chair while the two girls chattered at their
work, and she could venture an occasional re-
mark, and fancy that she had a full share in the
conversation, hen the summer weather ren-
dered walking a martyrdom, and driving an af-
fliction, she could recline on her favorite sofa
reading a novel, soothed by the feeble twitte:
of her birds; while Charlotte and Diana wen
out together, protected by the smart boy in but-
tons, who was not altogether without human
failings, and was apt to linger behind his fair
charges, reading the boards before the doors of
newsvendor’s shops, or looking at the cartoons
in Punch exhibited in the stationer’s windows,

Mr. Sheldon made it a point of pleasing’ his
ste ughter whenever it was possible for him
to do so without palpable inconvenience to him-
self; and as she was to be. gratified by so small
a pecuniary sacrifice as the trifling increase of
tradesmen’s bills caused by Miss Paget’s residence
in the Gothic villa. he was the last man in the
world to refuse her that indulgence. His own

ursuits were of so absorbing a nature as to leave
ittle leisure for concern about other people’s
business. He asked no questions about his step-
daughter’s companion; but he was not the less
surprised to see this beautiful high-bred woman
content to sit at his board as an unsalaried de-
pendent. ‘

“Your friend Miss Paget looks like a count-
ess,” he said one day to Charlotte. “I thought
girls generally pitched upon some plain, homely
young woman for their pet companion, but you

a hes have chosen thé hardsomest girl in ‘the
school. i

“*Yes, she is very handsome, is she not?’ I
wish some of your rich city men would marry

her, eo

Miss alliday consented to call her mother’s
husband “‘ papa,” though the caressing name
seemed in a manner to stick in her throat. She
had loved that blusterous good-tempered Tom

| Halliday so very dearly, and it was only to please

or Georgy that she had brought herself to ad-
ress any other man by the name that had been
his. ;

se y city men have something better. to do
than to marry a young woman without a six-
pence,” answered Mr.: Sheldon.  ‘‘ don’t
you try to catch one of them for yourself?”

‘“*T don’t like city men,” said Charlotte, quick-
ly; and then she blushed, and added oR loget-
ically, “ at least not the generality of city men,
pai

iana had waited until her destiny was ‘set-
led before answering Valentine Hawkehurst’s
letter; but she wrote to him directly she was
aes at the Lawn, and told the change in
ier plans. ‘

“T think a had better let me come to see
him at his | ngs,” she said, “ wherever they
may be; for 1 should scarcely care about Mr.
Sheldon seeing him. ‘No oné here knows any-
thing definite about my history; and as it is
just ee Mr. Sheldon may have encountered
my father somehow or other, it would be as we)l
for him - aban of this house, < el
venture to sa 8 pam: ut perha)

ou could sbieirest ie withouk, © ending hith,

ou see [ have grown very worldly-wise, and am
learning to protect my own interests in the spirit
which you have so instilled ‘into’me.’ T'don’t
know. whether that sort of spirit is likely to se-
cure one’s happiness, but T have no doubt it’s the
wisest and best for this world.”

Miss Paget could not refrain from an occa-
sional sneer when she wrote to her old compan-
ion. He never returned her sneers or noticed
them. His letters were always frank, friendly,
and brotherly in tone. _

_ “Neither my good opinion nor my bad_opin-
ae, - any consequence to him,” Diana thought,
itterly. , :
_It'was late in August when Captain Paget and
his protege came to town. Valentine sugested
the wisdom of leaving Diana in her new home
uncompromised b oak ner associations. But
this was a eo on which Horatio Paget could
not accept. is brightest successes in the way
of scheming had been matured out of chance
acquaintanceships with eligible men. A’ man
who could afford such a luxury as a companion
for his daughter must needs be eligible, and the
rand not inelined x anor his acquaint-
ance any extreme delicacy. ae

“My daughter seems to have made new friends
aa herself, = T should an ae see wat re
0 e ey are,” he con ively.

Well look them up this ig, Val.”

Mr. George Sheldon dined at the Lawn on

 

the day on which Horatio Paget determined on
“look ng up” his daughter’s new friends, and
he and the two girls were strolling in the garden
when the captain and Mr. Hawkehurst were
announced. They had been told that Miss Pa-
get was in the garden.

“ Be good ponies to take me straight to her,”
said the captain, 0 the boy in buttons; ‘Tam
her father.

Horatio Paget was too old a tactician not to
know that by an unceremonious plunge into the
family circle he was more likely to secure an
easy footing in the household than by any direct
approach of the master. . He had seen the little ©

roup in the garden, and had mistaken George

or the head of the house.

Diana turned from pale to red, and from red
to pale again, as she recognized the two men.
There had been no announcement of their com-
ing.. She did not even know that they were in
England.

“Papa!” she cried, and then held out her
hand and eted him; coldly enough, as it
seemed to Charlotte, who fancied that any kind
of real father must be very dear,

But Captain Paget was not to be satisfied by
that cold greeting. It suited his purpose to be
especially paternal on this occasion... He drew
his daughter to his breast. and embraced her af-
fectionately, very much to that young lady’s sur-

prise.

Then, having abandoned himself entirely for
the moment to this tender impulse of paternity
he suddenly put his daughter aside, as if he h
all at once remembered his duty to society, drew
himself up stiffly, and saluted Miss Halliday and
Fortes Sheldon with uncovered head.

““Mr, Sheldon, U believe?” he murmured, ‘

“George Sheldon,” answered that gentleman;
“my brother Philip is inthe drawing-room yon-~
der, looking at us.”

Philip Sheldon came out into the garden as
George said this. It was one, of those sultry
evel on which the most delightful of Gothic
yillas is apt to be too stifling for endurance; and.
inmost of the prim suburban gardens there were
peo lounging listlessly among the flower-beds-

r. Sheldon came to look at this patrician stran-
ger who had just embraced his daughter’s com,
Peers es Captain Paget introduced

imself and his friend, Mr. Hawkehurst, . After
the introduction Mr. Sheldon and the captain
fell into an easy conversation, while. the two
girls walked slowly along the gravel pathway
with Valentine by their ‘sidé, and while George
loitered drearily along chewing the stalk of a
geranium, and pondering the obscure reminis-
cences of the last oldest inhabitant whose shad-
owy memories he had evoked in his search after
new links in the chain of the Haygarths.

The two girls walked in the familiar school-
girl fashion of Hyde Lodge, Charlotte’s arm en-
circling the waist of her friend. ‘They were
both dressed_in white muslin, and looked very
shadowy and sylph-like in the summer dusk,
Mr, Hawkehurst found himself in a new atmos-
phere. in this suburban garden, with these two
white-robed damsels by his side; for it seemed
that Diana with Charlotte’s arm round her waist,
and a certain shy gentleness of manner which
was new to him, was quite a different person
from that Miss Paget whose wan face had look-
ed at him so anxiously in the saloons of the Bel-
gian Kursaal.

At first there was considerable restraint in the
tone of the conversation, and,some littlé of that
unnecessary discussion as to‘whether this even-
ing was warmer than the preceding ovening, or.
whether it was not, indeed, the warmest evening
of all that summer, And then, when the ice
was broken, Mr. Hawkehurst began to talk at
his ease about Paris, which ci iss Halliday
had never seen; about tho book, the. last.

lay, the last folly, the last fashionable bonnet;
for it was one of the attributes of this
young .Robert Macaire. to be able to talk about
anything, and to adapt himself to any society,
Charlotte opened her eyes to their widest extent
as she listened to this animated stranger. She
had been so wearied by the dryasdust arguments
of city men who had disctissed the schemes of
great contractors, ‘“‘ which willnever be carried
out, sir, while money is at its present rate, mark
my words”—or thé Sharon ofa SO which
is eaten up by debenture-bonds and preference-
shares, sir, and will never pay its original pro-
prietors one sixpence of interest on their cap-
ital,” with a great deal more of the same char-
acter; and it was quite new to her to hear. about
novels, theaters, and bonnets, from masculine

and to find that there were men living
who could interest themselves in such frivolities.
Charlotte was delighted with Diana’s friend. It
was she who enco' Valentine every now
and then by some exclamation of surprise or ex-
pression interest, while Paget herself
was thoughtful and silent:

Tt was not thus that she had hoped to meet
Valentine Hawkehurst.. She stole a look at him
now and then as he walked’ by her side, - Yes,
it was the old face—the face which would’ have
been so handsome if there had vesn warmth and
i abtecee eee pid li pantera oh ui

i sympathy, and seemed to consti
a Lind of mask behind which the real watt hig

 

 
 

 

+

 

i cntans oe

why I want acoadjutor: now you're a clever |
young fellow, with no profession, with no par- |
ticular social ties, as I can make out, and your
time is all your own; ergo, yow’re the very man
for this business. The thing is to be done: ac- |
cept that for a certainty. It’s only a question |
of time. Indeed, when we look at life philo- |
sophically, what, is there on earth that.is not a |
question of time? Give the crossing-sweeper
between this and Chancery Lane time enugh, }
and he might develop into a Rothschild. He
might want nine hundred years or so to do itin, |
but there’s no doubt he could do it, if you give
him time.”

Mr. Sheldon was becoming expansive under
the influence of the brandy-and-soda; for even
that mild beverage is not without its effect on |
the intellectual man. %

“As to this Haygarth case.” he resumed
after the consumption of a little more soda and
a little more brandy, ‘‘it’s a sure success, if we
work it properly; and you know three thou’ is
not to be despised,” added George, persuasively,
‘even if a felfow has to wait some ai e for it.”

“Certainly not. And the bulk ofthe Hay-
garthian fortune—I wipes that’s something
rather stiff,” returned Valentine, in the same
persuasive tone.

‘““ Well, you may suppose it’s a decent figure,”
answered Mr. Sheldon, with an air of depreca-
tion, ‘or how could I afford to give you three
thow’ out of the share I am likely to get?”

‘No, to be sure. I think I shall take to the
work well enough when once I get my hand in;
but I shall be very glad of any hint youcan give |
me at starting.” |

‘Well, my advice is this: begin at the begin-
ning; go down to Ullerton; see my oldest in-
habitant; I pumped him as dry as I could, but I
couldn’t give myself enough time for Sonal s
exhaustive pumping; one has to waste a sm:
eternity before one Fe anything valuable out
of those hazy old fellows. Follow up this Mat-
thew from his birth; see the place miter he was
born; ferret out every detail of his life, so far as
it is to be ferreted; trace his: way step by step to
London, and when he get him there, stick to
him like a leech. Don’t let him slip through
your fingers for a day; hunt him from lodgin;
to lodging, from tavern to tavern, into jail an
out of jail—tantivy, yoicks, hark-forward! I
know it’s deuced hard work; but a man must
work uncommonly hard in these days before he
picks up three thou’. In a few words, the game
is all before you; so goin and win,” concluded
George Sheldon, as he poured the last amber
drops from the slim smoke-colored bottle, and
= lowed his glass of brandy undiluted by
soda.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VII.
AUNT SARAH,

AFTER that interview in Gray’s Inn, there
were more interviews of a like character. Val-
entine received further instructions from George
Sheldon, and got himself posted up in the Hay-
garthian history, so far as the lawyer’s infor-
mation furnished the materials for such posting.
But the sum total of Mr, Sheldon’s information
seemed very little to his coadjutor when the
young man looked the Haygarthian business full
in the face, and considered what he had to do.
He felt very much like a young prince in the
fairy tale who has been bidden to go forth upon
an adventurous journey in a trackless forest,
where, if he escape all manner of lurking dan-
gers, and remember innumerable injunctions,
such as not to utter a single syllable during the
whole course of his travels, or look over his
left shoulder, or pat any strange dog, or gather
forest fruit or flower, or look at his own reflec-
tion in mirror or water-pool, shining brazen
shield, or jeweled helm, he will ultimately find
himself before the gates of an enchanted cas-
tle, to which he may or may not obtain admit-
tance.

Valentin® fancied himself in the position of
this favorite voungprince. The trackless forest
was the genea‘ogy of the Haygarths; and in the
enchanted castle he was to find the crown of
success in the sha.e of three thousand pounds.
Could he marry Oxarlotte on the strength of
those three thousand pounds, if he were so for-
tunate as to unravel the tangled skein of the
Haygarth history? Ah, no; that black-whisk-
ered, stock-broking step-father would ask for
something more ara three thousand pounds
from the man to whom he gave his wife’s
daughter. ; E

“He will try to marry her to some rich city
swell, I dare say,” thought Valentine; ‘‘ Ishould |
be no nearer her with three thousand pounds for
my fortune than I am without a sixpence. The
best thing Ican do for her eed and my
own is to turn my back upon her, and devote
myself to hunting the Haygarths. It’s rather
hard, too, est have begun to fancy that she
likes me a little.”

In the course of those interviews in Gray’s
Inn, which occurred before Valentine took an
active steps in his new pursuit, certain condi-
tions were agreed upon between him and Mr.
Sheldon. The first and most serious of these
conditions was, that Captain Paget should be in
nowise enlightened as to his rotege’s plans.
This was a strong point with George Sheldon.

 

on ON RT AEE ee ERR TM

BIRDS OF PREY.

““T have no doubt Paget’s a very good fellow,”

he said. It was his habit to call everybody a
good fellow... He would have called Nina Sahib

| agood fellow, and would have made some good-

natured excuse for any peccadilloes on the part
of that potentate. ‘Paget’s an uncommonly
agreeable man, you know; but he’s not the man
Ishould care to trust with this kind of secret.”
Mr, Sheldon said this with a tone that implied
his willingness to trust Captain Paget with eve:
other kind of secret, from the contents of his
japanned office-boxes to the innermost mysteries
of his soul, ,

“You. see Paget is thick with my brother
Phil,” he resumed; ‘‘and whenever I find a
man thick with my relations I make it a point
to keep clear of that man myself. Relations
never have worked well in harness, and never
will work well in harness. It seems to be against
nature. Now, Phil has a dim kind of idea of
the game I want to play, in a general way, but
nothing more than a dim idea. He fancies I’m
a fool, and that ’m wasting my time and trou-
ble. { mean him to stick to that notion. ‘For,
you see, ina thing of this kind there’s always
the chance of, other people cutting in and spoil-
ing a man’s game. Of course, that advertise-
ment I read to you was seen by other men be-
sides me, and may haye been taken up. My
hope is that whoever has taken. it up has gone in
for the female branch, and got himself snowed
vB under a heap, of documentary  évidence
about the Judsons. That’s another reason why
we should put, our trust in Matthew Haygarth.
The Judson, line is. the obvious line to follow,
and thereare very few who would think of hunt-

| ing up evidence for a hypothetical first mar-

riage until they had exhausted the Judsons.
Now, I rely upon. you to throw dust in Paget’s
eyes, so there may be no possibility of my
etre getting wind of our little scheme through
him.”

“Tl take care of, that,” answered Valentine;
‘‘he doesn’t want me just now.. He’s in very
high feather, riding about in broughams and
dining at West-End taverns. He won’t be sorry
to get vid of me for a short time.” _ ;

“But what’ll be. your excuse for leaving
town? He'll be sure. to want a reason, you
know.”

“Pil invent an aunt at Ullerton, and tell him
I'm goin down. to stop with her,”

“You'd better not Bey Ullerton; Paget might
take it into his head to follow youdown there in
order to see what sort of person your aunt was,
and whether she had,any money... Paget’s an
excellent fellow, but there’s never any knowing
what that sort of man. will do. You'd better
throw him off the scent altogether. Plant your
aunt in Surrey—say Dorking.”...

‘‘ But if he should want.to write to me?”

“Tell him to address to the post-office, Dork-
ing, as your aunt,is inquisitive, and might tam-
Pe with your correspondence. . I dare say his

letters will wee.)

“He could follow me to Dorking as.easily as
to Ullerton.”

“ Of course he could,” answered George Shel-
don, ‘‘ but then you see at Dorking the most he
could find.owt would be that he’d been made a
fool off; whereas if he followed you to Ulerton
= might ferret out the nature of your business
there.

Mr. Hawkehurst perceived the wisdom of this
conclusion, and agreed to make Dorking the
place of his relative’s abode,

“Tt’s very near London,” he suggested
soe es “the captain might basil Yy run

own.

‘‘And for that. very reason he’s all the less
likely to do it,” answered..the lawyer; “a man
who thinks of poing to.a place wii an hour’s
ride of town knows he can go any day, and is
likely to think of going tothe end of thechapter

without pep tg athe intention. A man who
resolves to go to chester or Liverpool has to
make his arrangements norordingty, and is likely
to put his idea into practice. The people who
live on Tower-hill very seldom see the inside of
the Tower. It’s the good folks who come up for
a week’s holiday from Yorkshire and Cornwall
who know all about the Crown jewels and John
of Gaunt’s armor. Take my advice, and stick
to Dorking.”

Acting upon this advice, Valentine Hawke-
hurst lay in wait for the Promoter that very
evening. He went home.early, and. was seated
by a cheery little bit of fire, suchas an_English-
man likes to see at the close of a dull autumn
day, when that accomplished personage returned
to his lodgings, ;

‘‘ Deuced tiresome work,” said . the captain, as
he smoothed the nap of his hat with that caress-
ing tenderness of manipulation peculiar to’ the
man who is not very clear as to the means
whereby his next hat is'to be obtained—‘‘deuced
slow, brain belaboring work! How many peo-

le do you think I’ve called upon to-day, eb,
al? Seven-and-thirty! at, do you say to
that? Seven-and-thirty interviews, and some
of them very tough ones. I think that’s enough

to take the steam out of a man.”
“Do the moneyed swells, bite?” asked Mr.
Hawkehurst, with friendly interest.
‘Rather slowly, my dear Val, rather slowly.
ficherves have been pretty well

The mercantile

 

 

25

whipped of late years, and the fish are artful—
they are uncommonly artful, Val. Indeed I’m
not quite clear at this present moment as to the
kind of fly they'll rise to most readily: ‘I’m half
inclined to be doubtful whether your gaudy
Seance a your brougham and lavender-

id business, is the right thing for your angler.
It has been overdone, Vai, considerably over-
done; and I shouldn’t wonder if asober little
brown fly—a shabby old chap in a rusty great-
coat with a cotton umbrella under his arm—

wouldn’t do the trick better. That sort of thing ~~

would look rich, you see, Val, rich and eccen-

tric; and TI think, on occasions—with a very

downy bird—I’d even go so’ far as a halfp’orth

of snuff in a screw of ae: Treally think a »

pinch of snuff out of a bit of paper,

Bera ery might turn the tide of a transac-
on.

Impressed by the brilliancy of this idea, Cap-
tain Paget abandoned himself for the moment to
profound meditation, seated in his favorite chair,
and with his legs extended before the cheerful
blaze. He always had a favorite chair in every
caravansary Wherein he rested in his manifold
wanderings, and he had an unerring instinct
which cer him in the selection of the most
comfortable chair, and that one corner, to be
found in every room, which is a sanctuary se-
eure from the incursions of Boreas. -

enatthe »

o

The day just ended had evidently not been a . -

lucky one, and the captain’s gaze

dash of brandy in it, Val,” he said, ntl $y"
and he said it with the air of a man who rarely.
tasted such a beverage; whereas it was as _
itual with him to sit sipping brandy-and-wat

for him to’ light his chamber-candle. ‘ Tha

tine had eae the Tau -water. « ‘Try .
some of that cognac, Val; it’s m
you the truth, ’m beginning to get sick of this.
promoting business. It pays very littlé better
than the India-rubber agency, and it’s harder
work. I shall look about mé “for something
fresh, if Sheldon. doesn’t treat me handsomely.
And what have you been doing for-the last day
or two?” askéd the captain, with a searching
lance at his protege’s face, ‘You’re always
Penbine about Sheldon’s place; but you don’t
seem to domuch business with him. You and
his brother George seem uncommonly thick.”

“Yes, George suits me better than the stock-
broker. I never could get on very well with
your aa oe ae men, I’m as ready to

undertake a dirty job’ as any man; but I don’t
like a fellow to offer me dirty work and pretend
it’s clean.” ‘

“Ah, he’s been potting you to doa little of
the bear business, [ suppose,” said the captain.
“*T don’t see that your conscience need trouble
you about that. Among a commercial ple
money must change hands. I can’t see that it
much matters how the change takes place.”

“No, to be sure; that’s a comfortable way of
putting it, at any rate. However, I’m ti of

ing about in the ursine guise, and I’m going

cut it. I've an old aunt settled at Dorking
who has got a little bit of money to leave, and
think T'll go and look her up.”

“An aunt at Dorking!
before.” ,

“Oh, yes, you have,” answered Mr. Hawke-
hurst, with supreme nonchalance; ‘ you’ve heard
of her often enough, only you've a happy knack
of not listening to other people’s a But
you must have been wrapped’ up in yourself
with a vengeance if you don’t remember to
have heard me speak of my aunt—Sarah.”

“Well, well, it may be so,” murmured the
captain, almost apologetically. ‘Your aunt
Sarah? Ah, to be sure; I have some recollec-
tion: is she your father’s sister?”

“No, she’s the sister of my maternal grand-

mother—a at-aunt, you know. She has a
comfortable little place down at Dorking, and I
can get free quarters there whenever I like; so
as you don’t particularly want me just now,
rn ink Pl run down to her for a week or
two. .
_ The captain had no objection to offer to this
very natural desire on the part of his adopted
son: nor did he concern himself as to the young
man’s motive for leaving London.

CHAPTER VIII.
CHARLOTTE PROPHESIES RAIN.

Mr. Hawkeuurst had no excuse for going to
the Lawn before his departure; but the stately
avenues between Bayswater and Kensington
are free to any man; and, ee better
to do, Valentine put a shabby little volume of
Balzac in his pocket and spent his last morning
in town under the shadow of the mighty elms,
reading oné of the great Honore’s gloomiest ro-
He a waa autumn leaves drifted ged

m. ‘fairy measures on the grass, anc
seray ing an suiting on the gravel, and while
children with hoops and with balls
scampered and screamed inthe avenue by which
he sat. He was not ‘ly absorbed by his
book. Hehad taken it hap-hazard from the tat.

 

:

ot bad. To tell.»

never heard of her &

was darkly oe
meditative as he looked into the ruddy little »

re. i
“T think I'll take a glass of cold waterwith a”

At

 
  

hae
for an hour or so before he went to bed as it was' >,

fellow Sheldon knows how to take care: of him*. wt
self,” he remarked, thoughtfully, when Valen- 4. ,

>

 

Fete

er
deel lS

 
 

 

268

tered collection of cheap editions which he car- one of those little playful quarrels which form

ried about with him in his wanderings, igno- |

miniously stuffed into the bottom of a portman- | ;

teau, among boots and clothes-brushes and dis- | pad one—on the certainty of rain,” cried Char-

| otte.
‘

abled razors.
‘‘Pm sick of them all,” he thought; “‘ the de

Beauseants, and Rastignacs, the German Jews, | existence on the conviction that there would be
and the patrician beauties, and the Israelitish | no rain,” exclaimed Solent looking with un-

Circes of the Rue Taitbout, and the sabe set,
sacrificing provincial angels, and the ghastly
wieilles filles, Had that man ever seen sucha
woman as Charlotte, I wonder—a bright crea- |
ture, all smiles and sunshine, and sweet impul- |
sive tenderness; an angel who can be angelic |
without being pottrinaire, and whose amiability |
never degenerates into debility. There is an |
odor of the dissecting-room pervading all my
friend Balzac’s novels, and I don’t think he was |
capable of painting a fresh, healthy nature. |

at a mass of disease he would have made |
Luey Ashton, and with what dismal relish he |
would have dilated peer the physical sufferings |
of Amy Robsart in the confinement of Cumnor |
Hall! No, my friend Honore, you are the
greatest and grandest of painters of the terrible
school; but the time comes when a man sighs
for something brighter and better than your
highest type of womanhood,”

Ar. Hawkehurst put his book in his ket,
and. abandoned himself to meditation, leaning
forward with his elbows on his knees and his
face buried in his hands, unconscious of the
trundling hoops and screaming children.

‘She is better and fairer than the fairest her-
oine of a novel,” he thought, ‘‘She is like He-
loise. Yes, the quaint old French fits her to a
nicety:

‘Elle ne fu oscure ne brune,
Ains fu clere comme la lune,
Envers qui les autres estoiles
Ressemblent petites chandoiles.

» Mrs. Browning must have known such a woman:

‘Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace:
You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face;’

and yet ~
‘ She was not as pretty as women I know.’

Was she not?” mused the lover. ‘Is she not?
Yes,” he cried, suddenly, as he saw a scarlet: pet-
ticoat gleaming in the distance, and a bright,
young face under a little black turban hat—
pee aud most. bewitching of all feminine

ead-gear, let fashion change as it may. ‘ Yes,”
he cried, ‘‘she is the loveliest creature in the
world, and I love her to distraction.” ~

He rose, and went to meet the loveliest crea-
ture in the world, whose earthly name was Char-
lotte Halliday. She was walking with Diana
Paget, who, to more sober ju might have
seemed the handsomer woman of the two. Alas
for Diana! the day had been when Valentine
Hawkehurst considered her very handsome, and

need to fight a hard battle with himself in
order not to fall in‘ love with her. He had been
conquerer in that struggle of prudence and
honor against nascent love, only to be vanquish-
ed utterly by Charlotte’s brig ter charms and
Charlotte’s sunnier nature.

The two girls shook hands with Mr, Hawke-
hurst. An indifferent observer might have per-
ceived that the color faded from the face of one,
while a blush mounted to the cheeks of thé
other. But Valentine did not see the sudden
ae of Diana’s face—he had eyes only for

harlotte’s blushes. Nor did Charlotte herself

recive the sudden cha in her

iend’s countenance. And that perhaps is the
bitterest sting of all. It is not enough that
some must weep while others play; the mourn-
ers must weep unnoticed, unconsoled; happiness
is so apt to be selfish.

Of course the conversation was the general
sort of thing under the given circumstances—just
a little more inane and disjointed than the or-
dinary small talk of e who meet each other
Nien anes do, Mr. Ha Vv

ow do you r. wkehurst? ery
well, thank you. Mamma is very well; at least
no, not quite well; she has one of her headaches
this morning. She is rather subject to head-
ache, you know; and the canaries sing so loud,
Don’t the canaries sing abominably loud, Diana?
loudly they would have made me say at Hyde
Lodge; but it is only awfully clever people who
know when to use adverbs.” ete

And Miss Halliday having said all this in a
soppadmaatalie tiaision same deeply O02 a2
stop) lenly, blushing more a
first, and painfully aware of her blushes, She
looked imploringly at Diana; but Diana would.
not come tc the rescue; and this morning Mr.
Hawkehurst seemed a man struck witha sudden
dumbness.

There followed presently a little discussion of
the weather. Miss Halliday was possessed by
the conviction that there would be rain—
sibly not immediate rain, but before the r-

noon inevitable rain—Valentine thought ‘not;
was indeed positively certain there w be no
rain; had a vague that the wind was in the

north; and quoted a dreary Joe-Millerism to
prove the impossibility of rain while the wind
came from that quarter. Miss Halliday and Mr.

ox FRE ,.FIRESIDE

 

Hawkehurst held very firmly to their several
opinions, and the argument was almost a quarrel ;

 

one of the most delicious phrases of flirtation.
“JT would not mind wagering a fortune—if I

with kindling eyes.
‘And I would not shrink from staking my

eerie tenderness at the glowing, animated
‘ace,

Diana Paget took no part in that foolish talk
about the possibilities of the weather. She walk-
ed silently by the side of her friend Charlotte,
as far awa; m her old comrade, it seemed to
her, as if the Atlantic’s wild waste of waters had
stretched between them. The barrier that di-
vided them was only Charlotte; but then Miss
Paget knew too well that Charlotte in this case
meant all the world.

The ice had been broken by that discussion as
to rain or no rain; and Miss Halliday and Mr.
Hawkehurst talked pleasantly for some time,
while Diana still walked silently eit her friend’s
side, only oe, when compelled to do so,
The strangeness of her manner would have been
observed by any one not utterly absorbed by
that sublime egotism called love; but Valentine
and Charlotte were so absorbed, and had no
idea that Miss Paget was anything but the most
delightful and amusing of companions.

They had taken more than one turn in the
broad avenue, when Charlotte asked Mr.
Hawkehurst some question about a piece which
was speedily to be played at one of the thea-
ters.

“T do so much want to see this new French

actress,” she said. ‘‘Do you think there is any
ossibility of obtaining orders, Mr. Hawke-
urst? You know what a dislike Mr. Sheldon

has to paying for admission to a theater, and
my poc et-money was exhausted three weeks

o, or I wouldn’t think of giving you any trou-
ble about it.”

Philosophers have observed that in the life of
the plainest woman there is one inspired mo-
rear in which she becomes beautiful. Perhaps
it is when she is asking a favor of some mascu-
line victim—for women have a knack of looking
their prettiest on such occasions. Charlotte
Halliday’s pleading aden, and insinuating tone
were irresistible. Valentine would have given
a lien on every shilling of his three thousand
pounds rather than op wee her, if gold
could purchase the thing she craved. It hap-
pened fortunately that his occasional connection
with newspapers made it tolerably easy for him
to obtain free admissions to theaters.

“Do not of the trouble; there wil! }:> no
The orders shall be sent you, Miss
Halliday.”

“Oh, thanks; a thousand thanks! Would it
be possible to et a box, and for us all to go
together?” asked the fair encroacher; ‘‘mam-
ma is so fond of the theater. She used to go
often with poor papa, at York and in London.
And you are such an excellent critic, Mr. Hawke-
hurst, and it would be so nice to have you with
us; wouldn’t it, Di? You know what a good
critic Mr. Hawkehurst is?” ‘

“Yes,” answered Diana; ‘‘ we used to go to
thesers together ery ne ee

was a cry of anguis m. a bleed-
ing heart; but to the two dosopioctl egotists it
seemed the simplest of casual observations.

“Do you think you could manage to get a
box, Mr. Hawkehurst?’ asked the irresistible
enslaver, eee her head on one side, in a
manner which, for the protection of weak man-
kind, should be made penal.

suey will try my uttermost,” answered Valen-

tine.

“Oh, then, I’m sure you will succeed. And
we shall be amused by your deliciously bitter
criticisms between the acts. One would think
you had studied under Douglas Jerrold.”

“You do me too much honor. But before the
new piece is produced I shall have left London,
and dobliare the pleasure of accompanying
you to the theater.”

“You are going to leave London?”

“Yes, to-morrow.”

‘So soon!” cried Charlotte, with undisguised
regrets “and for a long time, I suppose?” she

led, very peer ’

Miss Paget gave a little start, and a feverish
flush lit up her face for one brief moment.

“Tam glad he is going,” she thought; ‘I am
very he is going.”

“Yes,” said Valentine, in reply to Charlotte’s

uiry, ‘I am likely to be away for a consid-
erable time; indeed a are at present so
vague that T cannot when I may come back
to town.

He could not resist the temptation to speak of
his absence as if it were likely to be the affair of
a lifetime. He could not refrain from the de-
light of sounding the one depths of that inno-
cent young heart. But when the tender gra;
eyes looked at him, so sweet in their sudden sad-
ness, his heart melted, and he could trifle with
her unconscious love no longer.

“Tam goin away on a matter of business,”
he said; ‘‘which may, or may not occupy some
time; but I don’t suppose I shall be many weeks
away from London.”

LIBRARY.

** And are you going very far?” she asked.
“Some distance; yes—a—hundred and fifty

It had been an easy thing to invent an ancient
aunt Sarah for the mystification of the astute
Horatio; but Valentine Hawkehurst could not
bring himself to tell Charlotte Halliday a de-
liberate falsehood. The girl looked at him won-
deringly as he gave that hesitating answer to
her question.
why he did not tell her the place to which he

took him away.

She was very so.
appear out of her life for a time so urcertain,
that while on the one hand it might be only a
few weeks, it might on the other hand be for-
ever. The life o
prim villa at Bayswater, with a very common-

lace mother and a practical stock-broking step-

ather, is rather a narrow kind of existence; and
to such a damsel the strangef whose hand lifts
the curtain that shrouds new and brighter worlds
is apt to become a very important personage, es-
pecially when the stranger happens to be young
and handsome, and invested with that dash of
Bohemianism which to artless and sentimental
girlhood has such a flavor of romance,

Charlotte was very silent as she retraced her
steps along the broad gravel-walk. As they
drew near the Bayswater gate she looked at her
watch. It was nearly one o’clock, and she had
et Mrs. Sheldon to be home at one for
luncheon, and afterward shopping,

- I’m afraid we must hurry home, Di,” she
said.

“Tam quite ready to £0” answered Miss Pa-
get, es “Good-bye, Valentine.”

“Good-by, Diana; good-by, Miss Halliday.”

Mr. Hawkehurst shook hands with both young
ladies; but shaking hands with Charlotte was a
very slow process compared to the same perform-
ance with Diana.

‘*Good-by,” he repeated, in a lingering tone;
and then, after standing for some moments, si-
lent and irresolute, with his hat in his hand, he
put it on suddenly and hurried away.

The two girls had walked a few steps toward
the gate when Charlotte stopped before a stony-
looking alcove, which happened at this nursery-
dinner-hour to be empty.

“Tm so tired, Di,” she said, and went into
the alcove, where she sat down to rest. She had
a little vail attached to her turban bat—a little
vail which she now drew over her face. The
tears gathered slowly in her eyes and fell through
that flimsy morsel of lace with which she would
fain have hidden her childish sorrow. The tears
— and fell on her lap as she sat in si-

ence, pretending not to oy This much rain at
least was there to justify her prediction, uttered
re such foolish gayety of heart half an hour be-

ore.

Miss Halliday’s eyes were undimmed by tears
when she went back to the Gothic villa; but she
had a feeling that some great sorrow had come
upon her—a vague idea that the last lingerin
warmth and brightness of summer had faded all
in a moment, and that chill, gray winter had
closed in nee Bayswater without any autumnal
interval. hat was it that she had lost? Only
the occasional society of a young man witha
handsome, pale face, a little haggard and wan
from the effect of dissipated habits, and a previ-
ous acquaintance with care and difficulty—only
the society of a penniless Bohemian who had a
certain disreputable cleverness and a dash of
gloomy sentimentality, which the school-girl
| mistook for genius. But then he was the first
man whose eyes had ever softened with a mys-
terious tenderness as thew looked at her—the first
whose voice had grown faintly tremulous when
it syllabled her name.

ere was some allusion to Mr. Hawkehurst’s
departure in the course of. dinner, and Philip
Sheldon expressed some surprise.

“‘ Going to leave town?” he said.

“Yes, papa,” Charlotte answered; ‘‘he is
going a long way into the country—a hundred

d ry, miles, he said.”

“« Did he tell you where he was going?”

‘No; he seemed unwilling to mention the
place. He only said something about a hundred
and fifty miles.”

CHAPTER IX.
MR. SHELDON ON THE WATCH.

Mr, SHELDON had occasion to see Captain
Paget early the following day, and questioned
him plonche about his protege’s movements. He
had found Valentine a very useful tool in sund
intricate transactions of the commercial kind,
and he ted his tools to be ready for his
service, He was therefore considerably annoy-
ed by Valentine’s abrupt departure.

“T think young Hawkehurst might have
told me he was going out of town,” he said.
“What the deuce has taken him off in such a

h Vhs Sa
“ He is going to see some mysterious old aunt
at Dorking, from whom he seems to expect
money,” the panein answered, carelessly. ‘I
dare say I can do what you want, Sheldon.”
“Very likely. But how comes that young
fellow to have an aunt at Dorking? I fancy

 

Charlotte gave a little sigh or relief.

Tve heard him say he was without a relative or

miles or so,” Valentine answered, very lamely. °

She was at a loss to understand. °
was going, and the nature of the business that ~

that he was going to dis-

a young English damsel, in a

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

|
a ee in the world—always excepting your-
self. |

“The aunt ey be another exception; some
poor old soul that be’s half ashamed to own, I
dare say—the inmate of an almhouse, perhaps.
Val’s expectations may be limited to a few
pounds hoarded in a china teapot.”

“T should have thought Hawkehurst the last
man in the world to care about looking after that ,
sort of thing. I could have given him plenty |
to do if he had stopped in town. He and my
brother George are uncommonly intimate, Py.
the-by,” added Mr. Sheldon, meditatively. It
was his habit to be rather distrustful of his
brother, and of all his brother’s acquaintance.
“T su you can give me Hawkehurst’s ad-
dress, in case I should want to write to him?”
he said. _

‘‘ He told me to send my letters to the post-
office, Dorking,” answered the captain, ‘‘ which
really looks as if the aunt’s residence were some-
thing in the way of an alms-house.”

No more wassaid about Valentine’s departure.
Captain Paget concluded his business with his

tron and departed, leaving the stock-broker
eaning forward upon his desk in a thoughtful
attitude and scribbling purposeless figures upon
his blotting paper.

‘‘There’s something queer in this young man
running away from town; there’s some mystifi-
cation somewhere,” he thought. ‘‘ He has not
ree to Dorking, or he would scarcely have told

otta that he was going a hundred and fifty
miles from town, e would be likely to be
taken off his guard by her questions, and would
tell the truth. I wonder whether Paget is in the
secret. His manner seemed open enough; but
that sort of man can pretend anything. I’ve
noticed that he and George have been very con-
fidential lately. I wonder whether there’s any |
ae game on the cards between those |

wo.

The game of which Mr. Sheldon thought as
he leaned over his blotting-paper wasa very dif-
ferent kind of game from that which really occu- |
pied the attention of George and his friend.

“Tl go to his lodgings at once,” he said to |
himself by-and-by, rising say poveagee his hat |
quickly in his eagerness to act upon his resolu- |
tion. ‘Pll see if he really has left town.”

The stock-broker hailed the first empty han-
som to be seen in the crowded thoroughfare
from which his shady court diverged. In less |
than an hour he alighted before the door of the |
house in which Captain Paget lodged. |

“Ts Mr. Hawkehurst in?’ he asked of the |
girl who admitted him. |

“No, sir; he’s just left to go into the country. |
He hasn’t been gone ten minutes. You might |
a’most have met him.”

“Do you know where he has gone?”

“T heard say it was Dorking, sir.”

‘‘Humph! T should like to have seen him |
before he went. Did he take much luggage?”

“One portmanter, sir.”

““T suppose you didn’t notice where he told
the man to drive?”

“Yes, sir; it was Euston

“Ah, Euston Square. I'll go there, then, on —
the chance of catching him,” said Mr. Sheldon.

He bestowed a donation upon the domestic, re-
entered his hansom, and told the man to drive
to Euston Square ‘like a shot.” |

‘‘So! His destination is Dorking, and he zoe ;
from Euston Square!” muttered Mr. Sheldon, |
in somber meditation, as the hansom rattled and
rushed ed and jolted over the stones, |
“There’s something under the cards here,” \

Arrived at the great terminus, the stock- |
broker made his way to the down platform. |
There was a lull in the day’s traffic, and only a |
few listless wretches lounging disconsolately |
here and there, with eyes ever and anon lifted
to the clock. Among these there was no Valen: |

 

 

 

uare.”

tine Hawkehurst.
Mr. Sheldon peered into all the waiting-rooms,

and surveyed the refreshment-counter; but there |
was still no sign of the mamhe sought. He went
back to the ticket-office; but here again all was |
desolate, the shutters of the pigeon-holes her- ,
metically closed, and no vestige of Valentine
Hawkehurst.

The stock-broker was disappointed, but not de-
feated. He returned to the platform, looked
about him for a few moments, and then ad-
dressed himself to a porter of intelligent aspect.

“What trains have left here within the last
half hour?” he asked,
seas Only one, sir, the 2.15 down, for Manches-

r,

“You didn’t happen to notice a dark-eyed,
dark-haired young man among the passengers—
second class?” asked Mr. Sheldon.

‘No, sir. are always a good many
passengers by that train; I haven't time to no-
tice their faces.” |

The stock-broker asked no further questions.
He was a man who did not care to be obliged to |
others for information which he could obtain for
himself. He walked ht to a place where
the time-tables were pasted on the wall, and ran |
his finger along the figures till he came to those |

pete 219 train fast train whi |
e 2, was & n which sto

at only four placee—-Bngby, Ullerton, Mi pee
and Manchester.

| time of

' ealm.
| would have failed to elevate the drooping stocks
| and shares and first-preference bonis

_ commercial

' the elephantine sheet, Phili

BIRDS.-OF PREY,

“I dare say he has gone to: Manchester,”
thought Mr. Sheldon—‘‘on some ‘racing: busi-
ness, most likely, which he wants to keep dark
from his patron tho captain. What a fool Iam
to trouble myself about him, as if he couldn’t
stir without meaning; mischief to me! But I
don’t understanl tho friendship between him
and George. My brother George is not likely
to take up any man without some motive.”

After these reflections Mr. Sheldon left the
station and went back to his office in another
hansom, still extremely thoughtful and some-
what disquieted.

“What does it matter to me where they go
or what ee he asked himself, impatient
of some lurking weakness of his own; ‘‘ what
does it matter to me whether those two are
friendly or unfriendly? They can do me no

| harm.’

There happened to be a kind of lull in the
stormy oe of the Stock Exchange at the
e of Valentine Hawkehurst’s departure. Stag-
nation had descended upon that commercial
ocean which is such a dismal waste of waters
for the professional speculator in its hours of
ll the Bulls in the zoological creation

and de-
bentures, which hung their feeble heads and de-
clined day by day, the weaker of them threaten-
ing to fade away, and diminish to a vanishing-
point, as it seemed to some dejected holders
who read the Stock-Exchange lists and the
money-article in the Times with a persistent
hopefulness which struggled against the en-
croachments of despair. The Bears had been busy,
but were now idle—having burned their fingers.
ntlemen remarked. So Bulls an

Bears alike hung listlessly about. a melancholy
market, and conversed together dolefully in cor-
ners; and the burden of all their lamentations

| was to the effect that there never had been such

times, and things never had been so bad, and it
was a question whether they would ever right~
themselves. Philip Sheldon shared in the gene-
ral depression. His face was gloomy, and his
manner, for the time being, lost something of its
brisk business-like cheerfulness. The men who
envied his better fortunes watched him furtively
when he showed himself among them, and won-
dered whether Sheldon, of Jull, Girdlestone and
Sheldon, had been hit by these bad times.

It was not entirely the pressure of that com-
mercial ae which yin ee on the spirits
of Philip Sheldon. The stock-broker was tor-
mented be private doubts, and uncertainties
which had nothing to do with the money-mar-
ket.

On the any after Valentine’s journey to Ul-
lerton, Mr. Sheldon the elder presented himself
at his brother's office in Gray’s Inn. _ It was his
habit to throw waifs and strays of business in
the attorney’s way, and to make use of him oc-
casionally, though he had steadily refused to
lend or give him money; and it was his habit,
as it were, to keep an eye upon his younger
ery a jealous eye, which took note
f all George’s doings, and kept icious watch
upon all rge’s associates. ing unan-
nounced into his brother’s office on this particu-
lar morning, Philip Sheldon found him bendin,
over an outspread document—a great sheet o
cartridge-paper covered with a network of lines,
detied about with circles, and with little patch-
es of writing in red and black ink in the neatest
possible penmanship. Mr, Sheldon the elder,
whose bright black eyes were as the eyes of the
hawk, took note of this paper, and had caught
more than one stray wo; that stood out in
larger and bolder characters than its neighbors,

 

| before his brother could fold it; for it is not an

easy oa for a man to fold an elephantine sheet
of cartridge when he is nervously anxious to fold

| it quickly, and is conscious that the eyes of an
. observant brother are upon him,

Before George had mastered the folding of
had seen and taken
note of two words. One of these was the word.
InTESTATE; the other the name HAYGARTH,
“You seem in a great hurry to get that docu-

| ment out of the way,” said Philip, as he seated

himself in the client's chair. *

“Well, to tell the truth, you rather startled
me,” answered George. “I didn’t know who
it might be, you know; and I was expecting a
fellow who—” And then Mr. Sheldon the
younger broke off ereeer and asked, with
rather a suspicious air, ‘ y didn’t that boy
announce you?”

“Because I wouldn’t let him. Why should
he announce me? One would think you were

| carrying on some pees! conspiracy, George,

and a modern Thistlewood
that cupboard yonder. How {
Hawkehurst are, by-the-by.” ;

In spite of the convenient 5 by the bye this
last remark of the stock-broker’s sounded rather
irrelevant.

“I don’t know about being ‘thick.’ Hawke-
hurst seems a very decent young fellow, and he
and I get on very well together. But [’'m not

= ig hidden in

as ‘thick’ with him as I was with Tom Halli-

da’ nw
te was to be observed that Mr. Sheldon the
younger was very apt to refer to that friendship

 

you and |

 

 

ie a/

with the dead Yorkshireman in the course of
conversation with Philip.

“ Hawkehurst has just left town,” said Philip,
indifferently.

“Yes, I know he has.”

‘When did you hear it?”

“T saw him last night,” answered George,
taken off his guard by the carelessness of his
brother’s manner,

' “Did you?” cried Mr. Sheldon, ‘You make
a mistake there. He left town at two o’clock
yesterday.” ;

‘How do you happen to know that?’ asked , \.
George, sharply. an

‘* Because’ [ happened to be at the station, »
and saw him take his ticket. There’s something
underhand in that journey of his, by the way;
for Paget told me he was going to Dorking. I
suppose he and Paget have some game of their
own on the cards, I was rather ammoyed by the
Young man’s departure, as I had some work for

im. However, I can find plenty of, fellows to
do it as well as Hawkehurst. could have done.”

George ‘was looking into an open drawer in
his desk while his brother said this.. He had a
habit of opening drawers and peering into them

Soring

ee the progress of an interview, as
if look: x ey some particular paper that was
never to be found. ,

After this the conversation became less per-—
sonal. The brothers talked a little of the events
of the day, the leaders in the mornin;
the probability or Sn prebe bees of a change in
the rate of discount. But this conversation soon
flagged, and Mr, Sheldon rose to depart. ’

‘*T suppose that sheet of cartridge-paper which . *
you hat so much trouble to fold is one of your
genealogical tables,” he said, as he was going.

‘You needn’t take somuch trouble to keep things
dark from me, George. Um not likely to try
to steal a march upon you; my own business _
ives me more work than I can do. But if you
ve got a really good thing at last, I shouldn’t
mind going into it with you, and finding the
money for the enterprise.”

George Sheldon looked at his elder brother
with a malicious glitter in his eyes.

“On condition that you got the lion’s share
of the profits,” he said. ‘* Oh, yes; I know how
generous you are, Phil. I have asked you for
money before to-day, and you have refused it.”

Mr. Sheldon’s face darkened just a little at

this omens
" our manner of asking it was offensive,” he

‘“Well, I’m sorry for that,” answered George,
politely. ‘‘ However, you ref me money
when I did want it; so you needn’t offer it me
now; I don’t want it. ere are some people
who bmw haves sacrificed my life yo a8 sig cee
theory ; rhaps you are one of them. Bu
there is one thin you may be certain of, pap
Sheldon: if ever I do get a good chance, I shi
know how to keep it to myself.”

Saar reals ree the SOBREADN ENS ot
eir on all ordi occasions, who wi
et betra; oie in a crisis of importance.
eorge Sheldon would fain have kep his pro-
ject hidden from his elder brother; but in this
one un, ded moment he forgot himself, and
allowed the sense of triumph to irradiate his

‘ace.

The stock-broker was a reader of men rather
than books; and it is a notable thing what su-
periority in all worldly wisdom is ssed by
men who eschew books. He was able to trans-
late the meaning of George’s smile—a smile of

ingled ae and mation =

“The fellow has got a thing,” he thought
to himself; ‘‘and Hawkehurst is init. It must
be a deuced good thing, too, or he wouldn’t re-
fuse my offer of money.” ;

Mr. Sheldon was the last man in the world to
reveal any mortification which he might experi-
ence from his brother’s conduct.

‘Well, yowre quite right to stick to your
chance, George,” he said, with agreeable frank-
ness. ‘‘ You've waited long enough for it. As-
for me, I’ve got my fingers in a good many pies
just at present; so perhaps I had better keep
them out of yours, whatever plums there ag
be to be picked out of it by an Syren Ping Jack
Horner. Pick out your plums for yourself, old
fellow, and I'll be one of the first to call you a

ood boy for your pains.”
: With "this, itr. Sheldon slapped his brother’s
shoulder, and departed,

“T think Pve had the best of Master Phil for
once,” muttered George; and then he thrust
his sinewy hands into the depths of his trowsers-
pookee and indulged in a silent laugh which

lisplayed his strong ans white teeth to perfec-
tion. ‘I flatter myself 1 took a rise out of Phil
to-day,” he muttered. ?

The sense of a malicious triumph over a social
enemy is a very Serre kind of thing—so de-
lightful that a man is apt to ignore the possible
cost of the enjoyment. It is like the pleasure
of kicking a man who is down—very delicious
in. its way pI) one never knows how soon the
man may W again,

Gaede. Sheldon. who was tolerably skilled in
the science of human nature, should have known
that “ a rise” out of his brother was
likely to be a rather costly operation. Philip
was not the safest man deal with at any

papers; <°-

 
 

oe "

An ren emicttlia: Da eng

tenes

 

; paspenneenenresee
!

 

the landlord.of the Seven Stars, at which house
of entertainment I took a bottle of soda-water,
in order.to sonder le terrain before commencing
business,

The present rector is an elderly widower with
seven children; an easy, good-natured soul; who
is more prone to bestow his. money.in, charity
than to punctuality in. the payment of his debts.

Having discovered this much, I rung the bell
at the ‘iron gate and,,boarded the Haygarthian
mansion. ‘The rector wasat home, and received
me in a veryuntidy apartment, par, excellence
a study. A: boy in a holland ;blouse, was smear-
ing his face with his inky fingers, and) wrestlin;
with a problem in-HKuclid, while his father stoo
on astep-ladder exploring a, high shelf .of,.dusty.
booksi! )

Therector, whose name is; Wendover, descend-
ed from the! step-ladder ‘and shook the dust from
his garments. eis a little, withered old man,
with a manner so lively as.to be on the verge of
flightiness.::cL observed that he wiped, his, dusty,
palms on'the skirts of his coat, and argued there-
fromthat he!would be an,easy. person. to deal
with: 'Tsoon found:that my. deduction was cor-
rect. i

I presented Sheldon’s card and stated my, busi-
ness, of courseracting on that, worthy’s advice.
Could: Mr.,Wendover: give me any information
relating to the Haygarth family?

Fortune favored me throughout this Dewsdale
expedition. «| The rector. is.a.simple garrulous
old soul; tos whom;to talk is ,bliss.,,He has oc-
cupied | the house: five-and-thirty years.) He
rents it ofthe lordof the.manor, who bought. it
from John Haygarth., Nota stick of furniture
has been removéd»since,.our friend. Matthew's
time; and the:rev. intestate;‘may have wrestled
with the mysteries of Euclid on the same ‘old-
fashioned mahogany table at, which I saw the
boy in brown holland.

Mr. Wendovet left his books and manuscripts
scattered on the floor of the study, and conduet-
ed me to! a cook suai drawing-room, very shab-
bily furnished with the spindle-legged chairsand
tables of the last.century.:;, Here he, begged,me
to be seated, and here we were ever and); anon
interrupted. by intruding juveniles, the banging
of doors, and the shrill clamor. of young, voices
in the hall and garden. 1

I brought all che diplomacy of which, Iam
master to bear in:my long imterview with the
rector; and the following is a transcri it of our
conversation, after a good deal of polite. skir-
ee :

Myself.: Yow see, my dear sir, the business I
am concerned in is remotely connected with these
Haygarths:, Any information you will, kindly
afford me;‘however apparently trival, may be
of service in the affair I am prosecuting.

The Rector. .To be sure, to. be sure! « But you
see, though I have heard ai good deal, of, the
oe it is all» gossip—the merest gossip.
People are so fond of possip, ‘you know—especi-
ally country people: I have no doubt that you
have remarked:that. Yes, I have heard a great
deal about Matthew Haygarth. My late clerk
and sexton—a very remarkable man, ninety-one
when he died, and able to perform his duties
very creditably within a year of his death—very
creditably ; but the hard winter of ’56 took;him
off, poor fellow, and now [have a young man.
Old Andrew: Hone—that was my late clerk’s
namewas employed in this house when a lad,
and was very fond of talking about Matthew
Haygarth and his wife.) She was arich woman,
you Gost, a very rich woman—the daughter of
a brewer at Ullerton; and this house belonged to
her+inherited from her father.

Myself. And did-you: gather from your clerk
that Matthew Haygarth and his wife:lived hap-
pil together? I ;

he Reetor, Well, yes, ‘yes; I: never ‘heard
anything to the contrary. They: were not a
young couple; you know. | Rebecea/ Caulfield
was forty _ of age, and Matthew Haygarth
was fifty-three when he married; so,: you see.
one could hardly call ita love-match. [Abrupt
inroadof bouncing damsel, exclaiming *‘Pw!”
Don't yoursee’ Pm engaged, Sophia Louisa?
Why are you not, at Seed sy [Sudden
retreat of bouncing damsel, followed by. the
scrambling performance of scale of O-majorin
adjoining chamber, which performance celeb
ly ceases after five minutes.) You see Mrs.
Haygarth was not young, as Iwas about to ob-
serve» when /'my: guaister interrupted ‘us; and
she was perhaps a little more Steadfast! in her;
adherence to the newly-arisen sect of Wesleyans
than-her husband, as a Church-of-England wrote
could approve.” But as their married life laste
only a year, they had little time for domestic
unhappiness, “even supposing ‘them. nob» to be
adapted to each other.” ;

yself. ‘Mrs. Matthew! Haygarth ‘did not
marry again? ’ 4 yi :

The Rector, Noy she devoted herself! to: the
education of her son; and. lived and died in this
house. The room which ‘is now my study she,
furnished With a’small reading desk and a couple!
of benches; now in my nursery, and madeitinto:
akind of chapel, in which the: keeper of; the
general shop+who was, I believe, considered a’
shinine light among'the Wesleyans community
__was in the habit of-holding» forth: every /Sun-
day morning to such few members of that sect

.

‘countenance?

tell me nothing about

 

 

29

 

BIRDS OF PREY.
as were within reach bt Deweadte, She

She ‘died
when her son was nineteen rae of ages ang
was buried in the family-vault in the church-
yard yonder. Her son’s adherence to the Church
of England was a very great trouble to her.

| LIuroad of boy in. holland, very Grpeciee and

inky of aspect, also exclaiming “ Pal] No,

John; not till that problem is worked out. Take
that cricket-bat back to the lobby, sir, and re-
turn;.to_ your. studies. [Sulky withdrawal of
boy.J,. You see what it is to havea large family,
Mr.—Sheldon. I beg pardon, Mr.—

Myself. Hawkehurst, clerk’ to .Mr, Sheldon. *

The Rector. Tobesure. Lhavesome thoughts
of the law for one of my elder sons; the Church
is terribly overcrowded, However, as I was on
the point of saying when my boy John disturbed
us, though I have heard a great deal of gossip
about, the Haygarths, I fear I can give you very
little substantial information. Their connection
with Dewsdale lasted little more than twenty
years. Matthew Haygarth was married in Dews-
dale. church, his son John was christened in
Dewsdale chureh, and he himself is buried in
the churchyard. That is about as much posi-
tive information as I ean give you; and you
will perhaps remark, that the parish register
would afford youas much, ;

After questioning the good-natured old rector
rather: closely, and. obtaining little more than
the above ‘information, I asked permission to
see the house. i

‘Old furniture and old pictures are apt to be
suggestive,” I said; “‘and perhaps while we are
going over the house, you. may happen to recall
some ‘further particulars relating to the Hay-
garth came

Mr. Wendover assented. He was evidently
anxious to oblige me, and accepted my explana-
tiomef my. business in perfect good faith. He
conducted me from, room to room, waiting pa-
tiently while I scrutinized. the paneled walls and
stared at the attenuated old furniture. Iwas
determined to observe George, Sheldon’s advice
to the very letter, though I had little hope of
making any grand melodramatic. discovery in
the way of documents hidden, in old cabinets,
or moldering behind sliding panels.

Lasked the rector if he had ever found papers
of any kind in forgotten nooks and corners of
the house and the furniture. His reply was a de-
cided negative... He had explored and _investi-
fred every inch of the old dwelling-place, and

ad found nothing. ;

So much for Sheldon’s idea.

Mr. Wendover led me from basement to gar-
ret, pain niaene bouncing daughters and boys
in brown holland wherever we went; and from
basement to garret I found that all was barren.
In the whole of the house there was but one
object which arrested my attention, and the
interest which that one object aroused in my
mind had no. relation to the Haygarthian. for-
tune.) |

Over a high carved chimney-piece in one of
the bedchambers there hung a iittle row of min-
iatures—old-fashioned oval miniatures, pale and
faded—pictures of men and women with the
powdered hair of, the Georgi period, and
the flowing full-bottomed wigs familiar to St.
James*and Tunbridge Wells. in the days of in-
offensive Anne.|, There were. in all, seven min-
iatures, six of which specimens of antique por-
traiture were prim and starched and. artificial
of aspect. But the seventh was different. in
form and style: it/was the picture of a girlish
face looking out of a frame, of loose unpowdered
locks; a bright, innocent face, with gray bi
and marked black eyebrows, pouting lips a little
parted, and white teeth gleaming between

 

li
,of rosy'red; such a face as one might, fancy the

inspiration of an old at I took the miniature
ently from the little brass hook,on, which it
hung, and. stood for. some time. looking at the
bright, frank face.

It was the picture of Charlotte Halliday. Yes;
I suppose there isa fatality in these things. . It
was One of those marvelous accidental resem-
blances which every man has met with in the
course of his life. Here was this dead-and-gone
beauty of the days of a the Second smilin,
upon me with the eyes and lips of Philip Shel-
don’s step-daughter!

Or was it only a delusion of my own? Was
my mind so steeped in the thought.of that girl,
was my heart, so impressed by her beauty, that
I could not look upon a fair woman’s face with-,
out conjuring up her likeness; in the pictured

owever this may be, I looked.
long and tenderly at the face which seemed to
me to resemble the woman I love. {

Of céurse questioned \the»-rector as. to the
originalof this particular miniature. . He could

it, caps that he thought

it was not one of the Caulfields or Hay, IS.
The man in the full-bottomed Queen-Anne wig
was Jeremiah Caulfield, brewer, father, of the
ious Rebecca ;the woman. with the, high pow-
ered head was the pious, Rebecea, herself; the

‘man in the George-the-Second wig was Matthew

Haygarth. The: other three were, of
eca’s. But the wild-haired damsel was
some own ¢réature for whose presence Mr,
‘Wendover was unable to account.
Texamined the frame of the miniature, and

. nan, and the lad

 

found that it opened at the back. Behind the
ivory on which the portrait was painted there
was a lock of dark hair incased in crystal; and
on the inside of the case, which was of some
worthless metal gilded, there was scratched ‘the

name i ee

How this Molly with the loose dark locks
came to be admi among the prim and pious
OT is certainly more than I can under-
stand.

My SL of the house having resulted
only in this little romantic accident of the like-
ness to Charlotte, T prepared to take my depart-
ure, no wiser than. when I had first c the
threshold. . The rector’very politel Seas
show me the church, and as I considered that it
would be well to take a copy of the Haygarthian
entries in the register, I availed myself of his
offer. He dispatched a maid-servant to sum-
mon his clerk, in order that that functionary
might assist in the investigation of the registers.
The girl vis fewe on this errand, while her mas-
ter condw me across his len, in which
oot is now a gate opening into the church-

yard.

It is the most picturesque of burial-grounds,
darkened by the shadow of those solemn yews
and spreading cedars. We walked very a
between the crumbling old tombstones, whi
have almost all grown one-sided with time. Mr,
Wendover led me through a little labyrinth of
lowly graves to a high and ponderous iron rail-

ing surrounding a square space, in the midst of
fri AU ssh at ,

ch there is a statel me monument. In
the railing there is a gate, from which a flight
of stone steps leads'down tothe door of a vault.
It is altogether rather a pretentious affair.
wherein one sees the evidence of substantia
wealth unelevated by artistic grace or poetic
grandeur.
This is the family vault of the Caulfields and
Hay zarths.

‘ve brought you to look at this tomb,” said ~

the rector, resting his hand upon the rusted rail-
ing, ‘‘ because there is rather a romantic story
connected with it—a story that concerns Mat-
thew Haygarth, by-the-by. I did not think of
it just now, when we were talking of him; ‘but
it flashed on my memory as we came through
the. garden. Tt is rather a mysterious affair;
and though it is not aes likely to have any
bearing ae the object of your inquiry, I may
as well tell you about it—as a leaf out of family
history, you know, Mr. Hawkehurst, and as a
new proof of the old adage that truth is stranger
than fiction.”

I assured the rector that I should be glad to
hear anything he could tell me.

‘1 must premise that I only tell the story as
I got it from my old clerk, and that it may
therefore seem rather indistinct; but there is an
entry in the register yonder to show that itis
not without foundation. However, I will waste
no more words in preamble, but’ give you the
story, which is mee this:” ®

The rector seated himself on a dilapidated old
tombstone, while I leaned against the rails of
the Haygarth vault, looking down upon him.

“Within a month or two of Matthew Hay-

’s death a kind of melancholy came over

im,” said the rector. ‘‘ Whether he was un-

with his wife, or whether he felt his.

hap
health declining, is more than I can say. You
must remember that my informant was but a
lad at the time of which T speak, and that when
he talked to me about the subject. sixty years
afterward he was a very oldman, and his im-
ressions were therefore more or less vague.
Bat upon certain facts he was sufficiently posi-
tive; and among’ the circumstances he remem-
bered most vividly are those of the story I am
going to tell you.

“Tt seems that within a very few weeks of
Matthew’s death, his wife, Rebecca Haygarth,
started on an expedition to the north, in the
company of an uncle, to hear John Wesley
preach on some very ta occasion, and to
assist at a love-feast. She was gone more than
a fortnight; and during her absence Matthew
Have: mounted his horse early one morning
and rode away from Dewsdale.

‘His household consisted of three maids, a
Andrew Hone, afterward my
Before departing on his journey Mr.
Haygarth had said that he would not return till
late ‘the next evening, and had ested that
any the man (whose name I forget) should sit
up for him. eee ta :

_ “He was punctiliously obeyed. The house-
hold, of early habits, retired at nine, the
accustomed hour; and the man-servant waited

sexton,

to receive his. master, while the lad Andrew,

who slept in the stables, sat up to keep his fel-
low-servant company.

“At ten o'clock Mr. Haygarth came home,
ve his horse into the charge of the lad, took

is candle from the , aud ‘walked
straight up-stairs as if going to bed.” The mai-
servant locked the doors, took his ‘thaster the
key, and then went to'his own quafters. ‘The
y remained wp to feed and ’ ‘the ;
which hea ae earance of having performed
a hard s work. «> © etal 3
Hie hay nearly concluded this business whén
he was startled

the uae of the back.
door opening into the court-yard, in which were

all Gt

3".

 

= wf Vas =

 
 

|

 

z

 

est. Iam not one of those rushing worldlings. | ‘“A stiff sum, Mr. Goodge, for forty sheets of

I presume, er that such information
oat may afford is likely to become a source of
pecuniary profit to your employer.”

I began to see that my frien
rector of Dewsdale were very different kind of
poet and that I must play my cards accord-
ingly.
eS That will depend upon the nature of your
information,” T replied, diplomatically ; ‘it may

be worth something to us, or it may be worth- |

less.”

** And in case it should be worth something?”

“In that case my employer would be glad to
remunerate the person from whom he obtained
it.”

Mr. Goodge again became meditative.

“Tt was the habit of the sainted Wesley to take
counsel from the Scriptures,” he said, presently ;
“if you will call again to-morrow, young man,
I shall have taken counsel, and may be able to
entreat with you.”

I did not much relish being addressed as
“young man,” even by such a shining light as
the Rev. Jonah Goodge. But as I wanted the
Rey. Jonah’s aid, I submitted with a tolerable
grees to his patriarchial familiarity, and bade

im good morning, after promising him to call |

again the following day. I returned to my inn,
and wrote to Sheldon in time for the afternoon
mail, recounting my interview with Mr. Goodge,
and asking how far I should be authorized to
remunerate that gentleman, or to pledge my-

self to remunerate him for such information as |

he might have to dispose of.
Oct 6. A letter from Sheldon.

“Dear Hawkenurst:—There may be something
very important behind that mysterious burial at
Dewsdale. Go without delay toSpotswold; examine
registers, tombstones, etc.; hunt up oldest inhabit-
ant or inhabitants, from whom. you may be able to
discover whether any Haygarth or Haygarths ever
lived there, and all that is known respecting such
Haygarth or Haygarths, You have got a clew to
something. Follow it up till it breaks off short, as
such clews often do, or till you find it is only leading

ou on a wild-goose chase, The Dewsdale business
is worth investigation, Mem.: how about descend-
ants of Lawyer Brice? Yours truly, G.s.

“G.’s Inn, Oct. 5.””

Before starting for Spotswold it was ni
for me to see Mr. Goodge.

mind. He had taken counsel from the Serip-
tures, like the founder of his sect, but, I fancy,
with rather less spiritual aspirations.

“The text upon which the lot fell was the |

12th verse of the 9th chapter in the Book of
Proverbs: ‘If thou be wise, thou shalt be wise

for thyself,’” he said, solemnly; ‘whereby I |

perceive that I shall not be justified in parting
with that which you seek without fitting recom-
pense, Iask you, therefore, young man, what
you are prepared to give?”

The Rey. Jonah’s tone could scarcely have
been more lofty, or his manner more patroniz-
ing, if he had been Saul and I the humble David;
but a man who is trying to earn three thousand
pounds must put up with a great deal. Finding
that the minister was prepared to play the huck-
ster, Iemployed no further ceremony.

“The si must of course depend on the
quality of the article you have to sell,” I said;
“T must know that before I can propose terms.’

“Suppose my information took the form of
letters?

“Letters from whom—to whom?”

“From Mrs. Rebecca Haygarth to my great- ;

uncle, Samson Goodge.”

“How many of such letters have you to sell?”

T put it very plainly; but the Rev. Jonah’s
susceptibilities were not of the keenest order.
He did nvé wince.

“Say forty odd letters.”

I pricked up my ears; and it needed all my
diplomacy to enable me to conceal my sense of
triumph. Forty odd letters! There must be an
enormous amount of information in forty odd
letters; unless the woman wrote the direst twad-
dle ever penned by a female correspondent.

“Over what period do the dates of these let-
ters extend?’ I asked.

“Over about seven years; from 1769 to 1776.”

Four years prior to the marriage with our
friend Matthew: three years after the mar-

riage.
“Are they tolerably long letters, or mere
scrawls?” "

“They were written in a period when nobody
wrote short letters,” answered Mr. Goodge, sen-
tentiously—‘ the period of Bath post and dear

age, The greater number of the epistles
cover three sides of a sheet of letter-paper; and
Mrs. Rebecca’s calligraphy was small and neat.”

“Good!” I exclaimed. “I sup it is no
use my San to let me see one of these let-
ters before striking a bargain—eh, Mr. Goodge?”

“Well, I think not,” answered the oily old
h rite. ‘I have taken counsel, and I will
abide by the light that has been shown me. ‘If
thou be wise, thon shalt be wise for thyself;
such are the words of inspiration. No, I think
; be And what do you ask for the forty odd let-

ers? f
“Twenty pounds,” o *

=A mipethemeamgee ie a ore Ri

1%,

Goodge and the |

 

ecessary
I found that gentle- | better than toimagine he would part with those
man in a pious and yet business-like frame of | ancient documents except for money upon the

 

BIRDS OF PREY.

bas

———~ on ee)

 

old letter-paper!”
| ‘ Butif they were not likely to be valuable,
| you would scarcely happen to want them,” an-
swered the minister. ‘‘I have taken counsel,
young man.”
|” “And those are your lowest terms?”
| I cannot accept sixpence less. It is not in
me to go from my word. As Jacob served La-
ban seven years, and again another seven years,
having promised, so do I abide by my bond.
Having said twenty pounds, young man, Heaven
forbid that_I should take so much as twenty
| pence less than those twenty pounds!”
| The solemn unction with which he pronounced
this twaddle is beyond description. The pre-
tense of conscientious feeling which he contrived
| to infuse into his sordid bargain-driving might
| have done honor to Moliere’s Tartuffe. Seein
| that he was determined to stick to his terms,
| departed.” I ee to Sheldon for instruc-
|
|

tions as to whether I was to give Goodge the

money he asked, and then went back to my inn,

where I devoted myself for the next ten minutes
to the study of a railway time-table, with e. view
| to finding the best route to Spotswold.
| After a close perusal of bewildering strings of
|~proper names and dazzling columns of figures,
| I found a — called Black Harbor, ‘for Wis-
| borough, Spotswold, and Chilton.” A train left
| Ullerton for Black Harbor at six o’elock in the
| af and was due at the latter place at
This gave me an interval of some hours in
| which I could do nothing, unless I received a
'‘ telegram from Sheldon. The chance of a reply
| from him kept me a prisoner in the coffee-room
| of the Crown Inn, where I read almost ever
line in the local and London ———— pend-
| ing the arrival of the dispatch, which came at
ast.

“Tell Goodge he shall have the sum asked,
and get the letters at once, Money by to-night’s
st.”

This was Sheldon’s message: sharp and short,
and within the eighteen-penny limit. Actin,
| upon this telegram I returned to the abode o

r. Goodge, told him his terms were to be com-
plied with, showed him the telegram at his re-
quest, and asked for the letters.

I ought to have known my reverend friend

 

counter.
He smiled a smile which ‘ht have illumin-
| ated the visage of a Machiavelli,
“The letters have kept a long time, young
man,” he said, after having studied the telegram
as closely as if it had been written in Punic;
‘and to you, they are in nowise the worse for
|: keeping: so oer will keep yet longer. ‘If thou

be wise, thou shalt be wise for thyself.’ You
) can come for the letters to-morrow, and bring

the money with you. Say at 11a. Mm.”

I put on my hat and bade my friend good-day.

_ I have often been tempted to throw things at
ple, and have withheld my hand; but I never
| felt Satan so strong upon me, as at that moment,
| and I very much fear that if I any-
| thing in the way of a kitchen-poker or a carving-
| knife about me, I should have flun; that missile
| at the patriarchal head of my saintly Jonah. As
| it was, I bade him -day and returned to the
| Crown, where I took a hurried repast and started
| for the station, carrying a light a with
: me, as I was not likely to return till the follow-
| ing night, at the earliest.
l arrived at the station ten minutes before the
; starting of the train, and had to endure ten min-

utes of that weariness called waiting. I ex-
| hausted the interest of all the advertisements on
| the station walls, found out how I could have
| my furniture removed with the utmost conven-
| ience—su myself to possess furniture;
| discovered where I ought to buy a dinner ser-
| vice, and the most agreeable kind of blind to
| screen my windows in sunny weather. I was
| still lingering over the description of this new
| invention in blinds, when a great bell set up a
sudden clanging, and the down train from Lon-
don came thundering into the station.

This was ceatie train for Black aera
There were a many ngers going north-
ward, a many alighting at Ullerton: and
in the hurry and confusion I had some difficulty
in finding a place in a second-class carriage, the
| passengers therein blocking up the windows with

hat unamiable exclusiveness peculiar to rail-
way travelers. I founda place at last, however;
but, in hurrying from carriage to carriage I was
startled by an occurrence which I have since
poste i seriously, Ai
ran against my respected friend ani
patron, Horatio Paget, .

We had only time to recognize each other with
exclamations of mutual surprise when the =
ing bell rung again, and I was obliged to le
into my seat. A moment’s delay would have
caused me to be left behind. And to have re-
mained behind would have been very awkward
| for me; as the captain would undoubtedly have
\ Pes gee me as to my business in Ullerton.

as I not supposed to be at Dorking, enjoying

, the ne an aged aunt?
It would ve been unlucky to lose that

 

 

train,

 

But what “makes” the gallant captain in UL
lerton? That is a question which I delibera-
he as the traiu carried me toward Black Har-

r.

Sheldon warned me of the necessity for secre-
cy, and I have been as secret as the grave. It
is therefore next to an impossibility that Hora-
tio Paget can have any idea of the business I am
engaged in. He is the very man of all others to
try and supersede me if he had an inkling of m
plans; but Iam convinced he can have no suc
net
And yet the advertisement of the Haygarth
ee in the Times was as open to the notice
of all the world as it was open to the notice of
George Sheldon. What if my patron should
have been struck by the same advertisement,
and should have come to Ullerton on the same

business?

It is ible, but it is not likely. When I left
town the captain was engaged in Philip Shel-
don’s affairs. He has no doubt come to Ullerton
on Philip Sheldon’s business, The town, which
seems an abomination of desolation to a man
who is accustomed to London and Paris, is nev-
ertheless a commercial center, and the stock-bro-
ker’s schemes may involve the simple Ullerton-
ians as well as the more experienced children of
the metropolis.

Having thought the business out thus, I gave
myself no further trouble about the unexpected
appearance of my friend and benefactor,

t Black Harbor I found a coach which car-
ried me to Spotswold, whither I traveled in a
cramped and painful position as coieaitn my legs,
and with a tat sensation which was like
a determination of luggage to the brain, so close
to my oppressed head was the heavily laden roof
of the vehicle. It was pitch-dark when I and
two fellow-passengers of agricultural aspect were
turned out of the coach at Spotswold, which in
the gloom of night appeared to consist of half a
dozen houses shut in from the road by ghastly
white palings, a grim, looming church, and a
low-roofed inn with a feeble light glimmering
athwart a red stuff curtain.

At this inn I was fain to take up my abode for
the night, and was conducted to a little white-
washed bedchamber, draperied with scanty dim-
ity, and smelling of apples—the humblest, com-
monest cottage-chamber, but clean and decent,
and with a certain countrified aspect which was
pleasing to me. I fancied myself the host of
such an inn, with Charlotte for my wife; and it
seemed to me that it would be nice to live in

that remote and unknown ears ‘‘the world
forgetting, by the world forgot.” beguiled ey:
ave n

self by such foolish fancies—I, who
i amid the clamor and riot of the Strand!

Should I be happy with that dear girl if she
were mine? Alas! I doubt it; A man who has
led a disreputable life up to the age of seven-
and-twenty is very likely to have lost all capa-
city for such pure and perfect happiness as that
bomen good men find in the tranquil haven of a

ome.

Should I not hear the rattle of the billiard-

or the voice of the croupier calling the
main, as I sat by my quiet fireside? Should I
not yearn for the glitter and confusion of West-
End dancing-rooms, or the mad excitement of
the ring, while my innocent young wife was sit-
ting by my side and asking me to look at the
blue eyes of my first-born? :

No; Charlotte is not for me. There must be
always the two classes—the sheep and the goats;
and my lot has been cast among the goats.

And yet there are some people who /augh to
scorn the doctrines of Calvin, and say there is
no such thing as predestination,

Is there not predestination? Was I not pre-
destined to be born in a jail and reared in a gut-
ter, educated among swindlers and scoundrels,
fed upon stolen vic , and clad in garments
never to be paid for?. Did no Eumenides preside
over the birth of Richard Savage, so set apart for
misery that the laws of nature were reversed,

and even his mother hated him? Did no dis- |

mal fatality follow the footsteps of Chatterton?
Has no mysterious ban been laid upon the men
who liave been called Dukes of Buckingham?

. What foolish lamentations am I scribbling in
this diary, which is intended to be only the bald-
est record of events! It is so natural to man-
kind to complain, that, having no ear in which
to utter his discontent, a man is fain to resort to
pen and ink. , f <

Ideyoted my evening to’ conversation with
the landlord and his wife, but found that the
name of ears was as strange to them as if
it had been taken from an inscription in the tomb
of the Pharaohs. I inquired about the few in-
habitants of the village, and. ascertained. that
the oldest man in the p is the sexton, native-
born, and supposed by mine host never’ to have
traveled twenty miles from his birth-place, His
name is Peter Drabbles. What extraordinary
names that class of people contrive to have! My
first business to-morrow morning will be to find
my friend Drabbles—another ancient mariner,
no doubt—and to examine the parish registers,

Oct. 7. A misty morning; and a perpetual
drizzle—to say no’ of a damp, penetrating
cold, which creeps through the thickest over-
coat, and chills one to the bone. I do not think
Spotsweld can have much brightnes:.or, pretti-

 
 

 

 

 

oH ee

e.

32

 

ness even on the fairest summer morning that
ever beautified the earth. I know that, seen as
I see it to-day, the place is the very archetype
of all that is darksome, dull, desolate, dismal
and dreary. (How odd, by-the-way, that all
that family of epithets should have the same
initial!) A wide stretch of moorland lies around.
and about the little village, which crouches in a
hollow, like some poor dejected animal that

seeks to shelter itself from the bitter blast. Or

the edge of the moorland, and above the strag-
gling cottages and the little inn, rises the mas-
sive square tower of an old church, so far out of
proportion to the — cluster of houses that I
imagine it must the remnant of some mo-
nastic settlement.

Toward this church I made my way, under
the dispiriting drip, drip of the rain, and accom-
panied by a feeble old man, whois sexton, clerk,
grave-digger, and anything or everything of
an official nature.

We went into the church after my ancient
mariner No. 2 had fumbleda good deal with a
bunch of ghostly-looking keys. The door opened
witb a dismal scroop, and shut with an appalling
bang. Grim and dark as the church is without
it is grimmer and darker within, and danip an
vault-like. a faire fremir. There are all the
mysterious cupboards and corners peculiar to
such edifices; an. organ-loft, from which weird
noises‘ issue’ at’ every — or closing of a
door; a vaulted roof which echoes one’s foot-
steps with a moan, as of some outraged spirit
hovering in empty space, and ejaculating pite-
ously, “‘ Another impious intruder after the
sacramenta! plate! another plebeian sole tram
ling on the brasses of the De Montacutes, lor:
of the manor!” r

The vestry is, if anything, more ghostly than
the general rur. of vestries; but the business
mind is compelled tc waive all considerations of
a supernatural character. For the moment
there flashed across my brain the shadows of all
the Christmas stories I had ever read or heard
concerning vestries; the phantom bridal, in
which the bride’s beautiful white hand changed
to the bony fingers of a skeleton as she signed
the register; the unearthly christening, in which
all at once, after the ceremony having been con-
ducted with the utmost thin oe eh to the
edification of the unauthorized intruder hiding
behind a ee the godfathers and godmothers,
nurse and baby, Lt and clerk, became in a
moment dilapidated corpses; whereon the ap-
palled intruder fell prone at the foot of his
st there te be discovered the next’ morning

y his friends and the public generally, with his
hair blanched to an awfut) whiteness, or his
noble intellect de; to idiocy. +

For a moment the memory of about a hundred
ioe re on toc ae mt me— so
weird of aspect, and earthy of atmosphere, was
the vestry at Spotswold. And then, “ being
gone” the shadcews of the Christmas stories,
was aman anda lawyer’s clerk again, and set
— assiduously tc search the registers and
interrogate my ancient.

I found that individual a creature of mental
—- compared with whom my oldest: in-
habitant of Ullertor would have been a Pitt, Earl:
of Chatham. But I questioned and ‘cross-ques-
tioned him until I had*ir a manner turned his

1 old wits the seamy side without, and had
iscovered, first, that he had never known any
one called oe sae in the whole course: of
those seventy-five years’ vegetation which
liteness compelled me to speak of as his “ life;”
secondly, that he had ‘never known any one who
Imew a Haygarth; thirdly, that he was: inti-
mately acquainted with every creature in the
village, and that he knew that no one of the in-
habitants could give me the smallest shred of
such information as I required.

theese as so much as this from my an-
cient with unutterable expenditure of time and
trouble, I next set to work upon the registers.

the ink manufactured in the present cen-
tury is of no more durable nature thar. ‘that
abominable fluid employed in the penmanship.
of a hundrea years ago, I profoundly pity the
generations that are to come after us. 6 reg-
isters of Spotswold might puzzle @ Bunsen.
However, bearing in mind the incontrovertible

fact that three thousand pounds is a very agree- |

able sum of money, I stuck to my work for +
ward of two hours, and obtained as a result t
following entries:

1. Matthew Haygarthe, aged foure yeares, berrid
in this churche-yarde, over against ye dombe off Mrs.
Marttha Stileman, about 10 fete fromm ye olde yue
tre. Febevarie 6th, 1753. :

2. Mary Haygarthe, aged ‘twentie sevene eers
berrid under ye yue tree, Nov. 21, 1%54. pie

After
into’ the
garth’s grave.

Under a fine old yew—which had been old a
hundred ago; it seems—I found huddled
oan er headstones one so incrusted with
moss, that it was only afte: scraping tae
site verdure from the stone with my 6
that I was able to discover the letters that had

been cut upon it. 3 :
I found at last a brief inscription: -

copying these two entries, I went out
urch-yard to look for Mary Hay-
ve,

 

eee it Nee ehi ened od ae rey >

Here diath Ye body of
Mary HayGartn, aged 2 Born 1727. Died 1754.
This stone has been set’up by one
who’sorroweth without hope of consolation.

A strange epitaph; no scrap of Latin, no text
from. Scripture, no conventional, testimony te
the virtues and accomplishments of the depart-
ed, no word.to tell whether the dead woman
had. been maid, wife, or widow. It was the
most provoking. inscription for a lawye1 or a
genealogist, but such as might have pleased a
poet,

I fancy this Miss Haygarth must have been
some. quiet creature, with very few friends to
sorrow for her loss. . Perhaps only that one per-
son who sorrowed without hope of consolation.

Such a tombstone might have been set above
the grave of that simple maid who dwelt ‘‘ be-
side the banks of Dove.”

 

This is the uttermost that my patience or in-
genuity can do for me at Spotswold. I have
exhausted every possibility of obtaining further

information, So, having written and posted

my report to Sheldon, I have no more to do but. |

to return to Ullerton. I take back with me

nothing but the copy of the two entries in the |

register of burials. Who this Matthew Hay-
garth or this Mary Haygarth was, and how re-
ated to the Matthew, is an enigma not to be
solved at Spotswold. j

Here the story of the Haygarths ends witb
the grave under the yew tree.

BOOK V.—RELIOS OF 1Hii DEAD.
CHAPTER I.
BETRAYED BY A BLOTTING-PAD,

At an early hour upon the day on which Val-
entine Hawkehurst telegraphed to his employer,
Philip Sheldon presented himself again at the
dingy door of the office in Gray’s Inn.

The dingy door was opened by the still more
dingy boy; and Mr. Sheldon the elder—whc¢
lived in a state of chronic hurry, and had a
hansom cab in attendance upon him at, almost
every step of his progress through life—was ag-
ees by the discovery that his brother was
out.

“Out! he repeated, with, supreme disgust;
“he always is out, I think. Where is he to be
found?”

The boy replied: that his master would be
back in half an hour, if. Mr. Sheldon would like
to wait.

‘* Like to wait!” cried the stock-broker; ‘‘ when
will lawyers’ clerks have sense enough tc know
that nobody on this earth ever liked to wait?
Where’s your master gone?”

‘*T think he’s just slipped round into Holborn,
sir,” the boy replied, with some slight hesita-
tion. He was very well-aware that George had
secrets from his brother, and that it was not
judicious to be too free in his communications
te the elder gentleman. But the black eyes and
white teeth of the stock-broker seemed. very aw-
ful to him; and if Philip chose to question him,
he must, needs answer the truth, not having
been provided by his master with any conve-
nient falsehood in case of inquiry. og

“What. part of-:, Holborn?’ asked Philip,

pier on i t
‘1 did ‘hear tell as it was the telegraph
office.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Sheldon; and then
he dashed down-stairs, leaving the lad on the
threskold of the door staring after him with
eyes of wonder.

The — office meant, business; and any
business’ of his brother’s was a matter of inter-
est to Mr. Sheldow at this particular period.
He had meditated the meaning of George’s tri-
umphant smile in the secluded calm of his own
office; and the longer he had meditated, the
more: deeply rooted had become his conviction
that his brother was engaged in some very dee;
and very ae scheme, the nature of whic
it was his bounden duty to discover.

Impressed. by this idea, Mr. Sheldon returned
to. the hansom cab which was waiting for him
at the end of Warwick court, and. made his
way to the telegraph office. The ostensible mo-
tive of his in Gray’s Inn was sufficient ex-
euse for this ee of his brother’s foot-
— It was one of those waifs and) strays of
rather disreputable business which the elder
man sometimes threw in the way of the
younger.

As the wheel of the hansom ground against
the curbstone in front of ‘the telegraph office,
the figure of George Sheldon vanished in a little
court to the left of that establishment, Instead
of: ae, this receding figure, Philip Sheldon
walked straight into the office.

It was empty. There:was no: one in any of
the shaded com efitsso painfully suggestive
of pecuniary distress and the stealthy hypothe-
cation of portable property. A sound of rattling
and bumping in an inner office betrayed the
neighborhood of a clerk; but in the office Mr.
Sheldon was alone. i

Upon the blotting-pad on the counter of the
central partition the stock-broker perceived one
pe blot of ink, still moist. He faia the tip of

iS square ere upon it, to assure himself
of that fact, and then set himself deliberately to
scrutinize the blotting-paper. He was a man

 

who seldom hesitated... His greatest coups on
the money-market had been in a great measure
| the result of this faculty of prompt. decision.
To-day he possessed himself of the blotting-pad
and examined the half-formed sylables stamped
upon it with as much coolness and self-posses-
sion as if he had been seated in his own office
reading his own newspaper. A man given to
hesitation would have looked to the right and
the left and watched for his opportunity—and
lost. it. Philip Sheldon knew better than to
waste his chances by needless precaution; and
he made himself master of all the intelligence
the blotting-pad could afford him before the
| Clerk emerged from the inner den where the
| rattling and stamping was going forward.
|. “I thought as much,” muttered the stock-
| broker, as he recognized traces of his brother’s
sprawling penmanship upon the pad. The mes-
| sage had been written with a heavy hand and a
' spongy quill Pon, and had left a tolerably clear
| impression,of its contents on the blotting-paper.
ere and there the words stood out. bold and
clear; here and there, again, there was only one
decipherable letter among afew broken hiero-
| glyphics.. Mr. Sheldon was accustomed to the
examination of very illegible documents, and he
was able to master the substance of that random
impression. If he could not decipher the whole
| he made out sufficient for his purpose.. Money
| was te be offered to a mar called Goodge for
certain letters. He knew his brother’s affairs
well enough tc know that these letters for which
money was to be offered must needs be letters of
importance in some search for an. heir-at-law.
So far ali was clear and simple; but beyond this
point he found himself at fault. Where was
| this Goodge to be found? and who was the per-
| son that was to offer him money for the letters?
| The names and address, which had been written
first, had left no impression on the blotting-pad,

 

| or an impression so faint as to be useless for any”

Mr. Sheldon put down the pad and lingered by
the door of the office deliberating, when the rat-
tling and hammering came to an abrupt termina-
tion, and the clerk emerged from the interior den.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, ‘‘it’s.all right. Your
| message shall go directly.”

The stock-broker, whose face was half averted
from the clerk, and who stood between that
functionary and the light from the open door-
way, at once comprehended the error that had
arisen. The clerk had, mistaken him for, his
brother.

“Tm not quite clear as to whether I gave the
ne address,” he said promptly, with his face
still averted, and his attention apparently oc-
cupied by a paper in his hand. . ‘‘ Just see how I
wrote it—there’s a good fellow.” .

The clerk withdrew for a few minutes, and re-
turned with the m in his hand.

“From George Sheldon to Valentine Hawke-
hurst, Crown Inn, Ullerton,” he read aloud from
the document.

“All right, and thanks!” cried. the stock-
broker.

He gave one canna eD glance at the, clerk,
and had just time to see that individual’s look of
bewilderment. as some difference in his voice and
person from the.yoice and person of the black-
whiskered man who had just left the office
dawned upon his troubled senses. After that
one glance Mr. Sheldon darted across;the paye-
ment, sprung into his cab, and called to the
driver, ‘‘ Literary Institution, Burton. street, as
fast as youcan go.” - ;

“Tl try my: luck in the second column of the
Times,” he said.to himself. “‘ Tf George’sscheme
is what I take it to be, I shall get some clew to it
there.” He took a little oblong memorandum-
book from, his .pocket and looked at his
memoranda of the past week., Among. those
careless jottings he found one memorandum
scrawled in pencil, among notes and addresses
in ink, ‘‘ Haygarth—intestate. . G. S.; to see

er.

“That's it!” exclaimed he; ‘‘ Haygarth—in-
testate; Valentine Hawkehurst not at Dorking,
but working for my brother; Goodge—letters to
be paid for. It’s all like the bits of mosaic that
those antiquarian fellows are always finding in
the ruins of Somebody’s Baths; a few handfuls
of colored chins that look like rubbish, and can

et be patched into a perfect geometric design.

‘ll hunt up a file of the Times at the Burton In-
stitution, and find out,this Haygrath, if he is to
be found there.”

The Burton Institution was a somewhat dingy
temple, devoted to the interests of science and
literature, and next door tosome baths that were
very Poe among the denizens of Bloomsbury.
People in quest of the Baths were apt to ascend
the classic flight of steps leading to the Institu-
tion, when they should have descended to a low-
lier throshold arieingr ai cenT: by the side of
that edifice, The Baths and the Institution had
both been familiar to Mr. Sheldon in that period
of probation which he had spent in Fitzgeorge
| street. He was sufficiently acquainted with t
librarian of the Institution to go in and out unin-
terrogated, and tomake any use he pleased of
the reading-room. He went in to-day, asked to
sec the latest bound volumes of the ‘Times and
the latest fileof unbound papers, and began his
investigation, working backwar Rapidly and

| practical purpose

 

ital ees

 

 
ate

}
|

 

<

Ps A eg ec er ete teem ea oe

 

dextrously as ho turned. the big leaves of the
journals, the investigation occupied nearly threo
quarters of an hour; but at the expiration of
that time he had alighted on the advertisement
published in the preceding March.

He gave a very low whistle—a kind of phan-
tom. whistle—as he read this advertisement:
“ John Haygarth! a hundred thousand pounds.”

The fortune for which a claimant was lacking
lamounted toa hundred thousand pounds! Mr.
'Sheldon knew commercial despots who counted
their wealth by millions, and whose fiat could
sway the exchanges of Kurope; but a hundred
thousand pounds seemed to him a very nice thing
nevertheless, and he was ready to dispute the
prize the anticipation whereof had rendered his
brother so triumphant.

‘‘ He rejected me as a coadjutor,” he thought
as he went back to his cab after having copied
the advertisement: ‘‘he shall have me as an an-
tagonist.”

“Omega street, Chelsea, next call!” he cried
to the driver;.and was soon beyond the confines
of Bloomsbury, and rattling away toward the
border-land of Belgravia. He had completed
his search of the newspapers at ten minutes past
twelve, and at twenty minutes to one he present-
ed himself at the lodging-house in Omega street,
where he found Captain Paget, in whose “ pro-
moting” business there happened to be a lull just
now. With this gentleman he had a long inter-
view; andthe result of that interview was the
departure of the captain by the two o’clock ex-
press for Ullerton. Thus had it happened that
Valentine Hawkehurst and his patron encount-
ered each other on the platform of Ullerton sta-
tion. o /

 

CHAPTER. II.
VALENTINE INVOKES THE PHANTOMS OF
PAST.

October, Midnight. Iwas so fortunate as ‘to
get away from Spotswold this morning very
soon after the come of my researches in
the vestry, and at five o’clock in the afternoon I
found myself once more in the streets of Uller-
ton, Coming home in the train, I meditated
seriously upon the HAPs appearance of
Horatio Paget at the headquarters of this Hay~
garthian investigation; and the more [I con-
sidered that fact the more I felt inclined to
doubt my patron’s motives and to fear his in-
terference. Can his presence in Ullerton have
any relation to the business that has brought
me here? That is the question which I asked
myself a hundred times during my journey
from Spotswold; that is the question which [
ask myself still.

Ihave no doubt I gave myself unnecessar,
trouble; but I know that old man’s Machiavel-
ian cleverness only too well; and I am inclined
to look with suspicion upon every action of his,
My first business on returning to this house was
to ascertain whether any one bearing his name
or answering to my description of him had ar-
rived during my absence. I was relieved by
finding that no stranger whatever had Ext up at
the inn since the previous forenoon. ho may
have used the coffee-room is another question,
not to be so easily set at rest. In the evening a
great many people come in and go out; and my
friend and patron may have taken his favorite
brandy-and-soda, skimmed his newspaper, and
picked up whatever information was to be ob-
tained as to. my movements without attracting
any particular attention.

& the words of the immortal lessee of the
Globe Theater, “ Why should I fear I know not
—and yet I feel I fear.”

I found a registered letter from George Shel-
don, inclosing twenty pounds.in notes, and fur-
nished therewith I went straight to my friend
Jonah, whom I found engaged in the agreeable
occupation of taking tea. I showed him the
money; but my estimate of the reverend gentle-
man’s honor being of a very limited nature, I
took care not to give it up to him till he had pro-
duced the letters. . On finding that I was reall

repared to give him his price, he went to an old-

ashioned bureau, and opened one of those secret
recesses which cannot for three minutes remain
a secret to any investigator possessed of a toler-
ably accurate eye or a three-foot rule, From
this hiding place—which he evidently considered
a triumph of meghanical art worthy the cabinet
of.a EN seein or a Fouche—he produced a
packet of faded.yellow letters, about. which there
lurked a. faint odor of dried rose-leaves and
lavender which seemed the very perfume of the
past. ( a
When my reverend friend had laid the packet
on the table within reach of my hand, and not
till then, I gave him the bank notes. His fat
old fingers closed upon them greedily, and his
fishy old eyes were illumined by a faint glimmer
which [ believe nothing but bank-notes. could
have kindled: in them.

After having assured himself, that they were
genuine acknowledgments of indebtedness on the
part of the old lady in Threadneedle street, and
not the base simulacra of Birmingham at fiye-
and-twenty shillings a dozen—thirteen as twelve
—Mr, Goodge. obliging]

THE

the satisfaction of my principal.
“Y think you said there were forty-odd let-

\ - consented, to. sign a
simple form of receipt which Thad drawn up for’

 

 

RS tay IS ete

ters,” I remarked, before I proceeded to count
the documents in the eet of Mr. Goodge.

That gentleman looked at me with an air of
astonishment, which, had I not known him to
be the most consummate of hypocrites, would
have seemed to me simplicity itself;

““T said from thirty to forty!” he exclaimed;
‘“T never said there were forty-odd letters.”

T looked at him and he looked at me. . His
face told me Plainly enough that: he was trying
to deceive me, and my face told him: plainly
enough that he had no chance of succeeding in
that attempt. Whether he was keeping back
some of the letters with a view to extorting more
money from me hereafter, or whether he was
keeping them with the idea of making a better
bargain with somebody else I could not tell; but
of the main fact I was certain—he had cheated

me,

[ untied the red tape which held the letters to-
gether. Yes, there was a piece of circumstantial
evidence which might have helped to convict my
friend had he been on his trial in a criminal
court. ‘The red tape bore the mark of the place
in which it had been tied for half a century; and
a little way within this mark the trace of a very
recent ae Some of the letters had been ex-
tracted, and the tape had been tied anew,

I had no doubt that this had been done while
my negonenee with Mr. Goodge had been pend-
ing. hat was I to do? Refuse the letters,
and demand to have my principal’s money re-
turned to me? I knew my friend well enough
to know that such a pyeceediog would be about
as useless as it would be to request the ocean. to
restore a cup of water that had been poured into
it. The letters he had given me might or might
not afford some steht link in the chain I was
trying to put together; and the letters withheld
from me might he more or less valuable than
those given tome. In any case the transaction
‘was altogether a speculative one; and George
Sheldon’s money was hazarded as completely as
if it had been put upon an outsider for the Der-

by.

Before bidding him a polite farewell, I was de-
termined to make Mr. Goodge thoroughly aware
that he had not taken me in.

“You said there were more than forty let-
ters,” I told him; ‘‘ I remember the phrase ‘ for
ty-odd,’ which is a colloquialism one would
scarcely look for in Tillotson, or in John Wes-
ley, who cherished a prejudice in favor of schol-
arship which does not distinguish all his follow-
ers. You said there were forty-odd letters, and

you have removed some of them from the pack-*

et... Lam quite aware that I have no legal rem-
edy against you, as our contract, was a verbal
one, made without: witnesses; so I must be. con-
tent with what, I get; but I do not) wish you to
flatter yourself with the notion’ that you have
hoodwinked a Jawyer’s clerk. “You are not
clever enough to do that, Mr, Goodge, though
you are knaye enough to cheat every attorney
in the Law List.”

‘Young man, are you aware—?” a

““As I have suffered by the absence of an
witness to our, ae Imay as well profit
by the absence of any witness to ow interview.

ou_are a cheat and a trickster, Mr. Goodge,
and Thave the honor to wish you good-after-
noon! ;

“Qo forth, young man!” cried the infuriat
Jonah, whose fat. round face became beet-root
color with rage, and who involuntarily extended
his hand to the poker—for the pu e of de-
fense and not defiance, L believe.) ‘Go forth
young man, I say unto you, as Abimelech said
unto Jedediah, go forth.” ;

Tam not quite clear as to the two Scriptural
roper names with which the Rey. Jonah embel-
ished his discourse on this occasion; but I know

that sortof man always has a eaning. (i the

Abimelechs and Jedediahs of biblical history;

solely, I believe, because the names have a so-

norous roll with them that is pleasant in the
mouth of the charlatan. ;

As Iwasin the actof going forth—quite at
my leisure; for I had no fear of the clerical po-
ker—my eye happened to alight on a small side-
table, covered with a chessboard-patterned cloth
in gaudy colors, and adorned with some of those
somber volumes which seém like an outward
evidence of the sober piety of their possessor.
Among the somber volumes lay something which
savored of another hemisphere than that, to which
those brown leather-bound books belonged. It
was a Eun gentleman’s glove, of pale laven-
der kid; small in size for a masculine glove, and
bearing upon it the evidence of the cleaner’s art.
Such might be the glove of an exiled Brumme'
but could never have incased the squat. paw 0
a Jonah ge. It was as if the point d’ Alen-
con ruffle of Chesterfield had been dropped in
the study of John Wesley. ,

In a moment there flashed into my mind an
en anne haunted me ever snes. ae

ove on; to m — Pe ,

oratio Paget, aaa it wae tor is benefit the
letters had been abstracted from the packet.

He had been with Jonah Goodge in the course

of that day, and had bought him over to cheat

me,

And then I was obli :
question, Was it possible that the — could
have any inkling of my business? ho could

to go back to the.old:

 

sn G

 

have told hira? “Who could have betraiyed:a se-
eret which was known only to George Sheldon
and myself? 4

After all, are there “not.other people than
Horatio Paget. who wear cleaned Vi gatitien
gloves? But it always has been a habit with
the captain to leave one loose glove behind him;
and I dare say it was the recollection of this
which: suggested the idea of his interference in
the Goodge business.

I devoted my evening to the perusal of Mrs.
Rebecca Haygarth’s letters. The pale ink, the
quaint’ cramped hand, the old-fashioned ab-
breviations and very doubtful orthography,
rendered the task laborious; but I'stuck to my
work bravely, and the old clock in the market-

lace struck two as I began the last letter, As

get deeper into this business I find my interest
in it growing day by day; an interest swi generis,
apart from all prospect of gain—apart even
from the consideration that by means of this
investigation I am obtaining a living which is
earned almost honestly; for if I tell an ocea-
sional falsehood or act an occasional. hypocrisy,
IT am no worse than a secretary:of legation or
an Old Bailey barrister,

The pleasure which I now take in the progress
of this research is a pleasure that is new to mé;
it is the stimulus which makes a breakneck gal-
lop across dreary fields gridironed with dykes
and stone-walls so delicious to the spontsman;

mathematician sweet’ to him when he devotes
laborigus days to the solution of an abstruse
ee it is the stimulus that sustains the In-
dian trapper against ail the miseries of cold and
hunger, foul weather, and aching limbs; it is
the fever of the chase—that inextinguishable
fire which, once lighted in the human breast, is
not to be quenched until the hunt is ended.

I should like to earn three thousand pounds;
but if I were to be none the richer for my trou-
ble, I think, now that I am so deeply involved
in this business, I‘should still’go on. want to
fathom the mystery of that midnight interment
at Dewsdale; I want to know the story of that
Mary Haygarth who lies under the old yew-tree
at Spotswold, and for whose loss some one sor-
rowed without hope of consolation.

Was that a widower’s commonplace, I'won-
der? and did the ‘unknown mourner ‘console
himself ultimately with a néw wife?) Who
knows? as my Italian friends BS, when they
discuss the future of France, Shall I everpone-
trate that payebary of the past?, My task seems
to me almost as hopeless as if George Sheldon
had sent me to hunt up the descendants of King
Solomon’s ninety-ninth wife, A hundred years:
ago seems as far away, for all practical. jur-
poses, as if it were on the other cide of the flcod.

The letters are worth very little. They are
prim and measured -epis and. they relate

ral business, rs, Rebecca seems to have been
so much concerned for the health of her soul
thatshe had very little leisure to think of any-
thing so insignificant as.the bodies.of other )eo-

16, ‘The letters are filled with discourse, apqn

er own state of mind; and the tone of them xe~
‘veals not ida of that pride whose character
it is to simulate humility. Mrs. Rebéeca is“al-
ways casting ashes on her head; but’she tales
care to let her friend, and pastor, know, what a
saintly head itis notwithstanding. . tf

T have laid aside three:of' the most secular: let-
ters, which I selected after a through un-
numbered pages of bewailings in f!
Wesleyan me Guyon., ,Thesé, throw some
little light, npon the character of Matthew Hay-
garth, ut do not afford much information ofa

— le kind, (
I have transcribed the letters verbatim; adher-
ing even to certain eccentricities of orthogra~
phy, which were by no means unusual in an age
when the Pretender to the crown of Great Brit-
ain wrote of his father as Gems.

The first letter bears the date of August 30,
1778, one week after the marriage of the lady to
our friend, Matthew. :

“REVERED Friend AND PasTor:+-On Monday sen-
nite we arriv’d in. London, which seems to mea

than Bab

towne etter than he knows those things with wich
it would more become him to be familiar; was pleas’d
to laugh mightily at that pious aversion wherewith I
rej led some of ‘the most notable ‘sights in, this

place. ‘We went tother night to a great garden

but although IT felt obligated
desire to entertain me wie, a fine sight, I could not
Pa Metra tio as

ng them: e ren amongst color Mp8,
and listening as if enraptured to fane: ; music,
when, at so much less Dogs re COR ORy Onoe he th,
they might have been assembled to improve and edi-
fy, one another, ; ta

a
other places of the like ‘character; but
hope and beli

eve, b
to tell him what vain trifling is all

- Wy »
that the an who are both shining’ ex-
am 0 - n by, do attend Vanehal

' seen there frequent,
the delight of their subjects. On which«D
that, much as I esteemed my sovereign and his re-
spectable consort, I would compleat my existence

 

it is the stimulus which makes the task of. they

nee
much more to spiritual matters: than to tempor:

ne strain of a

mighty bigg citty, but_of no more meritt or piety,
— of old. My husband, who Khows fr a

foe et a magn, ne time the ed Ciao a t Be

as ° sIdeNnce or estate’!

that yer 3 fiend and Papistical traitor Vaux or hist y
to my husband for the

rious Christians disport-

“My obliging M thew would have taken me to

 
 

 

 

 

 

hs

ea

Sah NES

84 Tet

without having seen them rathor than I would scek
to encounter them in a place of vain and frivolous
diversion. He listen’d to my discourse in a kind and
sober temper, but he was not convine'd; for by and
by he falls of a sudden to sighing and groaning, and
cries out, ‘O, I went to Vauxha!l once when the gar-
den was not many years made, and O, how bright
the lamps shone, e the stars of heaven fallen
among the bushes! and O, how sweet the music
sounded, like the hymns of angels in the dewy eve-
ning! but that was nigh upon twenty years gone by,
and all the world is changed since then.’

“You will conceive, Reverend Sir, that I was scan-
dalised by such a foolish pve and in plain words
admonish’d my husband of hisfolly. Whereupon he
speedily became sober, and asked my pardon; but
for all that night continued of a gloomy countenance,
ever and anon falling to sighing and groaning as be-
fore. Indeed, honor’d Sir, I have Rood need of a pa-
tient sperrit in my dealings with him; for altho’ at
times I think he is in a fair way to become a Chris-
tian, there are other times when I doubt Satan
has still a hold upon him, and that all my prayers
and admonitions have been in vaine. |

“You, who know the wildness and wickedness of
his past life—so far as that life was ever known to
any but himself, who was ever of a secret and silent
disposition concen his own doings in this city,
tho’ free-spoken and frank in all common matters—
ed honor’d Sir, know with how serious an intention

have taken upon myself the burden of matrimony,
hoping thereby to secure the compleat conversion 0
this waywarde soul. You are aware how it was the
earnest desire of my late respected father that Ma-
thew Haygarth andIshou’d be man and wife, his
father and my father haveing bin friends and com-

anions in the days of her most gracious majest;
Queen Anne. You know how, after being lost to a
decent com r for many years, Mathew came back
after his father’s death, an lived a sober and serious
life, attending amongst our community, and being
seen to shed tears on more than one occasion while
listening to the discourse of our rever’d and inspired
founder. And you, my dear and honor'd pastor,
feel for me when I tell you how lam tormented by
the fear of peaeateing in this soul which I have

romised to restore to the fold. It was but yester-

ay, when walking with him near St. John’s Gate at
Clerkenwell, he came to a standstill all of a sudden,
and cried in that impetuous manner which is even
Nhe: natural to him, ‘Look ye now, Becky, wouldst

Perhaps if the lady’s piety—which scems to
have been thoroughly sincere and praiseworthy,
by-the-by—had been a little less cold and prag-
matical in its mode of expression, poor Matthew
might have taken heart of grace and made a
clean breast of it.

That there was a secret in the man’s life I
feel convinced; but that conviction goes very
little way toward proving any one point of tho
smallest value to George Sheldon.

I transcribe an extract from each of the two
important letters; the first written a month be-
fore Matthew’s death, the second a fortnight
after that event.

“ And indeed, honour’d Sir, I have of late suffered
much uneasinesse of speritt concerning my husband.
Those fits of the mopes of wh I informed you some
time back have again come upon him. For awhile I
did hope that these melancholic affections were the
fruit pe forth by a regenerate soul; but within this
month last past it has been my sorrow to discover
that these gloomy disorders arise rather from the
promptings of the Evil One. It has pleased Mr.

Taygarthe of late to declare that his life is nigh at
an end; and indeed he affects a conviction that his
days are number’d, This profane and impertinent
notion I take to be a direct inspiration of Satan, of a
like character to ye sudden and unaccountable fitts
of laughter which have seized upon many pious
Christians in the midst of earnest congregations;
er much shame and discomfiture has been
prove upon our sect. Nor is there any justifica-
tion for this presumptuous certainty entertained b
my husband, inasmuch as his health is much as it
has ordinarily been for ye last ten years. He does
acknowledge this with his own lips, and immediate-
ly after cries out that his race is run, and the hand
of death is upon him; which I cannot but take as
the voice of the enemy speaking through that weak
mouth of the flesh.

“On Sunday night last past, the gloomy fitt being
come upon him after prayers, Mr, Haygarthe began
all on a sudden, as it is his habit to do:

“*There is something I would fain tell thee,

 

| thee

@ to see the house in which the happiest years of |

my life was spent?’ AndI making no answer, as
thinking it was but some sudden freak, he points out
a black, dirty-looking Sete eo. with overhang-
ing windows and a wide gabled roof, ‘Yonder it
stands, Becky,’ he cries; ‘number seven, John street,
Clerkenwell; a queer dingy box of four walls, my
wench—a tumble-down kennel, with a staircase that
*twould break your neck to mount, being strange to
it—and half-a-day’s journey from the court-end of
town. But that house was once paradise to me; and
to look at. it even now, though ’tis over eighteen
ears since I saw the inside of it, will bring the tears
to these poor old eyes of mine.’ And then he
walk’d on so fast that I could scace keep pace with
him, till we came to Smithfield; and then he began
to tell me about Bartholomew Fair and the brave
sights he had seen; and must needs show me where
the booth of one Fielding had stood—since infamous-
notorious as the writer of some trashy novels, the
ullness whereof is only surpassed by their profliga-
cy; and then he talks of Fawkes, the conjurer, who
made a fortune, and of some humble person
called ‘ Tiddy Doll,’ a dealer in ngerbread and such
foolish wares. But he could tell me nothing of those
preachings of our reverend founder in Moor-
field, which would have been more pleasant to me
than all this vain babble about drolls and jesters, gin-
Bi bakers and showmen.

“When we had walked the round of the place, and
it was time to take coach for our lodging at Chelsea
—he having brought me thus far to see St, Paul’s and
the prison of Newgate, the Mint and Tower—the
gloomy fit came on nine all that evening

e was dull and sorro , though I read aloud to
him from the printed sermons of a rising member of
our community. So you will see, honor’d Sir, how
difficult it is for these children of Satan to withdraw
hearer een that pastes tie have once maxed

nee e sober oO a ears my hus-
band’s weak heart bs yearns after profligate faires
and foolish gardens lighted by color’d lampes.

“ And now no more, reverend friend, paper be-
ing gone and it being full time to reflect that yr pa-
tience must be gone also. Service to Mrs, 1

have no more room but to assure you that the gay-
eties of this foolish and erring citty have no power
to withdraw the heart of her whose chief privilege it
is to sul ibe herself
“Your humble follower and servant,
“Repecca HAyGARTH.”

To my mind there seems just a shadowy hint
of some by-gone romance in this letter. Why
did the di house in John street buing the
tears into Matthew’s eyes? and why did the
memory of Vauxhall and Bartholomew Fair
seem so sweet to him? And then that sighing
and groaning.and dolefulness of visage whenev-
er the thought of the past came back to him?

What did it all mean, I wonder? Was. it
only his vanished youth which poor, sobered,
converted, Wesleyanized Matthew regretted? or
were there pensive memories of something even
sweeter than youth associated with the colored
lamps of Vauxhall and the di of Clerken-
well? Who shall sound the heart of a man who
lived a hundred years ? and where is the
fathom line which shall plumb its m: ies?
should need a stack of old letters before IT could
arrive at the secret of that man’s life,

The two other letters, which I have selected
after some deliberation, relate to the last few
weeks of Matthew’s existence; and in these
again I fancy I see the trace of some domestic
ee some sorrowful secret which this

citizen kept hidden from his as
which he was on several occasions half inclined
0 reveal to her.

|

|

 

wench,’ he cries out, ‘something about those roys-
ote in London which it might be well for
know.’

“But I answered him directly that I had no desire
to hear of profane roysterings, and that it would be

| better for him to eoen THe peace, and listen reverent-

ly to the expounding of the Scriptures, which
umphrey Bagot, our worthy pastor and friend, had
romiiwed to explain and exemp! after supper.

e was seated at ye time in ye blue parlour, the
table being spread for supper, and were awaiting
our friend from the village, a man of humble sta-
tion, being but a poor chapman and huckster, but
of exalted mind and a most holy temper, and sells
me the same growth of Bohea as that drunk by our
gracious queen at Windsor.

“After I had thus reproved him—in no unkind
speritt—Mr. Haygarthe fell to sighing; and then
cries out all at once:

“When I am on my death-bed, wife, I will tell
thee something; be sure thou askest me for it; or if
death come upon me unawares, thou wouldst do
well to search in the old tulip-leaf bureau for a let-
ter, since I may tell thee that in a letter which I
would not tell with these lips.’

“Before there was time to answer him in comes
Mr. Bagot, and we to supper; after which he did
read the sixth chapter of Hebrews and expound it at
much length for our edifying; at the end whereof
Satan obtained fast hold of Mr. Haygarthe, who
was fallen asleep and snoring heavily.

Here is plain allusion to some secret, which
that pragmatical idiot, Mrs. Rebecca, studious],
endeavored not to hear, The next extract
from a letter written when the lips that had
been fain to speak were stilled forever. Ah,
Mistress Rebecca, you were but mortal woman,
although you were also a shining light among
the followers of John Wesley: and I wonder
what-you would have given for poor Matthew’s
secret then.

“Some days being gone after this melancholic
event, I bethought me of that which my husband
had said to me before I left Dewsdale for that ex-
cursion to the love-feasts at Kemberton and Kes-
field, Broppindean, and Dawnfold, from which I re-
turned but two short weeks before my poor Mat-
thew’s demise. I called to remembrance that dis-
course about approaching death which in my poor
human judgement I did esteem a pestilent error of
mind. but which I do not now recognise as a spir-
itual premonition; and I set myself earnestly to
look for that letter which Matthew told me he would
leave in the tulip-leaf burea. But though I did
search with great care and pains, my trouble was
wasted, inasmuch as there was no letter. Nor did I
leave off to search until ev’ry nook and crevvis had
been examin’d, But in one of ye secret drawers
hidden in an old dog’s-eared book of prayers, I did
find 4 lock of fair hair, as if cut from the head of a
child, entwin’d curiously with a long plait of dark
hair, which by reason of ye length thereof, must
needs have been the hair of a woman, and with
these the miniature of a girl’s face, in a gold frame.
I will not stain this paper, which is near come to an
end, by the relation of such suspicions as arose in
my mind on these curious treasures; nor
will I be of so un n a temper as to speak ill of
the dead. My husband was in his latter days exem-
plarily sober, and a humble acting Xtian. Ye se-
crets of his earlier life will not now be showne to
me on this side heaven, Ihave set aside ye book,
ye picture, and ye plaited hair in my desk for con-
veniency, where I will show them to you when Iam
next rejoic’d by yr inp conversation. Until
then, in grief or in happiness, in health and sickness,
I trust I ghall ever continue, with ye'same sincerity,

* Your humble and ob servant and disciple,

* REBECCA HayGARTHE.”

Thus end my excerpts from the correspond-
ence of Mrs. femth They are very inter-
esting to me, as containing the v: shadow of
a vanished existence; but chante they. will

PESO e LIBRARY.

voice of my

 

 

ever be worth setting forth in an affidavit is
extremely uncertain. Doubtless that miniature
of an unknown girl, which caused so much con-
sternation in the mind of sober Mrs. Rebecca,
was no other than the ‘‘Molly” whose gray
eyes reminded me of Charlotte Halliday.

As I copied Mrs. Rebecca’s quaint epistles, in
the midnight stillness, the things of which I
was writing arose before me like a picture. I
could see the blue parlor that Sunday evening;
the sober couple seated primly opposite to eac!
other; the china monsters on the high chimney-
piece; the blue-and-white Dutch tiles, with
queer squat figures of Flemish citizens on foot
and on horseback; the candles burning dimly
on the spindle-legged table; two poor pale
flames reflected ghastly in the dark, polished
panels of the wainscot; the big open Bible on
an adjacent table; the old silver tankard, and
buckhorn-handled knives and forks set out for
supper; the solemn eight-day clock, ticking
drearily in the corner; and amidst all that
somber old-fashioned comfort, gray-haired Mat-
shen MeIPS and lamenting for his vanished

outh.

7 I have grown strangely romantic since I have
fallen in love with Charlotte Halliday. The time
was when I should have felt nothing but a flip-
nt ignorant contempt for poor Haygarth’s fee-

le sighings and lamentings; but now I think of
him with a sorrowful tenderness and am more
interested in his poor, commonplace life, that
picture, and those two locks of hair, than in the
most powerful romance that ever emanated from
mortal genius. It has been truly said, that truth
is stranger than fiction; may it not as justly be
said that truth has a power to touch the human
heart which is a the most sublime flights
of a Shi are, or the grandest Sree as of
an Auschylus? One is sorry for the fate of Aga-
memnon; but one is infinitely more sorrowful
for the cruel death of that English Richard in
the dungeon at Pomfret, who was a very insig-
nificant person as compared to the king of men
and of ships.

 

CHAPTER III.
HUNTING THE JUDSONS.

October. Yesterday and the day before were
blank days. On Saturday I read Mrs. Rebecca’s
letters a second time after a late breakfast, and
spent a lazy morning in the endeavor to pick up
any stray crumbs of information which I might
have overlooked the Rrevicue night. There was
nothing to be found, however; and, estimable as
I have always considered the founder’ of the
Wesleyan fraternity, I felt just a little Weary of
his virtues and his discourses, his journeying
from place to place, his love-feasts, aad his

rayer-meetings, before I had finished with Mrs.

aygarth’s correspondence. In the afternoon I
strolled about the town; made inquiries at sev-
eral inns, with a view to discover whether Cap-
tain Paget was peradventure an inmate thereof;
looked in at the railway-station, and watched
the departure of a train; dawdled away half an
hour at the best tobacconist’s shop in the town
on the chance of encountering my accomplished
patron, who indulges in two of the choicest ob-
tainable cigars per diem, and might possibly re-
poi thither to make a purchase, if he were in

he place. Whether he is still in Ullerton or not

I cannot tell; but he did not come to the tobac-
conist’s; and I was fain to go back to my inn
having wasted a day. Yet I do not think that
George Sheldon will have cause to com lain of
me, since I have worked very closely for my
twenty shillings per week, and have devoted
myself to the business in hand with an amount
of enthusiasm which I did not think it possible
for me to experience—except for—

I went e church on Sunday morning, and
was more devoutly inclined than it has been my
habit to feel; for although a man who lives by
his wits must not necessarily be a héathen or an
atheist, it is very difficult for him to be ae
like a Christian; even my devotion yesterday
was not worth much, for my thoughts went
vagabondizing off to Charlotte Halliday in the
midst of a very sensible practical sermon.

In the afternoon I read the papers, and dozed
by the fire in the coffee-room—two-thirds coke

by-the-way, and alternating from the fierceness
of a furnace to a dreary blackness—still think-
ing of Charlotte.

te in the evening I walked the streets of the
town, and thought what a lonely wretch I was.
The desert of Sahara is somewhat dismal, I dare-
say ; but in its dismality there is at least a flavor
of romance, a smack of adventure. Oh, the
hopeless duliness, the unutterable blankness of a
provincial town late on a Sunday night, as it pre-
sents itself. to the contemplation of a friendless
young man without a nce in his pocket, or
one bright hope to tem him to forgetfulness
of the past in pleasant dreaming of the future!
Complaining again! h, pen, which art the
mtent, your spluttering is like
this outburst of unmanly fretfulness and futile
Tage : Oh paper, whose flat surface typifies the
ni

evel of my life, your greasy em

to receive the ink is emblematic of the soul’s re-
volt ‘against destiny!

This afternoon brought me a letter from Shel-
don, and opened a new channel for my explora-
tions in that underground territory, the past.

\

 

 
 

eer oo

 

BIRDS OF

patie

37

 

 

be had, she must needs stop in doors. I hav begg’d
herr to lett me carry her to G., but she, will not, and
says in ye summerr she will be as strong as everr. “I
pray God she may be so. Butt theire are times whenn
my harte is sore and‘heavy; and the-rane beeting
agenst the winder semes lik,dropps of. cold worter
falling, uponn my pore, aking, harte, , If you cou’d
stele a visitt you wou'd, see wether she semes worse
than whenn you sor her last ortumm, she is writs
ye tansy tea; and beggs her service to you, an¢
gréatefull thanks for yr rememberence of her.

dare to say you here splendid:acounts of my doins in
London—at cok fites:and’ theaters, dansin at, Vorx-
hall, and. beeting ye wotch in Covin Garden, , Does

 

 

my fF. stil,use, to,,speke, harsh. agenst. me, or}

has he ni forgott their is sech.a creetur living? If he
has .so, J Se you wil kepe him in sech forgetfull-
nesse—and obliage '
‘yr loving brother and obediant servent,
“ Marnew Hayearru.”

To me this letter is almost conclusive evidence
of a marriage. Who can this little M. be, of
whoni he writes’ so tenderly, except a child?
Who ¢an this woman be, whose ill-health causes
him such anxiety, unless a wife? Of tio one but
& wife could he write so freely to his sister. The
place’ to which he ‘asks her to ‘steal a‘ visit”
must needs be a home to which aman could in-
vite his sister.’ I faney it is thus made very
clear that at this period Matthew Haygarth was
secretly married and living at Spotswold, where
his wife and son were afterward buried, and
whence the body of the son was ultimately re-
moved ‘to Dewsdale to be laid in that grave
which the father fel would soon be his own
resting-place.” That allusion to the Ullerton
talk of London roysterings indicates’ that
Mattheéw’s father believed him to be squander-
ing the paternal substance in the metropolis at
the very time when the young man was Iéading
a simple’ domestic life within fifty miles of the
paternal abode, No man could do such a thing
in’ thés6 days of rapid locomotion, when every
creature ‘is more or less peripatetic; but in that
benighted century’ the distance from Ullerton
to Spotswold constituted a day’s journey. That
Matthew was living in one’ place while he was
supposed ‘to be in another, is*made sufficiently
élear by several passages in his letters, all more
or less in the strain of the following:

“Twas yesterday—markett-day—at G., wear I ran
suddennly agenst Peter Browne’s eldest ladd. Ye
poy openn’d his eyes wide, stearing like an owle:
butt I gaive him bakk his looke with interrest, and
tolde him if he was curiouse to know my name, I
was Simon Lubehick, farmer, ,at_his servise. Ye
pore *simpel ladd arsk’d my pardonn humbly for
having mistook me for a gentelman of Ullerton—a
frerid of his father; on wich I gaive him a shillin,
and we parted, vastly plesed with eche other; and
this is nott the fust time the site of Ullerton fokes
has putt me into a swett.”

Among later: letters ‘are very sad ones. The
little M. is dead. The father’s poor aching heart
proclaims its anguish in very simple words:

“ Nov. 1751. I thank my dear sister kindly for her
frendlinesse and compashin; butt, ah, he is gone,
and their semes to be no plesure or comforte on this
erth without him? onlie a littel childe of 6 yeres,
and yett so dere a creetur to this harte that the
worlde is emty and lonely without him. _M, droopes
sadly, and is more ailing everry day. Indede, my
dere Ruth, I see nothing Butt sorrow before me, and
LIwou'd be right gladd to lay down at peece in my
littel M.’s grave.”

I can find no actual announcements of death:
only sad illusions here and there, I fancy the
majority of Matthew’s letters must have bee 1
lost, for the dates of those confided to my hands
are very far i alg and there is evidence in all
of them of other correspondence, After the
letter alluding to little M.’s death there is a hia-
tus. of eight years, Then comes a letter with
the post-mark London very clear, from which I
transcribe an extract:

“ October 4th, 1759. The toun is very sadd; every
body, high and low, rich and. pore, in morning for
Gennerel Wolf: wot a nobel deth to die, and how
much happier than to live, when one considers the
eairs and miseries of this life; and sech has bin the
oppinion of wiser fokes than yr humble servent.
Being in companie on Thersday sennite with that
distingwish’d_ riter, Dr. Johnson—whose admir’d
story of Raselass I sent you new from re press, but
who I am bound to confesse is less admirable as a
fine gentlemann than as an orther, his linning siled
and his kravatt twisted ary, and his manners wot in
amore obskure personn wou'd be thort ungenteel—
he made a remark wich impress’d me much. _ Some
one present, being almost al gentelmenn of parts and
learning except yr pore untuter’d brother, observed
that it was a saying with the ainchents that ye hap-
pies of men was him wich was never born: ye next

apy him wich died the soonest. On wich Doctor
Johnson cried out verry loud and angry. That was a
Paggann sentyment, sir, and I am am’d that a
Xtian gentelmann shou’d repete it as a subject for
admerashun. Betwene these heathen men and ye
followers of Christ their is all 4 difference betwene
a slave and a servent of a kind Master. Eche bears
the same burden; butt ye servent knows he will re-
cieve just wages for his work, wile ye slave hopes
for nothing, and so conkludes ‘that to escape Work 1s
to be happy! I could but acknowlege the wis-
domm and pyety of this speche; yett whenn I see te
peopel Rong. bye in there black rayment, Lem e

oung Gennerel his gloreous deth, and wish I was
laying among the slane on the hites of Quebeck. I
went to look at ye old house in J. St., but I wou'd
not go in tosee Mr. F. or ye old roomes: for I think
I shou'’d see the aparisions of those that once liv’din
them, OC, thrivs at Higate, wear the. aire is fresh
and pewer. I go to see her offen. She is nerely as
high as you. _Give my servis to Mrs. Rebecka, sinse
you say it will plese my father to do ‘so, and he is

 

now dispos’d to think more kindly of me. Butt if he
thinks I shal everr arske her to be my wife he is mi-
tyly mistaken, “Yow know wear my harte lies—in ye
erare with all that made life dere. Thank my father

or the Bill, and tell him I pass my time yh good
companie and neether drink nor play: and will come
to Ullerton to pay him my respeckts when he pleses
to bid me. Butt A hate no desire to leeve London, as I
am gladd to be neare C.”

Who was C., whom Matthew visited at High-
gate, and. who was nearly as. as Ruth Jud-
son? .-Was.she not most like the same C. men-
tioned in.conjunction with the little M. in the
earlier letters? and if so, can there be any doubt
that she was the daughter of Matthew Haygarth?
Of whom but of a daughter would he write as
in this letter?, She was at Highgate, at school
most likely, and he goesto see her. She is nearly
as tall as Mrs. Judson. This hight must have
been a new thing, or he would scarcely impart
it as a piece of news to his sister, And then he
has no desire to, leave London, as he is glad to
be near C,

My life upon it, C. is'a daughter.

Acting upon. this conviction, I have trans-
scribed all passages relating to C., at whatever
distance of time they: occur.

Thus, in 1763, I find;

“C. has grone verry hansome, and Mrs. N. tells me
is much admir’d by a brother of her frend Tabitha.
She never stirs abrorde but with Tabitha, and if a
duchesse, cou’d be scarce wated on more cairfully.
Mrs. N. loves her verry,tenderly, and considers her
the sweetest and most wel bredd of young women.
I hav given her the new edishun of Sir Charls Gran-
disson, wich they read alowde in ye evenings, turn
and turn about, to Mrs. N. at her spining, C. has
given me a wool comforteriof her owne worke, and
sum stockings wich are two thick to ware, but t hav
not told her so.”

Again, in 1764:

‘Tabitha Meynell’s brother goes more than everto
Higate, He is a clark in his father’s wearhouse;
very sober and estimabel, and if it be for ye hapiness
of (. to mary him, I wou’d be ye laste of men to
sett. my orthoritty, agenst her enclinashum, She is
yett but ayteen ite of age, wich is young to make a
change; sol tell Mrs. N. we will waite. Meanwhile
ye young peapel see eche other offen.”

Again, in 1765:

“Young Meynell is still constant, expressing much
love and admirashun for C. in his discorse with Mrs.
N., butt satisfide to wait my plesure before spekeing
oppenly to C. He sémes a most exempelry young
man; his father a cittizen of some repewt in Algers-
gait street, ware Ehave din’d since last riting to you,
and. at hoose tabel I was paid much conside) un.
He, Tomas Meynell ye father, will give his son five
hundred pound, and I prommis a thousand pound
with C. and to furnish a house at Chelseé, a verry
plesent and countriefide vilage; so I make no doubt
there will soon be a re bs

“Tam sorrie to here my father is alee give him
my love and servise, and will come to Ullerton im-
mediate on receiving his commands. I am plesed to
think Mrs. Rebecka Caulfeld is so dutifull and kind
to him, and has comforted him with prairs and dis-
corses. I thank her for this more than for any frend-
shipp for my undeserving self. Pray tell her that I
am much at her servise.

“Our new king is lov’d and admir’d by all. His
ministers not so;,and wise peopel do entertain them-
selfs with what 1 think foollish jokes a-bout a Skoich
boote. Perhapps Tam not cleverr enuff to see the funn
in this joke.”

In this letter I detect a certain softening of
feeling toward Mrs. Rebecca Caulfield: In the
r,ext year—'66—according to my notes, Mat-
thew’s father died, and I have noletters bearing
the date of that year, which our Matthew no
doubt spent at home. Nor have I any letters
from this time until the year of Matthew’s mar-
riage with Rebecca Caulfield. In the one year
of his union with Mrs. Rebecca, and the last
i of his life, there are many letters, a few
rom London and the rest from the manor-house
at Dewsdale. But in these epistles, affectionate
and confidential as they are, there is little posi-
tive information.

 

These are the letters of the erate and
Wesleyanized Matthew; and like more ela-
borate epistle of his wife Rebecca, deal chiefly
with matters ‘spiritual. In these’ letters I can

reeive the workings of a weak mind, whichin
its decline has become a prey to religious terrors;
and though I fully recognize the reforming in-
fluence which John Wesley exercised upon the
ro of England, I fancy poor Matthew would

ave been better in the hands of a woman whose
piety was of a less severe type than that of

es oye Rebecca.’ There is an all-pervadin,

tone of fearin these letters; a depression ewsise.
is almost despair. In the same breath he la-
ments and regrets the lost happiness of his
youth and regrets and laments his own iniquity
in having been so ignorantly and un ly

happy.
Thus in one letter he says:

“When I think of that inconsideratt foolish time
with M., and how to be nere her semed the highest
blisse erth cou’d bistowe or Heven aero I trim-
bel to think of my pore unawaken’d sole, and of her
dome on which the tru light nevershoun. If I cou’d
believe she was happy my. owne sorow wou'd be
lesse; but.I canot, sence all ye worthyest_ memberrs
te one ach e that ie die shinking. oa of erthly

rends, and clingen, a unate regre’
them we luv on ert ts to be lesse than a tru Xtian,
and for sech their is but one dome.”

And again, in a still later epistle, he writes:

°

 

 

“On Toosday sennite an awakning discorse
fromm a verry young man, until lately a Sarees
but now imploid piusly in going tre, toun to toun
and vilage to vilage, precning. Says. that a life
of cairlesse happyness, finding plesure in ye things
of this worlde, is—not being repentied of—irretrev-
able damnation. This is a maloncally thort. ' I fell
to mewsing on M., with hoom I injoy’d such com-

leat, FS tom tel Deth came a@ spekter to

comforte. And now I know that our
lives wear vainity.. I ashure you, dear sister, I am
prodidjpaly sadd when I reffleckt upon this truth—
ashuredly it is a harde saying.”

Anon comes this strange mame oisee? of
death—that. instinctive sense of the shadowy
hand so soon to lay him at rest; and with that
mystic prescience comes a yearning for the little
child M. to be laid where his father may lie
down beside him. There are many passages in ~
the latter letters which afford a clue to that
mysterious midnight burial at Dewsdale. i

“Last nite I drem’t of the cherchyarde at S, I ©
satte under the olde yew tree, as it semed inmy *
dreme, and hurd a childes voice ing in-avery .
pitious mannerr. The thort of this dreme op-
press’d my 8) tts all day, and Rebecka has en-
quier’d more than wunce wot ales me, If little M.
but lay nere at hande, in ye graive to wich I fele I
must soone be carrid, I beleive I shou’d be happyer.
Reproove me for this folley if you iee Tam get-
ting olde, and Sattan temts me with seche fooleish
thorts. Wot dose it matter to my sole wear my vile
bodie is laid? and yet I have a fonde fooleish desier to
be berrid with littel M.” od

And in these latest letters there is ample evi-
dence of that yearning on Matthew's part to
reveal a secret which Rebecca’s own corréspond-
ence betrays.

“We tawked of many things, and she was more
than ordinnary kind and genteel. I had a mind to
tell her about M., and aske her frendship for C.; but
she seemed not to cair to here my sekrets, and I
think wou’d be offended if she new the trooth. SoI
eou’d not finde cour! to tell her. Before I die I
shall speek raw for the saik of C. and M., and ye
littel one. Ishal cum to U. erly nex weak to make
my Wille, and this time shal, chainge my umour no
more. I have burnt ye laste, not likeing it.’’

This serees occurs in the last letter, amon:
the packet confided to me. The letter is da
September 5, 1774. On the fourteenth of the
following month Matthew died, and in all prob-
ability the will here alluded to was never exe-
cuted. Certain it is that Matthew, whose end
was awfully sudden at the last, died intestate
whereby his son John inherited the bulk, and
ultimately the whole, of his fortune. There are
many allusions to this infant son in the last few
letters; but I do not think the little creature
obtained any great hold on the father’s heart.
No doubt he was bound and swaddled out of
even such small semblance to humanity as one
may reasonably expect in a child of six or seven
weeks old, and by no means an agreeable being.
And poor weak-minded Matthew’s heart was
with that player-girl wife whom he never ac-
knowl , and the little M.

And thus ends the story of Matthew Haygarth,
so far as I have been able to trace it in the un-
fathomable gloom of the ,

It seems me that what I have next to do
will be to hunt up information respecting that

oung man Meynell, whose father lived in Al-
te street, and was a respectable and solid
citizen of that ilk; able to give a substantial
dinner to the father of his son’s sweetheart, and
ete teas a person considerable enough, I
should imagine, to have left footprints of some
kind or other on the sands of Time. The in-
scrutable Sheldon will be able to decide in what
manner the hunt of the Meynells must begin.
I doubt if there is anything more to be done in
Ullerton.

I have sent Sheldon a fair copy of my ex- °
tracts from Matthew’s correspondence, and
have returned the letters to Miss Judson, care-
fully , inaccordance with her request. I
now await my Sheldon’s next communication
and the abatement of my influenza before mak-

ing my next move in the great game of ‘chess
called Life.

 

What is the meaning of Horatio Paget’s
lengthened abode in this ? He is still here.
He went <= this house to-day while I was
standing at my window in that ab state of
mind known only to influenza and despair. I
think I was suff from a touch of both dis-
eases, by-the-by. it isthat man doing here?
The idea of his mce fills me with all manner
of e apprehensions. I cannot rid myself of
the a notion that the lavender-glove I saw
lying in ay oe parlor had been left there by

e rc know the idea is an absurd one,
and I tell myself a, and again that Paget
cannot have any inkling of my business here,
and therefore cannot at t to forestall me or
steal my hard-won information. But often as I
reiterate this—in that silent an which a
man is always elaborating in his own mind—I
am still tormented by a nervous apprehension
of treachery from t man. I at the
boundary-line between influenza and Aiony isa
very narrow one. And then Horatio Paget is
mich a thorough-paced scoundrel. He is He with
Philip Sheldon too—another thorough-paced
scoundrel in a iaee gentlemanly way, unless
my instinct ives me, :

2

 
 

 

 

 

‘the contents of

 

388 THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

October’ 12, Chere is treachery somewhere.
Again the Haygarthian epistles have been tam-

red with. Karly this morning comes an in-

ignant note from Miss Judson reminding me
that I promised the packet of letters should be
restored to her yesterday at noon, and inform-
ing me that they were not returned until last
night at eleven o’clock, when they were left at
her back garden gate by a dirty boy, who rung
the bell as loudly as if he had been giving the
alarm of fire, and who thrust the packet rudely
into the hand of the servant and vanished im-
mediately. So much for' the messenger. The
packet itself, Miss Judson informed me, was of
a dirty and disgraceful appearance, unworth
the hands of a gentlewoman, and one of the le
ters was missing.

Heedless of my influenza I rushed at once to
the lower regions of the inn, saw the waiter into
whose hands I had confided my packet at half-
past ten o’clock yesterday morning, and asked
what messenger had been charged with it.. The
waiter could not tell me. He did not remem-
ber. I told him plainly that I considered this
want of memory very extraordinary. The
waiter laughed me to scorn, with that quiet in-
solence which a well-fed waiter feels for a cus-
tomer who pays twenty shillings a week for his
board and lodging. The packet had been given
to a very Pane messenger, the waiter
made no doubt. As to whether it was the
hostler, or one of the boys, or the Boots, or a
young woman in the kitchen who went on er-
rands sometimes, the waiter wouldn’t take upon
himself to swear, being a man who would per-
ish rather than inadvertently perjure himself.
As to my packet having been tampered with,
that was ridiculous, at ‘on earth was there
in a lump of GHENT EBD for anyone to steal?
Was there money in the parcel? t was fain to
confess there was no money; on which the wait-
er laughed aloud,

7 t the waiter, I applied myself severally
to the hostler, the boys, the Boots, and the
yor woman in the kitchen; and. then tran-
spired the curious fact that noone had carrled
my paeeee The hostler was sure he had not;
the Boots could take his Bible oath to the same
effect; the young woman in the kitchen could
not call to mind anything respecting a packet,
though she was able to give me a painfully cir-
cumstantial account of the events of the morn-
ing—where she went and what she did, down to
the purchase of Payee pean y rca of pearl-ash
and a pound of Glenfield starch for the head
chamber-maid, on which she dwelt with ‘a per-
sistent fondness.

I now felt assured that there had been treach-
ery here as in the business; and I asked
myself to whom could I impute that treach-

ery?

i instinctive suspicion was of Horatio Pagot.
And yet was it not more probable that Theodore
Judson senior and Theodore Judson junior were
involved in this business, and were watching and
counter-checking my actions with a view to frus-
trating the plans of my principal? This was one
question which I asked myself as I deliberated
upon this mysterious business, Had the Theo-
dore Judsons some knowledge of a secret mar-
riage on the part of Matthew Haygarth? and
did they suspect the existence of an heir in tho
descendant of the issue of that manriage? These
were further eens which Iasked myself, and
which I found it much more easy to ask than to
answer. g :

After having considered these questions 1
went to the Lancaster road, saw Miss Judson—
assured her, on my word as a gentleman, tat
the packet had been delivered by my hands into
those of the waiter at eleven o’clock on the pre-
vious day, and asked to see the envelope... There
it was—my large blue wire-wove office-envelope,
ad in my own writing. But in these
days of adhesive envelo; he is nothing
easier than to tamper with the fastening of a
letter. I registered a mental vow never again
to trust any es document to the protec-
tion of a morsel of gummed. paper: I* counted
the letters, convinced myself that there was a
deficiency, and then set to work to discover
which of the letters had been abstracted. Here
I failed utterly, For my own convenience in
sopying my extracts, I had numbered the letters
from which [ intended to transcribe sages
before beginning my work. My penciled figures
in consecutive order were visible in the corner of
the superscription of every document I had
used. Those numbered covers I now found in-
tact, ~“ we ne thus eee myself that tino
missin; was one i
talon noe act ‘om which I hal

is inspired me with.a new alarm i
be possible that I had overlooked some i <
per eon mare important than all that. I

_ transeri

Tracked my brains in the eee to recall
c one missing letter; but al-
though I sat in that social tomb, Miss Judson’s
best parlor, until I felt my blood becoming of
< is). eaenieye I eae permet nothing that
aS roe

fnid aside af aeiaeloar ring in the letters I had
of the person ‘who had ‘tenner sugpicion
wil e

She looked at me with an icy smile,

 

and answered in ironical accents, which were
even more chilling than the atmosphere of her
parlor.

“Do not ask if J know who has tampered
with those letters, Mr. Hawkehurst. Your af-
fectation of surprise has been remarkably well

ut on; but I am not to be deceived a second

ime. When you came to me in the first in-
stance I had my suspicions; but you came fur-
nished with a note from my brother, and as a
Christian I repressed those suspicions. I know
now that I have been the dupe of an impostor,
and that in intrusting those letters to you I in-
trusted them to an emissary and tool of THxo-
DORE JUDSON.”

T protested that I had never to my knowledge
set eyes upon either of the Theodore Judsons;
but the prejudiced kinswoman of those gentle-
men shook her head with a smile whose icy
blandness was eminently exasperating.

“T am not to be deceived a second time,” she
said. ‘‘Who else but Theodore Judson should
have employed you? Who else but Theodore
Judson is interested in the Haygarth fortune?
Oh, it was like him to ee. a stranger where
he knew his own efforts would be unavailing; it
was like him to hoodwink me by the agency of a
hireling tool.”

Thad been addressed asa “young man” by
the reverend Jonah, and now I was ken of
asa “‘hireling tool” by Miss Judson. scarce-
ly knew which was most disagreeble, and I be-
gan to think that board and lodging in the pre-
sent, and a visionary three thousand pounds in
the future, would scarcely compensate me for
such an amount of ignominy.

I went back to my inn utterly crest-fallen—a
creature so abject that even the degrading in-
fluence of influenza could scarcely sink me any
lower in the social scale. I wrote a brief and
succinct account of my proceedings, and dis-
patched the same to George Sheldon, and then I
sat down in my sickness and despair, as deeply
humiliated as Ajax when he found the had
been pitching into sheep instead of Greeks, as
miserable as Job among his dust and ashes, but
Tam happy to say untormented by the chorus
of one or the friends of the other. In that re-
spect at least I had some advantage over both.

October 13. This morning’s post brought me
a brief scrawl from Sheldon.

“Come back to town directly. I have found
the registry of Matthew Haygarth’s marriage.”

And soI turned my back on Ullerton; with
what rejoicing of spirit it is noi in language to
express.

BOOK VI—THE HEIRESS OF THE
HAYGARTHS.
CHAPTER I.
DISAPPOINTMENT.

OF all places upon this earth, perhaps, there
is none more obnoxious to the civilized mind
than London in October; and yet to Valentine
Hawkehurst, newly arrived from Ullerton per
Northwestern Railway, that city seemed as an
enchanted and paradisaical region. Were not
the western suburbs of that murky metropolis
inhabited by Charlotte Halliday, and might he
not hope to see her?

He did hope for that enjoyment. He had felt
something more than hope wiile speeding Lon-
donward by that delightful combination of alib-
eral railway management, a fist and yet cheap
train, He had beguiled himse!f with a delicious
certainty. Early the next mcrning—or at any
rate as early ascivilization ee would
hie him to Bayswater, and present himself at
the neat iron gate of Philip Sheldon’s Gothic
villa, She would be there, in the graes most
likely, his divine Charlotte, so bright and radi-
ant acreature that the dull October morning
would be made glorious by her presence—she
would be there, and she would welcome him
with that smile which made her the most en-
chanting of women. :

Such thoughts as these had engaged him dur-
ing his homeward journey; and compared with
the delight of such visions, the perusal of daily
papers, and the POTIREEE VE of sandwiches,
whereby other passenger ed their transit,
seemed a poor amusement. But, arrived in the
dingy streets, and walking toward Chelsea un-

de drizzling rain, the bright picture began
‘one nas it not more than likely that

 

to grow dim.
Charlotte would be absent from London at
this di n? Was it not very probable

dismal seaso r ,
that Philip Sheldon would give him the cold
shoulder? ; .

With these gloomy contingencies before him,
Mr. Hawkehurst tried to shut Miss Halliday’s
image altogether out of his mind, and to con-
template the more practical aspect of his affairs,

“J wonder whether that scoundrel Paget has
come back to London?” he thought. ‘“ What
am I to say to him if he has? If I own to hay-
ing seen him in Ullerton, I shalllay myself open
tor being questioned by him as to my own busi-
ness in that locality. Perhaps my wisest plan
would be to say nothing, and hear his own ac-
count of himself. I fully believe he saw me on
the platform that night when we each
other without .

 

Horatio Paget was at home when his prote
arrived, He wasseated by his fireside in all

 

domestic Tespectonln of a dressing-gown and
slippers, with an evening paper on his knee, a
slim smoke-colored bottle at his elbow, and the
mildest of cigars between his lips, when the tra-
veler, weary and weather-stained, entered the
lodging-house drawing-room.

Captain Paget received his friend very gra-
ciously, only murmuring some faint deprecation
of the young man’s reeking overcoat, with just
such a look of gentlemanly alarm asthe lament-
ed Brummel may haye felt when ushered into
the presence of a ‘‘ damp stranger.”

‘“And so you’ve come back at last,” said the
captain, “from Dorking?’ He made a little

ause here, and looked at his friend with a ma-
icious sparkle in his eyes. ‘‘ And how was the
old aunt? Likely to cut up for any considerable
amount, eh? It could only be with a view to
that cutting-up process that you could consent
to isolate yourself in such a place as Dorking.
How did you find things?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure,” Mr. Hawke-
hurst answered, rather impatiently, for his
worst suspicions were confirmed by his patron’s
manner; ‘‘ I only know I found it tiresome work
enough.”

‘“Ah, to be sure! elderly people always are
tiresome, especially when they are unacquainted
with the world. There is a perennial youth
about men and women of the world. The sen-
timental twaddle people talk of the freshness and
purity of a mind unsullied by communion with

he world is the shallowest nonsense. Your
Madame du Deffand at eighty and your Horace
Walpole at sixty are as lively as a girl and boy.
‘Your octogenarian Voltaire is the most agree-
able creature in existence. But take Cymon
and Daphne from their flocks and herds and
pastoral valleys in their old age, and see what
senile bores and quavering imbeciles you would
find them. Yes, I have no doubt you found
your Dorking aunt a nuisance. Take off your
wet overcoat and put it out of the room, and
then ring for some hot water. You'll find that
cognac very fine. Won’t yon have a cigar?”

e captain extended his russia-leather case
with the blandest smile. It was a very hand-
some case. Captain Paget was a man who could
descend into some unknown depths of the social
ocean in the last stage of shabbiness, and who,
while his acquaintance were congratulating
themselves upon the fact of his permanent dis-
appearance, would start up suddenly in an un-
expected place, provided with every necessity
an arr f of civilized life, from a wardrobe by
Poole to the last fashionable absurdity in the
shape of a cigar-case.

ever had Valentine Hawkehurst found his
patron more agreeably disposed than he seemed
to be this evening, and never had he felt more
inclined to suspect him.

“And what have you been doing while I have
been away?” the young man asked presently.
“Any more promoting work?”

‘* Well, yes, a little bit of provincial business;
a life-and-fire on a novel penelnle a really good
thing, if we can only find men with perception
enough to see its merits, and pluck enough to
hazard their capital. But Rramoting in the pro-
vinces is very dull work. I’ve been to two or
three towns in the midland districts—Beauport,
Mudborough and Ullerton—and have found the
fume stagnation everywhere.”

Nothing could be more perfect than the sem-

‘ blance of unconscious innocence with which the

captain gave this account of himself: whether
he was playing a part, or whether he was telling
the entire truth, was a question which even a
cleverer man than Valentine Hawkehurst might
have found himself unable to answer.

The two men sat till late, smoking and talk-
ing; but to-night Valentine found the conver-
sation of his “ guide, philosopher and friend ”
strangely distasteful to him, t cynical man-
ner of looking at life, which not long ago had
seemed to him the only manner compatible with
wisdom and experience, now grated harshly upon
those finer senses which had been awikkvhed 1 in
the quiet, contemplative existence he had of late
been leading. He had been wont to enjoy Ca
tain Paget’s savage bitterness against a world
which had not provided him with a house in
Carlton Gardens, and a seat in the Cabinet; but
to-night he was revolted by the noble Horatio’s
tone and eee eee aa ee sneers

rainst respectable people and respectable preju-
on with which the captain fetevininiod a
his talk, seemed to have a ghastly grimness in
their mirth. It was like the talk of some devil
who had once been an angel, and had lost all
hope of ever being restored to his angelic status.

“To believe in nothing, to respect nothing, to
hope for nothing, to fear nothing, to consider
life as so many years in which to scheme and
lie for the sake of good dinners and well-made
coats—surely there can be no state of misery
more complete, no degradation more consum-
mate,” thought the young man, as he sat by the
fireside smo) <en0 listenin ily to his
a pin “ Better to be Mrs, Rebecca Hay-
garth, narrow-minded and egotistical, but al-
ways looking beyond her narrow life to some
dimly-comprehended future.”

He was glad to escape at last from the cap-
tain’s society, to retire to his own small cham-
ber, where he slept soundly enough after the

 

fe
}
:
|

 
 

*

40

 

_ THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

a more secure social status altogether than that
poor, weak, surreptitious Matthew. It was
therefore only natural that the marriage should
be celebrated in the Meynell mansion. Having
considered this, I had only to ransack the regis-
ters of a certain number of churches round and
about Aldersgate street in order to find what I
wanted; and after about a day and a half of
hard labor I did find the invaluable document
which places me one generation nearer the pres-
ent, ate on the high-road to the discovery of my
heit-at-law. I searched’ the same registry for
children of the aforesaid William and Caroline
Mary Meynell, but could find no record of such
children, nor any further entry of the name of
Meynell. But we must. search other ‘registries
within access of Aldersgate street ‘before we
give up the idéa of finding such entries in that

neighborhood.”

“And what is to be the next move?”

“The hunting-up of all descendants ‘of this
William and Caroline Mary Meynell, whereso-
ever such descendants are to be found. ‘We are
now altogether off the Haygarth and Judson
seent, ant have to beat a new covert.”

“Good!” exclaimed Valentine, more cheerful-
ly... ‘‘ How is the new covert to be beaten?”

“We must start from Aldersgate street. Mey-
nell of Aldersgate street must havé been a re-
‘ponsible man, and it will be hard if ‘there is no
-ecord of him extant in all the old topographi-
calhistories of wards, without and within, which
cumber the shelves of your -dryasdust libraries.
\Ve must hunt up all available books; and when
we've got all the information that books can
give us, we can goin upon hearsay evidence,
which, is always the most valuable in’ these
cases,”

“That means another encounter with ancient
mariners—I beg your pardon—oldest’ inhabit-
ants,” said Valentine, with a despondent yawn.

© Weill, I suppose that sort of individual is a lit-

tle léss obtuse when ‘he lives within the roar of
the great city’s thunder than when he vegetates
in the dismal outskirts of a manufacturing town.
Where am J to find my octogenarian’ prosers?
and when am I to’ begin my operations upon
them?”

“Tho sooner you begin the better,” replied
Mr. Sheldon. “I’ve taken all Se steps
for you already, and you'll find the business tol-
erably smooth sailing.” I’ve made a list ef cer-
tain people who may be worth seeing.”

Mr. Sheldon sele a cer from the numer-
ous documents upon the table. .

‘““Fere they are,” he said: ““John Grewter,

* wholesale stationer, Aldersgate street; Anthony

Sparsfield, carver and gilder, in Barbican. These
are, 50 far as I can ascertain, the two oldest men
now trading in Aldersgate street; and from

‘these men you ought to be able to find out some-

thing about old Meynell. _ I don’t anticipate any
difficulty about the Meynells, except the possi-
bility that we may find more of them’ than we
want, and have some’ trouble in’ shaking them
into their places.” en

“Tl tackle my friend the stationer to-morrow
morning,” said Valentine.

“You'd better drop in upon him in the after-
noon, when the day’s business may be pretty
well over,” returned the prudent Sheldon.
“ And now all you’ve got to do, Hawkehurst, is
to work with a will, and work on patiently. If
you do as well in London as you did at Ullerton,
neither ae" nor I will have any cause to com-

lain. Of course I needn’t impress upon you
he importance of secrecy.”
‘nf No,” replied Valentine; ‘‘ I’m quite alive to
t A

He then proceeded to inform George Sheldon
of that encounter with Captain Paget on the
latform at Ullerton, and of the suspicion that
Rad ‘been awakened in his mind by the sight of
the glove in Goodge’s parlor.

The lawyer shook his head.

‘That idea about the glove was rather far-
fetched,” he said, thoughtfully; ‘but I don’t
like the look of that meeting at the station. My
brother Philip is capable of anything in the way
of maneuvering; and ’m not ashamed to con-
fess se aan no Pan ae He — oa here
one when I° e gartl igree
spread Sat on the table, and I ww he smelt a
rat. We must beware of him, Hawkehurst, and
wo must work against time if we don’t want
him to anticipate us.” ite

“T sha’n’t let the grow under my feet,”
replied Valentine. ‘I was really interested in
that. Haygarthian history: there was a dash of
romance about it, you see. I don’t feel the same

zusto in the Meynell chase, but I dare say I
Shall begin to get up an interest in it as my in-
vestigation proceeds, Shall I call the day after
to-morrow and tell you my adventures?”

“T think you had better stick to the old plan,
and let me have the result of your work in the
form of a diary,” answered Sheldon. And with
this the two men .

Tt was now half-past two o’clock; it would be
half-past three before Valentine could present
himself at the Lawn—a very seasonable hour at;
which to call upon Mrs. Sheldon with his offer~
ing of a box for the new play.

An omnibus conveyed kine to Bayswater at a
snail’s pace, and with more stoppages than ever
mortal omnibus was subject to before, as it

seemed to that one eager passenger. At last the
leafless trees of the Park appeared between the
hats and bonnets of Valentine’s opposite peighs
bors. Even those brown leafless trees reminded
him of Charlotte. Beneath such umbrage had
he parted from her. And now he was going to
see the bright young face once more. He had
been away from town about a fortnight; but,
taken in relation with Miss Halliday, that fort-
night seemed half a century.

or a ey or and china asters beautified
Mr. Sheldon’s neat little garden, and the plate-
glass windows of his house shone with all their
wonted. radiance, It was like the houses one
sees framed and glazed in an auctioneer’s office
—the greenest imaginable grass, the bluest win-
dows, the reddest bricks, the whitest stone. ‘‘ It
is'a house that would set my teeth on edge, but
for the one sweet creature who lives in it,” Val-
entine thought to. himself as he waited at the
florid iron gate, which was painted a vivid ultra-
marine and picked out with gold.

He tried in vain to catch) a glimpse of some
feminine'figure in the small suburban garden.
No fluttering scarlet petticoat. or coquettish
feather revealed the presence of the divinity.

The ap maid-servant informed him that
Mrs. Sheldon was at: home, and asked if he
would please to walk into the drawing-room.

Would he please?) Would he not have been
pee to walk into a raging furnace if there

ad been a chance of meeting Charlotte Halli-
day amidst the flames?) He followed the maid-
servant into Mrs. Sheldon’s: irreproachable
apartment, where the show books upon the show
table were ranged at the usual mathematically
correct distances from one another, and where
the speckless looking-glasses and all-pervading
French polish imparted a chilly aspect to the
chamber. A newly-lighted fire was smolder-
ing in the shining steel grate, and a solitary fe-
male figure was seated by the broad Tudor win-
dow bending over some needle-work.

It was the figure of Diana Paget, and she was
quite alone in the room. Valentine’s heart sunk
a little as he saw this solitary figure, and per-
ceived that: it was not the woman he loved.

Diana looked up from her work and recog-
nized’ the visitor. Her face flushed, but the
flush faded very quickly, and Valentine was not
conscious of that flattering indication.

‘““How do you do, Diana?’ he said. .“‘ Here
I am again, you see, like the proverbial: bad
shilling. I have brought Mrs. Sheldon an order
for the Princess’.”

“You're very kind; but I don’t think she’ll
care to' go. She was complaining of a headache
this'afternoon.”

‘Oh, she'll forget all about her headache if
she wants to go to the play. She’s the sort of
little woman who is always ready for a theater
'| ora concerti’ Besides, Miss, Halliday may like
to go,:and will easily persuade her), mamma.
Whom: could she not persuade?’ added Mr.
Hawkehurst, within himself.

af Miss Halliday is out of town,” Diana replied,
coldly.

The young man felt as if his heart were. sud-
denly transformed into so much lead, so hea
did 16 seem to grow. What a foolish thing it
seemed that he should be the victim of this fair
enslaver!—he, who until lately had fancied him-
self incapable of any earnest feeling or deep
emotion.

“Out of town!” he repeated, with unconcealed
disappointment. ng

“Yes; she has gone on a visit to some rela-
tions in Yorkshire. She actually has relations:
doesn’t that sound strange to you and me?”

Valentine did not notice this rather cynical

remark.
“She'll be away ever so long, I suppose?” he

id.

‘*} have no idea how long she may stay there.
The people idolize her, understand. You
know it is her privilege to be idolized; and of
course they will persuade her to stay as long as
thew can. You seem disappointed at not see-
ing her.

a I am very much disappointed,” Valentine
answered, frankly; “‘she is a sweet ein”

There was a silence after this. Miss Paget
resumed her work with skillful, rapid: fingers.
She was ae = shining little beads, one by
one, on the point of her needle, and. eS
them to the canvas stretched upon an embroid-
ery frame before her. It was a kind of work
exacting extreme care and precision, and the
girl’s hand never faltered, though a tempest of
passionate feeling agitated her as she worked.

“Tam-very sorry not to see her,” Valentine
said, presently, ‘for the sight of her is very dear
tome. Why should I try to hide my feeli

misery together that there must be some bond
of union between us. To me you have always
seemed like a sister, and I have no wish to keep

coldly that one would
you.”

“You have not offended me, I thank you for
being so frank with me. You would have gained
little by an opposite course: I have long known

your affection for Charlotte.”
“You guessed my secret?’
“T saw what any one could haveseen who had

 

from you, Diana? We have endured so much.

any secret from you, though you receive me
‘ think I had offended ’

 

taken the trouble to watch you for ten minutes ©

_—s your visits to this house.”

“Was my unhappy state so very conspicu-
ous?” exclaimed Valentine, laughing.. ‘‘Was I
so obviously spooney?—I who have so’ ridiculed
anything in the way of sentiment? You make
me blush for my folly, Diana. What is that you
are dotting with those beads?—something
very elaborate.”

“Tt is a prie-dieu chair I am working for Mrs.
Sheldon. Of course I am bound to do something
for my living.”

‘“And so you wear out your eyesight in the
working of chairs! Poor girl! it seems hard
that your beauty and accomplishments don’t find
a better market than that. I daresay you will
marry some millionaire friend of Mr. Sheldon’s
one of these days, and I shall hear of your house
in Park lane and three-hundred-guinea ba-
rouche.”

‘You are very kind to promise me a million-
aire. Thecircumstances of my existence hither-
to have been so peculiarly fortunate that I am
care in expecting such a suitor.. My mil-
ionaire shall ask you to dinner at my house in
Park lane; and you shall play ecarte with him,
if you like—papa’s kind of ecarte.”

‘Don’t k of those things, Di,” said Mr.
Hawkehurst, with something that was almost a
shudder; ‘‘let. us forget that we ever led that
kind of life.”

“Yes,” replied Diana, ‘‘let us forget it—if we
can.”

The bitterness of her tone struck him pain-
fully. _He sat for some minutes watching her
silently, and pitying her fate. What asad fate
it seemed, and how hopeless! For him there
was always some chance of redemption... He
could go out into, the. world and cut his way
through the forest of, difficulty with the ax of
the conquerer. But what could a woman do
who found herself in the midst of that dismal]
forest? She could only sit at the door of her
lonesome hut, looking out with weary eyes for
the prince-who was to come and rescue her.
And Valentine remembered how many women
there are to whom the prince never comes, and
who must needs die and be buried beneath that
gloomy umbrage.

“Oh, let us have women doctors, women law-
yers, women parsons, women stone-breakers—-
anything rather than these dependent creatures
who sit in other people’s houses working pric-
dieu chairs, and pining tor freedom,” he thought
to himself, as he watched the pale, stern face in
the chill afternoon light.

“Do leave off working for a few minutes, and
talk to me, Di,” he said, rather impatiently.
“You don’t know how painful it is to a man to
see a woman absorbed in some piece of needle-
work at the very moment when he wants all
her sympathy. I amafraid you are not quite
happy. Do confide in me, dear, as frankly as I
confide in you. Are these people kind to you?
Charlotte is, of course. But the elder birds, Mr.
and Mrs. Sheldon, are they kind?”

“They are very kind. Mr. Sheldon is not a
demonstrative man, as you know; but Lam not
accustomed to have people in a rapturous state
of mind about me or my affairs. He is kinder
to me than my father ever was; and I don’t see
how I can expect more than that. Mrs. Shel-
don is extremely kind, in her way—which is
rather a feeble way, as you know.”

‘* And Charlotte—”

“You answered for Charlotte yourself just
now. Yes, she is very, very, very good to me;
much better than I deserve. I was almost going
to quote the collect, and say, ‘desire or de-
serve.’”

“Why should you not desire or deserve her
goodness?” asked Valentine.

“Because I am not a lovable kind of person.
IT am not sympathetic. I know that Charlotte

is very fascinating, very charming; but some-
times her very fascination repels me. i think
istrict

the nearer of that horrible swamp:

between beth and Battersea, where my

ers was spent, must have soured my dis-
on.

“No, Diana; you have only learned a bitter
way of talking. I know your heart is noble and
true. I have seen your SuppESeece indignation
many a time when your father’s. meannesses
have revolted you. Our lives have been very

dear; but let us hope for brighter days.
I think they must come to us.”

“They will never come to me,” said Diana.

“You say that with an air of conviction.
But why should they not come to you—brighter
and_ better days?”

“JT cannot tell you that. I can only tell you

that they will not come, And do you hope that
an: will ever come of your love for Char-
lliday—you, who know Mr. Sheldon?”

‘‘T am ready to hope anything.”

“You think that Mr. Sheldon would let his

pdaughter marry a penniless man?”

“I may not always be penniless, Besides,
ye on has no actual authority over Char-

‘‘ But he has moral influence over her. She is
very easily influenced.”

“Tam ready to hope even in spite of Mr.
Sheldon’s opposing influence. You must not
try tocrush this one little floweret that has

. Satanic eee nee

a tpscsencsegeanne
 

grown up in a, barren, waste, Diana. It is my
prison-flcwer.”

Mrs. Sheldon came into the room as he said
this. She was very cordial, very eloquent upon
the subject of her headache, and very much in-
clined to go to the theater, notwithstanding that
ailment, when she heard that Mr. Hawkehurst
had been kind enough to bring her a box.

‘Diana and I could go,” she said, ‘if we
can manage to be in time after, our six o’clock
dinner, _Mr. Sheldon does not care about thea-
ters. All the pieces tire him. He declares they
are all stupid. But then, you see, if one’s mind
is continually wandering, the cleverest piece
mustseem stupid,” Mrs. Sheldon added, thought-
fully; ‘“and my ‘husband is so very absent-
minded.”

After some further discussion about the thea-
ter Valentine bade the ladies good-afternoon.

“Won't you stop to see Mr. Sheldon?” asked
Georgina; “he is in the library with Captain
Paget. You did not know that your papa was
here, did you, Diana, my dear? He came in
with Mr. Sheldon an hour ago.” 4

“T won’t disturb Mr, Sheldon,” said Valentine.
‘*f will call again in a few days.”

He took leave of the two ladies, and went out
into the hall) As he emerged from the draw-
ing-room the door of the library was opened,
and he heard Philip Sheldon’s voice within, say-

ing:

f —your accuracy with regard to the name of
Meynell.”

Tt was the close of a sentence; but the name
struck immediately upon Valentine’s ear. Mey-
nell—the name which had for him so peculiar
an interest.

“Ts it only a coincidence,” he thought to him-
self, ‘‘or is Horatio Paget on our track?”

And then he argued with himself that his cars
might have deceived him, and that the name he
had heard might not have been Meynell, but
only a name of somewhat similar sound.

It was Captain Paget who had opened the
door. He came out into the passage and recog-
nized his protege. They left the house together ;
and the captain was especially gracious,

“We will dine together, Val,” he said; but,
to his surprise, Mr. Hawkehurst declined the
proffered entertainment.

“Tm tired out with a hard day’s work,” he
said, ‘‘and should _be very bad company; so, if
you'll excuse me, Pll go back to Omega street,
and get a chop.” ee

The captain stared at him in amazement.
He could not comprehend the man, who could
refuse to dine luxuriously at the expense of his
fellow-man.

Valentine had of late acquired new prejudices.
He no longer cared to enjoy the hospitality of
Horatio Paget. In Omega street the household
expenses were shared by the two men, It was
a kind of club upon a small scale: and there was
no dogeaier in breaking bread with the ele-
gant Horatio.

To Omega street Valentine returned this after-
noon, there to eat a frugal meal and spend a
meditative evening, uncheered by one glimmer
of that radiance which more fortunate men
know as the light of home.

 

CHAPTER II,
VALENTINE’S RECORD CONTINUED.

October 15. I left Omega street for the city
before noon, after a hasty breakfast with my
friend. Horatio, who was somewhat under the
dominion of his black dog this morning, and far
from pleasant company, I was not. to present
rmayself to the worthy John Grewter, wholesale
stationer, before the afternoon; but IT had no
particular reason for staying at home, and [had
a faney for Biron a Beane the old cay uarter
in which Matthew Haygarth’s youth had been
spent. I went to look at, John strect, Clerken-
well, and dawdled about the immediate neigh-
borhood of Smithfield, thinking of the old fair
time, and of all the rioters and merry-makers
who now were so much or s0. little dust and
ashes in city church-yards, until the great bell’
of St. Paul’s boomed three, and I felt that it
might be a leisure time with Mr. Grewter.

found the stationer’s shop as. darksome and

dreary as, city shops usually are, but redolent of
that subtle-odor of wealth which has a mystical
charm for the nostrils of the penniless one.
Stacks of ledgers, mountains of account-books,
filled the dincly-lighted warehouse. Some clerks
were at. work behind a glass artition, and al-
ready the gas flared high in the green-shaded
lamps above the desk at which they worked. | T
wondered whether it was a pleasant way of life
theirs, and whether one would come to feel an
interest in the barter of day-books and ledgers if
they were one’s daily bread. Alas for me! the
only fader I have ever known is the sainted
patron of the northern race-course. One young
man came forward and asked my. business, wi
a look that plainly told me that unless I wanted
two or three gross of account-books T had no
right to be there. Itold him that I wished to
see Mr. Grewter, and asked if that gentleman
was to be seen.

The clerk said he didn’t Know; but his tone
implied that, in his opinion, I could not see Mr.
Grewter, ;

 

 

eee cE RRs

gested.

“Well, yes. Is it old or young Mr. Grewter
you want to see?”

“Old Mr. Grewter,” I replied.

“Very well, ll go and see. You'd better
send in your card, though.”

. ee one of George Sheldon’s cards
which therclerk looked at. He madea little start
as if an adder had stung him.

“'Yowre not Mr. Sheldon?” he said.

*- No; Mr. Sheldon is my employer.”

“What do you go about giving people Shel-
don’s card for?” asked the aie: with quite an
aggrieved air, ‘IT know Sheldon of Gray’s

nn,”

“Then I’m sure you've found him a Pf ac-
commodating gentleman,” I replied, politely,

“Deuce take his accommodation! He nearl
accommodated me into the Bankruptcy Court,
And so you’re Sheldon’s clerk, and you want the
governor. But you don’t mean to say that Grew-
ter and Grewter are—”

This was said in an awe-stricken undertone.
T hastened to reassure the stationer’s clerk.

“T don’t think Mr, Sheldon ever saw Mr.
Grewter in his life,” I said,

After this the clerk condescended to retire into
the unknown antres behind the shop to deliver
my message. I began to think that George Shel-
don’s card was not the best possible letter of in-
troduction.

The clerk returned presently, followed by a
tall, white-bearded man, with a bent figure and a
pair of penetrating gray eyes—a very promising
specimen of the octogenarian.

He asked me my business in a sharp, suspicious
way, that obliged me to state the nature of my
errand without circumlocution. As I got further
away from the Rev. John Haygarth intestate I
was less fettered by the arn of secrecy. I
informed my octogenarian that I was prosecut-
ing a legal investigation connected with a late
inhabitant of that street, and that I had taken
the liberty to apply to him, in the hope that he
might be able to afford me some information.

© looked at me all the time I spoke as if he
thought I was going to entreat uniary relief
ase I dare say I have something the air of a
begging-letter. writer. But whén he found that
I only wanted information, his hard gray eyes
softened ever so little, and he asked me to walk
into his parlor.

His parlor was scarcely less gruesome than
his shop. The furniture looked as if its manu-
facture had been coeval with the time of the
Meynells, and the ghastly glare of the gas
seemed a kind of anachronism. After a few
preliminary observations, which were not en-
couraged by Mr. Grewter’s manner, I inquired
whether he had ever heard the name of Meynell?

“Yes,” he said, ‘‘there was a Meynell in this
street When I was a young man—Christian Mey-
nell, a carpet-maker by trade. The business is
still carried on—and a very.old business it is,
for it was an old business in Meynell’s time—
but Meynell died before I married, and his
name is pretty well forgotten in Aldersgate
street by this time.”

‘* Had he no sons?” I asked.

“Well, yes; he had one son, Samuel, a kind
of companion of mine, But he didn’t take to
the business, and when his father died he let
things go anyhow, as you pars He was
rather wild, and he died two of three years after
his father.”

“ Did he die unmarried?”

“Yes, There was some talk of his marrying
a Miss Dobberly, whose father was a cabinet-
maker in: Jewin street; but Samuel was too wild
for the Dobberlys, who were a Laat
ple, and he went abroad, where he was taken
with some kind of fever and died.”

“Was this son the only child?”

“No: there were two daughters. The young
er of them married; the elder went to live wit
her—and died uumarried, I’ve heard as

** Do you know whom the younger sister mar-
ried?” T asked.

‘S No. She didn’t mi in London. She
went into the country to visit some friends, and
she married and settled down in those parts—
wherever it might be—and I never heard of her
coming back to London again. The ekoe busi-
ness was sold directly after Samuel Meynell’s
death. The new people Nine up the name fora
good twenty ears; ‘Taylor, late Meynell, es-
tablished 1693,’ that’s what was ae on the

d above the window; but they’ve dropped
the name of Meynell now. People forget old
names, you see, and it’s no use keeping to them
after they’re forgotten.”

Yes, the old names are forgotten, the old peo--

ple fade off the face of the earth. The romance

of Matthew Haygarth seemed to come to a lame

pee impotent conclusion in this dull record of
ers in i

“You can’t oeneiniath what part of England

it was that Christian Meynell’s daughter went
to when she married?”

‘“No. Tt wasn’t a matter I took much inter-
est in. I don’t think I ever spoke to the young
woman above three times in my life, though she
lived in the same street, and though her brother
and I often met each other at the Cat and Salu-
tation, where there used to be a great deal of

 

 

44

“Perhaps you could go and ask?”. I sug-.| talk about the war and Napoleon Bonaparte in

those days.”

“ Have you any idea of the time at which she
married?” T inquired.

“Not as to the exact year. I know it was
after IT was married; for I remember my wife
and I sitting at our window up-stairs one sum-
mer Sunday evening and seeing Samuel Mey-
nell’s sister go by to church. I can remember
it_as well as if it was yesterday. She was dress-
ed in a white gown and a green silk spencer.
‘Yes, and I didn’t marry my first wife till 1814.
But as to telling you exactly when Miss Meynel!
left Aldersgate street, I can’t.”

These reminiscences of the past seemed to ex- ,

ercise rather a mollifying influence upon the old
man’s mind, commonplace as they were. He

ceased to look at me with sharp, suspicious .

zlances, and he seemed anxious to afford me all
the help he could.
_‘*Was Christian Meynell’s father called Wil-
liam?” T asked, after having paused to make
some notes in my EP ae

“That I can’t tell you; though, if Christian
Meynell was living to-day, he wouldn’t be ten
years older than me. is father died when I
was quite a boy; but there must be old books at
the warehouse with his name in them, if they
haven’t been destroyed.”

I determined to make inquiries at the carpet
warehouse; but I had little hope of finding the
books of nearly a century gone by. I tried an-
other question.

“Do you know whether Christian Meynell
was an only son, or the only son who attained.
manhood?” I asked.

My elderly friend shook his head.

‘Christian Meynell never had any brothers
that T heard of,” he said; ‘* but the parish regis-
ter will tell you all about that, supposing that
his father before him lived all his life in Alders-

ch pay as I’ve every reason to believe that
ne did.

After this IT asked a few questions about the
neighboring churches, thanked Mr, Grewter for
his civility, and departed.

T went back to Omega street, dined upon no-
thing particular, and devoted the rest of my
evening to the scrawling of this journal, and a
tender reverie, in which Charlotte Halliday was
the central figure

How bitter poverty and dependence have made
Diana Paget! She used to be a nice girl too.

Oct. 16. To-day’s work has been confined to
the investigation of parish registers—a most wea-
risome business at the best. My labors were
happily not without result, Tn the fine old church
of St. Giles, aS Ofte IT found registries of
the baptism of Oliver Meynell, son of William
and Caroline Mary Meynell, 1768; and of the
burial of the same Oliver in the following year.
I found the record of the baptism of a daughter
to the same William and Caroline Mary Mey-
nell; and further on the burial of the said daugh-
ter, at five years of age, I also found the rec-
ords of the baptism of Christian Meynell, son of
the same William and Caroline Mary Meynell,
in the year 1772, and of William Meynell’s de-
cease in the year 1793. Later appeared the en-
try of the burial of Sarah, widow of Christian

eynell. Later still the baptism of Samuel
ken, the baptism of Susan
and finally that of Charlotte Meynell.

These were all the entries respecting the Mey-
nell family to be found in the by eer There
was no record of the burial of Caroline Mary,
wife of William Meynell, nor of Christian Mey-
nell, nor‘of Samuel Meynell, his son; and I
knew that, all these entries would be necessary
tomy astute Sheldon before his case would be
complete. After my search of the registries L
went out into the ee to grope for the
family vault of the Meynells, and found a grim

mare monument, inclosed by a railing that was
almost eaten away by rust, and inscribed with
the names and virtues of that departed house.
The burial-ground is interesting by reason of
more distinguished company t the em
nells. John Milton, John Fox, author of 4
martyrology, and John Speed, the chronolo; i
rest in this city church-yard.

Th the hope of getting some clew to the miss-
ing data I ventured to make a second call upon
Mr. Grewter, whom I found rather inclined to
be snappish, as considering the Meynell business
unlikely to result in any profit to himself, and
objecting on ace to take any trouble not

Meynell;

likely to result in profit. I believe this is the
ee manner of looking at things in a gen-
eral way.

I asked him if he could tell me where Samuel
Meynell was buried.

T sup he was buried in foreign ?
the <

replied old_ gentleman, with consi erable
grumpiness, ‘“ since he died in fo parts.”
“Oh, he died abroad, did he? Can you tell

me where?” ;

“No, sir, I can’t,” replied Mr. Grewter, with
increasing grumpiness; ‘I didn’t trouble my-
self about other people’s affairs then, and I
don’t trouble myself about them now, and I
don’t particular’ y care to be troubled. about

them by strangers. ‘
I male the meekest possible apology for my
intrusion, but the outraged Gre was notap-

\

 
SS

a

|
S
i

 

 

42 THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

“Your best apology will be not doing it agat Ad
he replied, . ‘‘ Those that know my habits know
that I take half an hour’s nap after dinner, M.

constitution requires it, or I shouldn’t take it.
If I didn’t happen to have a strange warehouse-
man_on the premises you wouldn’t have been
allowed to disturb me two afternoons running.”

Finding Mr. Grewter unappeasable I left him,
and went to seek a more placable spirit in the
shape of Anthony Sparsfield, carver and gilder,
of Barbican.

I found the establishment of Sparsfield and
Son, carvers and gilders. It was a low, dark
shop, in the window of which were exhibited
‘two or three handsomely-carved frames, very
much the worse for flies, and one oil-painting,
of a mysterious and Rembrandtish character.
‘The old-established air that pervaded almost all
the shops in this neighborhood was peculiarly
apparent in the Sp eld establishment.

n the shop I found a mild-faced man of
about forty engaged in conversation with a
customer.. I waited patiently while the custo-
mer finished a minute description of the kind of
frame he wanted made for a set of proof en-
gravings after Landseer; and when the custo-
mer had departed I asked the mild-faced man
if Z poe sy oe 8 ena Jeob qed,

am Mr. Sparsfie. e replied, politely.

“Not Mr. Anthony Sparstiela.”

‘‘'Yes, my name is Anthony,”

“T was given to understand that Mr, Anthony
Sparsfield was a much older person.”

“Oh, I suppose you mean my father,” replied
the mild-faced man. ‘ My father is advanced
in years, and does very little in the business now-
adays; not but what his head is as clear as ever
it was, and there are some of our old customers
like to see him when they give an order.”

This sounded hopeful. told Mr. Sparsfield
the younger that I was not a customer; and
then proceeded to state the nature of my busi-
ness, I found him as as courteous Mr, Grewter
had been disobliging.

“Me and father are old-fashioned people,”
he said, .‘‘and we are not above living over our

lace of business, which most. of the Barbican

adespeople are nowadays. The old gentleman
is taking teain the parlor up-stairs at this pres-
ent moment, and if you don’t mind stepping up
to him, I’m sure he’ll be proud to give you any
information he can. He likes talking of old
times.”

This was the sort of oldest inhabitant I want-
ed. to meet with—a very different kind of indi-
vidual from Mr. Grewter, who doled out every
answer to my question as grudgingly as if it
had been a five-pound note.

Iwas conducted to a snug little sitting-room
on the first-floor, where there was a cheerful
fire and a comfortable odor of tea.and toast.
was invited to take a cup of tea; and as I per-
ceived that my acceptance of the invitation
would be accounted a kind of favor, I said yes.
The tea was very weak, and very warm, and
very sweet; but Mr, Sparsfield and his son sip-
par it with as great an air of enjoyment as if it

been the most inspiring of beverages.

Mr. Sparsfield the elder was more or less rheu-
matie and asthmatic, but a cheerful old man
withal, and quite ready to prate of old times,
when Barbican and Aldersgate street were
pleasanter places than they are to-day, or had
seemed so to the elderly citizen.

“Meynell!”. he exclaimed; ‘‘I knew Sam
Meyneil as well as I knew my own brother, and
I knew old Christian Meynell almost as well as
I knew my own father. There was more socia-
bility in those days, you see, sir. The world
seems to have grown too full to leave any room
for friendship, . It’s all push and struggle, and
struggle and push, as you may say; and a man
will make you a frame for five-and-twenty shil-
lings that will look more imposing like than
what I could turn out for five pound, Only the
gold-leaf will all drop off after'a twelvemonth’s
wear; and that’s the way of the world nowa-
days. There’s.a deal of gilding, and things are
made to look uncommon bright; but the gold all
drops off ’em before long.”

After allowing the old man to moralize to his
heart’s content, I brought him back politely to
the subject in which I was interested.

‘Samuel Meynell was as gooda fellow as ever
breathed,” he said; ‘‘but he was'too fond of the
tavern. There were some very nice taverns
round about Aldersgate street in those days; and
ae see, sir, the times were stirring times, and

olks liked to get together and talk over the day’s,
news, with a pipe of tobacco and a glass of their
favorite liquor, all in a sociable way. Poor Sam
Meynell took a little too much of his favorite
liquor; and when the young woman that he had
been keeping company with—Miss Dobberly of
Jewin street—jilted him and married.a wholesale
butcher in Newgate market, who was.old_en-
ough to be her father, Sam took to drinking
oud neglected his business. One day he came
to me and said, ‘ I’ve sold the business, Tony ’—
for it was Sam and Tony with us, you see, sir—
‘and I’m off to France.’ This was soon after the
battle of Waterloo; and many folks had a fancy
for going over to France now that they’d seen

 

the of Nay n: Bonaparte, who was gen-
erally alluded to in those days by the nawe of
monster or tiger, and was understood to make |

a

his chief diet off frogs. Well, sir, we were all of
us very much surprised at Sam’s going to forei
er but as he’d always been wild, it was only
ooked upon as apart of his wildness, and we
weren’t so much surprised to hear, a year or
two afterward, that he’d drunk himself to
death upon cheap brandy—odyvee as they call
it, r ignorant creatures!—at Calais.”

“He died at Calais?”

“Yes,” replied the old man; “I forget who
brought the news home, but I remember hear-
ing it. Poor Sam Meynell died and was buried
among the Mossoos.”

“You are sure he was buried at Calais?”

“Yes, as sure as I can be of anything. Tray-
eling was no easy matter in those days, and in
foreign parts there was nothing but diligences,
which T¥4 heard say were the laziest-going ve-
hicles ever invented. There was no one to
bring poor Sam’s remains back to England, for
his mother was dead, and his two sisters were
settled somewhere down in Yorkshire.”

In Yorkshire! I am afraid I looked rather
sheepish when Mr, Sparsfield senior mentioned
this particular county, for my thoughts took
wing and were with Charlotte Halliday before
the word had well escaped his lips.

““Miss Meynell settled in Yorkshire, did she?”
I asked.

“Yes, she married some one in the farming
way down there. Her mother was a Yorkshire
woman, and she and her sister went visiting
among her mother’s relations, and never came
back London. One of them married, the
other died a spinster.”

“Do ou remember the name of the man she

me N ¢ lied Mr. Sparsfield, “‘T *t
0,” re ‘ eld, can’t sa
that I do.” " vi

“Do you remember the name of the place
she went to—the town, or village, or whatever
it was?”

“T might remember it if I heard it,” he re-
sponded, thoughtfully ; ‘‘ and I ought to remem-
ber it, for ’ve heard Sam Meynell talk of his
sister Charlotte’s home many atime. She was
christened Charlotte, you see, after the Queen.
T’ve a sort of notion that the name of the ate
was something ending in cross, as it might
Charing Cross, or Waltham Cross.”

This was vague, but it was a great deal more
than I had been able to extort from Mr. Grew-
ter. I took a second cup of the sweet warm
liquid which my new friends called tea, in order
to have an excuse for loitering, while I tried to
obtain more light from the reminiscences of the
old frame-maker,

No more light came, however. So I was fain
to take Tay IO reserving to myself the privi-
lege of calling again on a future occasion.

Oct. 18. I sent Sheldon a statement of my
Aldersgate street researches the day before yes-
terday, and had a long interview with him yes-
terday morning.

He went carefully through the information I
had collected, and approved my labors.

‘You've done uncommonly well, considering
the short time you’ve been at the work,” he said;
“and you’ve reason to congratulate yourse.
upon having your ground all laid out for you,
as my ground has never been laid out for me,
The Meynell branch seems to be narrowing it-

self into the person of Christian Meynell’s |

daughter and her descendants, and our most im-
portant business now will be to find out when,
where, and whom she married, and what issue
arose from such marriage. This I think you
ie ah oe Week sath desponding1

shook my rather ni :

‘*T don’t see any hope of findin ont tia name
of the young woman’s husband,” I said, ‘‘ unless
I can come across another oldest inhabitant
gifted with a better memory for names and
placas than my obliging Sparsfield, or my surly

rewter.”

“There are the alms-houses,” said Sheldon;
s you haven’t tried them yet.”

‘No; I sw I must go in for the alms-
houses,” I rep. with the sublime resignation
of the pauper, whose poverty must consent to
anything; ‘‘ though I confess that the prosiness
of the alms-house intellect is almost more than I
can endure.”

‘* And how do you know that you mayn’t get
the name of the ye out of your friend the
carver and gilder?’ said George Sheldon: ‘“ he
given you some kind of clew in gal ing. you
that the name ends in cross. He said he should
know the name if he heard it; why not try him
with it?”

‘But in order to do that, I_ must know the
name myself,” replied I, ‘‘and in that case I
shouldn’t want the aid of et

“You are not great in expedients,” said Shel-
don, tilting back his chair, and taking a shabby
folio from a shelf of other shabby folios, ‘‘ This
is a British gazetteer,” he said, turning to the
index of the work before him, ‘‘ We'll test the
ancient Sparsfield’s memory with every cross in
the three Ridings, and if the faintest echo of the
name we want still lingers in his feeble old
brain, we'll awaken it.” My patron ran his

r-nail along one of the columns of the index.
Just. take your pencil and write down the
names as I call them,” he said, ‘Here we are
—Aylsey Cross; and here we are again—Bow-

 

 

 

ford Cross, Callindale Cross, Huxter’s Cross,
Jarnam Cross, Kingsborough Cross.” Then, af-
ter a careful examination ot the column, he ex-
claimed: ‘‘ Those are all the crosses in the coun-
ty of York; and it will go hard with us if you
or I can’t find the descendants of Christian Mey-
nell’s daughter at one of them. The daughter
herself may be alive for anything we know.”

“And how about the Samuel Meynell who
died at Calais? You'll have to find some record
of his death, won’t you? I suppose in these
cases one must prove everything.

““Yes, I must prove the demise of Samuel,”
replied the sanguine genealogist; “‘ that} art of
the business I'll see to myself, while you hunt
out the female branch of’ the Meynells. “I want
an outing after a long spell of hard work; so
Pll run across to Calais and search for the regis-
ter of Samuel’s interment. I gS eae somebody
took the trouble to bury him, though he was a
stranger in the land.”

“And if I extort the name we want from poor
old Sparsfield’s recollection?”

“Tn that case you can start at once for the
place, and begin your search on the spot. It
can’t be above fifty years since this woman mar-
ried, and there must be some inhabitant of the
pis old enough to remember her. Oh, by-the-

y, I suppose you'll be wanting more cash for
expenses,” added Mr. Sheldon, with a sigh.

e took a five-pound note from his pocket-
book, and wae it to me with a piteous air of self-
sacrifice. I know thathe is poor, and that what-
ever money he does contrive to earn is extorted
from the necessities of his needier brethren,
Some of this money he speculates upon the
chances of the Haygarthian succession, as he has
speculated his money on worse chances in the
past. ‘‘Three thousand pounds,” he said to
me, as he handed me the poor little five-pound
note; ‘‘ think what a prize you are working for,
and work your hardest. e nearer we get to
the end the slower our progress seems to me;
and yet it has been very rapid progress, consid-
ering all things.”

So sentimental have I become that I thought
less of that possible three thousand pounds than
of the fact that I was likely to go to Yorkshire,
the county of Charlotte’s birth, the county
where she was now staying. I reminded my-
self that it was the largest shire in England, and
that of all possible coincidences of time and
place there could be none more unlikely than
the coincidence that would bring about a meet-
ing between Charlotte Halliday and me.

*T know that for all practical purposes I shall
be no nearer to her in Yorkshire than in Lon-
don,” I said to myself; ‘‘but I shall have the
pleasure of fancying myself nearer to her.”

Before leaving George Sheldon I told him of
the fragmentary sentences I had_heard uttered
by Captain Paget and Philip Sheldon at the
Lawn; but he pooh-poohed my suspicions,

“Tl tell you what it is, Valentine Hawke-
hurst,” he said, fixing those hard, black eyes of
his upon me as if he would fain have pierced the
bony covering of Wy. skull to discover the in-
nermost workings of my brain, “neither Cap-
tain a nor my brother Phil can know any-
thing of this business unless you have turned
traitor and sold them my secrets. And mark
me, if you have, you’ve sold yourself and them
into the bargain: my hand. holds the documen-
tary evidence, without which all your know-

ener is worthless.

*T am not a traitor,” I told him quietly, for I
despise him far too heartily to put myself into a
passion about anything he might please to say
of me, ‘‘and I have never uttered a word about
this business either to Captain Paget’or to your
brother. If you begin to distrust me, it is igh
time you should look out for a new coadjutor.”

I had my Sheldon, morally speaking, at my
feet_in a moment.

“Don’t be melodramatic, Hawkehurst,” he
said; ‘‘ people sell each other every day of the
week, and no one blames the seller provided he
makes a good bargain. But this is a case in
which the bargain would be a very bad one.”

After this I took my leave of Mr. Sheldon. He
was to start for Calais by that night’s mail, and
return to town directly his investigation was
completed. If he found me absent on his return
he would conclude that I had obtained the in-
formation I required and started for Yorkshire,
In this event he would patiently await the re-
oe of tidings from that county.

went straight from Gray’s Inn to Jewin
street. I had spent the gronter part of the da:
in Sheldon’s office, and when I presented m
before my complacent Sparsfield junior, Spars-
field senior’s tea and toast were already in pro-
cess of preparation; and I was again invited to
step up-stairs to the family sitting-room, and
again treated with that, in si
confidence and friendliness which it has

my fate to encounter quite as often in the heart’

of’ this sophisticated city as in the most p
of es. With
cordial I could but be equally frank.

“T am afraid Iam making mat a nuisance
to you, Mr. Sparsfield,” I said; “but I know
peo orgive me when I tell ya that the affair

m engaged in is a matter of vital importance
to me, and that your help may do a great deal
toward bringing matters to a crisis.” :

simplicity of

pees who were so frank and’
 

 

Mr. Sparsfield senior declared himself always
ready to assist his fellow-creatures; and was
good enough further to declare that he had taken
a liking tome. So weak had I of late become
upon all matters of sentiment, I thanked Mr.
Sparsfield for his good opinion, and then went
on to tell him that I was about to test his
memory. .

“ And it ain’t a bad ’un,” he cried, cheerily,
clapping his hand upon his knee by way of em-
phasis. ‘Tt ain’t a bad memory, is it, Tony?”

‘Rew better, father,” answered the dutiful
Anthony junior. “ Your memory’s better than
mine, a long a

“Ah,” said the old man with a chuckle,
“folkslived different in my day. There weren’t
no gas and there weren’t no railroads, and Lon-
don tradespeople was content to live in the same
house from year’s end to year’s end. But now
your tradesman must go on his foreign tours like
a prince of the royal family, and he must go here
and go there; and when he’s been everywhere,
he caps it all by going through the Gazette.
Folks staid at home in my day; but they made
their fortunes, and they kept their health, and
their eyesight, and their memory, and their hear-
ing, and a many of ’em have lived to see the
next generation making fools of themselves.”

“Why, father,” cried Anthony junior, aghast
at this flood of el uence, “what an oration!”

“And it ain’t often Imake an oration, is it,
Tony?’ said the old man, laughing. “T onl
mean to say that if my memory’s pre bike
it may be partly because I haven’t frittere it
away upon nonsense, as some folks have, I’ve
staid | at home and minded my own business, and
left other people to mind theirs. And now, sir,
if you want the help of my memory, I’m ready
to give it.”

"You told me the other day that you could
not recall the name of the place where Christo-
pher Meynell’s daughter married, but you said
you should remember it if you heard it, and you
also said that’the name ended in cross.” —__

“Tl stick to that,” replied my ancient friend,
“Tl stick to that.”

“Very well then. It is a settled thing that
the place was in Yorkshire?”

*'Yes, I’m sure of that too.”

“ And that the name ended in cross?”

“Tt did, as sure as my name is Sparsfield,”
“Then in that case, as there are onl
towns or villages in the county of York the
names of which end in cross, it stands to reason
that the place we want must be one of those six.”

Having thus premised, I took my list from my
pocket and read aloud the names of the six
laces very slowly for Mr. Sparsfield’s edifica-

ion.

* Aylsey Cross—Bowford Cross—Calindale
Cross—Huxter’s Cr arnam Cross—Kings-
borough Cross,”

“That’s him!” cried my old friend, suddenly.

“Which? I asked, eagerly.

“ Huxter’s Cross; Tremember thinking at the
time that it must be Space where they sold things
because of thename Huxter, you see, pronounced
just the same as if it was spelt with a ck instead
of anx. AndTI heard afterward that there’d
once been a market held at the place, but it had
been done away with beforeour time. Huxter’s
Cross; yes, that’s the name of the place where
Christopher Meynell’s daughter married and set-
led. IPve heard it many a time from AP Sam,
and it comes back to me as plain as if P’d never
forgotten it.” e

ere was an air of conviction about the old
man which satisfied me that he was not de-
ceived. I thanked him heartily for his aid as I

took my leave.
“You may have Bathe to put a good lum
of money in my pocket, Mr. Sparsfield,” I said;
“and if you have, I'll get my picture taken if,
it’s only for the pleasure of bringing it here to
be framed.” :
With this benedictory address I left my sim-
pis citizens of Barbican. My heart was very
ight as I wended my way across those metro-
litan wilds that lay between Barbican and
mega street. I am ashamed of myself when
Tremember the foolish cause of this elation of
mind. I was going to Yorkshire, the county of
which my Charlotte was now an inhabitant.
My Charlotte! Tt is a pleasure even to write
that delicious possessive pronoun—the pleasure
of poor Alnascher, the crockery-seller, dream-
ing his day-dream in the Eastern ee
‘an any one know better than I that shall
be no nearer Charlotte Halliday in Yorkshire
than Iam in London? No one. And yet Tam
glad my Sheldon’s business takes me to the
wi and wolds of that wide northern shire.
Huxter’s Cross—some heaven-forgotten spot,
no doubt. I bought a railway time-table on my
way home to-night, and have carefully studied
the bearings of the place among whose moldy
records I am to discover the history of Christo-
pher Meynell’s daughter and heiress. <
T find that Huxter’s Cross lies off the railroad,
and is to be approached by an obscure little sta-
tion—as I divine from the ignominious type in
which its name appears—about abet miles
northward of Hull. The station is called Hid-
;,and_at_Hidling there seems to be a coach
which plies between the station and Huxter’s

six

 

A3

 

eS eee

Figure to yourself again, my dear, the heir-

at-law to a hundred thousand pounds vegetating
in the unknown regions of Huxter’s Cross-cum-
ae unconscious of his heritage!

Shall I find him at the plow-tail, I wonder,
this mute, inglorious heir-at-law? or shall I find
an heiress with brawny arms meekly churning
butter? or shall I discover the last of the Mey-
nells taking his rest in some lonely church-yard,
not to be awakened b: snstnly. voice proclaim-
ing the tidings of earthly good fortune?

am going to Yorkshire—that is enough for
me. I languish for the starting of the train
which shall convey me thither. I begin to un-
derstand the nostalgia of the mountain herds-
man; I pine for that northern air, those fresh,
pure breezes blowing over moor and wold—
though I am not quite clear, by-the-by, as to
the exact nature of a wold. I pant, I yearn for
Yorkshire, I, the cockney, the child of Tem-
le Bar, whose cradle-song was boomed by the
lls of St. Dunstan’s and St. Clement’s Danes.

Is not Yorkshire my Charlotte’s birth-place?
ew to see the land whose daughters are so
lovely.

CHAPTER ITI.
ARCADIA. }
Nov, 1. This is Huxter’s Cross, and I live
here. I have lived herea week, I should like

to live here forever. Oh, let me be rational for
a few hours, while I write the record of this
last blissful week; let me be reasonable, and
business-like, and Sheldon-like for this one wet
afternoon, and then I may be happy and fool-
ish again. Be still, beating h ! as the he-
roines of Minerva-press romances were accus-
tomed to say to themselves on the smallest
oaeame Be still, foolish, fluttering, school-

y heart, which has taken a new lease of youth
and folly from a fair landlord called Charlotte

Halliday.
Drip, drip, drip, oh rain! “The day is dark
and cold an and the vine still clings to

eee

the moldering wall; and with every gust the
dead leaves fall;” but thy sweet sad verse wakes
no responsive echo in my heart, oh tender Trans-

atlantic poet, for my heart is light and glad— |

recklessly glad—heedless of to-morrow—forget-
ful of yesterday—full to the very brim with the
dear delight of to-day.

And now to business. I descend from the
supernal realms of fancy to the tT record of
commonplace fact. This day week I arrived at
Hidling, after a tedious journey, which, with
stoppages at Derby and Normanton, and small
delays at obscurer stations, had occupied the
greater part of the re tt was dusk when T
took my place in the hybrid vehicle, half coach
half omnibus, which was to convey me from
Hidling to Huxter’s Cross, A transient glimpse
at Hidling showed me one long stragglin;
street ae a square church-tower. Our roa
branched off from the straggling street, and in
the autumn dusk I could just discover the dim
outlines of distant hills encircling a broad waste
of moor.

I have been so steeped in London that this
wild barren scene had a charm for me which it
could scarcely possess for others. Even the
glocm of that dark waste of common land was
pleasant to me, I shared the public vehicle
with one old woman, who snored peacefully in
the remotest corner, while I looked out at the
little open window and watched the darkening
landsca: :

Our drive occupied some hours. We ore
two or three little clusters of cottages and home-
steads, where the geese screamed and the cocks
wae at our approach, oe where a a
twinkling tapers in upper windows proclaim
the hott of Bedtime: PRE one of these clusters
of habitation, a little island of humanity in the
waste of wold and moor, we changed horses,
with more cu and come-up-ing than
would have attended the operation in a civilized
country. At this village I heard the native
tongue for the first time in all its purity; and
for any meaning which it conveyed to my ear I
might as well have been listening to the patois
of agricultural Carthage.

After changing horses we went up hill, with
perpetual groanings, and grumblings, and grind-
ings, and whip-smacking, and come-up-ing, for
an indefinite period; and then we came to a
cluster of cottages, suspended high up in the
sharp autumn atmosphere as it seemed to me:
and the driver of the vehicle came to my little
peep-hole of a window, and told me with some
slight modification of the Carthaginian patois
that I was “there.”

T alighted and found myself at the door of a
village inn, with the red light form within shin-
ing out upon me where I stood, and a battered
old sign groaning and creaking above my head.
For me, who in ail my life been accustomed
to findmy warmest welcome at an inn, this was
He St home, I ped m ener. took up my car-
pet- bag, and entered the :

I found a rosy-faced landlady, clean and trim,
though a trifle floury as to the arms and apron.
She emerged froma kitchen, an old-fashion-
ed chamber with a floor of red brick; a chamber
which was all in a rosy glow with the firelight,
and looked like a Dutch picture, as I peeped at
it through the open doorway. There were the

 

most eee of cakes and loaves heaped on
a wooden bench by the hearth, and the whole as-
ct of the place was delicious in its homely com-

ort.

‘*Oh,” I said to myself, ‘‘how much better
the northern winds blowing over these untrodden
hills, and the odor of home-made loaves, than
the booming bells of St. Dunstan’s, and the
greasy steam of tavern chops and steaks!”

My heart warmed to this Yorkshire and these
Yorkshire people. Was it for Charlotte’s sake
I wonder, that I was so ready to open my heart
to everybody and everything in this unknown

land?
A A brief parley set me quite at ease with
my landlady. Even the Carthaginian patois be-

came intelligible to me after a little experience.
I found that I could have a cozy, cleanly cham-
ber, and be fed and cared for upon terms that
seemed absurdly small, even to a person of my
limited means. My cordial hostess brought me
a meal which was positively luxurious: broiled
ham and poached eggs, such as one scarcely
hopes to see out of a picture of still-life; crisp
brown cakes fresh from that wonderful oven
whose door I had seen yawning open in the
Flemish interior below; strong tea and cream—
the cream that one reads of in pastoral stories.

I enjoyed my banquet, and then opened my
window and looked out at the still landscape,
dimly visible in the faint starlight.

I was at the top of a hill—the topmost of an
ascending range of hills—and to some ‘minds
that alone is rapture; to inhale the fresh night
air was to drink deeply of an ethereal beverage.
I had never experienced so delicious a sensation
since I had stood on the grassy battlements of
the Chateau d’Argues, with the orchards and

ardens of sunny Normandy spread like a carpet

low my feet.

But this hill was loftier than that on which
the feudal castle rears its crumbling towers, and
the landscape below me was wilder than that
verdant Norman ees

No words can tell how I rejoiced in this un-
trodden region—this severance from the Strand
and Temple Bar. I felt asif my old life was
falling away from me—like the scales of the lep-
ers that were cleansed by the Divine Healer. I
felt myself worthier to love, or even to be loved
by, the bright, true-hearted girl whose image fills
my heart. Ah, if Heaven gave me that dear
angel, I think my old life, a! old recklessness,
my old want of principle, would drop away from
me Ped and the leper would stand forth
cleansed and whole. Could I not be happy with
her here,among these forgotten hills, these widely
scattered homesteads? Could I not be happy
dissevered eternally from billiard-room and kur-
saal, race-ground and dancing-rooms? Yes,
completely and unreservedly happy—happy asa
village curate with seventy pounds a year and a
cast-off coat, supplied by the charity of a land
too poor to pay its pastors the wage of a decent
butler—happy as a struggling farmer, though
the clay soil of my scanty acres were never so
sour and stubborn, my landlord never so hard
about his rent—happy as a peddler, with my
pack of ed tawdry wares slung behind me,
and my Charlotte tramping gayly by my side.

I breakfasted next morning in a snug little
parlor behind the bar, where I overheard two
carters conversing in the Carthaginian patois,
to which I became nou more accustomed.
ie ea cheery landlady came in and out
while I took my meal; and whenever I could

‘detain her long enough I tried to engage her in

conversation,

I asked her if she had ever heard the name of
Meynell; and after profound consideration she
rep ied in the pra

‘IT don’t mind hearing aught of folks called
Meynell,” she said, with more or less of the pa-
tois, which I was beginning to understand;
“but I haven’t mooch memory for nee-ams, 1
might have heard o’ such folks, and not minded
¥ nee-am.” f

This was rather dispiriting; but I knew that
if any record of Christian Meynell’s daughter
existed at Huxter’s Cross, it was in my power
to discover it.

I asked if there was any official in the way of
a registrar to be found in the village; and found
that there was no one more important than an
old man who oa on = of the church. an
er. were kept in the vestry, my landla
believed, and the old man war "called Serie
Gorles, and lived half a mile off, at the home-
stead of his son-in-law But my landlady said
she would send for him immediately, and
pledged herself to produse him in the course of
axl hour.

I told her that I would find my way to the
church-yard in the mean time, whither Mr,
Gorles could follow me as soon as convenient.

The autumnal morning was fresh and bright
as spring, and Huxter’s Cross seemed the most
delightful Powe on earth to me, though it is only
a cluster of cottages, relieved by one farm-house
of moderate pretensions, m
Magpie, a general shop, which is also the
office, and a fine old Norman church, which lies
away from the village, and bears w it the
traces of better days, Near thechurch is an old
granite cross, around which the wild flowers and

hostelry of the

 
 

finite

 

scious Idk) which ‘stitred this “weak ‘héart so

tumultuous! 7, is no doubt common.to her when
she knows herself beloved and admired, and
has no meaning that can flatter my foolish
hopes. ” s
This is how I had reasoned with myself again
and again during the dreary interval in which
Miss Halliday and I-had. been separated. But
oh; what a hardy, perennial blossom hope must

bel! The tender buds were not to be. crushed by |

the pelting ‘hailstones of hard common-sense,
They had survived all my philosophical reflec-
tions, and burst into sudden flower to-day at
sight of Charlotte’s face. She loved me, and she
was delizhted to see me. That was what her
radiant face told me; and could I do less than
believe the sweet confession? For the first few
moments we could scarcely speak to each other,
and then we began to'converse in the usual com-
monplace strain.

She told me of ‘her astonishment on seeing’me
in ‘that remote spot. I could hardly confess to
having business at Huxter’s Cross, so T'was’ fain
to tell my dear love.a falsehood, and declare that
I was taking a holiday ‘‘ up at the hills.”

“And how did you come to. choose Huxter’s
Cross for your holiday?” she asked, naively.

I‘told her that I had heard the place spoken of |

by’ a person in the city—my’ simple-minded
Sparsfield to wit. ‘

“And. you could not have come to’ a hétter
place,” she cried, though people do call it the
very dullest spot in the world. This was my
dear aunt ary’s house—papa’s sister, ' you
know. Grandpapa Halliday had two farms. This
was one, and Hiley farm the other. Hiley was
much larger and better than this, you know, and
was léft to poor papa, who sold it just before he
died.”

Her face clouded as she spoke ‘of lier father’s
death.

“T can’t speak ‘about him without’ pain even
now,” she said softly, ‘though I was only niné
years old when it happened... But one can stiffer
a great deal at nine years old.”

And then, after a little pause, she went on to
speak of her Yorkshire home:

“My aunt and) uncle Mercer are so kind to
me; and:yet they are neither of them really’ re-
lated to me.” My aunt Mary died very young,
when her ‘first baby was born, and the poor lit-
tle! baby died too; and uncle Mercer inherited
théoproperty from his wife; you see. He mar-
ried again after two.years, and his second wife
is the dearest, kindest creature inthe world. T
always call her aunt, for Idon’t remember poor
papas sister at all; and no aunt that ever lived

could be kinder to me than‘aunt Dorothy. “Iam |

always’ so happy here,” she said; “‘ and it seems
such a treat to get away from the Lawn—of
course Iam sorry to leave mamma, you know,”
she added, parenthetically —‘* and the stiff break-
fasts,and Mr, Sheldon’s a that crackle,
crackle, crackle so shockingly all breakfast-time ;
and the stiff dinners, with:a prim: parlor-maid
staring at oné all the time; and bringing one
vegetables that one doesn’t want if one only ven-
tures to breathe a little louder than usual. Here
is Liberty Hall. Uncle Joe+he is aunt Dorothy’s
husband—is the kindest» creature in the worid,
just the very reverse of Mr. Sheldon in every~
thing... I don’t mean that my stepfather is un-
kind, you know. Ob no, ho has always been
very good to me—much kinder than I have de-
served that he should be. But. uncle Joe’s ways
are so. different. I am sure you will like him;
and I amsure he will like you, for he likes every-
body, dear thing! And you maust-come back and
see us ‘very often, please; for! Newhall farm is
open house, you know, and the stranger within
the gates isalways welcome.”

Now my duty to os demanded that I
should scamper back to Huxter’s’ Cross as fast as
my legs would carry me; in order to be in time
for the hybrid vehicle that was to convey me to
Hidling station; and here was this dear girl in-
viting me to linger, and promising mea welcome
to the house which was made a paradise by her

resence.
~ I looked at my watch. It would have been
impossible for me) to reach .Huxter’s Cross in
time for the vehicle. Conscience whispered that
I could hire my landlord’s dogecart anda boy to
drive mé to Hidling; but) the whispers. of con-
science are very faint; and love criéd aloud,

“Stay with Charlotte: supreme »happiness is }

offered to you for the time in your life.
Fool that would reject so rare a gift!”

It was tothis latter counselor that I gave my
ear. My Sheldon’s interests went overboard;
and I staid by the white gate, talking
lotte, till it was quite too late to heed the re-
proachful grumblings of conscience about: that
d a

y Charlotte—yes, I boldly.callher mine now
—mny dear is great.in agriculture.’ She enlight-
ened,my cockney mind on:the subject of upland
farms, telling me how uncle and aunt Mercer’s
land; is poor and sandy, requiring very little in
the way of drai y but producing by no means
luxuriant crops.» ltis a very picturesque place;
and has ‘a, certain sopuenas ye air with. it
pleasing to my) snob

to Chai- |

ish taste. . The house lies ;,common objects; and oh, howl 1

BIRDS OF PREY.

rather than the stately stag browses on that
green sward, and few carriages roll along the
winding gravel road that leads to the house.

I: felt a rapturous thirst for agricultural
knowledge as 1 listened. to my Charlotte. Was
there a vacancy for hind or herdsman on New-
| hall farm? T wondered. ‘What is the office so
| humble T would not fill for her dear sake? Oh
how I sighed for the days of Jacob, that first

distinguished usurer, so that I might serve seven
| years and again seven foots for my darling!
| I staid by the white gate, abandoning all

thought of my employer's behests, unconscious
| of time—unconscious of everything except that
| I was with Charlotte. Halliday, and would not
| have resigned my position to be made Lord
| Chancellor of England.

Anon came uncle Joe, with a pleasant rubi-
cund visage beaming under a felt, hat, to tell
Lottie that dinner was ready. To him I was
immediately presented.

“Mr. Mercer, my dear uncle Joseph—Mr,
Hawkehurst, a friend of my stepfather’s,” said
Charlotte.

Two or three minutes afterward we were all
three walking across the park-like sward to the
| hospitable farm-house; for the idea of my de-

pa before dinner seemed utterly preposter-
ous to this friendly farmer.

Considered ‘apart fromthe glamour that for
my eyes must needs shine over any dwelling in-
1 abited by Charlotte Halliday, I will venture to

ewhall farm-house is the dearest old
place in the world. Such delightful old rooms,
with the deepest window-seats, pole man-

| say that

| telpieces, the widest fireplaces le in do-

| mestic architecture; such mysterious closets and
uncanny passages; such pitfalls in the way of
unexpected flights of stairs; such antiquated
glazed corner-cupboards for the display of old
china!—everything redolent of the past.

In one corner a Se Ry so old that
its spindle might be the identical weapon that
= Princess Sleeping Beauty’s soft white

and; in another corner an arm-chair that must
have been old-fashioned in the days of Queen
Anne; and oh, what ancient flowered chintzes,
what Sa A sofas, what darling mahogany
secretaries, and bureaus with gleaming brazen
adornments in’ the way of handles!—and about
ony hing the odor of rose-leaves and lavender.

T have grown’ familiar with every corner of

| the dear old place within the last few days, but
} on this first day T had ae general impression
| of antiquated aspect and homely comfort.
| . [staid to dine at the same unpretending board
} at which my Charlotte had sat years ago, elevat-
ed on a high chair, and as yet new to the use of
knives and forks.’ Uncle Joe and aunt Doroth
told me this in their pleasant, friendly way ; while
the young lady sat by, blushing and dimpling
like a summer sea beneath the flush of sun-
rise. No words can relate how delightful it was
to me to hear them talk of my dear love’s child-
hood; they dwelt so tenderly upon her sweet-
ness, they dilated with such enthusiasm upon her
‘“pretty ways,” Her “pretty ways! ah, how
fatal a thing it is for mankind when Nature en-
dows a woman with those pretty ways! From
the thrall of Grecian noses and Castilian we
there may be hope of deliverance, but from the
spell of that indescribable witchory there is

none.

I whistled my Sheldon down tho wind without
remorse, and allowed myself to be'as =~ ry as
if Thad been the squire of valley and Laces
with ten thousand a year to offer my Charlotte
with the heart that loves her so fond T have
no idea-what ‘we had for dinner. I know only
that the fare was plenteous, and the hospitality
of my new friends unbounded. “We were very
much at ease with one another, and our laughter
rung up to the'stalwart beams that sustained the
old ceiling. If I had possessed’ the ‘smallest
fragment of my heartI should have delivered

it over without hesitation to my aunt Dorothy—
pardon!—my ’Charlotte’s aunt Dorothy, who is
the cheeriest, brightest, kindest matron I ever
‘met, with a sweet, unworldly spirit that beams
out of her candid blue eyes.
|  Charlotteseems tohave been tenderly attached
| to her father, the poof fellow who died in Phili
) Sheldon’s house—uncomfortable for Sheldon,
) should think, | The Mercers talk a good deal of:
) Thomas Halliday, for whom they appear to have
entertained a very warm affection. | They also
spoke with ‘considerable “kindness of thé two
Sheldons,-whom they knew as young men in
the town of Barlingford; but’ [ should not
imagine either uncle Joseph or aunt Doroth
very able to fathom the still waters of the Shel-
| don-intellect: ;
) After dinner uncle: Joe took us round the
i pens The laststack of: corn had been et ;
and there was a peaceful Jull in the cu F
world.» We wet ink cenyaiedarad le lined with
| ee where I saw moreof the feathered
| race:than I had évercin my life beheld congre-
| gated together; thence to the inspection of pigs
| —and it wasiagreeable:to iugpdot those vul-
“Site. “Her brightness ahed @ light on all thoso
side.” Her) brightness a :
~ longed to be a

 

in a tract of, open grass-land, dotted, here and_| ‘farmer, like unclé Mercer, and devote my life to

there by trees,.and BEET of a park-like ap- | Charlotte and

pearance. True, that
4

P

e mild and ‘useful sheep

 

iculture!
When uncle Joe had done the honors of his |

45

farm-yards and threshing machinery, he left us
to attend to his afternoon duties; and we wan-
dered together over tho breezy upland at our own
sweet wills—or, at her sweet will rather, since
what could I do but follow where she pleased to
lead?

Wetalked of many things: of the father whom
she had loved so dearly, whose memory was still
so mournfully dear to. her;.of her old home at
Hiley; of her visits to these dear Mercers; of
her school-days, and her new unloved home in
the smart Bayswater villa. She confided in me
as she had never done before; and when we turn-
ed in the chill autumn ‘gloaming I had told her
of my love, and had won from her the sweet con-
fession of its return,

T have never known happiness so perfect as
that which I felt as we Wattad home together—
home; yes, that old farm-house must be my
home as well as hers henceforward; for any habi-
tation which she loved must be a kind of home
forme. Sober reflection tells, mé how reckless
and impudent my whole conduct has been in his
business; but when did ever loye and prudence
go hand in hand? We were children, Charlotte
and I, on that blessed afternoon; and we told
each other our love as children might have told
it, without thought of the future. ‘Wo have both
grown wiser since that time, and are quiteagreed
as to our imprudence and foolishness; but though
we endeavor to contemplate the future in the
most serious manner, we are too happy in the
present to be able to analyze the difficulties and
dangers that lie in our pathway.

Surely there must be a providence for impru-
dent lovers.

The November dews fell thick, and the No-
vember air was chill, as we walked back to the
homestead, I was sorry that there should be
that cresning dampness in’ the atmosphere that
night. It seemed out of harmony with the new
warmth in my heart. I pressed my darling’s
little band closer to my heart, and had no more
consciousness of the existence of any impedi-
ments tomy future bliss than I was of the ground
on. which I walked, and that seemed air.

We found our chairs waiting for us at aunt
Dorothy’s tea-table; and I enjoyed that alder-
manic banquet a Yorkshire tea, under circum-
stances that elevated it to an Olympian repast.

I thought of the Comic Latin Grammar:

“Musa, museo, the gods were at tea;
Muse, musam, eating rasberry jam,”

I was Jove, and my love was Juno. T looked
at her athwart the misty clouds that issued from
the ‘hissing urn, and ‘saw her beattified by a
hightened bloom, and with a sweet shy ¢on-
scious look in her eyes which made her indeed
divine.

After tea we played whist; and I am bound
to- confess that my divinity played execrably,

rsistently disdaining to return her partner’s
lead, end puttin mean little trumps upon her
adversary’s tricks, with a fatuous economy of
resources which is always ruin.

I staid till ten o’clock, reckless of the un-
known country which separated ‘me from Mag-
pie, and then walked home alone under the faint
star-light, my friendly host would fain
have lent me a dogeart. The good people here
lend one another dogearts as freely as a cockney
offers his umbrella. I went back to Huxter's
Cross alone, ‘and a long, solitary walk was very
pleasant to me,

Looking up at the stars as I tramped home-
ward, I could but remember an old epigram:

“Were you the earth, dear love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the sun,
And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,
Till fe ae blind, and till the world were
one,””

I had ample leisure for reflection during that
long night-walk, and found myself becoming a
perfect. Young—Hervey—Sturm—what you will,
in the way of meditation. I could not, choose
but wonder at myself when I looked back to this
time last year, andrememberod my idle evenings
in third-rate cafes, on the rive gauche, playing
dominoes, talking the foul of Parisian Bo-
hemia, and poisoning my system with adulter-
ated absinthe. And. now. I feast upon sweet

$s and honey, and think it paradisaic enjoy-

ment to play whist—for love—in a farm-house

arlor. am younger by ten years than I was
Frelyé months ago.

Ah, let me, thank God, who has sent me my
redemption!

L lifted my hat, and pronounced the thanks-
giving softly under that tranquil sky. I was al-
most ashamed to hear the sound of my own voice.
I was like some shy child who for the first time
speaks his father’s name.

CHAPTER V.
TOO FAIR TO LAST,

In my confidences ‘with my dear girl I had
told her neither the nature of my mission in
Yorkshire, nor: the fact that T was hound to
leave Huxter's Oross ion, eon ex-
*ploring ex ion to nowhere in parti r, in
i Pot Watehives of ‘the Meynells. How
could I) bring myself to tell her that I must
ee much less could I bring myself

 

 

2) aT Dae en Sle aren

x

 
 

Danaea sic spelt nenainatnee neha aed a al

46 : THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

Rendered desperately unmindful of the uni-

verse by reason of my ee happiness,
I determined on giving myself a holiday boldly,
in defiance of Sheldon and the Sheldonian inter-
ests. *
“Am I a bounden slave,” I asked myself,
‘‘that I should go here or there at any man’s
bidding for the pitiful stipend of twenty shillings
a week?” ; .

It is to be observed that the rate of hire makes
all the difference in these cases; and while it is
ignominious for a lawyer’s clerk to hasten to
and fro in the earning of his weekly wage, it is
in no ey dishonorable for the minister of state
to obey the call of his chief, and hurry hither
and thither in abnegation of all his own predi-
ee and to the aggravation of his chronic
gout.

I wrote to my Sheidon and told him that I
had met with friends in_the neighborhood of
Huxter’s Cross, and that I intended to give my-
self a brief holiday; after which I would re-
sume my labors, and do my uttermost to make
up for wasted time. I had still the remnant of
my borrowed thirty pounds, and among these
northern hills I felt myself a millionaire,

Three thousand pounds at five per cent.—one
hundred and fifty pounds a year. [ felt that
with such an income assured to us, and the fruits
of my industry, Charlotte andI might be secure
from all the storms of life. Ah, what happiness
it would be to work for her! And I am not too
old to begin life afresh; not too old for the bar;
not too old to make some mark as a writer on
the press—not too old to become a respectable
member of society.

After eering Senarchee my letter to Sheldon
I made off for Newhall farm with all speed.
had received a sort of general invitation from
the kindest of uncles and aunts, but I contrived
with becoming modesty to arrive after Mr. Mer-
cer’s dinner-hour, I found Charlotte alone in
the dear old-fashioned parlor, aunty Dorothy be-
ing engaged in some domestic operations in the
kitchen, and uncle Joseph making his usual after-
dinner rounds among the pig-sties and the
threshing-machines, I discovered afterward
that it was Miss Heey s wont to accompany
her kind kinsmen in this afternoon investiga-
tion; but to-day she had complained of a head-
ache and preferred to stay at home. Yet there
were few symptoms of the headache when I
found her standing in the bow-window, watch-
ing the path by which I came, and the face of
Aurora herself could scarcely be brighter or
fresher than my darling’s innocent blushes when
I greeted her with the privileged kiss of be-
trothal.

We sat in the bow-window talking till the
twilight shadows crept over the green sward,
and the sheep were led away to their fold, with
cheerful jingling of bells and barking of watch-
ful dog. My dearest girl told me that our se-
cret had already been discovered by the pene-
trating eyes of aunt Dorothy and uncle Joseph.
They had teased her unmercifully, it seemed, all
that day, but were graciously pleased to smile
on my suit, like a pair of imprudent Arcadians
as they are.

“They like you very much indeed,” my Lot-
ta said, joyously; ‘‘ but I believe they think I
have known you much longer than I really have
and that you are very intimate with my eeps
father. It seems almost like deceiving them.
allow them to think so, but _I really haven’t the
courage to tell the truth. How foolish and bold
they would think me if they knew how very
short a time I have known you!”

“Twenty times eS than Juliet had known
Romeo when they met in the Friar’s cell to be
married,” I ae 5 5

“Yes, but that was in a play, ” replied Char-
lotte, ‘‘ where everything is o lig to be hur-
ried; and at Hyde ge we allof us thought
that Juliet was a very forward young person.”

“The poets all believe in love at sight
and Pll icy our dear uncle Joe fell over head
and ears in love with aunt Dorothy after having
danced with her two or three times at an assize
ball,” said I. :

After this we became intensely serious, and I
told my darling girl that I h very soon to be
in possession of a fixed income, and to
have begun a professional career. I told her
how dear an incentive to work she had given
me, and how little fear I had for the future.

I reminded her that Mr. Sheldon had no le;

wer to control her actions, and that as her fa-

er’s will had left her entirely to her mother’s
guardianship, she had only her mother’s pleasure
to consult.

“T believe poor mamma would let me marry
a crossing-sweeper, if I cried and declared it
would make me miserable not to marry him,”
said Charlotte; ‘‘but then, you see, mamma’s
wishes mean Mr. Sheldon’s ten she is sure

ee eee te ee nk; and if

e against our marri ,

"Aa Lam sure he will be,” 1 interjected...

colts PaPUMMGAS teenie od kis ol Boamnien
way 0: 8

her as much against it as humself.”

“But even your mamma’s authority won’t
last. forever, my love. You'll be twenty-one in
a year or ane then you can marry whom
you please; and as Il amthankful to say you don’t

 

possess a single sixpence in your own right, we
can marry. on your one-and-twentieth birthday,
and defy all the stern step-fathers in creation.”

“How I wish I had a fortune for your sake,”
she said, with a sigh.

“Be glad for my sake that you have none,” I
answered. ‘‘ You can not imagine the misera-
ble complications and perplexities which arise in
this world from the possession of money. No
slaye so tightly bound as the man who has what
people call ‘a stake in the country’ and a balance
at his banker’s, The true monarch of all he sur-
veys is the penniless reprobate who walks down
Fleet street with his whole estate covered by the
seedy hat 7pOR his head,”

pares thus moralized, I proceeded to ask
Miss Halliday if she was prepared to accept an
Heap hier. station than that enjoyed by her at the

wn.

“No useful landau, to be an open carriage at
noon and a family coach at night,” I said; “no
nimble page to skip hither and thither at his fair
lady’s commands, if not belated on the way by
the excitement of tossing half-pence with youth-
ful. adventurers of the by-ways and alleys; no
trim. parlor-maids, with irreproachable caps,
dressed for the day at 11 o’clock aA.m.—but, in-
stead of these, an humble six-roomed bandbox of
a house, and one poor hard-working slavey, with

rennial smudges from sauce-pan lids upon her

onest Pug Ose. Consider the Bee serious-
ly, Charlotte, and ask yourself whether you can
endure such a descent in the social scale.”

My Charlotte setishe, as if the prospect had
been the most delightful picture ever presented
to mortal vision,

“Do you think I care for the landau or the

eo?” she cried. ‘If it were not for mamma’s
sake I should detest that prim villa and all its
arrangements, You see meso happy here, where
there is no pretense of grandeur—”

“ But I am bound to warn you that I shall not
be able to provide Yorkshire teas at the com-
mencement of our domestic career,” I remarked,
by way of nthesis.

“ Aunt Dorothy will send us hampers of poul-
try and cakes, sir; and for the rest of our time
we can live upon bread and water.”

On this I promised my betrothed a house in
Cavendish or Portman square, and a better-built
landau than Mr. Sheldon’s, in the remote future,
With those dear eyes for my Paes I felt
myself strong enough to clamber up the slippery
ascent to the woolsack. The best and purest
ambition must surely be that which is only a
synonym for love.

After we had sat talking in the gloaming to
our heart’s content, aunt Dorothy aa fol-
lowed by a sturdy handmaid with lighted can-
dles, astill sturdier handmaid with a ponder-
ous tea-tray. The two made haste to spread a
snow-white cloth, and to set forth the species of
banquet which it is the fashion nowadays to call

igh tea. Anon came uncle Joseph, bringing
with him some slight perfume from the piggorics,
and he and aunt Dorothy re sr to be
pleasantly facetious and congratulatory in their
conversation during the social meal which fol-
lowed their advent.

After tea we played whist again, aunt Dorothy
and 1 obtaining a succession of easy victories
over Charlotte and uncle Joe. I felt myself
hourly more and more completely at home in
that simple domestic circle, and enjoyed the
ee ition of an accepted lover. y Arca-

i ends troubled themselves in nowise as to
the approval or disapproval of Mr. and Mrs. Shel-

don, or with rd either to my prospects or my
antecedents. ey saw me devoted to my dear
girl, they saw my dearest pleased by my devotion,

and they loved her so well that they were ready
to open. their hearts without reserve to the man
who adored her and was loved by her, let him be
rich or poor, noble or base-born. As they would
have given her the wax-doll of her desire ten or
twelve yearsago, without question as to price or
fitness of things, so they now gave her their kind-
ly smiles and approval for the lover of her choice.

“T know Phil Sheldon iga@man who looks to
the main chance,” said uncle Joe, in the course
of a discussion about his niece’s future which
dyed her cheeks with blushes in the present;
“and Tl lay yowll find him rather a difficult
customer to deal with, especially as poor Tom’s
will left all the money in Georgy’s hands, which
of course is tantamount to saying that Sheldon
has got the disposal of it.” ;

T assured uncle Joe that money was the very
last thing which I desired.

“Then in that case I don’t see why we
shouldn’t let you have Charlotte,” replied Mr.
Mercer; “and if she’s cheated out of her poor
dad’s money, she sha’n’t be cheated out of what
her old aunt and uncle may have to leave her
by-and-by.”

Here were these worthy people promising me
an heiress with no more compunction than if
they had been offering me a cup of tea.

I walked homeward once more beneath the
quiet stars, ons how happy I was! Can

) so perfect, joy so ess, endure? I,
dless wanderer and penniless: Bo

c hemian.
asked myself this question; and in I paused
‘upon the-lonely moorland road to lift:my hat as

 

I thanked God for haying given me such bright

hopes.

But George Sheldon’s three thousand pounds
must be mine before I can secure the humblest
shelter for my sweet one; and although 1t would
be bliss to me to tramp through the world bare-
foot with Charlotte by my side, the barefooted
state of things is scarcely the sort of pr ta
man would care to offer to the woman he loves.
So once more to the chase. One more day in
this delicious island of the lotus-eater, Newhall
farm; and then away!—bark, forward!—tan-
tivy !—and hey for the marriage lines of Char-
lotte Meynell, great granddaughter of Matthew
Haygarth, and, if still in the flesh, rightful heiress
to the one hundred thousand pounds at present
likely to be absorbed by the ravening jaws of
the Crown! One more day, one more delight-
ful, idle day, in the land where it is always af-
ternoon, and then away to Hidling in the hy-
brid vehicle, and thence to Hull, from Hull
York, from York to Leeds, then bradford, Hud-
dersfield—toute la boutique!

The rain beats geen: the diamond es of
my casement as I write. The day has been
hopelessly wet, so I have staid in my snug little
chamber and occupied myself in writing this rec-
ord, Foul wind or weather would have little
power to keep me from my darling; but even
if it had been a fine day, I could not with any
a have presented myself at Newhall farm

or a third afternoon. To-morrow my imme-
diate departure will afford me an excuse for
presenting myself once more before my kind
uncle and aunt. It will be my farewell visit.
I wonder whether Charlotte will miss me this
afternoon. I wonder whether she will be sorry
when I tell her that I am going to leave this
part of the country. Ah, shall we ever meet —
again under such happy auspices? Shall I ever
again find such kind friends or such a hospitable
dwelling as those I shall leave amidst these
northern hills?

CHAPTER VI.
FOUND IN THE BIBLE,

Nov. 3, The most wonderful event has befall-~
en—surely the most wonderful that ever came
to pass outside of the realms of fiction, Let me
set down the circumstances of yesterday cooll
and quietly if I can. I invoke the placid spirit
of my Sheldon. I invoke all the divinities of
Gray’s Inn and ‘The Fields.” Let me be legal
and specific, perspicacious and logical—if this
beating heart, this fevered brain, will allow me
a few hours’ respite.

The autumn sunshine blessed the land again
yesterday. Moorland and meadow, fallow and
clover-field, were all the brighter for the steady
downfall of the previous day. I walked to New-
hall directly after breakfast, and found my dear-
est standing at the white five-barred gate, dress-
edin her pretty blue jacket, and with ribbons
in her bonny brown hair,

She was pleased to see me, though at first just
a little inclined to play the boudeuse on account
of my absence on the previous day. Of course
I assured her that it had been ish for me to
remain away from her, and quoted that divine
sonnet of our William’s to the like effect:

“ How like a winter hath my absence been!”
and again:

“Oh, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.”

Equally of course ay ee pretended not to be-
lieve me. After this little misunderstanding we

ag each other, and adored each other again

with just a little more than usual devotion; and

then we went for a long ramble among the fields,

and looked at the dear placid sheep, who

at us wonderingly in return, as if exclaiming to

themselves, ‘‘And these are a specimen couple

of the creatures called lovers!”

‘We met uncle Joe in the course of our wan-~
derings, and returned with him in time for the
vulgar superstition of dinner, which we might
have forgotten had we been left by ourselves.
After dinner uncle Joe made off to his pigger-
ies; while aunt Dorothy fell asleep in a capa-
cious old arm-chair by the fire, after making an
apologetic remark to the effect that she was
tired, and had been a good deal “ tewed” that
morning in the dairy. ‘‘'Tewed,” I understand,
is an toe wt oe gartetk into: tis

unt Doro’ aving de e
shadowy realm of dreams, Charlotte and I were
a our own devices. “a

ere was a backgammon board on the side-
table, surmounted by an old Indian bow] of dried
rose-leaves; and, pour nous distraire, po ode ee
that I should teach my dearest that diverting
game. She assented, we set to work ina
very business-like manner, Miss Halliday all at~
tention, I serious as a professional schioobmanter>

Unfortunately for my Sawer progress the

e of backgammon proved less entertaining
our own conversation, so, after a very fee-
ble attempt on the one side to learn and on the
other to teach, we closed the board and
to talk—first of the past, then of the fu’
happy future, which we were to share. }
ere is no need that I should set down this
lovers’ talk. Is it not’ written on my -heart?:

bliin.
oS

 

nae ne ee A a a

BIRDS. OF PREY.

4]

 

 

The future seemed so fair and unclouded to me,
as my love and I sat talking together yesterda
afternoon. Now allis changed. The strangest,
the most surprising complications have arisen;
and I doubt, I fear.

After we had talked for a long time, Miss Hal-
eee: suddenly proposed that should read to

er.

‘*Diana once told me that you read very beau-
tifully,” said this flatterer; ‘‘and I should so
like to hear you pete Tey a of course. You
will find plenty of poems in that old book-case
—Cowper, and Bloomfield, and Po Now I
am sure that oo is just the kind of poet whose
verses you would read magnificently. Shall we

lore the book-case together?”

ow, if there is any manner of beguiling an
idle afternoon which seems to me most delight-
ful, it is by the exploration of old book-cases;
and when that delight can be shared by the
woman one fondly loves, the pleasure thereof
must be of course multiplied to an indefinite

amount.

So Charlotte and I set to work immediately to
ransack the lower shelves of the old-fashioned
vemeey book-case, which contained the entire
library of the Mercer household.

Iam bound to admit that we did not light
upon many volumes of thrilling interest. The
verses of Cowper have always appeared to me
to have only one fault—there are too many of
them. One shrinks appalled from that thick,
closely-printed volume of morality cut into
length of ten feet; and, beyond the few well-
worn quotations in daily use, lam fain to con-
fess that I am almost a stranger to the bard of

Olney.
Halt a dozen odd volumes of the Gentleman’s

_ Magazine, three or four of the Annual Register,

a neatly-bound edition of Clarissa Harlowe an
Sir Charles Grandison in twelve volumes, Law’s
Holy Call to a Serious Life, Paradise Lost, Jo-
seph Andrews, Hervey’s Meditations, and Gulli-
ver’s Travels, formed the varied contents of the
rincipal shelves. Above, there were shabbily-
und volumes and unbound pamphlets. Below,
there were folios, the tops whereof were thickly
covered with the dust of ages, having escaped
the care of the handmaidens even in that neat-
ly-appointed. household.

I cna down to examine these.

“Youll be covered with dust if you touch
them,” cried Charlotte. ‘I was once curious
enough to examine them, but the result was
very disappointing.” Y

“And yet they look so Cele mysteri-
ous,” Isaid. ‘‘This one, for instance?”

“That is an old history of London, with cu-
rious plates and maps; rather interesting if one
has nothing more amusing to read. But the pe-
rennial supply of novels from Mudie’s spoils one
for that lind of book.” ; :

“Tf ever Lcomo to Newhall again I shall aS
into the old history. One is never tired of d
and gone London. But after Mr. Knight’s de-
lightful_ book any old history must seem very
poor. What, is my burly friend here?”

“Oh, a dreadful eS Teele encyclo-
pedia—The Farmer's Friend, I think itis called ;
all about the 2ilments of animals.”

“ And the next?”

“The next is an odd volume of the avant
Magazine. Dear aunt Dorothy is rich in od

volumes.” z
« And the next—my bulky friend number two
ae cracked feather back and a general
tendency to deca :

“Oh, that is a Meynell Bible.”

The Mrynett Brsue! A hot perspiration
broke out upon my face as I knelt at Charlotte
Halliday’s Feet, with my hand resting lightly
on the top of the book.

“The Meynell Bible!” I repeated: and my
voice was faintly tremulous in §) rite of the effort
which I ques eee 2 a What do you
mean by the Meynell Bible

I mean the ald family Bible that belongec
to my grandmamma. It was her father’s Bi-
ble, you know; and of course he was my great-
grandfather—Christian Meynell, Why, how
you stare at me, Valentine! Is there anyt
pd wonderful in my having had a great-grand-

ther ”

“No, darling; but the fact is that I—

In another moment I should have told her the
entire truth; but 1 remembered just in time
that I had ueages oer: to profound secrecy
with anes to the na and progress of my
investigation, and I had yet to learn whether
that pledge did or did not involve the observ-
a of secrec vi hay ek ec

my researc! endi er comm e
tion with Sheldon, I was certainly bound to be

silent.
ns —- ee gaverast in the omg a
said, ‘‘for I was once engaged
aan with people of that name.”
And having thus hoodwinked my beloved
roceeded to extract the Bi-

bouncer, I
ble from its shelf. The book was so tightly
ace that to remove it was like
a tooth, It was a noble-looking old
volume, blue with the mold of ages, and redo-
ee dampness like the atmosphere
of a tomb. “

 

 

“JT should so like to examine the old book
when the candles come in,” I said.

Fortunately for the maintenance of my se-
cret the darkness was closing in upon us when I
discovered the volume, and the room was only
fitfully illuminated by the flame that brightened
and faded every minute,

I carried the book to a side-table, and Char-
lotte and I resumed our talk until the candles
came, and close behind them uncle Joe. I fear
I must have seemed a os inattentive lover
during that brief interval, for I could not con-
centrate m: thoughts upon the subject of our
discourse. My mind would wander to the
strange discovery that I had just made, and I
could not refrain from asking myself whether
by an extraordinary chance my own dear
love should be the rightful claimant to John
Haygarth’s hoarded wealth.

Thoped that it might not be so. I hoped that
my darling might be penniless rather than the
heir to wealth, which, in all likelihood, would
create an obstacle strong enough to sever us
eternally. I longed to question her about her
family, but could not as yet trust myself to
broach the subject. And while I doubted and
hesitated, honest blustering uncle Joe burst into
the room, and aunt a awoke, and was
unutterably surprised to find she had slept so

ong.

Atter this came tea; and as I sat opposite my
dearest girl I could not choose but remember
that gray-eyed Molly, whose miniature had been
found in the a an bureau, and in whose
aaa face I had seen the likeness of Philip
Sheldon’s beautiful step-daughter. And Mr.
Sheldon’s lovely step-daughter was the lineal de-
scendant of this very Molly. Strange mystery
of transmitted resemblance! Here was the
sweet face that had bewitched honest, simple-
minded Matthew Haygarth reproduced after the
lapse of a century.

y Charlotte was descended from a poor little
player girl who had smiled upon the roysterous
popaleee at Bartholomew Fair. Some few ove
of Bohemian blood mingledgsvith the pure life-
stream in her veins. It pleased me to think of
this; but I derived no pleasure from the idea
that Charlotte might possibly be the claimant of
a great fortune.

‘She aa have cousins who would stand be-
fore her,” T said to myself; and there was some
comfort in the thought.

After tea I asked a to inspect the old
family Bible, much tothe astonishment of uncle
Joe, who had no sympathy with antiquarian
tastes, and marveled that I should take any in-
terest in so moldy a volume. I told him, with
perfect truth, that such things had always more
or less interest for me; and then I withdrew to
my little table, where I was provided with a
special pair of candles.

‘You'll find the births and deaths of all poor
Molly’s ancestors on the first leaf,” said uncle
Joe. ‘‘Old Christian Meyne!l was a rare one
for jotting down such things; but the ink has

me so fale that it’s about as much as you’ll do

make sense of it, I’ll lay.”

Charlotte looked over my shoulder as I ex-
amined the fly-leaf of the ily Bible, Even
with this incentive to distraction I contrived to
be tolerably business-like; and this is the record
which I found on the faded page:

“Samuel Matthew Meynell, son of Christian and
Sarah Meynell, b, March 9, 1796, baptized at St. Giles’,
heen in this city.

“Susan Meynell, daughter of Christian and Sarah
ee b. June 29, 1798, also baptized in the same
church,

“Charlotte Meynell, second daughter of the above
Christian and Sarah, b. October 3, 1800, baptized ag
the above-mentioned church of St. Giles, London,”

Below these entries, in blacker ink and in a
different handwriting—a bold, business-like,
masculine calligraphy—came the following: —

“Charlotte Meynell, married to James Hiallidey in
ti parish church of Barngrave, Yorks, April 15,

Below this there was an entry in a woman’s
peamanship:

“Susan, the beloved sister of C. H,, died in London,
July 11, 1835

1835,
“Ju not, that ye be not judged.
<I udge to call sinners, and not the righteous to
repentance.”

This record seemed to hint vaguely at some
sad story: “‘ Susan, the beloved sister;” no pre-
a3 oe =" the oe a Pete mga And then

ose two deprecating sentences, which seemed
to plead for the dead” :

had been led to understand that_Christian
Meynell’s ees had both died in Yorkshire
—one married, the other unmarried.

The last record in the book was the decease
of James Halliday, my dear girl’s grandfather.

After pondering long over the: siaiael y-word-
ed entry of Susan Meynell’s death, I reflected
that, with the aid of those mysterious powers
Hook and Crook, I must contrive to possess my-
self of an exact copy of this leaf from a y
history, if not of the original document.
my duty to my Sheldon impelled me to be
to all my new-born instincts and boldly give ut-
terance to another bouncer. ;

“Tam yery much interested in a county his-

 

cribbage with his wife; “and I really think this

old leaf from a family Bible wouldmake a very «

interesting page in that work.”

I blushed for myself as I felt how shamefully
I was imposin gum my newly-found kinsman’s
credulity. With scarcely any one but uncle Joe
a I have dared to employ soshallow an arti-

ice.

“Would it_really, now?”.said that confidin:
innocent. ‘Well, i suppose old papers, an
letters, and such like, are uncommonly interest-
ing to some folks. I can’t say I caremuch about
’em myself.” :

‘Would you have any objection to my taking
a copy of these entries?” I asked.

“My word, no, lad; not I. Take half a
dozen copies, and welcome, if they can be of any
use to you or other people. That’s not much to
ask for.”

I thanked my simple host, and determined to
write'to a stationer at Hull for some tracing-
paper by the first post next morning. There
was some happiness at least in having found this
unlooked-for end to my researches. I had a

ved oe for remaining longer near Charlotte
iday.

“Tt’s only for my poor Mary’s sake I set an
value on that old volume,” the farmer said and
ently, in a meditative tone. ‘‘You see the
names there are the names of her relations, not
mine; and this place and all in it was hers.
Dorothy and I are only interlopers, as you may
say, at the best, Saudia I brought my fortune
to the old farm, and Dorothy brought her for-
tune, and between us we’ve made Newhall a
much better place than it was in old James
Halliday’s time. But there’s something sad in
the thought that none of those that were born on
the land have left chick or child to inherit it.”

Uncle Joseph fell for a while into a pensive
reverie, and [ thought of that other inheritance,
pe Se fifty times the value of Newhall faim,
which is now wai foraclaimant, And ag: in
I asked myself, Could it be possible that this
sweet girl, whose changed face had saddened
with those old memories, whose innocent heart
knew not one sordid desire—could it be indeed
she whose fair hand was to wrest the Haygarth-
ian gold from the erip of Crown lawyers?

The sight of the old Bible seemed to have re-
vived Mr. Mercer’s memory of his first wife with
unwonted freshness.

‘She was a sweet povae crontove; he said;
“the living picture of our Lottie, and sometimes
I fancy it must have been that which made me
take to Lottie when she was a little one. I used
to see my first wife’s eyes looking up at me out
of Lottie’s eyes. I told Tom it was a comfort
to me to have the little lass with me, and that’s
how they let her come over so often from Hyley.
Poor old Tom used to — her over in his
Whitechapel cart, and leave her behind him for
a week or so at a stretch. And then, when my
Dorothy yonder took pity upon a r lonely
widower, she made as much of the little girl as
if she'd been her own, and more perhaps; for
not having any children of her own, she thought
them such out-of-the-way creatures, that you
couldn’t coddle them and pet them too much.
There’s a little baby lies buried in Barngrave
ehurch- with Tom Halliday’s sister that
would have been a noble young man, sitting
where you're sitting, Mr. Hawkehurst, and look-
ing at me as ae as you're looking, perhaps,
if the Lord’s will hadn’t been otherwise. We've
all our troubles, you see, and that was mine; and
if it hadn’t been for Dorothy, life would not
have been worth much for me after that time—
but my Dorothy is all manner of blessings roll-
ed up in one.”

The farmer looked fondly at his second wife
as he said this, and she blushed and smiled upon
him with responsive tenderness. 1 fancy a wo-
man’s blushes and smiles wear longer in these
calm solitudes than amidst the tumult and clam-
or of a great city. :

Finding my host inclined to dwell upon the
Ppt I ventured to hazard an indirect endeavor

obtain some information respecting that en-
try in the Bible which had excited my curiosity.

_ “Miss Susan Meynell died unmarried, I be-
lieve?’ I said. ‘‘I see her death recorded here,
but she is described by her Christian name only.’

‘“Ah, very like,” replied Mr. Mercer, with an
air of indifference, which I perceived to be as-
sumed. ‘Yes, my poor Molly’s aunt Susan died
unmarried,”

* And in London? Thad been given to under-
stand that she died in Yorkshire.

I blushed for my own impertinence as I press-
ed this ane What right had I to be given
to understan ything about these honest Mey-
nells?. I saw poor uncle Joe’s disconcerted face,
and I felt that the hunter of an heir-at-law is

apt to become a very obnoxious creature.

“Susan Meynell died in London—the poor lass
died in London,” pie age 4 Joseph Mercer, grave-
ly; ‘and now we'll drop that subject, if you
p It isn’t a. tone.”

lad. .
Kftor this T could no longer doubt that there
was some involved in those two
deprecating sentences of the gospel.
te was some time before uncle Joe was quite
his own jovial and rather noisy self and

I said to my |'on this evening we had nowhist. Iv

tory now preparing for the press,” ’
honored uncle, who was engaged in'a hand at “friends good

§

“m
ght a little earlier than usual,

ee

 
 

 

‘ and, departed, after having obtained. permission
ba aks a tracing of ne fly-leaf as soon as pos-
sible. ‘ Fe

On, this night. the starlit, sky and lonesome
moor seemed to have lost their soothing power,
There was a new fever in my mind...The simple
plan of the future which I had ee out for
myself was suddenly shattered. .The Charlotte
of. to-night—heiress-at-law to an enormous for-
tune—ward in Chancery—claimant against the
Crown-—was a very different person from the
simple maid ‘‘ whom there were none ”—or only
a doting simpleton in the person of the present
writer—‘‘ to praise, and very few to love.”

The night before last I had hoped so much; to-
night hope had forsaken me., It seemed as if a
Titan’s hand haddug a,great pit between me
and the woman I loved—a pit as deep as the

rave;

Philip Sheldon might have consented to. give
me his step-daughter unpossessed of a sixpence;
but would he give me his step-daughter witha
hundred thousand pounds for her fortune?. Alas,
no; L know the, Sheldonian intellect too well. to
be fooled by any hope so wild and baseless, The
one bright dream of my misused. life faded from
me in the hour in which I discovered my dear-
est girl’s claim to the Haygarthian inheritance.
But Lam not going to throw up the sponge be-
fore the fight is over. Time enough to die when
Iam lying face downward in the ensanguined
mire; and feel the hosts of the foeman tram:
ling above my shattered carcass. I will live in
the light of my Charlotte’s, smiles while I can—
and for the rest—“ Il ne faut pas dire, fontaine,
je ne boirrai pas de ton eau.” _There is no cup
so bitter thata man dare say, I will not drain
it to the very dregs. ‘‘ What must be, shall be
—that’s a certain text;” and in the meantime
carpe diem. Lam all a Bohemian again.

Nov. 5. After a day’s delay I have obtained
my tracing paper, and made two tracings of ‘the
entries in the Meynell Bible. How intercourse
with the Sheldonian race inclines one to the du-
plication of documents! I consider the copying-
press of modern civilization the supreme incar-
ee ae agen exieinaat of ge fallow mens.

spent this afternoon and evening with my
dear love—my last. evening in pan To-
morrow I shall see my Sheldon, and inform him
of the very strange termination which has come
to my researches. Will he communicate at once
with his brother? Will-he release me from, my
oath of secrecy? There is nothing of the ma-
sonic secretiveness in my organization, and I am
very weary of the seal, that. has been set w
my unwary lips. Will Charlotte be told. that
she is thereverend intestate’s next of kin? These
are questions which I.ask myself as I sit in the
stillness of my room at the Magpie, scribbling
this wretched diary of mine, while the church-
clock booms three solemn strokes in the distance.

Oh, why did not the reverend intestate marry
his ho eeper, and make a will, like other hon-
est citizens, and leave my Charlotte to walk the
obscure by-ways of honest poverty with me? I
do believe that I could have been honest; I do
believe that I could have been brave and true
and steadfast for her dear sake. But it is the
office of man to propose, while the Unseen dis-
poses. Perhaps such a youth as mine admits of
no redemption. I have written circulars. for
Horatio Paget. I have been the willing, re-
morseless tool of a man who ‘never eats his din-
ner without inflicting a wrong, upon his fellow-
creatures. Can a few moments of maudlin sen-
timentality, a vague yearni for Sonera
brighter and better, a brief, impulse towar
honesty inspired by a woman’s innocent eyes—
can so little virtue in the present atone for so
mete in the past! Alas, I fear not,

I one last brief tete-a-tete with my dear
girl while I took the Seating Broo the old Bible.

he sat watching me, and distracting me more
or less while I worked; and despite the shadow
of doubt that has fallen upon me, I could not be
otherwise than happy in her sweet pom pany.

When I came tothe record of Susan Meynell’s
death, my Charlotte’s manner changed all at
once from her accustomed joyousness to a pen-

sive gravity.

“Twas ory sorry you spoke of Susan Mey-
nell to uncle Joseph,” she said, thoughtfully.

“ But why sorry, my dear?” .

Thad some vague notion as to the cause of
this sorrow; but the instincts of the chase im-
pelled me to press the subject. Was I not bound
to know every secretin the lives of Mathew Hay-
garth’s descendants?

“There is a very sad story connected with my
aunt Susan—she was my great-aunt, you know,”
said Charlotte, with a grave, earnest face. ‘‘She
went away from home, and there was great
sorrow. I cannot talk of the story even to you,
Valentine, for there seems something sacred in
these pai family secrets. My poor aunt
Susan left all her friends, and
afterward in London.”

“She was known to have died unmarried?” [
asked... From, George Sheldon’s point of sight
this would be an important pe '

a es Charlotte replied, blushing crimson.

That blush told mea great deal...

“There was some one concerned in this poor
lady’s’sorrow,” I said; ‘‘some one to blame for
all her unhappiness,”

 

many years |_

 

Seat ene

“There was.”

“Some person whom she loved and trusted,
perhaps?”

“Whom she loved and trusted only too well.
Oh, Valentine, must not that be terrible? To
confide with all your heart. in the person you
love; and.to find him base and cruel. If my

oor aunt liad not believed Montagu Kingdon to |

> true and: honorable she ‘would have trusted
her friendsa little, instead of trusting so entirely
in him... Oh, Valentine, what am I telling you!
I cannot. bear to cast.a shadow on the dead.”

‘* My dear love, do you think I cannot pity
this injured lady? . Do you think I am likely to
play the Pharisee, and be eager to bespatiter the
grave of this poor sufferer? I can almost guess

the story which you shrink from telling me—it |

isone of those sad histories so often. acted, so |

often; told, » Your. aunt loved a person called
pening Kingdon, her superior in station, per-
APS!
looked at..Charlotte as I said this, and her
face told me that I had guessed rightly.

“This Montagu Kingdon admired.and. loved
her,” I said. ‘‘ He seemed eager to make her his
wife, but no doubt imposed secrecy as to his in-
tentions. She accepted his word as that of a
true-hearted lover and a gentleman, and_in the
end had bitter reason to repent her confidence.
That is an. outline,of the story, is it not, Char-
lotte?”

‘‘Tam sure that it wasso. Iam sure that
when. she left Newhall she went away to be mar-
ried,” cried Charlotte, eagerly; ‘‘I have seen a
letter that proves it—to me, atleast, And yet I

have heard even mamma speak harshly of her— |
one off the face of this earth |
—as if she had de iberately chosen the sad fate |

so long dead and

which came to her.”

‘Ts it. possible that Mr. Kingdon did marry
Miss Meynell, after all?”

“No,” replied Charlotte; very sadly; ‘‘ there
is no hope.of that. I have seen-a letter written
by my poor aunt years afterward—a letter that
tells much of thecruel truth; and, I have heard
that Mr, Kingdon came back to Yorkshire and
married a rich lady during ay, aunt’s lifetime,”

“‘T should like to see that. letter,” I said, in-
bay as

“Why, Valentine?” asked. my darling, look-
ing at me with sorrowful, wondering eyes. “‘To
me it seems so painful to talk of these things: it
is like reopening,an.old wound.”

“But if the interests of other people require
—” Lbegan, in a very blundering manner.

‘Whose interest can be served. by my show-
ing you;my poor aunt’s letter? It would seem
like an act of dishonor to the dead.”

‘What could I say after this—bound hand and
foot as I am by my promise to Sheldon?

After a long talk with my sweet one,.I bor-
rowed uncle Joe’s dogcart and spun across to
Barngrave, where I found the little church -be-
neath..whose gray old roof Charlotte Meynell
plighted her troth to James Halliday. . I took
a copy of all entries in the register concernin
Mrs. Meynell Halliday and her children, an
them went back to Newhall to restore the dog-
cart, and to take my last. Yorkshire tea at the
hospitable old. farm-house.

To-morrow I am off to Barlingford, fifteen
miles from this village, to take more copies of
registries concerning my sweet young heiress—
the registries of her father’s marriage and her
own birth. After that I think my case will be
tolerably complete, and I can present myself to
Sheldon in the guise of a conqueror.

Is it not a great ede to have made? Is it
not almost an act of chivalry for these prosaic
days to go forth into the world as a private in-

uirer and win a hundred thousand pounds for
the lady of one’s love? And yet I wish any one
rather than my Charlotte were the lineal de-
scendant of Matthew Haygarth.

Nov. 10. Here I am in London once more, with
my Sheldon in ecstatics, and: our affairs pro-

essing marvelously well, as he informs me;

ut with that ponderous slowness peculiar to all
mortal affairs in which the authorities of the
realm are in any way concerned.

My work is finished. Hawkehurst, the geneal-

ist and. antiquarian, sinks into Hawkehurst

the. private in ividual. I have no more to do
but, to mind my own business, and await the
fruition of time in the shape of my reward.
_ Can I accept three thousand pounds for giv-
ing my dearest her birth-right? Can I take pay-
ment for a service done to her? Surely not:
and on the other hand, can I continue to woomy
sweet one, conscious that she is the rightful
claimant to a great estate? Can I take advan-
tage of her ignorance, and may it not be said
that I traded on my secret knowledge?

Before leaving Yorkshire I stole one more day
from the Sheldon business, in order to loiter just
afew hourslonger in that northern Arcadia called
Newhall Farm. What assurance haye I that I
shall ever re-enter that pleasant dwelling? What
hold have I, a wandererand a vagabond, on the
future which respectable people map out for
‘themselves with such mathematical precision?
And even the respectable people are some-
times out in their reckoning. To snatch the
joys of to-day must arAlS be the policy of

@ adventurer. So I took one more happy
afternoon at Newhall. Nor was the

is THE’ FIRESIDE ‘LIBRARY.

noon entirely wasted, for in the “course “of
my farewell visit I heard more of poor Susan

| Meynell’s history from honest uncle Joseph. He

 

told me the story during an after-dinner walk in
which he took me the round of his pig-sties and
cattle-sheds for the last time, a8 if hé would
es have had them leave theit impress on my
1eart.

““You may see plenty of cattle in Yorkshire,”
he remarked, complacently, “Put you won't see
many- beasts to beat that.’

He pointed ‘to a brown and mbuntainous mass
of inert matter, which he gave me to understand
was something in the way of cattle. }

““Would: you. like to see him standing?” ‘he
asked,. giving the mass a prod. with the handle
of his walking stick, which to my cockney mind
seemed. rather cruel, but which, taken ‘from an
agricultural point of view, was no doubt the
correct thing. ‘‘He’ can stand: ’ Coom up,
Brownie!”

IThumbly entreated that the’ ill-tised mass
might, be allowed to sprawl in undisturbed mis*
ery.

“Thorley!” exclaimed Mr. Mercer, laying his
finger significantly against the side of his un!
pretending. nose.

Thad not the faintest comprehension of m
revered uncle-in-law’s meaning; but T said,
“Oh, indeed!” with the accents of admiration.

“Thorley’s Condiment,” said ‘my “uncle.
“You'll see, some fine animals at the Cattle-
show; but if you see a two-year-old heifer to
beat him. my name is not Joe Mercer.”

After this I had to pay my respects to numer-
ous specimens of the bovine race, all more or
less prosirate under the burden of superabund-
ant flesh, all seeming to cry aloud for the treat-
ment of some Banting of the agricultural world.

After we had “done” the cattle-sheds, with
heroic resignation on my part, and with enthu-
siasm on the part of Mr. Mercer, we went along
way to see some rarities in the way of mutton,
which ccmmodity was to be found cropping the
short grass on a distant upland:

With very little appreciation of the zoological
varieties, and with the consciousness that my.
dear one was sitting in the farm-house parlor
wondering at my prolonged absence, this excur-
sion could not be otherwise than a bore to me.
But it was asmall thing to sacrifice my own

leasure for once in a way, when by so doing
might gratify the kindest of men and of uncles;
so I plodded briskly: across the fields with the
friendly farmer.

T ha my reward; for in the course of this
walk. Mr. Mercer gave me tho histery of poor
Susan Meynell.

“*T didn’t care to talk about ‘the story ‘the
other night before the young lass,” he said
gravely; “for her heart’s so full of pity and
tenderness, prettv. dear, that any tale such as
that is like to upset her. But the story’s known
to almost all the folks in these parts; so there’s
no particular reason’ against my telling it
to ao TPve heard my poor mother talk
of, Susan Meynell many a time. She was’ 4
regular beauty, it seems; prettier than her sister
Charlotte, and she was a pretty woran, as you
may guess by looking at our Charlotte; who is
thought the image of her grandmother. But
Susan was one. of those beauties that you’ don’t
see very often—more like a ‘picture than’ flesh
and blood. The. gentry used to turn round to
look at her at Barngrave “Church, I’ve heard
my mother say. She was a rare one for’ dress,
too; for she hada few hundreds left her by her
father and mother, who had both of them been
very well-to-do people. The mother was only
daughter to William: Rand, of Barngrave, a
man who farmed above a thousand acres of ‘his
own land: and the father kept a carpet ware-
house in Aldersgate street?” :

This information I received with r tful
deference, and a hypocritical. assumption of
i nrc respecting Miss Meynell’s  anitece=

ents... J £86

Mr. Mercer paused to take breath, and ‘then
continued the story after (his own rambling
fashion. :

“Well, my lad, what with her fine dress, and
what with her pretty looks, Susan Meynell seems
to have thought a little too much of herself; so
that when Montagu Kingdon, of Kingdon place,
younger brother to Lord Durnsville, fell in love
with her, and courted her—not exactly openly,
but with the knowledge of her sister, Mrs» Hal-
liday—she thought it no more than natural that
he should intend to make her his wife. Mr.
Kingdon was ten wo older than Susan, and
had served under the Marquis of Wellesley in
Spain, and had not borne too = a character
arc: He had been ina hard-drinking cavalry
regiment, and had spent all his money, and
sold out directly the war was over. There was
very little of ‘all this known dowm hereabouts
where Mr. Kingdon stood very high, on account
of his being Lord Durnsyille’s brother. Butiit
was known that he was poor, and that the Durns-
ville estates were heavily encumbered ‘into the

ain.”
“Then this gentleman ‘would have been no
grand match for Miss Meynell, if” »
_ “If he had married her?’ No, my lad; and
it might have been the knowledge of his poverty
that made Susan and her sister think less of the
 

 

«
j
})

|
/

 

ee THE. FIRESIDE “LIBRARY.

 

“ But,” I began, ‘she might: have beem mar-
ried, in spite of—”
a Yes, she might,” replied my Sheldon, cap-

. tiously; ‘but then, you see, the probability is

that she wasn’t. If she had been married sho
would have told her sister as much in that last
letter, or she would have said as much when
they met.”

But she was delirious.”

“Not all the time. She was sensible enough
to talk about her sorrow for the past, and so on;
and she must have been ‘sensible enough to have
spoken of her children, if'she had ever had any.

esides, if she had been married, she would
searcely have been wandering about the world
in that miserable manner, unless her husband
was an uncommonly bad lot. No, Hawkehurst,
depend upon it that we’ve nothing to fear in
that quarter. The person we have to fear is
that precious brother of mine.”

*“You talked: the other wey about driving a
bargain with him,” I said; “TI didn’t quite un-
derstand your meaning: The fortune can only
be-claimed by Char—Miss Halliday, and your
brother has no legal authority to dispose of her
money.”

““Of course not,” answered .my employer;
with contemptuous impatience of my dullness;
“but my brother Phil is not the man to wait for
legal power. His ideas will be) Miss Halliday’s
ideas in this business. When my case is ripe for
action I shall make my’ bar, —half the for-
tune to be mine from the day of its recovery.
A deed en these conditions must be
executed by Charlotte Halliday before I hand
over a single document relating to the case.
Now, as matters stand at present,” he went on,
looking very fixedly at me, “her execution of
that deed would rest with Philip.”

“And when shall you make your overtures to
Mr. Sheldon?” I-asked, at-a loss to understand
that intent look.

“Not until the last links of the chain are: put
together. Not before I’m ready to: make my
first move on the Chancellor’s chess-board: Per-
haps not at all.” *

“How do you mean?”

“Tf I can tide over a little time I may throw
Philip overboard altogether, and get some one
else to manage Miss Halliday for me.”

‘* What do you mean?”

“Tl tell you, Hawkehurst,” answered my par
tron, resting his elbows on the table by which
we were sitting and ‘looking me through with
those penetrating black eyes of his. “My broth-
er Phil played me a shabby trick a few years
ago, which I have not forgotten or forgiven. So
J shouldn’t mind paying him’ out in some of his
own coin. ci Nae which, 1 tell Pr in, I
don’t like the idea of his having a-finger in this
business. Where that kind of man’s finger can
= whole hand will follow; and if once that

d fastens on John ieseews money it'll be
bad times for you a me. Miss day.
counts for exactly ee my way of reckon-
ing. If her step-father told her to sign away
half a million, she’d scribble her name at the
bottom of the paper, and press her pretty little
thumb upon the wafer, without asking a single
— as to the significance of the document,

nd, of course, she’d be still less inclined to
make objections if it was her husband who asked
her to‘execute the deed. Ah! my young friend,
how is it you grow firstred and then white when
I mention Miss Halliday’s husband?”

I have no doubt that I did indeed blanch when
that portentous word was uttered in conjunc-
tion with my darling’s name. Mr. Sheldon
leaned a little further across the table, and his
hard black eyes penetrated a little deeper into
the recesses of my foolish heart.

“Valentine Hawkehurst,” he said, ‘‘shall we
throw my brother Phil overboard altogether?
Shall you and I goshares in this fortune?

“Upon my word and honor, I don’t under-
stand you,” id, in all sincerity.

“You mean that you won’t understand me,”
answered George Sheldon, impatiently; ‘but
Tl make myself pretty clear presently; and ‘as

our own interest is at stake, ae be very un-

ike the rest of your species if you don’t ‘find it
easy enough to understand me. When first I
let you in for the chance of i Pes out of this
business, neither you nor I had'the slightest idea
that circumstances would throw the rightful
claimant to the Hay; h estate so comp! ae
into our way. I had failed so many times wi
other cases before I took up this case, that it’s a
wonder I had the courage towork on. But,
somehow or other, I had a notion that this a
ticular business would turn up trumps. The
way seemed a little clearer ‘than it usually is;
but not clear enough to tempt’'Tom, Dick, an
Harry. And then; in, Thad learned a

many secrets’ fromthe experience of ‘my fail-

ures. I was well up tomy work. I might have
carried it'onj and I ought to have carried it on.
without help; but I was getting worn out and
, 80 Llet you into my , having taken

‘to my head that I could venture to trust

ou.

hel tend iby with! 109 otal, bate
P; re my can-
dor.’ “You never: old ma the amount left by
the reverend intestate; but I heard that down

at Ullerton.: Achabfy ‘in-avhundred ‘thou-

 

 

a pounds: is worth trying. for, Mr.‘ Shel-
on.

5S ater call it a hundred thousand down there,
do they?’ asked the lawyer, with charming in-
nocence. ‘‘ Those. country ipecole always deal
in high figures. However, I don’t mind anes
that the sum is a handsome one, and if. you an:
I play our cards wisely we may push Philip out
of the game altogether, and e the plunder
between us.” i X

Again I was obliged to confess myself unable
to grasp my employer’s meaning.

“Marry Charlotte Halliday out of hand,” he
said, bringing his eyes and his elbows still nearer
to me, until his. bushy. black whiskers almost
touched my face. ‘‘M: her before) Phili
gets an inkling of this affair, and. then, instea
of being made a tool of by him, she’ll be safe in

our hands, and the money will be in-your hands
into the bargain. Why, how you stare, man!
Do you think I haven’t seen how the land lies
between youtwo? Haven’t I dined at Bayswater
when you've been there? and.could any man with
his wits about him see you two sentimental young
simpletons together without seeing how thin Ss
were hong on? You are in love with Charlotte,
and Charlotte is in love with you. What more
natural than that you two should make a match
of it? Charlotte is her own mis and hasn’t
sixpence in the world that any one but you and
I know of; for, of course, my brother: Phil will
continue to stick to every penny of poor old Tom’s
money. All. you have todo is to follow up the
young lady; it’s the course that would suggest
itself to any man in the same case, even if Miss
Halliday were the ugliest old harridan in Chris-
tendom, instead of being a very jolly kind of
girl, as girls go.” ;

My employer said this with the tone of a man
who had never considered the genus girl a very
interesting part of creation. I suppose I looked
at him rather indignantly; for he laughed as he
resumed:

‘“Tll say she’s an angel, if you like,” he said;
“and if you think her one, so much the better.
You may consider it a very lucky thing that you
came in mm way and a still more lucky: thin;
that) Miss Halli y_has been silly enough to
in love with you. I’ve heard of men being born
with silver spoons in their mouths ; but I should
think you must have come into the world with a
wholeservice of plate. However, that is neither
here nor there. Your policy will be to follow up
your advantages; and if you can persuade the
young lady to change her name for Hawkehurst
on the quiet some fine morning, without stopping
to ask permission of her step-father, or any one
else, so much the better for you, and so much
the more agreeable to me. I’d rather do busi-
ness with you than with my brother Phil; and
Ishan’t besorry to cry quits with that gentleman
for the shabby trick he played mea: few years

0.”

My: Sheldon’s brow darkened as he said this,
and the moody fit returned! That old grudge
which my patron entertains against his brother
must relate to some very di eable business,
if Imay judge by George Sheldon’s manner.

Here was a position for me, Valentine Hawke-
hurst, soldier of fortune, cosmopolitan adven-
turer, and child of the nomadic tribes who call
Bohemia their mother country! Already blessed
with the sanction of my dear love’s simple York-
shire kindred, I was now assured of George
Sheldon’s favor; nay, urged onward in my para-
disaic path by that unsentimental mentor. Tho
situation was almost too much for my bewildered
brain. Charlotte an heiress, and George Sheldon
eager to bring about my participation in the Hay-

ian thousands!
ona i T sit in mance see ae ny * wim

eet, pondering upon the , an g
face the Pp Jexities of the future.

Is this to be? Am I,:so-hopeless an outsider
in the race of life, to come in with a rush and
win the prize which Fortune's first favorite might
Sar an 7 hope or a it? Can —y a

ave been p ga pleasant practical joke wi
me all this Newey like those fnities who decreo
that the young: prince shall his childhood
and youth in the guise of a wild boar, only to be
transformed into an Adonis at last by the hand
of the woman who is disinterested enough to love
aie ar mea formidable tusks and ungainly

o! athousand times no! The woman I love
and the fortune I have so often desired, are not
for me. Every man has his own especial Fates;
and the three sisters who take care of me are
grim, hard-visaged, harder-hearted spinsters; not

be mollified by propitiation, or by the smooth
ee of the flatterer. The cup is very sweet,
it seems almost within my grasp; but be-
tween that chalice of delight and the lips that
thirst for it, ah, what.a gulf!

They who leaped from Leucadia’s rocky steep
were cured of their fatal passion, if they were
not drowned; and I may win my Charlotte and
a slice of John ae 8 h’s fortune, if lean jockey
the three implacable spinsters, h .

Nov: 13. e above was written late at a
and under the influence of my black dog. - f
an ill-conditioned cur he is, and how he mouths
and mangles the roses that bestrew his pathway:
always bent)upon finding the worm at the) ec 1
I kicked the brute out of doors this morning,

 

on finding a letter from my dear one lying inm
plate. ‘‘ Avaunt, arointthee, foul; fiend!”
cried, ‘‘ Thou art the veritable poodle in whose
skin epreornates hides when bent on direst
mischief. I will set the sign of the cross upon
my. threshold, and thou it enter no more.

his is what I said to myself when I tore open
my darling’s envelope, with its pretty little motto
stamped on cream-colored. sea’ Ing-wax, ‘‘Pensez
amot.” Ah, love; ‘‘ while memory holds a seat
in this distracted globe.” I saw the eyes of m:
friend Horatio fixed upon me as I opened my le’
Ser, and knew that my innermost sentiments were
under inspection. Prudence demands all possi-
ble caution where the noble captain is concerned.
I cannot bring myself to put implicit faith in his
account of his business at Ullerton.. He may
have been there, as he says, on some promoting
ope? but our meeting in that town was, to say
the least, a strange coincidence, and I am not
a believer in coincidences—off the stage, where
a gentleman invariably makes his appearance
directly his friends or his enemies begin to
about him,

I cannot forget my conviction that Jonah
Goodge was bought over by @ rival investigator,
and that Rebecca Haygarth’s letters were tam-

red with; nor can J refrain from connecting

hat shapely but well-worn lavender glove wit

the person of my dandy friend, Horatio Paget.
The disappearance of aletter from the packet in+
trusted to me by Miss Judson. is another myste-
rious circumstance: nor can I do away with the
impression. that I heard the name Meynell dis-
tinctly pronounced by Philip Sheldon the last
time I was at the villa.

George Sheldon tells me the secret can not by
any possibility have. been. betrayed, unless. be-

weayed by me; and I have. been prudence itself,
upposin,

g my suspicions of Mr, Goodge to be
correct, the letters extracted from Mrs. Rebec-
ca’s noreoepanicenog might tell much, and might
even put Horatio on the track of the Meyne
But how should he get his first inkling of the
business?

Certainly not from. me or from George Shel-
don, But might not his attention have been at-
tracted by that advertisement for heirs-at-law
to the Haygarthian estate which appeared in
the Times?

These are questions with which the legal intel-
lect of my Sheldon may best grapple. For my-
self, I can only drift. with tho resistless stream
called life; and my motto shall be Shaksperian
—‘‘ What must, be shall be.”

I was so unfortunate as to make my appear-
ance in our common sitting-room five minutes
after my patron. There had been time enough
for him to examine the superscription and post-
mark of my letter. He was whistling when I
went into the room, and I drew my own deduc-
tion from the fact. People who havo been look-
ing at things that don’t belong to them al-
ways whistle. :

I did not care to read. my Charlotte’s first let-

‘ter with those hawk’s eyes fixed upon me, Sol

just glanced at the dear handwriting, as if run-
ning over an ordinary letter with the eye of in-
difference, and then put. the document into my
paces with the best assumption of carelessness

was capable of. How I longed for the end of
that tedious meal, over which Captain Paget
pe and lingered in his usual epicurean fash-
ion

My friend Horatio has shown himself not a
little curious about my late absence from the
joint domicile. I again resorted to the Dorking

ction—my aged aunt breaking fast, and requir-
ng propivewen from a dutiful nephew
with an eye to testamentary ATTA ESRI,
I had been compelled, to endow my owy
relative with a comfortable little bit of money,
in order to account for my devotion; since the
peer mind of my Horatio. would have re-
sed to grasp the idea of disinterested affection
for an ancient kinswoman,

There was an ominous twinkle in the Captain’s
sharp gray eyes when I gave this account of
my absence, and I sorely doubt his acceptance
of this second volume of the Dorking romance,
Ah, what a life it is we lead in the tents of, Ish-
mael, the castaway! through what. tortuous

thways wander the nomad tribes who call
Pages e abandoned their mother! what, lies,
what evasions, what prevarications! Horatio
Paget and I watch each other like two cunning
fencers, with a stereotyped smile upon our Ups
and an eager restlessness in our eyes? and who
shall say that one’ or other of our rapiers. is
not poisoned, as in the famous duel before Clau-
dius, usurper of Denmark?

My dear one’s letter is all sweetness and love,
in a general way. She is coming home; and,
much asshe prefers Yorkshire to Bayswater, she
is pleased _to come to town fcr my sake—
for my sake. She leaves the pure atmosphere
that simple country home to. become the cen’

int in a net-work of in 6: and.I am.

keep the secret so closely interwoven-with her
fate. Ilove her more truly, moro.purely than I
thought myself capable. of. lovi ae: I. can
only approach her as the toe of, George Shel-

o— : :

iy Sect ae ja
en UW j f ¥

to underrate the advantages of mics

.
 

oa

BIRDS} OF PREY.

54

 

haye been reared in the gutter, which, is. Pov-
exty’s cradle, Yet I would fain my, darling’s
fortune had come to her in any other. fashion
than as the result of my. work. in the character
of a, salaried private inquirer.

BOOK VII.—CHARLOTTEH’S ENGAGE-
MENT.

CHAPTER I,
“IN YOUR, PATIENCE YE; ARE STRONG.”

Miss Hauuipay returned to the Gothic villa
at Bayswater with a,bloom on her cheeks, and
a brightness in her eyes, which ed her
wonted bloom and brightness, fair and bright as
her beauty had been from the hour in which
she was created to charm mankind. She had
been a creature to adore, even in the first. dawn
of infaney, and.in her christening-hood and toga
of white satin had been a being. to dream of.
But now she seemed inyested all at once witha

 

new. loveliness--more: spiritual, more. pensive,

tnttight not Valentine ha cried, with th
ight no’ entine haye cried,, wii era
tne pride, of a lover: ‘‘ Look at. the aiatin,

here with a new soul!” and anon: ‘‘ This new.

soul is mine!” ;

It was love that had ene ted a new charm to
Miss Halliday’s beats ‘iana wondered at the
subtle change as her friend satin her favorite
window on the morning after, her return, look-

dreamily out into the blossomless garde
where evergreens of the darkest and. spikies
character s PD aaa and straight against
the cold gray atm ere.

Diana aeons her friend in her usual
reserved manner, much to Charlotte’s discom-
fiture. The. girl so yearned for a confidante.
She had no es of hiding her, happiness, from
this chosen. friend, and waited eagerly for the

’ moment in, which she could put her arms round

Diana’s neck and tell her, what it was that had
made, Newhall so sweet to her during this: par-
ticular visit.

She sat in the.window. this morning thinking
of Valentine, and languishing to speak of him,
but at a loss how to begin. There are -some
people about whose necks, the arms of affection
can scarce entwine themselves. Diana. Paget
sat at her eternal embroidery frame, picking up
beads om her needle with the precision of some
self-feeding maching. The little, glass) beads
made a hard clicking sound. as they. drop
from.her needle—a v frosty, unpromising
sound, as it seemed, to Charlotte’s hyper-sensi-
tive ear.

There had been an unwonted reserve between
the, girls. since Charlotte’s. return—a. reserve
which arose, on Miss Halliday’s part, from the
contest. between, girlish pag! and, the eager
desire for a co te; and.on the of Miss
tet from that gloomy discontent which, had
of late possessed hi

er,

She watched Charlotte furtively as she picked
up the beads—watched her with wonderi
eyes, unable to. comprehend the happiness tha
gave such spiritual brightn
was not the old gayoty of heart which had made
Miss Halliday’s girlhood so pleasant. It was the
thoughtful, serene delight of womanhood.

“She can. care little for Valentine,”
Diana thought, “ or. she could somanoely seem sO
happy after such a long separation.. I doubt if
these. bewitching.women who enchant all the
world know what it is to feel deeply. Happiness
is a habit with. this girl. Valentine’s attentions
were very pleasant to her. The pretty little ro-
mance was ver eable while it lasted; but at
the first interruption of the stone she shuts the
book and thinks of it no more. Oh, if my Cre-
ator had made me like that! If I could forget
the days we spent together, and the dream I
dreamed!”

That never-to-be-forgotten vision came back
to Diana Paget as she sat at her work; and for
a few minutes the clicking sound of the beads
ceased, while she waited with clasped hands un-
til the shadows should have passed. before her
eyes, The old dream came back to her like a
picture pee sae color and light. But the
airy: habitation which, she had built for herself
of old was no “ palace lifting to Italian heavens
its marble roof,” It was only a commonplace
lodgin in a street running out of the Strand,
wit just a peep of the river from a trim little
baleony, « airy second-floor sitting-room,
with engraved porheaits of the great writers,on
the newly-papered walls; on one side an office-
desk, on the other a work-table. The unpre-
tending shelter of a newspaper hack, who lives
a jour la journee, and whose wife must achieve
wonders. in ae 78y. of domestic economy in or-

er to eke ou modest. earnings. ‘

This was Diana Paget’s vision of. Paradise,
and. it seemed only the brighter now that:she
felt it-was never to ¥ anything more than a su-

picture painted on. her brain.

After sitting silent for some little time, one
to _ but waiting tobe interrogated, Charl
way, do Piast mae eich T enjoyed

ou don’t | me w) rie m

Yorkshire, Di,” she. said, loo chyly ee

at the little bunch of charms.and lockets which

omen cm ‘Diana, languidly;

‘Didn’t I, really?” re A
“T thought esa i the stereotyped in-

-quiries one al ys made.

aes SZ

ess to her_eyes... It:

 

‘“‘T hope you wouldn’t make stereotyped in-
quiries of me, Diana.”

“No, I ought not.to.do so... But I think there
are times when one is artificial even with one’s
best friends. And you are my. best friend, Char-
lotte...I may. as well say my, only friend,” the
girl SARE Nt x laugh. iso is 7 opt

‘Diana,” cri otte, repr
‘“‘why do you speak so bitterly? You a
how dearly I love you, do indeed, dear. There
is. scarcely, ones in this world I would not
do for you. But J am not your, only friend,
peste isd . Hawkehurst, whom you have known
so long, ,

Miss’ Halliday’s face was in a flame; and.al-
though she bent,very) low, to examing ithe golden
trumpery paige to her watch-chain she could
not conceal her blushes;from the eyes that were
so sharpened By goals lot.

6 Lote Hawke meee ore dainty with un-
speakable contempt. were drowning, do
you think he. would. stretch out his hand. tosave
me. while yon were within his sight? When. he.
Coens to us Renee une has ime much
poverty; and. mise ame, and—happiness
with, rH and oe you think he so much as
remembers; my. existence? Do, you. think he
ever — to consider whether I am that Diana
% * ba 0 mas ae igs friend, and perenne
an ow-wayfarer and com mt or only.a
lay figure dressed up to fill wv oemen ehair in
your, drawing-room? '

“Tw all ell, to look b

a very well, ,at,me reproach-;
fully, Charlotte... You. must, know that I am
speaking the truth. You talk of friendship, What
is that word worth if. it, does not: mean care and
thought for another? Do you imagine that Val-.
entine Hawkehurst ever, thinks of, me, or, con-
siders me?” : ,

Charlotte was fain to keep silence. . She: re-
membered how very rarely in all those long af-,
ternoons at; New farm the name of Diana;
Paget. had been mentioned. She remembered
how, when.she and Valentine were mapping out
the future so vessnitel Ys she had stopped in the
midst of an eloquent .bit of word-painting de-
scriptive of the little suburban. cottage. they
bes a live. in, to. dispose, of Diana’s fate ina

sentence:

“And dear Di, can. stop. at. the Villa, to take:
care of mamma,” she. said; whereupon. Mr, ;
Hawkehurst had assented with a careless, nod,
and the description of the ideal cottage had been
continued, it vor f

Charlotte remembered this now with extreme,
contrition. She had. been so supremely happy,
and.so selfish in her Danypenens

‘Oh, Di,” she cried, ‘‘how selfish happy
people,are!”’ And then she stopped. in confusion,
percekvine that. the remark: had little. relevance

Diana’s last observation.

“Valentine shall be your friend, dear,” she
said, after a pause.)) «

“ Oh, youw.are becipping so answer for him al-

ready!” exclaimed Miss Paget, with increasing |

“Diana,.why are you so unkind to me??:
Charlotte, crie passionately. “* Don't. you, see,
that I am longing to confide in you?) Whatyis,
it that makes you so bitter? You must know:
how truly Llove you, And if Mr. Hawkehurst)
is not what he once was to you, you. must re-)
member how cold and. distant you always are)
in. your manner to him, I am,sure, to hear
rep speak to) him, and to see, you. look. ati

im sometimes, one, would think he was, posi-
rarely nates to you. And I want you to
like a little for my sake.”

Miss Halliday left her seat, by the window as
she said this, and went, toward the table. by
which her, friend was sitting. . She! crept close:
to Diana, and with, a half-frightened, half-car- )
ne ne ee nae oe e: low ot-
man at her feet, 5) 80a) us,
herself of noman sao cold hand...” re
ni e want. you to like Mr. Hawkehurst:a little»

i,” she repeated, | “for my sake.”
ie well, I will. men him a little for

e d ina very) un- |
Aympathotic tone, — om
ot dh, Dil, tell me how» it.was he: offended )

663

a Who told you that he offended me?”

Your own manner, dear. You-could. never
have been so cold and distant with him, having
Inown:him so long, and endured so many. trou-
pas othe company ifyou had not been deeply
aim very unearth yo mao!

e you. Iam cay
T used to like Mr. Hawlelurst, and now 1 di
hae ae offense, a waeaae ee i he
h as, my: father’s»life, hasi of-
fended ,.me, ‘from. first tot last, I quan gies
and amiable, and loving like you; but I de-
ceptions and lies—ahove) all; the ‘lies: that: some
men traffic. in.day.after day.” i Bos
Was Vale: 's-was your father’s: life a,
very bad. one?” Charlotte, trembling -pal-
pab. tsieyea ee Miss. t's: facey with :
anxio' leyes,; horace d hed vf f hove

“ it was a mean, false life; a life of trick:

and. . do not inow: thie’ details.of the

»by which» my father and» Valentine
earned their daily: bread, and my daily bread, |

~“

 

but I know they inflicted Joss upon other people.
Whether the wrong done was always:done de-
liberately and. consciously upon Valentine's part
I cannot say, He may have been only: a tool of
my father’s. I hone he was, for the most part,
an unconscious tool,”

She said all thisyin a,dreamy way, as if utter-
os own thoughts rather than seeking to en-
lig ten. Charlotte,

‘Tam sure he was an. unconscious tool,” cried
that young lady, with an air of conviction; “it
isnot invhis Daina todo anything false or dis-
honorable,”

“Indeed! you know. him very well, it seems,”
said Diana.

Ah, what a tempest was raging in that proud,
passionate. heart!; what,,a. strife between. the
pavers of good andeyil! Pitying, love for Clare

otte; tender compassion for her rival’s childlike
helplessness; and, unutterable, sense of, her) own

loss.

She had. loved him so dearly, and he was taken
from her. There had been.a time when he als
most. loved’ her—almost! Yes, it. was the re-
prom eee of yuoat which yeie me trial - ee

. cup approac’ er lips. o
be dashed away, forever. r

‘ Whatidid I ask in life except his love?” she
said to herself, ‘‘‘Of.all the. pleasures. and. tri-
wan which girls of, my enjoy, is there one
that I ever envied?, No, I only sighed fer his
love. To live in a lod eee parlor with
him, to sit. by and, watch, him ‘at his ;work, to
drudge for him,' to bear with him-—this was my
brighnegt dream of earthly bliss; and, she has
broken it!”

It. was thus Diana argued with’ herself, as she
sat looking down at the bright creature who had
done-her this; worst, last wrong which, one ‘wo-
man,can/do.to,another. This passionate heart,
which ached with such cruel pain, was prone to
evil, and) to-day the scorpion Jealousy was dig
ging his sharp; tooth into its) verycore. It was
not possible for Diana, Paget to feel kindly dis-
pose toward; the girl whose. unconscious Ci

shattered the airy castle of her dreams.
Was it not a hand thing that'the bright ereat-
ure, whom |everyone was, ready to adore, must
needs steal away this|one heart

‘“‘Tt-has always been like this,” thought Diana.
“The story of David and, Nathan isa parable
that is perpetually being illustrated: David is
so rich—he. is lord; of incalculable flocks and
herds;but he. will-not: be content till he has
stolen) the, one little ewe lamb, the poor man’s
pet and darling.” iy s

“Diana,” said Miss Halliday, very softly,
“you are so difficult to talk to this morning,
and I have so much to say to-you,”

‘About your! visit, or about’ Mr: Hawke-
hurst?”

‘* About— Yorkshire,” answered Charlotte,
with the air of ashy child who bad made her
ap ce at dessert, and is asked whether’ she
will have a pear or a peach. ’

“About Yorkshire!” repeated Miss Paget, with
alittle sigh of relief; “I shall be penryat to
hear, about» your Yorkshire friends. “Was. the
visit a pleasant one?”

“Very; very pleasant!” answered Charlotte,
dwelling tenderly on the words.

“‘ How sentimental you have grown, Lotta! I
think you must have found a pony te shelf of
Minerva Press: novels in some cup! ‘dat your
aunt's. You have lost all your vivacity.”

‘Have I?” murmured Charlotte; ‘and ‘yet
i. am happier than I was when I went away.
Whom do you think I metat Newhall, Di?” ,

“T have not,the slightest idea... My notions of
Yorkshire are very vague. I fancy the —
amiable savages; just a little in advance-of the
ancient Britons whom Julius Cesar came over
to conquer, Who did you meet: there? Some
country, squire, I maroon who fell in: love with
your bright eyes, and wished: ito waste the
rest of your existence in those Northern wilds.”

Miss )wasnot a) woman to bare her
wounds for the scrutiny of the friendliest: eyes,
Let the tooth of the serpent bite never so keenly,
she could meet» her sorrows with: a bold front.
Was she not accustomed to suffer— she, the
8 + of defrauded: nurses cas oor
isndladieg; the dependent and: drudge of her
kinswoman’s gynmceum, the despised of her fa-
ther? - The flavor of’ these waters'was very fax
miliar to her lips... The draught was only a lit-
tle more acrid, a little deeper, and habit had en-
abled: her to drain. the cup without complaining,
if not in a spirit of resignation, .'To-dayshe
been betrayed into.a brief outbreak: of passion;
but the storm had passed, and a more observant
passe n than Charlotte might: have been deceived

ven ecm Di again,” cried Miss

you are my own Di a yt
Halliday; ‘somewhat c abies the best of
times, but-always candid and:true:”
pc bites Ra gab cbr ced ever s0 little asher friend

‘No, dear,” continued Charlotte, with the
eee aera . came > ad
shire squire. It (vas a. person you know v
in ap Bi cnn canst urety iat of thismora
ig , you must surely have
me wher I sail wanted you to like hin for my

*Vaieotine Hawehre” exlaimed Dian

 
 

nt aimee

54

is in the city; and as I often went to the Villa
before my engagement, he is not ue to sus-
pect anything when he happens to hear my
name mentioned as a visitor.”

«And do youreally think he is in the dark—
my brother Philip, who can turn a'man’s brains
inside out in half an hour’s conversation? Mark
my words, Valentine Hawkehurst,' that man is
only playing with you as a cat plays with a
mouse. He used to see you and Charlotte to-
gether before you went to Yorkshire, and he
must have seen the state of the case_quite as

lainly as I saw it, He has heard of your visits
Fo the Villa since your return, and’ has kept a
close account of them, and made his own deduc-
tions; depend upon it. And. some day, while you
and pretty Miss Charlotte are enjoying your
fool’s paradise, he will pounce upon'you just as
puss pounces on poor mousy. 2%

This was rather alarming, and Valentine felt
that it was very likely to be correct.

“Mr. Sheldon may play the part of puss as he
pleases,” he replied, after a brief pause for delib-
eration; ‘this is a case in which ‘he dare not
show his claws. He has noauthority to control
Miss Halliday’s actions.”

“Perhaps not, but he would find means for

reventing her marriage if it was to his interest
do so, e is not your brother, you see, Mr.
Hawkehurst; but he is mine, and Tknow a good
deal about him. His interest may not be con-
cerned in hindering his pies Begs marria;
with a penniless scape-grace. He mayipossibly
refer such a bridegroom ‘as less likely'to' make
imself obnoxious wy oe awkward questions
about poor Tom Halliday’s money, every six-
nce of which he means to keep, of course. If
is cards are packed for that kind of marriage,
he’ll welcome you to his arms as a son-in-law,
and give you his benediction as well as ‘his step-
daughter. So TI think if you ean contrive to in-
form him of your engagement, without, letting
him know of your visit to Yorkshire, it wight be
a stroke of diplomacy. He might be glad to get
rid of the girl, and might hasten on the marriage
of his own volition.”

“ He might be glad to get rid of the girl.” » In
the ears of Valentine Hawkehurst this sounded
rank blasphemy. Could there be any one upon
this earth, even a Sheldon, incapable of appre-
ciating the privilege of that divine creature's
presence?

 

 

CHAPTER IV.
MR. SHELDON IS PROPITIOUS.

Ir was not very long before Valentine Hawke-
hurst had reason to respect the widow of his
legal patron. ‘Within a few days of his interview
with Peon Sheldon he paid his weekly visit te
the Villa. Things were going oy, well with
him, and life altogether seemed brighter than he
had ever hoped to find it. He had set himself
steadily to work’to win some kind of tion in
literature! ‘He devoted his days to diligent study
in the reading-room ‘of the British Museum, his
nights ‘to writing for the magazines. “His ac-
quaintance with press-men had stood him in
stead; and already he had ‘secured:the’ prompt
acceptance of his work in’more'than one direc-
tion. The young litterateur of the present ~
has not such a very hard fight:for'a livelihood,
if his pen has only a certain lightness and dash,
arattling vivacity and airy grace.’ It is onty the
“giant boys,” who come to London with epic

ms, Anglo-Saxon tragedies, or metaphysical

eatises in their portimanteaus, who must needs

“« perish in their pride,” or'stoop tothe drudgery
of office or ade

Valentine Hawkehurst hadno vagueyearnings
after'the fame of a Milton, no inner conscious-
ness that he had been born tostamp out the foot-
prints of Shakspeare on ‘the sands of time, no
unhealthy hungering’ after the gloomy grandeur
of Byron. He had been brought up among
ple who treated literature as a trade as well as
an art; and what art isnot more or less a trade?
He knew the state ofthe market and what kind
of goods were likely to go off briskly, and it was
for the market he-worked.:When gray shirtings
were in active demand, he set his loom ‘for gray
shirtings; and when the buyers ‘clamo for
faney goods, he made haste to produce that class
of fabrics. In this he proved self avi low-
minded sand ignominious creature, no doubt;
but was not one Oliver Goldsmith glad to take
any order which good Mr. Newberry might give
him, only writing the 7'raveler and the story of
Parson ‘ose pour se distraire?

Love lent ue to the young essayist’s a
It istobe feared that in roving among those
shelves in Great Russell street he showed him-
self something of a freebooter, taking his ‘‘bien”
wherever it wasto befound; but did not Moliere
frankly acknowledge the same’ practice? Mr:
Hawkehurst wrote about anyt! and every-
thing. His brain must needs be a gigantic store-
house of information, thought the respectful read-
er. Heskipped from Pericles to Cromwell, from
Cleopatra to Mary Stuart, fromSappho to Ma-

me de Sable; and he wrote of these
spirits with ‘such a charming impertinence, with
such a delicious affectation of intimacy, that one
would have thought he had sat by Cleopatra as
she melted her pearls, and stood among the au-
J@ience of Pericles when he pronounced: his fune-
val oration. “With the De

ble'and the Chey-

PIT al I a iN Ee

 

RE SOE eT ap:

_THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

reuse, Vinon and Marion, Maintenon and La
Valliere, Anne of Austria and the great Made-
moiselle of France, he seemed to have lived in
daily companionship, so amply did he expatiate
upon the smallest details of their existence, so
tenderly did he dwell on their vanished beauties,
their unforgotten eS,

The work ‘was light and pleasant: and the
monthly checks from the proprietors of a couple
of rival periodicals promised to amount tothe in-
come which theadventurer: had sighed for as he
trod ‘the Yorkshire moorland. e had asked.
Destiny to give him Charlotte Halliday and three
hundred a year,'and lo! while yet the wish was
new, both these blessings seemed within his grasp.
Tt could scarcely be a matter for repining if the
Fates should choose to throw in an odd fifty
thousand pounds or so.

But was not all this something too much of
a for a man whose feet had trodden in
evil ways? Were not the Fates mocking this
travel-stained wayfarer with bright glimpses of
a paradise whose gates he was never to pass?

‘his was the question which Valentine Hawke-
hurst was fain to ask himself sometimes; this
doubt was the shadow which sometimes made a
sudden darkness that obscured the sunshine.

Happily for Charlotte’s true lover, the shadow
did not oftencome between him the light of
those dear eyes which. were his pole-stars.

The December days were shortening as the
year drew to its close, and afternoon tea seemed
more than ever delightful to Charlotte and her
betrothed, now that ‘it could ‘be’ enjoyed in the
mysterious ‘half light; a glimmer of chill gray
day looking coldly in at the unshrouded window
likesome ghostly watcher envying these mortals
their happiness, and thered glow of the low fire
reflected upon every curve and facet in the shin-
ing. steel grate.

'o sit’ by the’ fire at five o’clock in the after-
noon, watching the changeful light upon Char-
lotte’s face, the rosy glow that seemed to linger
carelessly on 'b ow brow and sweet ripe
lips, the deep shadows that darkened eyes and
hair, was bliss sakable for Mr. Hawkehurst.
The lovers talked the prettiest nonsense to each
other, while Mrs. Sheldon dozed placidly behind
the friendly shelter of a banner-screen hooked on
to the chimney-piece, or conversed with Diana
ina monotonous undertone, solemnly debating
the relative wisdom of dyeing or turning in rela-
tion to one of Senys silk dresses.

Upon one special evening Valentine lingered
just a little longer than usual. » Christmas was
near at hand, andthe youup dase had brought
his liege lady tribute in the shape of a bundle of
Christmas literature. ‘Tennyson had been laid
aside in favor of the genial Christmas fare, which
had the one fault, that it came a fortnight before
the jovial season, and ina manner forestalled the
delights of thattime-honored period, making the
season itself seem a kind of anti-climax, and
turkey and plum-pudding the stalest commodi-
ties in the world when they did come. “How.
indeed, can a man do full justice to his aunt
Tabitha’s plum-pudding; or his uncle Joe’s re-
nowned rum-punch, if he has —— the steam-
ing bowl with the Seven Poor velers, or eaten
his Christmas dinner at the Kiddleawink a fort-
night beforehand? Are not the chief pleasures
of life joys as perishable as the bloom on a peach
or the freshness of a rose?

Valentine had read the ghastiliest of ghost-
stories, and the most humorous of word-pictures,
for the benefit of the audience in Mrs. Sheldon’s
drawing-room; and now, after tea, they sat by
the fire talking of the ghost-story, and discussing
that: unanswerable question about the possibility
of such spiritual appearances which seems to
have been debated evér since the world

“Dr, Johnson believed in ghosts,” said

tine:

“Qh, please spare us’ Dr. Johnson!” cried
Charlotte, with serio-comic intensity. ‘‘ What
is it that obliges a writers to be perpet-
ually talking er» +. ae if | we —
dig up personsfrom the past, why can’ ey dig
ap newer persons than that poor, ill-used doe-
tor

The door opened with a hoarse groan, and Mr.
Seana tan ental aciaiee, Chepetappeds
was er protest. ie Pp}
somewhat Sonittieed y that sudden entrance.

There is'a statue of the Commandant in e
house,‘at) whose coming hearts grow cold and
lips are suddenly: silent. It was the first time
that the master of the villa had interrupted one
of these friendly afternoon teas, and . Shel-
don and her daughter felt that a domestic crisis
was at hand.

“ How’s this?” cried the stock-broker’s strong,
hard voice; you seem alliin the dark.”

Hetook a wax-match from a little gilt stand
on the mantle-piece and lighted two flaring
a rae ae — of a who ionierene
eager to li ‘as when people.are sitting in
the oa a meditations and poetical. He let
‘aobens glareof commonsense in-upon their
foolish musings, and scared away Robin Good-
fellow and the fairies by means of the Western
Gaslight Company’s illuminating medium.

The light of these two flaring’ jets of gas re-
vealed Charlotte Halliday looking shyly at: the
roses on the-carpet, and nervously with
One ‘of the:show-books on theritable, The same

alen-.

 

light revealed Valentine Hawkehurst standing
by the young lady’s chair, and looking at.Mr.
Sheldon witha boldness of countenance that was
almost defiance. Poor Georgy’s face peered out
from behind her favorite banner-sereen, looking
from one to the other in evident alarm, Diana
sat in her accustomed corner, watchful, expect-
ant, awaiting the domestic storm.

To the surprise of every one except Mr. Shel-
don \there was no storm, not even the lightest
breeze that ever blew in domestic hemispheres,
The stock-broker saluted his aber NET with
a friendly nod, and greeted her lover with a sig-
nificant grin.

‘How d’ye do, Hawkehurst?”’ he said, in_his
pleasantest manner. ‘‘It’s an age since I’ve
seen you. You're going in for literature, I hear;
and a very good thing too, if you can ‘make it
pay. understand there are-some fellows, who
really do make that sort of thing pay.. Seenmy
brother George lately? Yes, Iisuppose you and
George are quite a Damon and W hat’s-his-name.
Youw’re going to dine here to-night, of course?
I suppose we may go in to dinner at. once, €h,
Georgy ?—it’s half-past six.”

Mr. Hawkehurst made some faint pretense. of
having a particular engagement elsewhere; for

supposing Sheldon to be unconscious, he scorn-
ed to om by that gentleman’s ignorance. And
then, having faltered his. .refusal, he looked at

Charlotte, and Charlotte’s eyes cried “‘ Stay,”
as plainly as such lovely eyes can So
the end of it was that he staid and partook of
the Sheldonian crimped skate, 'and the Shel-
donian roast-beef and tapioca pudding, and
tasted some especial Moselle, which,,out of the
kindliness of his nature, Mr, Sheldon opened for
his step-daughter’s betrothed. }

After dinner there were oranges. and crisp
uncompromising biscuits, that made. ‘an, ‘ex-
plosive noise like the breaking of windows
whenever any one ventured to tamper with
them; item, a decanter of sherry in a silver
stand; item, a decanter of port, which Mr,
Sheldon declared to be something almost. too
gee to be drunk, and to the merits of which

alentine cee ener ents indifferent. The young
man would fain have followed:his delight when
she accompanied her mamma and Diana to
the drawing-room; but Mr. Sheldon-detained

“T want a few words with you, Hawkehurst,’’
he said; and. Charlotte’s cheeks flamed red as
peonies at sound of this alarming sentence.

‘You shall go after the ladies presently, and
they shall torture that poor little piano to their
heart’s delight for your edification, I won’t de-
tain ven many minu ites. You'had really better
— t port.”

alentine closed the door upon the departing
ladies, and went k to his seat very submis-
sively. If there was any battle to. be fought
out between him and Philip Sheldon, the sooner
the trumpet sounded to arms the better.

‘* His remarkable civility almost inclines me
to think that he does really want to get rid of
that dear gir)” Valentine said'to himself, as he
filled his g and gravely awaited Mr, Shel-
don’s pleasure.

‘‘Now then, my dear Hawkehurst,” began
that gentleman, squaring himself in his com-
fortable arm-chair, and extending his legs be-
fore the cheery fire, ‘‘let us have-a little friend-
ly chat, Lam not given to beating about the
bush; you know, and whatever Lhave to say I
shall say in very plain words. In the first place,
Lhope you have not so we an opinion of my:
Pp tive faculties as suppose that I don’t
see what is going on between you and Miss Lot-
ta yonder?” :

“My dear Mr. Sheldon, I—”

er ees have to sa
your protestations afterw » You needn’t be
alarmed; you won’t find. me
step-mother one reads about in the story-boo!
who puts her step-daughter into. a pie, and
that kind of thing. I suppose step-fathers have
been-a very estimable class, by-the-way, as it is:
the step-mother who always in for, it-in:
the story-books, You'll find me--very easy to
deal with, Mr. Hawkehurst, always. provided.
that you deal in a fair and honorable mamner.”
ve no wish to be underhand in my deal-
ings,” Valentine said, boldly. And indeed this
was the truth, His inclination prompted him to
candor, even with Mr. Sheldon; but that fatal
necessity which is the governing principle of the
adventurer’s life obliged» him to employ the arts

of finesse. ;
“ Good,” cried Mr. Sheldon, in ‘the ch
pleasant of an easy-going man of theworld

who is not too worldly to do a generous action
once ina way. ‘ I ask is frankness. . You:
and Charlotte have fallen in love with one an-
other—why, I can’t im: e, except on the-hy~
pothesis t a decent-looking young woman:
and a decen’ plates. young man can’t meet half:
a dozen times without beginnin ing to think of
Gretna Green or St. George’s; Hanover Square:

aR eee ou, looked at from
a, common-sense t of view, would’ be about’
the worst thing that. could happen to my wife’s
daughter. She’s a fine girl” (aman of the
Sheldonian type would call Aphrodite herself:a'
fine girl) ‘and might marry some aw tich
city swell with vineries and pineries amd,succes=

first, and make

 

 
-give me your

chard:
now ‘ners came upon V.

 

enn —
—

sion-houses,at Tulse Hill or Highgate, if, I.chose
to put her in the way of that,sort of thing. But
then, oe see, the worst of it is, a man seldom
comes to vineries and pineries at Tulse Hill till
he:is.on the shady side of forty: and as I am
not in favor of mercenary marriages, I don’t
care to force any of my city connection upon
r Lotta. In the neighborhood of the Stock
xchange there is no sharper man of business
than your humble servant; but I don’t care to
bring business habits to Bayswater. Long be-
fore Lotta was out of pinafores I had 6 up
my mind never to. come between her and her
own inclination in,the matrimonial line; there-
fore, if she truly and honestly loves you, and if
you truly and honestly love her, I. am not the
man to forbid the bans.”
“My dear Mr. Sheldon, how shall I ever thank
u for this!” cried Valentine, surprised into a
belie in the purity of the stock-broker’s inten-

ons.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” replied that gentle-
man, coolly; ‘you haven’t heard me out yet.
Though I may consent to take the very opposite
line of conduct-which I might be expected to
take as a man of the world, I am not going to
allow you and Charlotte to make fools of your-
selves. There must be no love-in-a-cottage busi-
ness, no marrying on nothing a year, with the
expectation that pape and mamma will make

the difference between that and_a comfort-
able income.. In plain English, if I consent to
receive you as,Charlotte’s future husband, you
and she must,consent to wait until ou can. to
my entire satisfaction prove yourself in a posi-
tion to keep.a wife.”

Valentine sighed doubtfully, :

“J don’t think either Miss. Halliday or T are
in an unreasonable hurry to begin life together,”
he said, thoughtfully; ‘‘ but there must be some
fixed.limit to our probation. Iam afraid the
waiting will be a very long business if I am to
obtain.a position that. will satisfy you before I
ask my dear girl to share my fate.”

“Are your prospects so very black?”

“No; to my mind they, seem wonderfully
bright. ‘But the earnings of a. magazine-writer
will scareely come up to your idea of an inde-
pendence. Just now I.am getting about, ten
pounds a month... With industry I may stretch
that ten to twenty; and with luck I might make
the twenty into thirty—forty—fifty. A man
has only \to achieve something like a reputation
in order to make,a handsome living by his

“T am very glad to hear that,” said Mr. Shel-
don; ‘‘and when you can fairly demonstrate to
me Samberg are earning thirty pounds a month,
you shall haye my consent to your marriage
with Charlotte, and I will do what I can to give

ou a fair start in life. I suppose sop know
at she hasn’t. a sixpence in the world that she
can. call her own?” : ,

This was a. trying eatin for Valentine

Hawkehurst, and Mr. Sheldon looked at him

with a , scrutinizing glance as he awaited
a reply. man flushed crimson, and
grew pale again before he spoke,

“Yes,” he said, “I have long been aware that
Miss Halliday has no legal claim on her father’s
fortune.’

“There you have hit the mark,” cried Mr,
Sheldon. ‘She has no claim to.asixpence in
law; but to an honorable man that is not,the

uestion. Poor Halliday’s money amounted in
a to something like eighteen thousand pounds.
That sum passed into my ion when I mar-
ried: my poor friend’s widow, who had too much
mespedt fonimseto. bonne my position asa man
of business by any | restraints that would
have hindered my ing the wisest use of her
money. I have used. that money, and I need
scarcely tell you that I have employed it with
considerable Caanther to myself and Cooney.
I therefore can, afford to be generous, and. I
mean to be so‘ but the manner in which I do
things must be of my own choosing, My own
children are dead, and there is no one belonging
to me that stands in Miss Halliday’s way. n
Ldie she will ohne a NannHATTG ann ae it
if she marries with my approv: c
her with a very comfortable, dowry: at think
you will allow that this is fair enough. <

“ Nothing could. be fairer or, more generous,
replied Valentine, with enthusiasm.

r. Sheldon’s ble candor had entirely
sup jnenton him. ite of all that George had
said to his brother’s prejudice, he was ready to

believe implicitly in Philip’s fair ing.

«And in return for this.I ask something on
your part,” said Mr. Sheldon, ‘I want you to
mise that. you will take no
serious step. without my knowledge. You
won't steal a march upon me. You won't walk
off with Charlotte some fine mo) oP

her at a registry-office, or. an,
kind, eh?” :
«< ¥-will not;” answered. Valentine, resolutely,
witha gore papianeers recollection of his deal-
“Qive me your hand upon that,” cried the

; pont this. the two men shook nds, and Val-
j V almost, in, the:
entine’s fir Bie Shelton aiaie ibe sold,

 

writes;to vis 9
muscular han de - 5 that. she expects, him, to >; Tor hei
entine’s ear the sound pat arith, hat. isi sist-of Mra agar

BIRDS OF PREY.

of one of Mendelssohn’s Leider ohne.Worte, ten-
derly preyed by the soft, gaasle hands he knew
so well, And the lover began to feel that he
could no Jonger sit roasting himself before the
blazing fire, the heat. whereof was multiplied to
an insufferable degree 4? nefigoting steel grate
and fender, and sipping the stock-broker’s port
with a hypocrital pretense of appreciation,

Mr. Sheldon was not slow perceive his

est’s. impationce, and having made exactly
the impression he wanted to make, was quite
willing that the interview should come to an

end.

“ You had better be off to the drawing-room,”
he said, good-naturedly; ‘‘I see you are in that
stage, of the fever in which masculine society is
only.a bore, You can go and hear Charlotte
play while I read the evening papers and. write
a few letters. You can let her know that you
and I understand each other. Of course we
shall see yo Hey often. You'll eat your Christ-
mas turkey with us, and so on; and I shall
trust to your honor for the safe Feeping of that

romise you made me just now,” said Mr. Shel-

on.

“ And I shall keep an uncommonly close watch

upon you and the young lady, my friend,” added

t gentleman, communing with his own
thoughts as he crossed the smart little hall,
where two Birmingham iron knights in chain-
armor bestrode their gallant chargers on two
small tables of sham malachite.

Mr. Sheldon’s library was not a very inspiring
apartment. His ideas of a sanctum sanctorwm
did not soar above the commonplace. A decent
square room furnished with plenty of pigeon-
holes, a neat brass scale for the weighing of let-
ters, a copying-press, a, waste-paper basket, a
stout brass-mounted. office d capable of
holding a quart or so of ink, and_a, post-office
directory, were all he asked for his hours of
leisure and meditation. Ina handsome glazed
book-case opposite his writing-table appeared, a
richly-bound edition of the Waverly Novels,
Knight's Shakspeare, Humeand Smolletit, Field-
ing; Goldsmith, and Gibbon; but, except when
Georgy dusted the sacred volumes with her own
fair hands, the glass doors of the book-case were
never opened.

Mr. Sheldon turned on the fas, seated. himself
at his comfortable writing-table, and took up his
pen. A quire of office note-paper, withyhis city
address upon it, lay ready beneath his hand; but
he did not begin to write immediately. He sat
for some time with his elbows on the table, and
his chin in his hands, meditating with dar 4
fixed. brows.

“Can I trust her?” he asked himself. “‘Is
it safe'to haveher near me—after—after what
she said to me in Fitzgeorge Street?),Yes, I
think I can trust;her, up-to a certain point; but
beyond that I,~must be on may guard, Shemight
be more dangerous than a stranger. One thing
is quite clear; she must be provided for some-
how or other... The question is, whether she ,is
to be provided for in this house or out of it; and
whether I can make her serve meas I want to
be served.”

This was the gist of Mr. Sheldon’s_medita-
tions; but.they lasted for some time, @ ques-
tion which he had to settle was an important
one, and he was too wise a man not to contem-
plate a subject. from ovany possible point. of
sient before arriving at his decision. He tooka
letter-clip from one side of his table, and turned
over several open letters in search of some par-
ticular document.

He.came at last to the letter he wanted. It
was written on yery common. note-paper, with
brown-looking ink, and the penmanship was
evidently that of an uneducated, person; but
Mr. Sheldon studied its contents with the air of
aman who is dealing with no unimportant mis-
sive. : seg

This was the letter which so deeply interested
the stock-broker: -

‘‘ Honored Sir—This coms hopping that You and
Your Honored ladie are well has it leevs me tho
nott so strong has icould wish wich is/nott to bee ex-
pect at my time off life my pore neffew was tooke
with the tyfus last tewsday weak was giv over on
thirsday and we hav berried him at kensil grean
Honored Mr, Sheldon IT hav now no home my pore
neece must go hout into survis Luckly there har no
ho ei aoe eee nat hs to oot

usmade wic’ r
she marri x t

id my pore onored sir i ham trewl
sorry too trubbel you butt i think for hold timen. wp

will forgiv the libertey off this letter i would in-
two you iff i had any frend to help mii may

¢ “Your obeddient survent

“17 Little Tottles-yard lam beft’’ phe OHS

* No friend to help her in her old ” mut-
tered Mr. Sheldon; “that means that’ she in-
tends to throw herself upon me for the rest of
her life, and to put me to the expense of burying
her when she is so obliging as to die. Very pees.
ant, upon my world! A mam has a servant in
the days of his poverty, pays her every fraction
he. owes her in the shape of ne and wishes
her good-speed when she poe settle down
among ‘her relations; and one fine morning,
when, DAF S05 intB GAC 5 she

per's |

clever fellow,

 

65

letter; and if it were not for one or two con-
siderations I should be very much inclined to
take a business-like view of the case, and refer
the lady to her parish. What are poor-rates in-
tended for, I should like to know, if a man who
pays fonr-and taopene in the pound is to bo
pestered in this sort of way?”

And then Mr. Sheldon, having. given vent to
his vexation by such reflections as these, set him-
self to examine the matter in another light.

“T must manage to keep sweet with Nancy
Woolpaggsomehow or other, that’s very clear;
for a chattering woman is a dangerous enemy
for aman to have. I might provide for her de-
centl eneugh out of doors for something like a
pound a week; and that would bea cheap enough
way of paying off all old scores. But P’m not
quite clear that, it would bea safe way. A life
of idleness might develop Mrs. Woolper’s latent
peencnsiny: for gossip—and gossip is what I want

avoid. No, that plan won’t do.”

.For some moments Mr. Sheldon meditated
silently, with his brows fixed even more sternly
than before..Then he struck his hand suddenly
on the morocco-covered table and uttered his

oughts aloud,

“Vil risk it,” he said; ‘she shall come into
the house and serve my interests by keeping a
sharp watch upon Charlotte Halliday. There
shall be no secret i between two,
No, my friend Valentine, you may be a very
but. you are not quite clever
enough to steal a march upon me.”

Having arrived at this conclusion, Mr, Shel-
don wrote a few lines to Nancy Woolper, telling
her to call upon him at the Lawn.

CHAPTER V.
MR SHELDON IS BENEVOLENT.

Nancy Woowprer had lost little of her activity
during the ten years that had gone by since she
received her ws from Mr. Sheldon. on his
breaking, up his establishment in Fitzgeorge
street. Mer master had given her the oppor-
tunity of remaining in his service, had she so

eased; but Mrs. Woolper.was a person of in-

pendent, not. to say haughty apirit, and she
had preferred to join her small. fortunes with
those of a nephew who was.about to begin busi-
ness as a Chandler and a general dealer in a very
small aye, rabnees than.to submit herself to the
sway of that lady whom, she, insisted on calling
Miss rey.

“‘Tt’s so long since I’ve been used to a missus,”
she said, when announcing her decision to Mr.
Sheldon, “I doubt if I could do with Miss
Georgy’s finnickin ways. I should feel tewed
like, if she came into the kitchen, worritin’ and
asking questions. I’ve been used to my own
be ie and I, don’t suppose I could do with hers.”

So Nancy pC to enter on a career of un-
paid drudgery in the household of her kinsman,
and to lose the last.shilling of her small savings
in the futile endeavor to sustain the fortunes of
the general dealer. His death, following very
8 ily Upon his insolvency, left, the poor soul
quite adrift; and in this extremity she had been

to make her appeal to Mr. Sheldon. His

reply came in due course, but not without up-
ward of a week’s delay; during which time
Nancy Woolper’s ee sunk very low, while a
dreary vision. of a living grave, calleda work-
house, loomed more and more darkly upon her
Po old eyes. She had well nigh given up all

ope of succor from her old master when the
letter came, and she was the more, inclined to be
grateful for very small help after this interval
of . It was not without strong emotion
that . Wi r obeyed her old 1's, sum-
mons. d. nursed the -hard, cold man of
the world whom she was going, to see, once more
after ten years of severance; and though it was
more cult for her to imagine that Philip
Sheldon the stock-broker was the same Phili
she had carried in her stout. arms and hush
upon her breast f years ago than it would
have been to fancy the dead who had lived in
those days, restored to life and walking by her
side, still she could not forget..that saek things
had been, and could not refrain from looking at
her master with more loving eyes because of
that. memory.

A strange, dark cloud had arisen between her
and her master’s image during the latter part of
her service in Fitzgeorge street; but little by
little the cloud had melted away»leaving the fa-
mniliar sunge clear and un owed as of old.
She had suffered her mind to be filled by a sus-
picion so monstrous that for a time it held her
as by some fatal spell; but with reflection came
the assurance that this thing could not be. Da;
by day she saw the man whom she had suspec

i gong about, the Romina nears eas life,
co serene of aspect, untroubled. of manner,
mateo fortune with his head erect, living
Seth, i e house where he had been wont to

ve, haunted by no, dismal shadows, subject to
no dark hours of remorse, no sudden access of

pair, i e, ne y un-
peepee ae herself that aman
could not. be ty of the unutterable horror
eee had gone on thus, and then

© marriage with Mrs, Halliday, Mr.
eae ee down, to. Barlingford ten ed

formance of that interesting. ceremony; and

\

;
i
-
ie )

 
 

a

 

2

|
4
:
4
}
!

ao

=e

‘to boot. Till then T

‘Oh, ‘Mr. Sheldon—oh, papa, ou are more
than generous—you are noble! It is not that I
care for the money. Oh, believe me, there is no
one in the world who could care less for that than
Ido. But your thoughtful kindness, ag gen-
erosity, touches me to the very heart. Oh, please
let me kiss you, just as if you were my own dear
father come back to life to protect and guide me.
Thave thought you cold and worldly. I have
done ‘you so saaveld wrong.”

She ran to him, and wound her arms about his
neck before he could put her off, and lifted up
her pretty rosy mouth to his dry, hot lips. Her
heart was overflowing with generous emotion,
her face beamed with a happy smile. She was
so pleased to find her mother’s husband better
than she had thought him. But, to her supreme
astonishment, he thrust her from him roughly,
almost ea and looking up at his face she
saw it darkened by a blacker shadow than she
had ever.seen upon it before. Anger, terror,
pain, remorse, she knew not what, but an ex-
pression so horrible that she shrunk from him
with a sense of alarm,land went back to her
chair, bewildered and trembling.

“You frightened me, Mr. Sheldon,” she said,
faintly. :

“Not more than you frightened me,” an-
swered the stock-broker, walking to the win-
dow and taking his stand there, with his face
hidden from Charlotte. ‘‘I did not know there
was so much feeling in me. For God’s sake, let
us have no sentiment.”

“Were you angry with me just now?” asked
the girl, falteringly, utterly at a loss'to compre-
hend the change in her step-father’s manner.

“No, I was not angry. Iam not accustomed
to these strong emotions,” replied Mr. Sheldon,
huskily; “I- cannot stand them. | Pray let us
avoid all sentimental discussion. Iam anxious
to do my duty in a straightforward, business-
like way. I don’t want gratitude—or fuss. The
five thousand pounds are yours, and Iam
pleased to find you consider the amount suffi-

cient.”

Miss Halliday was.not at all elated by theidea

_ of coming suddenly into possession of five thou-
“sand pounds; but: she was very much impressed

‘by the new view of Mr. Sheldon’s character af-
forded her by his conduct to-day. And then her
thoughts, constant to one point as'the needle to
the pole, reverted to her lover, and she began to
think of the effect her fortune might have upon
his prospects. He might go to the bar, he might
ashok and study in pleasant Temple chambers,
with wide airy windows overlooking the’ river,
and read law-books in the evening at the Wim-
bledon cottage for a few delightful years, at the
end of which he would of course become Lord
Qhancellor. ‘That he should devote such intel-
leet. and consecrate such genius as‘ his to the
Servicd of. his:country’s law-courts and not ulti-
mately seat himself on the Woolsack, was a con-
tingency not to be imagined by Miss Halliday.
Ab, what would not five thousand pounds buy
forhim! The cottage expanded into a mansion,
the little case of books develo, into a library
second only. to: thateof the ec d@Aumaile, a
noble steed waited at the glass door of ‘the ves-
tibule to convey Mr. Hawkehurst to the’ Temple,
pefore the minute-hand of Mr. Sheldon’s ‘stern
skeleton clock had passed *from one ‘figure to
another:'so great an adept was this young lady
in the art of castle-building. ' F fuay

“Am I to tellsmamma — this conversa-
tion?’ asked Charlotte, presently. 18

«s Well, no, I think not,” ‘replied Mr: Sheldon,
thoughtfully. ‘These family arrangements can

“not be kept too quiet. Your mamma isa talking

person, you know, Charlotte; and as we don’t
want every one in this part of Bayswater’ to
know the precise amount of your fortune, we
may'as well let matters rest as they are. Of
course you would not wish Mri Hawkehurst to
be enlightened?’

“ Why not,’ papa?” Y :

“For several reasons. © Rirst and foremost, it
must be ees: to you to be:sure that: he is
thoroughly disinterested. I have told him that

ou will have something as a gift from mé; ‘but

e may have implied that the something would

be little more than a couple of hundreds to fur-
nish ahouse. Secondly, it must be remembered
that he has been brought up in a bad’ school
and the best’ way to make him self-reliant an
industrious is to let him think he has nothing
but his own industry to depend upon. I have
set him a task. When he has accomplished that
he shall have you and your five thousand pounds
ould strongly advise you
to:keep this’ business a secret. é r

¥05," answered Charlotte, meditatively ; ‘‘T
think you are:right. It would have been very
nicé to tell him of your kindness; but I want to
be quite sure that he loves me for myself alone—

i from’ first to» last--without one thought of
“money.” 8) & i

"Phat: is wise,” said Mr, Sheldon, decisively ;
and ee ended the one Sapd thot ie the
ot Charlotte ‘accompanied her s a y
city early: ene deaeieny, and assisted ina little
commercial juggling, in the.form of signing
she

r,

dc + which' was quite beyon
which © tion

Bank shares, and the dividends accruing

‘ \

BIRDS OF PREY.

from time to time on those shares would be hers
to dispose of as she pleased.

“The income arising from your capital will
be more than you can spend so long as you re-
main under my roof,” said Mr. Sheldon. “TI
should therefore ey, recommend you to in-
vest your dividends as they arise, and thus in-
crease your capital.”

“You are so kind and thoughtful,” murmured
Charlotte; ‘(I shall always pleased to take
your advice.”

She was strongly impressed by the kindness
of the man her thoughts had wronged.

“How difficult it is to understand these re-
served, matter-of-fact people!” she said to her-
self, ‘‘Because my ee ather does not talk
sentiment I have fancied him hard and worldly;
and yet he has Peet himself as capable of do-
ing a noble action as if he were the most poeti-
oak of mankind.”

Mrs. Sheldon had been told that Charlotte
was going into the city to choose a new watch,
wherewith to replace the ill-used ‘little Geneva
toy that had been her a. as a school-girl ;
and as Charlotte brought home a neat little
English-made chronometer from a renowned
emporium on Ludgate Hill the simple matron
accepted this explanation all in good faith.

“Pm sure, Lotta, io must confess your step-
father is kindness itself in most mai ” said
Georgy, after an admiring examination of the
new watch, ‘*When It how kindly he has
taken this business about Mr. Hawkehurst, and
how disinterested he has proved himself in his
ideas about your marriage, I really am inclined
to think him the best of men.”

Georgy said this with an air of triumph. She
could not —— ‘that there were people in Bar-
lingford who had said hard things about Philip
Sheldon, and had prop!

hesied unutterable mise-
ries for herself and her daughter as the bitter
consequence of: the imprudence: she had been
guilty of in her second iage.

‘‘He has indeed been very good, mamma,”
Charlotte replied, gravely; ‘and, believe me, I
am truly grateful. He does not like fuss or
sentiment; but I hope he knows that I appre-
ciate his kindness.”

 

CHAPTER VI. . +

anti RIDING THE HIGH HORSE. + ee

NEVER, in his brightest dreams, had Valen
Hawkehurst ra the stream of life so fair
and sunny a river as it ‘seemed to him now.
Fortune had treated him so scurvily for seven-
and-twen ears of his life, only to relent of ‘a
sudden and fling all her ‘choicest gifts into his

lap.

y T must’ be the — in the fairy tale who
begins life asa revolting animal of the rhinoceros
family, and ends by marrying the prettiest prin-
cess in Elfindom,” he said to himself, gayly, as
he paced the broad walks of Kensin, ar-
dens; where the bare trees swung their’ big
black branches’ in the’ wintry blast, and the
rooks cawed their loudest at close of the brief

day. ai f
What, indeed, could this adventurer
demand from benignant F ve and ‘be-
yond the blessings'she had given him? The fa-
vored suitor of the fairest and brightest woman
he had ever looked upon, received by herkindred,

| admitted to ‘her presence, and only bidden to

serve a-due apprenticeship before he claimed her
as his own ‘ever: ’ What more could he wish?
ae eg 7 boon could ‘he implore from the

Yes, there was one thin thing for
which Mr. Hawkehurst pined, midiemedtstiank|

ee ee . He wanted a decent
excuse for separa/ most complete:
from Hovatie Paget He wanted toshake nae.

| self free from all the’ associations of his previous

existence.’ He wanted to pass: the wa-
ters of Jordan, and to emerge d, regener-
ate, leaving his garments on the: furthermost

ig
side of the river; and, with all other. things
rtaining to the past, he would fai pavetrid
himself of Captain Paget. :

“Be sure your sin will find you out,’” mused.
the yo man; “and having found you, be sure
that it will stick to you like a leech, if your sin
takes the shape of an unprincipled) acquaintance,

Sh etn bein ata Me nee
cu e ut wi oratio
alone in the future? I doubt it.’ The bent of

that man’s genius shows itself in his facul for
living upon other people. He knows that Tam
beginning to earn money regularly, and has be-
gun to borrow of me already, When Ican earn
more he will want to borrow more; and although
itis very sweet to work for Charlotte Halliday,
it w not be by any inearis-ngrecibte to slave
for my friend Paget, Shall I ere
aw and ask him to retire into the depths: of
Wales or Cornwall, amend his. ways, and live

the life of a repentant hermit? Ithink I could

bring myself to sacrifice the weekly soverei
if'there were’ any hope that Horatio Paget could
cease ‘to be—Horatio Paget, on this’ side the

grave: No, I have the misfortune to be inti-
mately acquainted with the gentleman. "When
he is in the swim, as he calls it, and is

 

money on his own account, he will give
cozy little dinners and Sock ot agen prim-

“be my house Yr,

 

57

rose gloves; and when he is down on his luck he
will come whining to me.”

This was by no means a pleasant idea to Mr.
Hawkehurst. In the old days he had been dis-
tinguished by all the Bohemian’s recklessness,
and even more than the Bohemian’s generosity,
in his dealings with friend or companion, But
now all was changed. He was no longer reck-
less. A certain result was demanded from him
as the price of Charlotte Halliday’s hand, and he
set himself to accomplish his allotted task with
all due forethought and earnestness of 9a
He had need even to exercise restraint over him-
self, lest in his eagerness he should do too much,
and so lay himself prostrate from the ill effects
of overwork; so anxious was he to push on upon
the road whose goal was so fair a temple, so light
seemed that labor of love which was performed
for the sake of Charlotte.

He communed with himself very often upon
the subject of that troublesome question about
Saori Paget. How was he to sever his frail
skiff from that rakish privateer? What excuse
could he find for Sees reat his share in the
Omega street | ngs setting up a new
Sr cliee leh promany to rth

** Policy might prompt me eep my Wo!
friend under my eve,” he said to himself in
order that I may be sure there is no underhand
work going on between him and Philip Sheldon.
But I can searcely believe that Philip Sheldon

has any inkling of the Haygarthian fortune. If
he had he would surely ne receive me as Char-
lotte’s suitor. What possible motive ‘Gould he

have for doing so?”

is was a question which Mr. Hawkehurst
had frequently put to himself; for his confidence
in Mr. Sheldon was not of that kind which asks
no questions, Even while most anxious to be-
lieve in that gentleman’s honesty of he
was troubled by occasional twinges of unbelief.

During the period which had elapsed since his
return from Yorkshire he had been able to dis-
cover nothing of any sinister tans from the
proceedings of Captain Paget. at gentleman
appeared to be still eng upon the promoting
business) although by no means so profitably as
heretofore. He went into the city every day
and came home in the evening toilworn and out
of spirits, He talked freely of his occupation—
how he had done much, or done nothing, during
the day; and Valentine was at a loss to perceive
any further ground for the suspicion that had
arisen in his mind after the meeting at the Uller-
ton station, and the Saban the sanctimoni-
ous Goodge with regard to Mrs. Rebecca Hay-
garth’s letters,

Mr. Hawkehurst therefore determined upon
boldly cutting the knot that tied him to the fa-
miliar companion of his wanderings,

“Tam tired of watching and suspecting,” he
said to himself. ‘‘If my dear love has a right
to this fortune, it will surely come to her; or if
it should never come we can live very happily
without it; | Indeed, for my own part, I am in-
clined to believe that I should be prouder and
happier as'the husband of a dowerless wife than
as prince-consort to the heiress of the Haygarths.
‘We have built up such a dear, cheery, ee
tious home for ourselves in our talk of the future,
that I doubt if we should caré to ch ‘it_for
the stateliest mansion pare at P Gar-
dens or Belgrave Square. My darling could not
and make lemon-cheesecakes
in her own pretty little kitchen, if we lived in
Belgrave Square; and how could she stand at
one of those great Birmingham iron-work gatés
in the Palace Gardens to watch me ride away to
my, work?” ; :

‘o a man as deeply in love as Mr. Hawke-
hurst the sordid dross which other people prize
er apt to become daily more in
ent; a kind of ‘color-blindness comes over the
vision of the true lover, and the glittering yel-
low ore seems only so much vulgar

be by_any but the

too mean a th

mean of soul. us it was that Mr. Hawke-
hurst relaxed his suspicion of ape Paget,
neglected his patron and ally of Gray’s Inn,
much.to the annoyance of that gentleman, who
tormented the young man with little notes de-
man interv! ws.

i ding {)
. These interviews had of late been far from

Rone! to either of the allies. George Shel-
on

the necessity of an immediate mar-
riage; Valentine declined to act in an under-
a

manner, after the stock-broker’s unexpect-
vt ni
Valentine

ty?” ‘echoed George Sheldon, when

had given him this ‘point-blank Te-

fusal at the close of a stormy argument. ‘ Gen-

that i about the best thing Tve heard for te
at is a ve

last’ ten Sani If I _ Mr. Valentine

sviered Ye 60 dear to me that I
shilling disbonorable action in order to secure
of the fortune she may claim. I

"
 

58

THE VFIRESIDE? LIBRARY.

a Ett ag SP Ra Les

 

turned over a new leaf on the day when 1 first
knew myself possessed of her affection... I don’t
want to go back to the old leaves.”

George Sheldon gave himself an impatient
shrug. ‘‘I have heard of a great many fools,”
he said; ‘‘but I never heard of .a fool who
would play fast-and-ioose with a hundred thou-
sand, pounds, and until to-day I couldn’t have
believed there was such an animal.”

Mr. Hawkehurst did not deign to notice this
remark,

‘‘Do be reasonable, Sheldon,” he said... “ You
ask me to do what my sense of right will not
permit, me to do, and you ask me that which I
fully believe to. be impossible. I cannot for a
moment imagine that any persuasion of mine
‘would induce Charlotte to consent.to a secret
marriage after your brother’s fair and liberal
conduct.”

‘Of course, not,” cried George, with savage
impatience; ‘‘that’s my brother Phil all over.
He is so honorable,.so plain and straightfor-
ward in, all his spntnes that he would get the
best of Lucifer himself in a bargain. I tell
you, Hawkehurst, you don’t know how deep he
is—as deep as the bottomless pit by Jove!.. His
very generosity makes me: al the more afraid
of him,,. I don’t understand. his e. If he
consented to your marriage in order to get rid
of Charlotte; he would let = marry: her off-
hand; but instead of doing t he makes con-
ditions, which must delay your marriage. for
years, . There is the point that bothers me,”

“You had, better pursue your. own course,
without reference to me or my marriage with
Miss Halliday,” said Valentine.

“That is exactly, what I must do, I can’t
leave the Haygarth estate to the mercy of Tom,
Dick, and rry, while shia try to earn thirty
pons a month by seribb ane fet the magazines.

must make my bargain with Philip instead of
with you, and [ can tell you that you'll be the
loser, by the transaction.” ~~ ;

“T don’t quite see that.” ,

‘Perhaps, not. You see, you don’t quite un-
derstand my brother Phil. If this money gets
into his hands be sure some of it will stick to

»

m.

“Why. should..the. money get into his
hands?” x

‘Because, so long as Charlotte Halliday. is
under his roof, she is, to a certain extent, under
his authority. And then, I tell youagain, there
is no calculating the depth of thatman, He has
thrown. dust in your CT Pe AOR He will make
that poor girl believe him the most disinterested
of mankind.”

“You can warn her.”

“Yes; as I have warned you, ..To what pur-
pose? You are inclined to believe in Phil rather
than to, believe in me, and you will be so inelined
to the end of the chapter. You remember that
man Palmer, at Rugely, who used to go. to
church and take the sacrament?”., ,

“Yes; ofcourse I remember that case. What

,of him??, ; , ;

** Why,.people believed in him, you know, and
thought, him a jolly good fellow, up to the time
when, they discovered that he poisoned’a
few of his friendsin a quiet, gentlemanly way,”

Mr., Hawkehurst. smiled/at, the irrelevance of
this .remark,..He could not ceive the con-
nection, of ideas, between, Palmer, the. Rugely
poisoner, and Philip Sheldon, the stock-broker.
iy nhs hiels extreme case,” he said.

@s;.0f course was an.extreme case,”
answered George, carelessly; .‘‘ Only: it
far to prove that a man. may be. gi witha
remarkable genius for throwing dust in the eyes
of his fellow-creatures.” '

There was no further disputation between the
lawyer and Valentine, , George Sheldon began
to understand that.a secret marriage was nob to
be Soeommplishen sn the poeeans position of affairs.

““T am half inclined to suspect, that. Phil knows
something about that.money,”’ he said, present-
ty, : and vis playing some, artful.game of. his

“Tn that case, your better policy would be
take the initiative,” answer Valentine. “

‘T have no other course.” ar ‘

“And will Charlotte know—will she know
bat Achaea bean concerned, in nae?”
aske entine, growing very pale all of-a sud-

den... He was thinkin, Sow. mean he must ap-
Bene in. Miss Halliday’s,eyes if she,came to un-
rstand that he had known her tobe John Hay-
garth’s heiress at the time he won from her the
sweet..confession, of her, love. ‘‘ Will she ever
believe how pure and) true my Joye has been if
she comes to know this?” he asked himself, de-
8 nelyy while George Sheldon deliberated, in
s ge 8 sot moments, ; tA ;
en ow nothing until, the business
comes to a head,” replied George, aE teal You
see, there may be no resistance on the part of the
Crown lawyers; and,,.in that, Kiss Halli-
day. will get her rights after am
of delay., But, if they, choosé to, di
claim ‘i ee be ABN SUGHO ing--Halliday
versus een, and so, On--with, no. f
swell Q.C-'s against ox: in the laveomened pount
have to.put all your adventures at rton. and
Huxter’s. Cross into an affidavit, and Miss) H.
noust know. ¢ rybhing.” hs thorns
_ “Yes;.4.2 thon, she will think—ah; no;.I

ute her

te amount |

do not. believe she can misunderstand me, come
what may.”

‘* All doubt and difficulty might be avoided if

ou would manage a marriage on the quiet off-

nd,” said George.

“T tell you again that I cannot do that; and
ne even if it were possible, I would not attempt
i

‘‘So-be it. , You elect to ride the high horse;
take care that magnificent animal doesn’t give
you an ugly tumble.” ,

“T can take my chance.”

“ And I must take my chance with that broth-
er of mine. The winning cards are all inmy own
hand this time, and it will be uncommonly hard
if he gets the best of me.”

On this the two gentlemen parted. Valentine
went to look at a bachelor’s lodging in the neigh-
borhood of the Edgware Road, which he had seen
advertised in that morning’s Times; and George
Sheldon started for Bayswater, where he was al-
ways sure of a dinner and a liberal allowance of
food wine from the hospitality of his prosperous

~CHAPTER. VII.
MR. SHELDON IS PRUDENT.

VALENTINE found the apartments near the
Edgware Road in every manner eligible. The
situation was midway between his ear ome
in Great Russell street and the abode of his de-
light—a half-way house on the road between
business and pleasure. The terms were very
moderate, the rooms airy and pleasant; so he
engaged them forthwith, his tenancy to com-
mence at the end of the following week; and
having settled this matter he went back to Om-
ega street, bent on dissolving partnership with
the captain in a civil but decided manner.

A surprise, and a very agreeable one, awaited
him at Chelsea. He found the sitting-room
strewn with Captain Paget’s personal property,
and the captain on his knees before a portman-

teau, - 3 a
. “Yowre just in time to give mea hand, Val.”
he said, in his most agreeable manner. ‘“‘ 1 begin
to find out my age when I put my poor old bones
abnormal attitudes. I dare say packing a
k or two will be only child’s-play to you.”
“Tl pack-half ‘a dozen trunks if you like,”
replied Valentine. .‘‘ But what is the meaning
of this sudden move? .I did not know you were
going to leave town.” tnt

int
t

together. I got an unexpected offer of a very
decent position abroad this morning—a kind of
agency, that will be much better than the hand-
to-mouth business I’ve been doing lately.’”

‘‘ What kind of agency, and where?’

‘“Well, so far as I-can make out at present,
it is something in the steam-navigation way.
My headquarters will be at Rouen,”

‘Rouen!,, Well, it’s a eee lively old city
enough, and as medizval'as one of Sir Walter’s
novels; provided they haven’t Haussmanized it
by this time. Iam very glad to hear you have
secured a,comfortable berth.”

‘‘And I am notisorry to leave England, Val,”
answered the captain, in rather.a mournful

tone.
‘* Why not!” abe
; think it’s time you and I parted

eared ae iation begins to be rath
com; hs association begins rather
Aa inbuiageoes to you, Val. We've had our
ups and downs toge and we’ve got on very
pleasantly, take it for allin all. But now that
ou’re settling down as a eae man, engaged
hand-in-glove with Philip

that young woman. 8
Sheldon, and so on, I think it’s time for me to
take myself off. I’m not wanted; and sooner or
later I should begin to feel myself in the way.”

The ; captain grew quite pathetic as he said
this; and little pangs of remorse shot through
Valentine’s heart as he remembered how eager
he had been to rid himself of this Old Man of the
Mountain. And here was the poor old creature
offering to take himself out of the way of his
own accord.

_ Influenced by! this touch of remorse, Mr.
Hawkehurst held out his hand, and grasped that
of his comrade and patron.

“T ho’ ou may do well, in some—comfort-
able kind of. business,” he said, heartily. That
adjective ‘“ comfortable” was a hasty substitute

for the lective ‘‘ honest,” which had been al-
most on his lips as he uttered his friendly wish.
He was too well-disposed to all the world not to

feel profound pity for this white-headed old
man, who for so many — had eaten the bread
of es and scoundr :

“ Come,” he cried, cheerily, ‘Pll, take all the
patkinie off your hands, captain; and we'll eat
four dinner and drink our last bottleiof spark-
ling together at my expense, at any place you
pleasa to name.” :

‘Say Blanchard’s,” replied Horatio Paget.
‘“‘T like a corner-window, ing out upon the
glare and bustle of Regent street. It reminds
one. just ai little of the Maison Doree'and the
boulevard. . We'll drink Charlotte Halliday’s
health, Val, in bumpers. She’sa charming young
‘person, and Lonly wish she were an. heiress, for

 

the eyes: of ‘the two. men metas the ¢~ptain

“Neither did; I when you and I breakfasted

Philip in his most

 

said this; and there was a twinkle in the cold
gray orbs of that gentleman which had a very
unpleasant effect upon Valentine.

What treachery is he engaged in now?” he
asked himself. ‘‘I know that look in my Hora-
ie eyes; and I know it always means mis-
chief.

 

George Sheldon made his ap; ‘ance at the
Lawn five minutes after his brother came home
from the city. He entered upon the domestic
circle in his usual free-and-easy manner, know-
ing himself to be endured, rather than liked, by
the two ladies, and to be only toleratedas anec-
e evil by the master of the house.

“Pve dropped in to eat a chop with you, Phil,”
he said, ‘‘in order to get an hour’s comfortable
talk after dinner, There’sno saying half a dozen
consecutive words to you in the city, where your
clerks seem to spend. their lives in bouncing in
upon you when you don’t want them.”

There was very little talkduring dinner, Char-
lotte and her step-father were thoughtful. Diana
was chiefly employed in listening to the sotto
voce inanities of Mrs. Sheldon, for whom the girl
showed herself admirably patient. Her forbear-

| ance and gentleness toward Georgy constituted

a kind of penitential sacrifice, by which she hop-
ed to atone for the dark thoughts and bitter
feelings that possessed her mind during those
misserable hours in which she was obliged to wit-
ness the eave of Charlotte and her lover,
George Sheldon devoted himself — to his.
dinner and a certain dry sherry, which he par-

ticulariy affected. He was a man who would

have dined and enjoyed himself at the table of

Judas Iscariot, knowing him for the traitorhe

was. k :
“That’s as good a pheasant as I ever ate,
Phil,” he said, after winding w ;
of legs and a wing or so, ‘No, Georgy; no
macaroni, thanks. I don’tcare about kickshaws
after a good dinner. Has Hawkehurst dined
with you lately, by-the-way, Phil?” .

Charlotte blushed red asthe holly-berries that.

docorated the chandelier. It was Christmas-
eve, and her own fair hands had helped to be-
deck the rooms with festal garlands of evergreen
and holly. r

with a couple |

‘‘He dines with us to-morrow,” replied the :

oe
» George?
‘** Well, £ shall be very glad, if Pm not in the

way.”

Georgy murmured some conventional protes-
tation of the unfailing delight afforded to by
George’s society...

“Of course we're always glad to see you,” said

— manner; ‘‘and now, if
ou’ve anything say to me about business,
e sooner you begin

e better. You and the
girls needn’t stay for dessert, Georgy. Almonds
and raisins can’t. be much of a novelty to you;
and as none of you take any wine there’s not
—— to stop for. George and I will, come in to

a.

The ladies departed, by no means sorry to re-
turn to their Berlin-wooland piano. Diana took
oe work with that saintl tience with
which she performed all the duties of her posi-
tion; and Charlotte seated herself before the
piano, and began to ee bits of waltzes,
and odds and ends of polkas, in adreamy mood,
and with a slurring over of dominant bass notes,
which would have been torture to a musician’s
ear. C

She was wondering whether Valentine would
eall that evening, ve—a sort of oc-
casion for congratulation of some kind from her
lover, she fancied. It was the first Christmas-
eve on which she had been “engaged.” She
looked back to the same period last year, and
remembered herself sitting in that very room,
strumming on that very piano, and unconscious
that there was such a creature as Valentine
Hawkehurst upon this earth, » And, strange to
gay, even in that benighted: state she had been

erably happy.

‘You'll come, I suppose, as usu-

“Now, See ” said Mr. Sheldon, when the
brothers had filled their glasses and planted their
chairs on the opposite sides of the hearth-rug,
“what's the nature of this business that you
want to talk about?” ‘

‘Well, itis aeacean ess ae im-

rtance, in whi ou are only in con-
Porned. "The actual principal in the affair. is
ee ee s Halliday.”

“Yes, You know how you have always ridi-
culed my fancy for hunting up heirs-at-law and
os oe kind of thing, en know how I have

eld 0: 0) in starting:on a new
scent Ww. NN earateht failed, and = on,”

“ And you have a chance at last, eh?’

“1 believe that I have, and- a, tolerably good
one; and I think you will own that it is rather
extraordinary that my first’ lucky hit should
Dring lnak Your WAguis it
fy Is say, to m step-daughter” re-
marked Mr. She without appearance
of astonishment.) paeet

- “Precisely,” said, George, somewhat. discon-
certed by his brother’s coolness. ‘I havelate-

Jy.discovered that Miss Halliday is entitled to
certain

sum of money, and [ pledge myself to

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den interest he felt in the fashions that had un-
til lately seemed so vulgar and frivolous!

“‘T will never denounce the absurdity of those
little. bonnets. again, Lotta,” he cried; ‘‘ that
conglomeration of black velvet, and_maiden’s-
hair fern is divine. Do you know that in some
places they call that fern Maria’s hair, and hold
it sacred to the mother of Him who was, born
to-day? so you see there is an artistic fitness in
your head-dress. . Yes, your bonnet is delicious
darling; and though the diminutive size of that
velvet jacket would lead me to suppose youhad
borrowed it from some dove sister, 1t seems
the very garment. of all garments best calcu;
lated. to render you just one hair’s-breadth
nearer perfection than you were made by, na-
ture. ; f

“Valentine, don’t be ridiculous!” giggled the
young lady. i :

o AoW can I help being ridiculous? Your
presence acts. upon my nerves like laughing-gas.
Ah, you do not know. what cares and perplexi-
ties I have to make me serious. _ Charlotte,”
exclaimed the young man, with sudden energy,
yi do: you think you could ever come to distrus'
me?

“Valentine! Do I think I shall. ever be
Queen of England? One thing is quite as likely
as the other.’

“My dear angel, if you will only believe in|
me always, there is no power upon. earth that
can make us unhappy. Suppose you found your-
self suddenly possessed of a great fortune, Char-
lotte; what. would you do with it?”

“T would buy you a Abrasy, as good as that~

useum; and then you would
not want to spend the whole of your existence,
in Great Russell street.” ai

“But if you had a great

ou think you would be;very much disposed. to
eave me to plod on at my desk in Great Russell
street?, Possessed, of. wealth, you would begin
to languish for position; and you. would. allow
Mr. Sheldon to bring yousome suitor who could
give you a name and a_rank in society worthy
of an angelic creature with a hundred thousand
pounds or.so,”” > eae ]

‘*T should do nothing of the kind. I do. not,
care for money... Indeed, I should be almost,
sorry to be.very rich,” /

“Why, dearest?” fine

‘Because if I were rich we could not live in |
the cottage at. Wimbledon, and I could not make |
lémon cheese-cakes for: your dinner.”

 

 

“‘My own true-hearted. darling!” cried Val-;| brother Phil... He died in Philip’s house,
know; and if Phil believed in ghosts, he. would.
scarcely have liked living in that:-house after-.
ward; you. see, and_so, on... But he.went, on liv-
ing there for a twelyemonth longer.. Jt.seemed-| er:
as any other house to him, I sup-"| ”

. _ | idew: of, ,a,. business-man jis ,,not..parti

entine; ‘ the taint of worldliness canneyer,touch ||
your pure spirit.” Lice ¢ panilseb

‘They were.at the gates of Mr. Sheldon’s :do-.|
main ,by this time. Diana and Beoray, had,
walked Peuine the lovers, and had talke:

about the sermon, anda good deal, about. the.| pos

bonnet; r Diana doing. her, ver Lermost,.
to feign dn titohone in. the Rata:
tracted Mrs. Sheldon’s wandering gaze. ;
«Well, I should. have, thought.-you couldn’t.,,
fail to see it,” said the, elderly jlady, as they a
pronehe the gate; ‘‘aleghorn, very.small, with.

THE

her prayers, and the wear

weariness,

stories, does he, un
by way. of saying something to the. gentleman,
who seemed so very dreary as he sa‘
over, the books and stereoscopes, ; aT

eK, Pia

very seriously.

‘a little; just as good

told the company
house in which I
mediately after the funeral.

which your step-papa. behaved. Sorts
dreadful time, Etariotte, is beyond al

the vilest wretches u this earth if I could
not teach myself to witness the happinesss of my
friends without repining.”

Miss Paget had. not, arrived at this frame of
mind without severe struggles... Many. times, in

the lox
she had said to herself. ‘‘ Peace, peace,” when
there was no:peace... But at last the real peace,

the true balm of Gilead, was given in answer to
soul, tasted. the
sweetness of repose...; She | wrestled with the
demon, and had vanquished her foe.

To-day, as she walked. beside the lovers. and

listened to, their happy, frivolous talk, she, felt
like a mother who h:
won from her by.her own daughter, and who
had resigned herself to the ruin of all her hopes
for love of her child. ;

seen the man she loved

There was more genial laughter and. pleasant

converse.at Mx. Sheldon’s.dinner-table that.even-
ing than was usual at, that hospitable board; but
the stock-broker himself contributed little to the
merriment of the pa:
thoughtful, and let. the talk and Jaughter go by.
him with i
After. dinner he went to his own room, while
Valentine and the ladiés sat round the fire in the
orthodox Christmas manner, and.

deal of discursive conversation, subsided into the
telling of ghost-stories,... , :

rty. He was quiet, and even

out any attempt to take his part in it.
after a good

George Sheldon sat apart from the circle, turns

ing over the books upon the table, or peering into-
a stereoscope with an evident sense of extreme
This kind of domestic evening, wasa, |
manner of life which. Mr. Sheldon of Gray’s Inn
denounced as ‘‘slow;” and he submitted himself
to the endurance of it this evening only because
, ».». | he did not know where else, to. bestow. his pres-
t fortune, Lotta, don’t.| ¢

nce, .
‘*T don’t think papa cares much. about ghost-
e George?”*Charlotte asked,

yawning

“T don’t suppose he does, my dear.” ,.’ ig
_** And do fa think. he; beteyes in ghosts?”
t lady demanded, laughingly. .
sure he doesn’t,” replied, George,

‘Why, how.solemnly..you.say that!” eried

Ghavlotte, a, little startled. by George Sheldon’s,

manner, in which there had been an earnestness
not quite warranted by the occasion.

“Twas, thinking of your. father—not, my.

e.” , Ses

Hereupon .Georgy. dissolved, into, tears, and
£0 Poor abe had_ fled, from. t

her first husband had died, im-

“And I’m sure; the gentlemanly. manner. in

you

he

FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

|
|

all. that,

plays as good a rubber as any man at the Con-
servative or the Reform.” +

Valentine’s heart .sunk within him. What
could, Mr, Sheldon, want, witha few minutes’
talk if not to revoke his gracious permission of

wakeful nights, in the slow joyless days, | some gaye before—the, permission.that had been

accorded in ignorance of Charlotte’s pecuniary
advantages? ~The young man looked very Poo
as he, went to smoke his cigar in Mr, Sheldon’s
garden; Charlotte followed him with anxious
eyes, and wondered at the sudden gravity of his
manner. George Sheldon was, also puzzled. by
his brother’s desire fora tete-a-tete.

‘‘What new move is Philjgoing to make?” he
asked himself. Ff

 

The two men. lit. their, cigars, and got:'them |

pall under way before Mr. Sheldon began ‘to

‘“ When I. gave my consent to receive you as
Miss Halliday’s. suitor, my dear. Hawkehurst,”
he said at last, ‘‘L.told you thatI was acting ‘as
pany few men of the world would act, and Lonly

ic zon the truth. Since giving. you that,con-
sent I have made a very startling discoveryyand
one that places me in quite a new position with
regard. to this matter.’ ;

‘ Indeed!” r be

“Yes, Mr. Hawkehurst; I have become aware
of the fact that Miss Halliday, the girl whom I
thought, entirely dependent upon my generosity,
is heir-at-law to a large fortune. ou will o
course perceive how entirely this alters the posi-
tion,of affairs.”

“I do perceive,”. Valentine answered, earnest-
ly but I trust, you-will believe that Lhad not
thefaintestidea of Miss Halliday’s position when
I asked her to be my wife,;As,to my loveifor
her, I can seareely tell:-you,when., that mre
but I. think, it must-have dated from the first
hour in. which. I, saw her, for, can remember
no period at, which,I did not,love her.” Oe

“Tf I did not believe you superior to any: mer-_
cenary motives, you would not have been under —

my roof to-day, Mr. Hawkehurst,”'said the stock- a

broker, with extreme gravity. «‘‘'The discovery.
of my step-daughter’s position gives me no pleas-
ure. Her. claim. to, this wealth only inereases

my. responsibility with, regard to her, andres _—

sponsibility is what I would.wyillingly. avoid. Aft-
er-all due deliberation, Rombore Lhesedtahed
that this discovery, need make ‘no; alteration: in
your position as.Charlotte’s future husband. If
ou were worthy of her when she was. without
ortune, you.are not less worthy now.” Ss
_“\Mr, Sheldon,” fa Valentine, with consid-
erable emotion, “ my not expect so'much gen-

osity at, your ha: tellon-ot worl Hat
“No,” replied the stock-broker, ‘‘ the, paguie®)
‘y
le... Ido not, however,-pretend, to, any-

thing like generosity ;.I wish. to take a common.

ense: view, of the affair, but’ not. .an»illiberal

one.” ' r seyvwal ost be

jo 0U have shown)so much generosity of feel-
ing that I can no longer. sail under false colors,”,

olly-berries and: black ribbon--quite qacney ( ime otte, i praise,”. said Valentine, a a brief pause. ‘‘ Until a,

you know, and so stylish. 1: was;thinking, if 1.| continued the lady, turning to jher daughter;;:| day or.two.ago I was bounds to. secrecy by a
iad my ‘Tuscan cleaned and altered, it might-” | ‘so, thoughtful, so kind, so patient... !m_sure;) promise made, to. your; brother, .. But his com-,
And here the conyersation became, general,,as,| what I should, have done.if poor .’ kon illness | munication of Miss Hallidayismebts to you.sets
the family party, entered the drawing-room, |, had happened in a strange house [don’t know. | meat liberty, and I must,.tell you. that.-which,
where Mr; Sheldon was reading his paper by. a.) And T have no daubh that, the .new doctor, Mr,,) may possibly cause; you.,to, withdraw your con-

, rn Burkham, did -his duty, though his manner was;| fidence.” jf... .) sid@. oc [lero byes ouah 1”
oe Mr. Hawkehurst revealed his share.

roarin fire,. Hiatt ue a) boavold Jon air
Rane a uu ets, as..per, usual,” »!
said, the. stock-broker, oe hat an; enormous
amount, of spiritual benefit you women, must de-,
rive from church-going! Co have fallen,
another saute ‘since, Tuesday... afternoon, ;
George,” added. Mr,., Sheldon, addressing him-
self to his brother, who was stan on the.

not as;decided as J should have wi

‘dear hasband was a very, your

“Mr, Burkham! ried Valentine. ‘What

Burkham is that? We've a mentber of the Rag:
} RRO S CROE. coy OF , 2 surgeon, who, does.
ali ein the literary line,” ... *..; f

Bur.

Mr. Burkham who attended my poor

1g man,” answered
2. color and a

| Halliday from th

 

hearth- with. hi won _chimney-'| Georgy; “a fain 1 with. colo
sort ea HD Bis ees Bes re fi hesitati i rnaanek. { should have been so much
‘““Consols are your. ‘bonnets,’ ” cried,| better satisfied if he had been older.”,
Charlotte, gayly; ‘‘I don’t think ow oy aday | ‘That is the man,”, said Valentine. . “The |
upon which you do not, talk about, their having.) Burkham I know is fresh-colored and fair,

gone up, or gone down, or gone somewhere.”
After luncheon the lovers, went for a,walk in
Kensington Gardens, with, Diana Paget to play
mopriety, —
ma are come with us, won’t you, dear Di?”
pleaded Charlotte... ‘‘ You have been. loo
pale and ill lately, and I am sure a walk will do
you good.” ie? 4b
Valentine seconded his liege lady’s request; ,

cannot be much over

George

rious

**Are you and he particu
heldon, carelessly;

dear, no, not-at all!

“Oh, Wes

man

:

” |
arly intimate” asked |

speak
other. when we happen, to, meet—that’s all,Hey| Ishall
seems’ a nice fellow enough: and he. evidently
hasn’t much practice, or he couldn’t afford to be.| ment of my
a Ragamuffin, and to. write farces.; He looks
to me exactly the kind of modest, rying

|
|
|
|
|

and the three spent a couple of hours pacing who ought to. sueceed, and who. so. seldom ,
briskly to and fro in the lonelier rts of the | does,” : sate
gardens, leaving the broad. walks for the cock-.| ‘This was all that was said about Mr, Burk-
neys, who mustered strong upon this seasonable | ham; but there was. no more. talk of. ghost-
Christmas afternoon. stories, and a temporary dépression fell upon the
For two out.of those three that wintry walk | little seul, the memory of her father had
For, the third it-| always a saddening influence, upon rlotte;.

was rapture ay. too fleeting.
was_ passive endurance, The agonies. that had
but lately rent Diana’s breast when she had seen
those two together no longer tortured her. The
scorpion sting was beginning. to lose its venom-
ous posver. She suffered still, but her suffering.
was softened by resignation. There is a limit to
the capacity for pain in every mind. had.
borne or share of sh, and to those pete,
throes and bitter torments there had succeeded |
a passive sense of sorrow, that was almost peace.
“T have lost him,” she said to herself. ‘life
can never bring me much joy; but I should be,
worse than weak if spent my existence in the
indulgence of my sorrow, I should be one of

 

4

andit needed ay tender sotto-voce.: hes
from Valentine to
fair young face... - ,
A be Bis Seo et tea-tray and paasiea
ilver tea-pot made their appearance. presently,
and immediately after.came Mr. Sheldon, a a
“T want to. have a little talk with you after
tea, Hawkehurst,” he said, as he took his own

cup. from Georgy’s hand, and proceeded to imbibe.
ap : ding. mete you'll come out,

the beverage stan

into the garden and have a cigar I can say all 1.
have to say in a very few minutes; Pe then
we can come, in here for.a rubber, Georgy is a
very decent player; and my brother ‘ge

Speec
ring back the smiles fo her

Hereupon ;
in the researches which had -resulted:im the dis-

coveny of Miss Halliday’s ;claim. nae lores Soe.

  

tune. He entered into no details.

heldon.only that-he had, been the chief. instru-
ment in.1 ; about, this;,important. dis+
covery.

‘“T can only, repeat, whatel said just. now,” he
added, in conclusion. ., .'‘ T have owed Charlotte
e ‘beginning of our acquaint-

mning
ance, I declared myself some days. before I

and | discovered her ipapttions, L trust this confession

wi l ap noweae ryour gevtiaianot me.”
would be a poor return, for your \candor
I were to,doubt..your. voluntary statement,

m Hi
to each Hawkolvurst answered the stock-broker.:“‘ No,

hall not withdraw my confidence, Andif youn,
researches should arma tal enat to the advane¢d:)
rae y BEP GaN Nera ae
poetical justice in your profiting more or les
that ivancauen _o meantime’ we, can
not, take matters too quietly, J.am not a san-
Brine Batson and. I know how many hearts have
en. broken by. the, High Court. of Chancery,
This grand discovery; of yours.may result in no-
thing but eae ae and waste.of money, or
itmay.end.as lensanly as my brother and. you
seem to expect. All I ask is, that poor Char-)
lotte’s innocent hear may not be tortured by-a
smnall lifetime of suspense... Let her.be, told no-
thing that, can create hope in the:present or dis-
appointment in the future. Shea 's to. be
perfectly happy. in. her present, ion, and: it
would be,worse than folly to disturb her. by v
cape cians thas may omevan ee valid, She,
EVE Ab LO ce affiday. nd. soon, by-and-
by, I dare say; and ras eee she

must be told there is some kind .of, suit
in which she is concerned... But-she. Sent not be-

told how nearly that suit concerns her, or the,
extent of her alleged claim. You my dear
Hawkehurst, I have seen so much of this sort of

 

   
 

 

 

oe

 

 
 

tects tatts

 

 

seated ie netntinte ti ss nnna

”

a

“

+ 34,
-_*

e
‘-*

*

_. which will last for a lifetime,, and

we

 

1

BIRDS

OF|-PREY. |

 

thing, and the misery inyolved. in it, that I may
be forgiven if I am cautious.”

This was
light. Until this moment Valentine had fancied
that, the.chain of evidence once established,
Charlotte’s claim had. only to be asserted in/or-
der. to place her in immediate possession, of the
Haygarth estate. .But Mr. Sheldon’s cool and
matter-of-fact discussion of the subject. implied
all manner of doubt and difficulty, and the Hay-
garthian thousands seemed carried away to the
most. remote and,shadowy regions of Chancery
land, as by the waves of some legal ocean.

‘And you really think it would be better not
to tell Charlotte?’

. . “Tam sure of it.. If you wish to preserve her

- from all. manner of worry and annoyance you

_ will take care to keep her in the dark until the
affair is settled—supposing it ever should be set-

~ -tled. I have known such an affair to outlast the
person interested.”

HY You take a very despondent view of the mat-

“T take a practical view of it. My brother
Sacege is a monomaniac.on. the next-of-kin sub-
6c: .

_“T cannot quite, reconcile myself .to, the idea
of concealing the truth from Charlotte.” :
“That, is because yyou. do not know the world
as well as I do,” answered Mr, Sheldon, coolly.
“T cannot imagine,that the idea,of this claim
would have any Gistanbing influence yon her,”
Valentine argued, thoughtfully. “‘She is the
last min the.world to care,about, money.”
“Perhaps so. But there is, a-kind of intoxi-
cation in the idea of.a large fortune—an intoxi-
cation that, no woman of Charlotte’s age could

_ stand against. Tell her that she hasa claim to

ie ‘the affair results in failure, as it-very like

_ considerable wealth, and from that moment she
~ will count upon. the possession of that wealth,
-and shape all her plans for the future upon that
basis.‘ When I get my fortune I will do this,
that, and the other.’ That is what she will be con-
tinually- saying to herself; and by-and-by, fos
y wil

there will remain a sense of disappointment,
o far to em-

ti bitter all the ordinary pleasures of Charlotte’s

. .~ existence.
“1 am inclined to think you, are

 

right,” said
Suey it cteaie belapenieie’ Ae nay
girl is perfectly happy. as it is. may
be wisest to tell her nee

. “Tam quite sure of that,” replied Mr. Sheldon.
“Of course her being enlightened or not can be
in no way material to me. It is a subject upon
which I can afford to. be entirely, disinterested.”

‘*T will take oun advice, Mr. Sheldon.”
“So be it... In that case matters will, remain
in statu quo, You will be received)in. this house

~ ag. my step-daughter’s future husband, and. it is,

an. unders'
take place without due consultation with me. I
am. to have a voice in the business.”

“Most decidedly... 2h is only right that you |,

should be defe:
This. brought. the, interview to
leasantly, The. gentlemen went back. to ti
ouse, and Valentine, found himself present

Y at a whist-table with the brothers. Shel-

seal
‘and Georgy, who.played very well, ina fee-
bel me of — hejding eiaieeae by all;the

recepts of Hoyle, and in evident fear of her
Taped and Drother-inelaws Charlotte and Di-
ana played duets while the whist progressed, with
orthodox silence and solemnity on the part of the
four players. Valentine’s eyes wandered very
often to the piano, and he was in nowise sorry
when the termination of a conquering rubber set
him at liberty. He contrived to secure a brief
tete-a-tete with his Charlotte while he helped her
in the arrangement of the books on the. music-
stand, and then the shrill chime of the clock on
the mantel-piece, and an, audible yawn from
Philip Sheldon, told him that he must go. i,
“Providence has. been very good. to us,’ he
said, in an undertone, as he . bade Miss Hallida,
goodnight, “Your step-father’s conduct is
that is kind and thoughtful, and. there is not a
cloud upon our future. ood-night, and God
bless you, my dearest! I think I shall always
c er this my first Christmas-day.. | never
knew till to-day how sweet and holy this anni-
versary can be.” Sail
He walked to Cumberland Gate.in company
with George Sheldon, who, preserved. a, sulky
gravity which was by nomeansagreeable.
“You have chosen your own course,” he said
at parting; ‘‘ and I only ho the result may
prove your wisdom. But, as I think Imay have
remarked before, you don’t know my brother
Phil aswell as I do,” 1
“Your brother has behaved with such ex-
treme candor and good feeling toward me that I
would really rather not hear any of your un-
pleasant innuendoes against him. I hate that
Tcould an if I would’ style of talk, and while
I oceupy my present position in your _brother’s
house I cannot consent tc hear anything to his
oe That's tall imal ’vye taken ti
pee B® ry ery, ani you've taken to
riding danely my friend Hawkehurst,” said
George; “and when a man rides the high horse
with me I always let him have the benefit of his
monture. You have served yourself. without
consideration for me, and I shall not trouble

utting the whole affair in a new )|

‘| T come to you on -this C

thing that your marriage is not to |

a, close very +).
the

myself jin, the future with any regard for you or
your interests. But if harm ever comes ou
or yours through my brother Philip, remember
that I warned you. Good-night.”

 

In .Charlotte’s room the cheery little fire
burned late upon that frosty night, while the
irl sat in her dressing-gown dreamily brushing
her soft, brown hair, and meditating upon the
paperanian merits and graces of her lover.

t was more than an hour after the family had
retired, when there came a cautious tapping at
Charlotte’s door. ‘ It) is only I, dear,” said a
low voice; and. before Charlotte could answer
the door was opened, and Diana came in, and
went straight to the hearth by which her friend
was sitting, ci
b “Tam so wakeful. to-night, Lotta,” she said;

and the light under your door tempted me. to
come in for afew minutes’ chat.”

‘‘ My dearest Di,
ways am to. see you. :
“Yes, dear, I: know. that. you are, only. too
good to me—and [ have been so wayward; so
ungracious. Oh, Charlotte, I know my coldness
has wounded you during the last few months.”
_°“T have been just a little hurt now and then,
‘dear, when you have seemed-not to care for me,
or tosympathize with me in all my joys and sor-
rows; but then. it has been selfish of me to ex-
pect so.much sympathy, and I know that, if

your manner is cold, your heart is noble.”
“No, , it is not, noble. It is a wicked
heart.” ,. j 5: ;
“Diana.” j
“Yes,” said Miss Paget, kneeling by her
friena’s chair, and speaking with Cteeeaied en-
ergy; ‘‘it has been a wicked heart, wicked be-
cause your happiness has. been torture to it,”
“Diana!” t Nicytih ites eal
““Oh, my dearest one, do not look.at me with
those innocent, wondering eyes. . You will hate
me, perhaps, when you know all. Oh, no, no,
no, you will not, hate—you will pity and forgive
me. ..I loved him, dear; he was my companion,
my only friend; and there was.a time—lon;
ago—before he had ever seen your face, when
fancied that he cared. for me, and would. get. to
love me—as I loved him—unasked, unc for.
Oh, Charlotte, you can never know what I have
suffered, It is not in your nature to compre-
hend what, such a woman as Ican suffer. I
loved him so dearly, I clung so wickedly, so
madly to my old hopes, my old. dreams, long
after they had: become. the falsest hopes, the
wildest dreams that ever had. power over a dis-
tracted mind. But, my darling, it is past; and
hristmas night to tell

you that Ihave conquered my stubborn heart,
and that from this time forward there shall be
no cloud between you and me,” ,
_ * Diana, my,dear friend, my poor girl!” cried
Charlotte, oo overcome; ‘‘you loved him,
sy os well as I—and I have robbed. you of his
‘*‘No, Charlotte, it was never mine.”
‘“You,Joved him—all the time you spoke so
ee of him!” ; Hatt ;
_ “When I seemed) most harsh I loved him
most. » But do not, look at me with such distress
in your sweet face; my dear. I tell you that
the worst pain is past. and gone, The rest is
very easy to bear, and to outlive. These things
do not last forever, Charlotte, whatever the po-
ets and novelists may tellus; y Lf I, had not lived
through the worst I should not be here to-night,
with your arm-round my neck and, his name
upon my lips. I have never wished you joy un-
tik to-night, Charlotte, and now for the first time
I can wish you all good things, in honesty and
truth. Ihave conquered m, self. I do not say
that, to,me Valentine Hawkehurst can ever be
quite what other men are. I think that to the
end of my life there will be a look in his face, a
tone of his voice, that will touch me more deeply
than any other look or tone upon earth; but my
love for you has overcome my love for him, and
there is no hidden apes in my mind to-night
as I sit at your feet, and pray for God’s bl
on your ¢ oice,”
My darling Diana, I know not how to thank
vey how to. a as my faith and my love!” ;
doubt if 1am wort of your love, dear;
but, with God’s help, I will be worthy of your.
trust; and if ever there id come a day in
which my love can succor or my devotion serve
ou there shall be no lack of either, Listen,
ear; there are the waits playing the swee
Christmas hymn. . Do you. remember what
Shakspeare says about. the ‘bird of dawning
singing all night long, and how no evil spirit
roams abroad at this dear season—

“So hallowed and so gracious is the time!’

I have conquered evil spirit, Lotta, and
there shall + ee ri iote between us
forever mo. all there not, dearest friend?’

of life closed forever. For Charlotte the sweet
story was newly begun, and the opening chap-

 

ters were very. pleasant—tho mystic volume

a

you know how glad I al-

,
t. =

; ¢ Pee

ncn na a aaa

 

devotion, her mother’s approval and ev

she ask from Providence--what lurking dan-
gers could she fear—what storm-cloud could she
perceive upon the sunlit heavens?

There was a cloud, no bigger than a man’s
hand, but the harbinger of tempest and terrer.
It yet remains to be shown what form that cloud
assumed, and from. what quarter the tempest
came... ‘The history of Charlotte Halliday has

rown upon the writer; and the completion of
that history, with the fate of John Haygarth’s
» fortune, will be told under the title of
CHARLOTTR’S INHERITANCE,

THE END,

 

oe Face at the Window,

, is . CHAPTER. I.

Tur great bell at the north-western terminus
was ringing to. collect ae Pena for the
train that was about to s , and the platform
was in the state of confusion usual at such times. —

Amon,
was one between a young man, standing by the
side of one of the carriages, and; his mother,
The lady looked very much inclined to cry, but
‘was restraining her. tears, in order to give her
son; numerous directions as to how he was. to
take great care of himself, and to be sure and
let her know directly if he did not feel well. :

The young man was leaning forward, with his
arms.on the door of the carriage, listening. to
what his mother was sey , with quiet atten-
tion, but with a half-smile which seemed to show
that hé did not consider her. warnings quite so
ee as she did.

ertainly, anybody looking at Douglas Charl-
ton would have considered him about the last
person to whom it. was necessary to give such
elaborate cautions. Tall, broad, and strong]
built, he looked the very picture of health, na;
it may be added, happi , for there was a
bright joyous look»upon his face which said
plainly, thatolittle: enough sorrow had ever
crossed ‘his path in life, He was a medical stu-
dent, and had:come up to London to walk one of
the hospitals there. His mother had accom-
panied him to town to help him to find — 5
and to settle him comfortably in them; for sd
was her idol, and she would have considered no
trouble too great that made anything pleasanter
or easier for him. She had spent about three
weeks with him, when an imperative: summons
from her husband obliged her to return home,
and now the moment of parting had come.

The slamming of doors, a shrill; whistle from
the guard, followed by a:shrill shrick from the
engine, and the long train began slowly to move
off. 6 ‘carriage in which Mrs. Charlton sat
was very near the engine, and after he had lost
sight of his mother, Douglas stood watching the
train asit passed him. navd. J

In one of the end carriages sata young girl
of about seventeen, and as she went by young
Charlton she turned toward him, so.t en
instant ‘he saw her face clearly, Tt was only
for an instant, for the train had quickened its
speed er time, but it was one of those in-
stants that alter the whole of a man’s life and
feeli The face was a very lovely one; it
seemed to him like an angel’s; and it threw a
spell over him from which he felt, even in that
brief space of time, that he would: never again
be free. It was a bright face, of which he
had; caught that momentary glimpse, with a
fresh color and dark eyes, but there was a
rather timid, half-frightened look aboutit, which

rhaps gave it such a strange interest for

im.

When: the train had left the station Douglas
stood still where he had been all along, rooted
to the , with his eyes fixed in the direction
of the departing carriage, He had no idea how
long he had so stood, and it never occurred to
him to how odd it must seem to the offi-
cials to see him still there, till he felt himself
touched on the shoulder, and starting from his
reverie, round and saw a guard close to

“Was bein a-lookin’ for anything or anybody,
said the man, civilly.

No, thank you,” stammred Douglas, turn-
ing to walk var
m he had gone a few steps he turned
round again, and seein
said, in the most careless tone he. could as-
sume:

“‘ By-the-bye, have you any idea who that
young lady wast” " a nal) a

a t young lady was you meanin’, sir?”
answered the guard, with rather an amused
air. i

* oung lady in the last carriage but one,”
returned. Douglas, more cagotlys.06 © fancied
from the man’s manner that he could give him
some information.

“Well no, sir,” answered the 7
ning. ‘ You see, sir, we have such a lot 0’ yor
ladies here one time and another, that we don’t
take any partikler notice on ’em.”

 

Douglas blushed up to his eyes to see how com-

3
——

: — = =3
seemed all delight. Blessed” with her lover's “~~

the leave-takings that were going on —

a

Sheldon’s benign approbation, what. more could .

:

the guard near him, »

% ,

"  _~ 9
“ten Sui oe

- an
"a €-

.

-

.

 
—— aed Pa
aS fee

  

  

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

 

. = —

 

  
       
  
  
 
   
  
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
   
  
 
 
  
   
  
   
  
  
   
     
  
 
   
   
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
   
  
  
  
  
   
  
   
 
 
  
  
  
   
   
     
   
   

. a.* * e x
~~ “pletely he had let out his thoughts by asking
‘* this foolish question; and thanking the man
-hastily; walked briskly out of the station,
Assoon as he got fairly away, he let his quick
° ace drop into a lazy saunter, and walked slow-
f home to his lodgings, his whole mind full of
the vision he had seen.’ He could not under-
stand himself, for he had always been wonder-
fully free from those sentimental feelin, that
are usually so common in youth. © He felt very
sad: to think how small a chance there was of
his ever meeting the owner of that lovely face
again; and yet, if by the slightest exertion of
4 his will he could have obliterated that moment
of hislife, he most certainly would not have done
' so. His landlady noticed how dull and sad he
: looked as he passed her on the stairs, and put-
ting it down to grief at his mother’s departure,
‘thought what a ‘‘nice- proper-feeling young
man” he was. =
When he reached his sitting-room, a sensa-
4) tion of utter weariness took possession of him.
di The room did certainly in itself look dull, as all
} rooms do when one for whom we care much
left them recently. All the nick-nacks indicat-
» > inga lady’s
foom while his mother was with him, had gone,
and their loss made the place look very fare 4
but it was not this that gave him such a dull:
My feeling at his heart—a feeling as if there were
a nothing worth living for now, as if all his light-
Beige) heartedness had gone forever.
He threw down his hat, and looked round the
room as if wondering what in the world he

*

* ~®

musi¢ lying on a chair, and going in mere
listlessness to turn it over, the name of the song
at the top struck him forcibly.. He placed it
almost involuntarily upon the music desk, and
sitting down to the piano began to sing. His
amet tenor voice had got through the two first
f ines:

b/ “Only a face at the window,

Only a face, nothing more,”

when he stopped suddenly, these lines seemed.
so cruelly true; certainly it could never be
anything more for him. He felt as a mortal
would feel if heaven were to open and show
a glimpse of its glories, and then close again,
eal aod leave him to feel ‘that he was still upon
h earth. ,
ih / : He had been sitting a long time, thinking.
ay A moodily of the years before him—for he was
res very young, and could not a see how very
} come to him:

endurable those years would
when there was.a knock'at the door, and he was
obliged to rouse himself, and tell the person to
come in.

It was the landlady, who had come to know
if Mr. Charlton would not like sometea. He
said he would, and she did him the honor of
bringing it w herself. While she was setting it
out on the table, which she did with the most
elaborate care, she kept sympathizing with him
on how’'dull.he must be without his mother, and
concluded by Saying that she ‘‘ had never in the
ms whole course of her existence see’d a nicer lady,
me or one more devoted to her son.” »

When he was. alone again he drank his tea
slowly, and ‘in.a kind of dreamy way; then
i; remembering that he had done very little work

¥ during his mother’s visit, and that it was his

who had Jet him choose the profession he. liked,
he roused himself and did his best to study. >
After some days of hard stru; pupa
his inclination to dream idly of that haunting
vision, he found the interest of his work gain-
ing upon him, and though he was much graver
and quieter than he used to be, life was not
altogether the burden that he had expected. «

 

4 CHAPTER IL
et YEARS passed quickly by; Douglas Charlton
was no ar, the unknown medical student.
From the he had shown great talent, and
soon made way in his profession. One or two
1s ie aa a ne ead eee after
a taki e degree, given him a i-
; tion almost at starting, and Dr. Chariten! was
» now living in a nice house in one of the fashion-
able parts of London, with a practice which
many an older physician much envied. His
name was down among the officers at several of
the London hospitals, for though he was well
known oe to have enabled him to dispense
with most of them, he had no idea of giving up
in his prosperity what had been a stepping-stone

to it.

His eae circumstances allowed him to
choose his practice much as he liked; for, apart
from his professional income, he had, at his fa-
ther’s death, come in for a large estate, bringing
in enough to have kept him without any exer-
tion on his own part. He was still unmarri
and likely to remain so, as, though he woul
have little difficulty in finding a lady who would
have willi ere his home, the recollection
of that face that had so haunted him as a young
man was still with him, and had prevented him
from ever falling in love, or caring to marry.

The first hospital of which he had been
physician, ‘and, in mence, the one of all
others in which he felt most interest, was the
one in Victoria Park for diseases of the chest.

        
          
           
 

recollection of which was rarely’ absent
presence, which had been in the ’| hi

j could do next. His aad upon a heap of.

duty to work hard and try to please: the father

 

It was associated in his mind with the beginning
of his success, always a very pleasant association
to a successful man. twas his position’ here
which had first led to his getting a name for
consumptive cases, and that name, a very well-
founded one, had been for him the first round of
the ladder to position.

He was driving down there one day to see
his patients, and was, as usual, See :
The contrast between the luxurious’ look of the
west and the squalor of the east end of London
struck him forcibly as he drove along, and the
thought of how this and kindred institutions
were struggling to relieve wretchedness came to
him, and made him thankful that he had al-
ways helped it on to the best of his power.

‘here was a very strange feeling in his heart
that day, the feeling that nearly every one must
have known some time in their lives, as if some-
thing of great interest to them were going to
happen, whether for good or evil they cannot
tell. Dr. Charlton had that feeling very strong-
ly to-day, and: it was strangely joined in his
mind with the thought of that lovely face, the
‘om

m.

The carriage drew up at the door, ‘and he got
out, and, walking up the steps, entered the
building. He made the round of his patients.

bringing comfort to each of them’ by his kind
face and pleasant manner, and was comin,

away, when the ies told him ‘tha

Dr. Blount had not been there that day. Dr.
Charl knew that this would entail a id
deal more trouble upon him, as he would have
to see all the absent doctor’s patients, and he
had already spent a great deal of time with his
own; but he turned back with a pleasant. smile,
and, following the house-surgeon along the cor-
ridor, entered upon his second 4

He had only one patient left to see. When
she came near him, and he saw her clearly, “he
gave a great start, in spite of his habitual self-
control. There was the face that had been for
ra a part of his life. But how much altered!

‘ale, , with all the bright girlish look gone,
he wondered that he recognized it, and yet he
never for one moment doubted that it was the
same. It had lost none of its beauty to his mind,
at least, but’ seemed, if possible, more lovely
now than it had in his dreams, It required
some mastery of himself to be able quietly’ and
calmly to examine and prescribe for the patient,
but he did it.

When he had finished, and had left the ward,
he said to the house-surgeon, who had been
round with him:

“ How long has that patient been in the hos-
pital?” ;

‘Three weeks.”

“ What is thought of her case?”

“<Dr. Blount considers it very promising, T
believe.” Y qe

“So I thought; but, of course, “one ean’t tell
so thoroughly from a first visit.”

As Dr. Charlton was approaching the glass
doors at the head of the stairs leading from the
wards of the basement story, he met one of the
nurses. He stopped to k to her.

“T have been seeing Dr.’ Blount’s patients to-
day, and am rather interested in one of them,
who is, I think, among those under your
care. i fancy her name was something like

n—”

“Oh, Dunmore, Rhoda Dunmore,” answered
the nurse. ‘Yes, she is in my ward. Ih
you, think as well of her as Dr. Blount do,
sir. ‘

“Yes, her ‘case seems to me mising. I
think she has been here three weeks.”

‘Yes, sir; three enuh cae sir.”

“She looks as if she known a great deal
of trouble, I know there is no need for me to
tell you to be kind to her, for you always are
to every one, I fancy.”

The nurse curtsied in acknowledgment of the

ee as
“She do, indeed, sir,” she said; “T should
say she has had a pack’ 0’ trouble in her day.”

‘She looks very patient.”

“She is, sir; ‘and that well educated, she
makes you feel directly that she is not a com-
mon person. I have heard tell she was a gov-
erness, Or something of that kind, sir.”

“ Ah, very likely,” said Dr. Charlton, ‘‘Good-

da: ai
‘Ke he drove away from thé hospital, he could |

not help thinking that’ this meeting was not
chance, but a pre-arranged ee y for him
to be of use to this poor girl, who looked as if
she had so much sorrow.

Next time he went to see his patients, Dr.
Blount had. been, and he-had: no bs a Bh
seeing the object of so much interest to hi
again. He had not been without a hope that he
would have seen her if only for a moment, but
he was disappointed. J

Two 8 ys_afterward he went to service
in the pretty little chapel belonging to the hos-
pie and looked Ae near the patients

discover the one who in him so much,
but she was not there. The service seemed in-
terminable to him, though in reality it was &
very short one, and he felt greatly relieved
when it wasover.

Coming out, he met with the matron.

 

viento, I don’t know; but, if you will wait an ' =

 

“ Good:morning,” said Dr. Charlton; ‘*I have
come down, as you see, to service this morning.
I was very glad to see such a number of patien

present.” BOs

“Yes; there were very few absent to-day.” ;

T missed one face, however, that I expected, re
to see—one of Dr. Blount’s patients that I saw ‘
for him the other day. Dunmore, I think her
name was. I hope she is not too ill to come; TI
thought she seemed about as well as any that I
saw that day.” 3
‘Oh, no; ‘she is not kept away by ‘additional *
illness; she has left the hospital,”

“Left the hospital? echoed Dr. Charlton, a F
very blank look coming over his face.’ Why,” . { ;
surely her time here was not up!” - [

‘No; but she said she felt wonderfully better - Be i oh Se
than when she came, and, happening to hear’ . - a
how ie pepe there were hoping to get in if ~ P
they could have room, she insisted upon leaving. P
Tt was quite her own doing.” ©
~ “TJ suppose"you have no idea where she ‘has -*
gone?” said Dr. Charlton, more eagerly than he =
meant to speak. I :

The matron looked'as if she thought Dr.

Charlton curiously interested in this particular
atient. but answered, quite politely and grave-

instant, I dare say I can find out.” A

“Thank you. I am sorry to give you so | oe
much trouble, but I should be véry glad ‘to i
know.” a8 (Om ae -

She went away, and Dr. Charlton went into
the board-room, and waited. After a few-mo-
ments she reappeared with an address written ©
on a slip of paper, which she gave’ to’ Dr. > aioe
Charlton. ees

“That is the address to which Rhoda Dun-*
more said she was going; she told one of the”.
nurses who had been very kind nee ee

“Thank you; I am much obliged: Good-
rd ve ,

Dr. Charlton bowed, and went away, resolv- .*
ing to take the first opportunity of calling at. 2
the address that had been given him, ariden-  . ©
deavoring to find out something more abotit’
Rhoda Dunmore. + ed

CHAPTER II. : “,

Ir was some days before Dr. Charlton ‘could
find time to pay the visit to which he looked
forward with so much interest and pleasure;
but, at last, a slight lull in the pressure of his
po, ge enabled him to carry out his
wis oe

He drove to the address given, and found
himself at the door of a table housé in a
quiet street in the middle of London. Having
asked if Miss Dunmore were at home, and hav-
ing received an answer in the affirmative, he

ave his card to the servant, and was ushered -

y her into Rhoda’s presence. :

She Nn Oh , with an air of some sur-
prise, but with great courtesy.

‘‘Miss Dunmore,” Dr. Charlton began, with
the utmost deference, ‘I hope you excuse
‘the liberty I have taken in calling to see you.”
- Rhoda ‘smiled very sweetly, as she’ bowed,
and placed a chair for her visitor.

“You may remember me,” he continued, sit-
ting down. “T saw you one day in Dr. Bas

“T could hardly fail to remember any one
whose manner to me had been so kind,” said
Rhoda, and her voice sounded Me paaie, eat ate ~
ton as the sweetest music he had ever ag

“T-was much interested in ‘your* case,” he re--
sumed, ‘“‘and, upon hearing a few days ago, ~
much to my astonishment, that you had left ie
hospital, I took the liberty of finding out where
you were, and calling to see you.”

“Please do not k of it as a liberty; Dr.
Charlton. Ican only feel dee ly the honor you
have done me by this kind visit.

“Twas glad to hear you were benefited by
your stay at Victoria Park. I hope you have
not done unwisely by coming away too soon.”

“Oh, I think not: Iam wonderfully better;
I could hardly fail to be so after all the care and
attention I received there. I really was ashamed
to stay longer and keep out others who had
more need of it than I.” :

“T hope you will be very careful of yourself
now; you look far from strong.”

‘“‘T am very careful, I assure you.”

Dr. Charlton sta ed, talking, a few moments

talane his hat, rose to go.

more, and then b
in again some day and

 

e.*

 

 

*T shall hope to 100k a
see how you are getting on, if you will allow
me.

“T can only thank you again and ap for
your kindness in ah, so much trouble about
me; you may fully believe in my gratitude.”

She held out her hand as she spoke, and Dr.
Charlton took it in his as reverentially as if it
had been the-hand of an angel. —_*

As soon as he reasonably could, he paid Rho-
da Dunmore another visit, which was followed
by many others, He was more and more charmed
with her every time he saw her. He had found
out just lately, that she got her living by teach-
ing, and knowing well how utterly unfit she was
for such work, he resolved to speak to her at

 

 

once, and ask her to be his wife. s
With this purpose in his mind, he went to

  
  

aw

 

 

 

tt

 

“4 .
*
+

«
©

Mae
My - and let me have my own way in everything,

”

her one day, about six months after his first
visit, and after his usual questions about her
health, for he had always made that the osten-
sible reason of his. visits, and a few conventional
remarks, he said, .rather‘suddenly-

‘Miss Dunmore, I wish to tell you a story.”

Rhoda smiled and bowed, and he resumed‘

“A young man was once standing upon the
platform of a railway station just as the train
was leaving it. As it passed him, he saw in one
of the carriages the face of a young girl. It

* — was ‘ only a face at the window,’ but it_haunt-
ed him through his life, through his studies,
through the beginning of his career, through
his prosperity, After many years, chance, as it
is commonly called, threw him into the way of
this young girl, then grown into a woman; and
“he found her mind and heart as lovely to him
“sas her face had been and still was. He took

many opportunities of seein,
that the more he saw her the more he loved
her.” He paused an instant. ‘‘I was that
young man; and yours was the face of which I
caught that glimpse. Rhoda, with the whole
force of my soul I love you; be my wife, make
my home a heaven to me,”

e seized her hand as he finished ae
and pressed it to his lips, Rhoda, who had list-
ened all through with a face on which pain and

leasure had been contending expressions, gent-
fr eiening be bet sa ee
i ittle loosened; and, sighing, said, 7
a a You have told me your story, let me tall
youmine.”
After an instant’s silence she resumed, in a

©” -low voice: . ~ ;
Cs “JT was the only child of very rich parents.
-. Their name was Graham, They idolized i)

amid every omer yee luxury and com-
verybody called me very beautiful,
called me very clever; everybody
I should be very rich. Is it to be

*

 

 

-

i”

everybod.,
knew tha’

ct wondered at that my head was turned, that I

 

a expected when I’ entered society to have every

~.-. one at my feet? I was not disappointed, At
~~ “seventeen I came out in London, and was pro-
nounced by everybody the belle of the season.
Among my admirers there was one for whom I
soon began to entertain a stronger feeling than
friendship. He professed to be very much in
love with me; I was mel in love with him,
My father did not like the idea of my marrying
this young man, for the Hon. Arthur Brace-
bridge’s name had been heard. in conjunction
with some not very reputable proceedings.”
“Arthur Bracebridge!” broke in Dr. Charl-
ton; ‘‘ he must have been the son of whom Lord
Bracebridge so often spoke during his last ill

“No doubt; he had been a great trouble to his
nts. If I had asked my father earnestly to
et me marry this young man, he would have

**

her, and found |

consented at last, for he always gave in to me, |

but I was willful and headstrong; and as he had
once refused I did not care to ask him again,
but yielded to Arthur’s entreaties, and ran away
with him.”
“Was it then that I saw you?” s
“Most likely ; we went by the North-western,”
“That, was the station. This then accounted
for the half-frightened look your face wore that
xr 9?

“Veg: I was half-fri
of what I ah ee
; We wen'
“ae mar ied next morning. Do not blame me
too much; I acted very badly, but I was very
young, and I have been punished enough.”

“T blame you, Rhoda? My life must have
been a much ‘more perfect one than it has, to

ive me the right of judging others.”

“My conduct broke my father’s. heart,” con-
tinued Rhoda, her voice quiver hig: “the never
forgave me, but died soon after, thout seeing
‘me, and leaving all his property away from me.
L had soon seen my mistake. My husband was
not unkind, but he was vores ddy and wild;
and I repented my folly bi y. When my
father died, and left mo nothing, Arthur was
very angry with me; and, from that time, my
life became more and more wretched, hen
‘we had been married a few years, Lord Brace-
bridge eee oe my husban eeded him in

suce
the title. e were rich then for a time, but a
very short one.

ut it was too late then to
few miles out of town, and

Arthur took to racing, and, in
a very little while, had gambled all his princely
estate away, and involved Geely. in
debt. Then’ came what seemed to me the bit-
terest trial of my life. My husband. left me
suddenly, and went I knew not where. I have
never heard of him since. Being left entirely
upon my own hands, I assumed the name of
_Danmore; and under it got employment as a
governess, sufficient to keep me, until the illness
came, which prevented me from doing anythin;
more. The father of one of my pupils m
Kindly interested himselt 1, got cr you kaOY
ospital, in-which you met me. .
wt ab sy ee tad —
what w t 5

She oe a they. Fyere both silent for
some time. Dr. Charlton was the to
8

peak, \ !
“Oh Rhoda,” he said, “you cannot tell what
a dream ie Siglo you have shattered, I

  

htened and half ashamed,

 

BIRDS 2OF BREA

ae go hoped I might be able to make you my
wife.
_ “Have I done wrong, Dr. Charlton, in allow-
ing you to come and see me so often, knowing
what I know? If so, believe me it has been done
in perfect innocence. por tt have been
such a pleasure to me. t I have | never
thought to what they might lead; indeed, had
the thought crossed my mind, I should have dis-
missed it as out of the question.”

‘“‘T can’t see why you should have done that,
Rhoda; I can’t imagine that any one could see

ou often without loving you. But don’t faney
hat I wish you to think you have done ree
for, if I had knownall that I know now, I should
not have given up one of the opportunities that
T have had of eee \ +E ath
- “Your visits have been the rays of sunshine
in my dark life.” . ;

“s We may meet still as friends?”

“As friends who love and trust one ano-
ther.” | ‘ ;

She put out her hands and Douglas Charlton,
taking’ it in both his, said:

“Tam going now, Rhoda,

for I have a great

disappointment to fight down; but we shall soon |

meet: again.”

They parted, and Dr. Charlton, drove away,
his heart filled with sadness. y

He could not bear to go to see Rhoda for some
days; but after a time his visits begat i
They were not now merely those of friendship,
for he had noticed many sympto in_ her.
lately which showed that her own complaint
was only checked, not cured; his experience
told him that it was only a matter of
her now; for though skill could do much to
lengthen her life, it could not save her,

is heart sunk within him) to think how soon

he might lose this dear friend, this woman that
he loved with his whole heart; but he sometimes
hoped that this unremitting care and attention
seemed likely to be rewarded, as she did not ap-,
pear to grow worse. }

 

CHAPTER. IV.

One afternoon, on going to. see Rhoda, Dr.
Charlton was quite shocked to see what a change

had taken place in her during the few days that |

had intervened since his last visit. His practiced
eye saw only too aleerly bor short a time of life
there now remained to her, and a feeling
utterable anguish came over him, “rf

Rhoda herself seemed quite unconscious that
there was any very particular change for the
worse in her, and rose to meet him with a very
bright air. She held a letter in her hand, and
directly he had sat down she gave it to him.

It was from the lawyer of the Bracebridge
mil, and told her that the writer had_re-
ceived certain news of the death, more than a
year ago, of Lord Bracebridge.

Dr. lton’s head swam as he read this.
The thought of how much happiness might have
been his, if this news had only been known
earlier, seemed to take away for a_moment all

wer of thought and speech. He recovered

imself in an i t, and go:
both her hands.in his, and said;

“Then you are mine, Rhoda,”

“Oh, my darling,” he burst out, ‘‘if we had
only known before, what happiness might have
been ours!” : Be et NS

“And why not now, Douglas? Do we not
love one another still?” ret

“Yes, my Rhoda, dearly. I should like us to
be married at once,” he added, rather hastily;
“but you are not fit to go to church. Will you
let me marry you here to-morrow? and then I
can take you home with me. I think you might
manage ths drive,” ;
_ “Oh, yes, Douglas.
ious you are about me!”

“We are always anxious about those we love
Rhoda,” he paid ear, “T must go now to got

wedding, Good darling)” he said, taking
ing. Good-by, m in, @ , taki
her in his arms aoe aie or fondly; “‘you

will see me early to-morrow.”

_ When he returned next morning, he was hor-
rified to find what havoc those few hours had
made in her, She was lying on a sofa when he
entered the room, and hardly attempted to get
up, to receive him.

‘ Are -you feeling worse, Rhoda?” he asked,
anxiously. ; ‘
icant think so; be Se very ae

s clergyman w ere soon, and your
tind aad Bea

‘her daughter will be the only wit-

nesses of our marriage.”

_, He sat down by her side, and
fe ee knew Yhat his married could only
a few days, perhaps only a few hours,

this knowl made hi to talk. ;
Ina Short acs iim Fatal the cere-
mony oe ees and Douglas Charlton and
wife were alone, ' He had told her how criti-
‘her state was, and she had borne it quietly
and well. :
After a time she broke the silence by saying:
“T shall never see your home, Doteasy mine,
too, it would be now:” :
“ Rhoda, don’t talk so! I can’t bear it.”
“We shall keep our marriage feast in heaven,

n again. -

6 with |

of un- |.

going to Rhoda, took

I am very well; how aux-,

rat eae both:

63

.

Dougint and it will be better there than on
earth.” :

He did not answer, and there was silence
again. This time he was the first to speak.

= a es still feel = reece
; es, dear, very tited; but very happy.”
} “Happy, oda, when you are gobip away
from me forever?” :

“Not forever, my husband; we shall meet
me in heaven, and there will be no parting
there, ‘4 °

Dr. Charlton saw no patients that day, and
next morning the passers by his house saw that *.
it was closely shut up. ' e
? 2

Tn the corner of the church-yard belonging to
the parish in which Dr. Charlton’s estate stands,
under a weeping ash, which shades it alike from ~
sun and rain, isa lain white marble tombstone, .
and on it is inscribed: =

 

 

rm

Sacred to the Memory’?
ne ty i bod oro! ro AID!
p cipre: RMGGAn; pasienhame:
At? * THE | ;
-BeLoven Wir or Doveras Cuartron, © = ©

+

_ The flowers round ‘that grave seém the bright-
est in the whole churchyard, »

 

 

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