The House on the Moor, v. 3/3

Translation

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. BORN, GLOU

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e natural timidity which, after a while, replaced her flush of indignant vehemence, was rather an exhausting morning promenade for a girl of nineteen-arrived at Tillington. And, in spite of Peggy's injunctions and her own sense of necessity, it was only with lingering steps

yoursel', for the like of them long walks at this hour in the morning, they're no for leddy-birds like you. You'll have heard from the Cornel, miss? And how is he?-the dear gentleman! But you're not agoing to stand there, with that white fac

and drive me to the railroad, and perhaps we might overtake my brother. I'm-I'm-I'

destrian with astonishment, and throwing her wonder into the first tangib

perhaps, go with me to the railroad," added Susan, availing herself of that unexpected assistance, to cover her strange departure alone from Marchmain, yet blushing at the fal

ng half glad, and half guilty, in the strange relief afforded her by Horace's recent presence here, and the excuse it served to give for her own appearance. It saved her entirely from the halting and timid explanation of a sudden visit to her uncle, and there being nobody at Marchmain who could be spared to accompany her, with which she had been trying to fortify herself, as she approached Tillington; and the momentary rest and quietness was a relief to her tired and excited frame. Then the very

orace. She was not a very attentive listener to honest John's talk, profuse and digressive as that was. She made gentle answers, for it was not in Susan's nature to show even unintentional rudeness to anybody; but with so much to think about, and possessed by the thrill of novel excitement which their first necessity of acting for themselves gives to very young people, she made but a very indifferent listener in reality. Then her heart kept beating over t

o an instant access of renewed excitement

Horry! here's me and your sister fleeing after you

anxious, to make sure that he should speak to her with ordinary kindness, and without exposing rudely the nature of her sudden journey, which he was sure to guess, than she was to think how Uncle Edward would receive her when she went to throw herself penniless upon his charity; and felt herself approaching him close and fast with a degree of trepidation strang

d pressing the hand which he slowly extended towards her, significantly and closely, to make him

ontemptuous smile. "So, he lets you go!" he exclaimed

ill tell you all whenever we stop. Oh, Horace," she added, in an inexpressible yearning for sym

to manage without any whispering in her lug. Jump up behind, Mr. H

straight to the railroad?

Horace, sharply, "and lose your train too, most likely. Why didn't you drive as she ordered you, Gilslan

"But, hush!-never mind," she added, as she encountered his angry star

renewed chill upon her heart. They went along at a great pace, the mare, however, being the only individual of the party who showed the least exhilaration or pleasure on the road. Would that John Gilsland had been less considerate of the sister's desire to overtake her brother! Would that he had gone the straight road, and made less demonstration of his kindly intentions! After all, the straight road is the best; but to hea

she asked, with hesitation-"a

ointment there. I have managed to make my own way so far, you can tel

said Susan. "There are only two of us in the w

"I shall be with Mr. Stenhouse," he said-"Julius Stenhouse

he Stenhouse that was i' Kenlisle, in ould Pouncet's

e, what then?" aske

at bit silly widow, poor thing!-her as didn't know when she was well off, and had good friends;

w?" demand

. Her first man was a sodger captain, another chance kind o' person, like his son, one Mr. Roger that was. What the deevil has a woman to do with a new husband, that has house and

s thumb, as was his custom when he addressed himself to the task of arranging something new among his stores, and finding out where it fitted best, his eye suddenly caught in the group before the railway-station the stooping and decrepid figure of his old pitman, carefully dressed in his "Sabbath clothes." Horace sprang from the gig, though it was still in rapid motion, with an impulse of alarm, and hurried up to his strange acquaintance. The mare drew up immediately after, with a great dash and commotion. John Gilsland helped Susan to descend, and finding some of his own friends im

Park for, eh? What business have you there?

. Sir John he's at the Park, and we've ta'en counsel, the neebors and me-them as seen me sign the paper, at your own bidding-and what we've settled is, Sir John's young Mr. Roger's friend

d Horace, "you impatient old blockhead! Do you think

msel' nor his near friend. I hevn't ony time to lose, and a bird in the hand's worth twa in the bush-no meaning ony distrust of you, young gentleman. If the young Squire shou

I can. I meant to let you know as soon as I could tell myself, but you'll spoil all if you interfere. Go back to Tinwood, like a sensible man; I'll see you in a day or two. A bird in the bush is better than no bi

rter who was going that way to give him "a lift" on the road to Tinwood, and stood in the road watching till he was quite out of sight, with a total forgetfulness of Susan and the train by which she had to travel. Susan followed him at a little distance, and stood doubtfully behind waiting for

ly. "Eavesdropper!-but I suppose that's like all women," he added, with bitterness, and an

not know why my father sent me away? Oh, Horace, is there n

me along, and get your train. If you are fortunate you can cry there, and make yourself interesting to somebody. Where is your money? I suppose you've got some money. I'll get your ticket for you; but remember, S

, and there was small leisure for further leave-taking. He shook hands with her slightly as he helped her into the carriage, turned his back at once, and went away. It was so that Susan parted with her two nearest relatives. Honest John Gilsland, waving his hat as the train plunged along on its further course, touc

corner of the same carriage did so; Susan arrived at Edinburgh. She got there while it was still daylight, to her great comfort; and having argued the question with herself for an hour or two previously, and recollected that Uncle Edward had once spoken of taking a cab at the railway and driving to Milnehill, proceeded with trembling intrepidity to do the same thing. The cabman, whom the poor girl addressed with humble politeness, conveyed her in somewhere about two hours, along the darkening country road, during which time the beating of Susan's heart almost choked her. But she got there at last-saw the little door in the wall opened, and

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friends, who would use it for the interests of the heir, there was an end of "the power" of Horace over the two attorneys, whose breach of trust could no longer be concealed. Then he was furious to think that his sister had heard something, much or little, of his conversation with the old man, and might have it in her power to give a clue to the secret. While mingled with this immediate concern was a renewed impression of the importance which his father attached to Colonel Sutherland's letter, or at least to the information contained in it; and the most eager anxiety to get to London to

from Horace to Mr. Stenhouse with an expression which seemed to say that he was the victim of a conspiracy, and that some new complot was hatching against his peace. He did not even ask the young man's business; the whole affair was growing unbearable to the man of character, who knew his reputation and credit to be in the hands of these two, yet who, frightened as he was, could scarcel

ight like to hear his story, and that it might be worth Mr. Musgrave's while to give him an annuity. He will make the whole public if his mouth is not stopped. I came instantly

is is your concern," said Mr. St

from the papers over which he was bending, and spoke with the gre

concern," he said; "who is Adam

t when-ah, I see you recollect now! Awkward business, very-and Sir John Armitage himself is a client of yours; how very pro

he durst not show them. His very integrity and honour in other matters made the bondage of this

Pouncet does not object to the cost," sai

ce; "what have I to do with it more than Stenhouse? This is a pleasant improvement, certain

nd, besides, it is you who are endangered," said the bland Mr

er rapidly; he made no answer; habit had accustomed him to the civil taunts of

an is old, and has been long in your service. He lost his son in an accident at t

ppetite, the old rogue. A man who gets one thing easily always hankers for another. He'd try Sir John immediately, and double his terms. No, no; if he get

begin now. I don't mind doing my share for any old servant; but I-I c

id the smiling Mr. Stenhouse. "Stop now! don't let us get

ng friend" were gall and bitterness to his old partner, and perhaps if an

m quite willing to be made the channel of communication with him. If you trust it to me, he shall never know that the money does not come from Roger

e emphasis upon that you, or the look of personal appeal which accompanied it, at least f

," he said, pushing hastily away. "I've-I've got an appointment at twe

scertain the nature of his new duties. After he had spent a week in Harliflax, perhaps he might be spared for another week; and as he was going to London, as he said, why, Harliflax was so much nearer London than Kenlisle, and indeed on the way. With which decision Horace chafing considerably, but compelled to assent, had no alternative but to declare himself satisfied. It was so arranged accordingly. Mr. Pouncet, when he returned, put his name to the required check, which certainly committed him to nothing, and might indeed appear nothing but a gratuity to the clerk who was about to leave him; and Horace put twenty pounds out of the six-and-twenty in his own pocket. Not that he meant to defraud the pitman, or anybody else, but he was completely indifferent whether the money he used for his own immediate purposes was his own, or Mr. Pouncet's, or the property of old Adam. He mad

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est as near beautiful as it could fall to the fate of an imperfectly educated provincial belle to be; and all three expensive and extravagant to the very verge of their means and opportunities. Over such a trio of young uncontrollable spirits-and the Misses Stenhouse were innocent of sentiment, and neither had nor pretended any devotion for their mother-the nervous and timid woman who was the nominal mistress of the lawyer's house could exercise no sway. Years ago, when Amelia, the beauty, was but just beginning to be conscious of her own perfections, and to assert herself accordingly, Mrs. Stenhouse had retired from the contest. The lovely young termagant had scarcely put off her last pinafore, when she found herself triumphant mistress of the drawing-room, while her mother fell back upon that never-failing interest and occupation which the poor woman wept over and believed one of the sorest afflictions of her life, but which was in fact its great preservative-the illness and weakness of her boy. Little Edmund and she lived together in a touching and perfect unity in the comfortable parlour downstairs, while the young ladies entertained their own friends and enjoyed their own pleasures above. Perhaps Mrs. Stenhouse did not do

patient of the time occupied there; and he observed that she disappeared from the drawing-room very early in the evening, and took little or no part in what was going on there. But Horace had neither eyes nor curiosity for Mrs. Stenhouse: he was more agreeably occupied. He who entered the lawyer's house with all his usual disdainful indifference

e shone upon Horace like a new species unknown and undiscovered before; and the contrast offered by her exuberant beauty, "dash," and presumption, was irresistibly piquant to the brother of Susan, on whom a tamer and sweeter beauty might have shone for years in vain. Horace neither knew the moment nor the means by which that amazing accident befell him; but it had happened long before the other people had eaten their dinner, transcending such common earthly occupations as much in speed as in importance. Neither did he know how the evening passed, in his sudden and strange int

ttle woman to whom he had been presented a few hours before, but whose voice he had not yet heard, stood doubtful and hesitating before him. Only for a moment, however, for, urged by an exclamation from within, Mrs. Stenhouse hastily addressed the stranger: "Mr. Scarsdale! Oh, come in here for a moment, please!" she cried nervously. Taken by surprise, and scarcely knowing what he did, Horace followed her. The room was very warm, carpeted and curtained into a sort of noiseless, airless luxury, which was half suffocating to the healthy and vigorous senses of the unwilling visitor; and near the fire, in an easy-chair, sat a small boy, pale-faced an

ome one who-his name is Roger Musgrave. Did you ever hear of him? Do you know him? Could you give me any news of my-of-of-the young gentleman? Perhaps you may have heard

ry well," said Horace. "I lived n

air. "He's my brother, he is; don't mind what mamma says. I am not afraid to ask for him

a sad invalid, Mr. Scarsdale; everybody indulges him," cr

he question with an involuntary grudge, and increased impulse of dislike to poor Roger, who

enough to any one who had the heart to be moved by it. But Horace saw nothing that was not ludicrous in the poor little dwarf

, turning to the mother; "you know, perhaps, that he enlisted and went abroad; but I have an uncle

lation of his should come here! Oh, Mr. Scarsdale, if there is anything we can do for you, I or my poor boy (and Mr. Stenhouse will do anything to please Edmund), you have only to say it-oh, thank you, thank you, a hundred times! My dearest child, it is very late, we

r visitor to the street-door, and opened

rding to his nature, he was "in love." His thoughts burned and glowed about the lawyer's beautiful daughter; he wanted her, without inquiring what, or what manner of spirit she was-a sturdy principle of love on the whole, and one which perhaps wears better than a more sentimental preference; but its immediate influence upon Horace was not particularly elevating. If it had been necessary, however, to fix and intensify his anxious curiosity concerning that unknown document in Doctors' Commons, this sudden attachment was the sharpest spur which could have been applied; for here alone lay the means by which the beauty might be appropriated and taken possession of. And every circumstance concurred to convince Horace of the importance of the discovery he had made at Marchmain. He saw the position of affairs there without any mistake or self-deception; perceived, with perfect clearness, that the letter which he had taken had been missed from his father's desk, and coolly

fortune. So, happily unaware of his own inconsistency, Horace lived in a fever through the few tedious days which he was obliged to spend in Harliflax, in the monotonous occupations of Mr. Stenhouse's office, with only one other glimpse of Amelia before he could start on his important journey. Steady though his selfish intelligence was, the hours danced and buzzed over him in a dizzy whirl. He stood on the threshold of a dazzling and splendid fortune, the future of a fairy tale. He stood like a knight of romance, with his lady's name upon his lips, impatient to enter the charmed gateway, and read in th

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the sweet morning air, which had found out all the hidden primroses and violets, and some precocious lilies of the valley beneath the trees, before it came in here to tell the secret of their bloom; and all those secondary delights, warmed and brightened by the face of love, beaming across that kindly board-the tender, fatherly face, indulgent and benign as the very skies-happy in all her pleasures, happy with a still dearer charm and unintended flattery in the very sight of her, and the consciousness of her presence; Susan did not know how to contain the joy of her heart. To think of Marchmain sitting here safe in Milnehill dining-parlour; to think of all her past life, with its melancholy solitude and friendlessness!-to think how little account anybody had ever made of her, whom all this bright house brightened to receive, and whom everybody here looked to as the crown of comfort and pledge of increased happiness! Susan had cried over it a dozen times during these first wonder

ard's Indian muslins, in their impossible delicacy, the things that she had once wondered over as ornaments of her drawers, but beyond all mortal use, actually made into ordinary gowns, and to wear them!-everything bewildered Susan into additional happiness. And that breakfast-table, with its post arrival, its letters and news-the epistles of her young cousins, the bits of pleasant gossip from the Colonel's old correspondents, all communicated to herself, with an evident pleasure in having her there to listen to them; the common family confidences and comforts which make up the daily l

ared that very morning in the Times, where a brief but flattering mention of the young volunteer delighted beyond measure his fast friend. Susan, it is impossible to deny, listened with unusual interest both to the letter and the newspaper report. It was wonderful how clearly she remembered Roger Musgrave, how he looked, and all about him.

with Mr. Musgrave, uncle?"

"but your brother, my love, is inscrutable, and might ha

thought he was managing something for Mr. Musgrave, to hear how he spoke to that old man; and he told me-o

?" said the benign C

aid Susan, with a mixture of fright and bo

ave a suspicion of either Roger or Horace. Never tell anything that seems to be wrong until you are s

. Musgrave, uncle, which would be worth paying a pension or an annuity for?-ten shillings a-week the old man said; and he was going to Armitage Park, but H

Unsuspicious of evil as he was, he had lived long in the world, and knew its darker side. The first idea which

about Mr. Musgrave's property or something, and that it would do him good, and that he would be so thankful to hear it that he would give the money directly; and Horace must h

gs a-week for himself of his o

e promised to get him the pension, and would not let him go to Armitage. That was a little strange, wasn't it?-because Sir

zzled Colonel; "and your brother-hum-Horace is very clever, my dear," said Uncle Edward, with a grieved look, and a

anything very wrong," said

thdraw her thoughts from that perplexing subject. The more she hoped that it was nothing wrong, the more settled became her conviction that it was, and that deceit, or treachery of some kind, was involved in the transaction. And then a battle ensued in her private heart. Roger Musgrave was nothing to Susan, and Horace was her only brother; was it her part to search into the secrets of her nearest relatives, in order to befriend a strang

ed about, poking his gray moustache into the pretty bookshelves, as though he had suddenly grown short-sighted, and impending with the stoop habitual to his

been pondering nothing else since he entered the room; "thinking over what you told me this morning, I rather think it might be as well to write to Armitage-eh? Very likely it

s proposal, and still more afraid that, alarmed in the quick and tender pride of family affection, she would guess and resent his sus

brother, and it is dreadful to say so; but I am not sure of him, as you

and Horace the most upright of us all. I trust so; he is very clever, Susan, and clever boys are sometimes tempted into scheming-eh? And be

an thought as her uncle left her. But still, it was a satisfaction to have the letter written. It is always satisfactory to transfer a portion of one's own personal uneasiness to somebody else. They hoped a little and wondered a great deal each in private, with very little communication on th

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h entertained, and the inquiries which were likely to be set on foot to satisfy them, he would have laughed his laugh of supreme disdain, spurning that past transaction as too insignificant to help or harm him. Adam Brodie, and the "power" over Mr. Pouncet and Mr. Stenhouse which his story gave, had been sufficiently important to Horace a short time before; but the young man was in an elevated and dizzy state of mind. He was going to find out an unknown fairy fortune; the crock of gold was almost visible; he did not feel sur

railway. Alas! that was no coach-and-six, either morally or visibly, in which Horace returned to Harliflax, and to the clerk's life in Mr. Stenhouse's office, which this morning he regarded with lordly and lofty disdain. He sat back, an image of silent and self-consuming rage, in his corner of the second-class railway carriage; rage which dried up every comfortable sensation out of his mind; rage at himself, who had been thus deceived; at the dead man who had left him, in the first place, this bitter vexation and disappointment, and at the living man, who lived to thwart him, and keep him out of his rightful possessions. Not a remorseful thought of the lifelong wrong which had soured his father's spirit and destroyed his life occurred to the congenial temper of his father's son. A true Scarsdale, Horace proved his legitimacy by the unmixed self-regard which plunged him into that sudden passion. From his own point of view he took up the expressions of his father's letter. They were rivals to the death. That event, long ago accomplished, which Horace knew for the first time to-day, had abrogated the bonds of nature between them at the very beginning of the son's life; and already a horrible impatience of the father's existence stole unawares over the mind of the young man. That lonely, miserable, misanthrope's life which the recluse endured at Marchmain kept the heir out of his inheritance-kept the youth from his will-the bridegroom from his bride; and Horace set his teeth, thinking of it

inted man had given to his father's cruel will; but the heir was not sorry for the hermit of Marchmain. Pity found no entrance into the self-absorbed mind of Horace; he saw his own position merely and no other, and thought as little of Mr. Scarsdale's lifelong tragedy as if the recluse had been a wooden image; a scarecrow to keep him off his enchanted land. Yet something more; though he resisted it, the dark thought would return to increase the turmoil of his mind. His father was still young, a strong man in the vigour and flush of life. Again and again that dark red f

t life, nor shed blood; yet the passion and horror took hold upon him as if he were already guilty. How the hours and miles of his journey passed he was ignorant; when he had mechanically alighted at Harliflax he called himself fool not to have gone on; on, he did not know why, to that charmed spot, charmed by enmity and hostile passions, where his father, his hinderer, the bitter obstacle between him and fortune, dragged through his melancholy days. There was no influence upon the miserable young man to dispel the gloom of incipient murder from his heart; his very love, such as it was, urged him instead of staying him. He went on to the lodging which he had left yesterday with such different thoughts, in a brooding fit of hatred and disgust with himself and everybody else, afraid of the dreadful thought which made his pulses lea

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om Colonel Sutherland, being an innocent device of that innocent old soldier to draw a candid and frank reply out of his nephew's uncandid soul. Out of his dis

ng Musgrave, when she suddenly remembered that you did not wish her to mention it. This, of course, as you will suppose, knowing the nature of garrulous old men and gossips like myself, made me ten times more curious, and I managed to get out of Susan some vague story about a pension and something that had been found out. Susan is ignorant as a girl should be of a young man's follies, but I unfortuna

and a welcome for my sister's son. Come when you can-the sooner the better; and while this unfortunate difference lasts

nately yo

uther

ime, with one of his familiar sneers, and, with scarcely the pause of a minute, hunted up writing m

lly keep everything of the kind. But you are quite right in your supposition. Such insight as yours into our little concealments is a more effectual argument than any other

a home at Milnehill; and with lo

utiful

e Scar

and sent evidently by some private messenger, the look of it puzzled him who had no correspondents. Then the signature threw him into a flush of eager anxiety. What could indu

d himself. He wishes to see you immediately, if you can come. I hope this may reach you soon, and tha

s sin

a Sten

s pale, and his passion of evil thoughts had left traces upon his face; but the very excitement of those murderous fancies lighted an unusual fire in his eye, and animated the countenance, which, in common times, was not a remarkable face. As he went out he took up the letter he had written to his uncle, and tossed it carelessly into the post as he passed, thinking, with a momentary contemptuous wonder as he did so, of the simple old man who had opened his arms and heart to Susan, and who held open for Horace himself that warm domestic shelter, the home of which the young man felt no need. The contrast was wonderful enough-Uncle Edward and his Susan in their bright, peaceful room at Milnehill, in the evening calm and sweet comfort of that home life; and this young solitary, hurrying by himself through the dark streets of Harliflax, the wind flaring the s

and her maid, and every half hour going herself to ask whether papa was any better?-whether there was any change?-with cheeks paled half by anxiety about her father, and half by fright and apprehension for herself; for the cholera had come to Harliflax, a dreaded visitor, some months before, and still made itself remembered in fatal droppings of poison, here and there a single "case" renewing in the public mind its original panic. The beauty was glad to escape from her fears and the troubled atmosphere of the house, into a burst of hurried conversation with Horace, who was not sentimental enough to require of her any great degree of devotion to her father, and d

Horace, with bold admiration. "I should like to

" said Amelia. "Pray, go away, sir. You are a great deal too bold, you gentlemen. Bu

so bad as you sup

the door, and ask how dear papa is; whether there is any change. I am so afraid to hear there is any change; the words sound so dreadful-do

e of the candles on the table by the current of air which attended her movements. S

no more for Amelia's character than he did for her grandmother's; but from the splendid black hair wreathed round her head, to the little foot which came out from under her wide drapery, and upon which her own downcast eyes were fixed, the young man devoured her with his gaze of bold and selfish passion. He should have her yet

h, though nothing was changed, bore somehow so clear an impression of being no longer the centre of interest, but rather a forsaken corner out of the current. After a while, however, the tête-à-tê

to rest-he's mortal heavy, for all he's so little," he continued, as he staggered out again, somewhat dismayed by his blunder. Miss Amelia was not the gentlest of rulers. Little Edmund,

ting, as Stevens says you all do, to-night. I won't have it-I won't! I'

had borne forth in alarm his dangerous charge. Amelia started, half rose, sho

ued, rising up suddenly, and laying her hand on Horace's arm, "please do let me know what he says to you. Oh, I'm sure it's about little Edmund-that little wretch is such a pet with papa, and it's so unfair to us. Will you?" she cried, wi

would be hard to go on any other argument; and when I promise

n love," and was a little indifferent to the manifestations of that youthful delusion; but the eyes of Horace glowed upon her with no commonplace fe

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nough to retain the dismal, anxious look into which that malady writhes and puckers the suffering face; but he had reached to that condition of entire occupation with his own pangs, which sometimes happily, sometimes miserably, beguiles the departing soul out of the shrinkings of nature on the verge of death. The appearance of Horace, recalling him from that absorbing consciousness of pain, he perceived with all a sick man's impatience. He had got free of his thoughts by means of those bodily tortures through which he had just passed-and to feel himself brought back to t

opened his eyes instantly, and made a sign of recognition to the young man standing beside him. "Go away, let them all go-Mary, leave me," he said faintly; then louder, as Mrs. Stenhouse lingered timidly-"leave me, do you hear; I have s

nd did not pretend it; he listened without a look or a word of pity, and the sufferer

ear me?-and about that young Musgrave's concern, you know. I don't want the boy to hear of it; eh, do you

ll him," said H

he would do? He is not to hear of it! And, Scarsdale," continued the sufferer, almost piteously, in a tone

urs hence, would be impotent as the grave could make it. "No!" There was almost a smile upon his lip; it was cruel life exulting over the vain intentions of the dying. A few hou

assistants came back, and Horace stood aside from the bed, without the sufferer being aware of it. "Remember, Scarsdale, the boy is not to know!" he shouted out in the height of his sufferings. Horace remained in the room with a morbid curiosity str

wandering mind-words only half audible, only half intelligible. One of these murmuring sounds was over and over repeated, until the watchers recognized it:-"In its mother's milk-in its mo

hrust into his mind, even then, more hopeful words-"and a great deal more, and be

le-ha!-he's off to Amelia, is he? to court the girl when her father's dying? But I tell you, Scarsdale,"

left the room; nor had even he hardihood sufficient to linger long with Amelia, who awaited his return in the drawing-room. He told her a rapidly-invented fable as to what Mr. Stenhouse had said to him, and left the house alm

it was, accordingly, vain to think of availing himself of the common resource of impatient heirs. Mr. Stenhouse dead, and Roger Musgrave's friends aroused to the first inklings of a discovery, Mr. Pouncet's character and credit, and no inconsiderable portion of his wealth, lay absolutely in the power of Horace. If he could exercise that power so as to procure such support as he felt himself entitled to from the unwilling lawyer, it might save him yet from the

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ritten to his attorney to make inquiries. And yet, after all, they're sharp these country lawyers-perhaps it was the best

nd two readings of the letter, Uncle Edward carefully refolded it, laid it

t somewhere a key to the moral cipher in which it was written. He was slow to take offence; but its tone affronted the old soldier. There was a shade of mockery, visible even to Uncle Edward's ea

his infirmity at that moment. He bent his deaf ear towards her, asking, "What, my love?" as if he had neither heard nor could guess what her question was; and before s

s letter, a commotion was heard outside; Patchey intent upon showing into the drawing-ro

a manly voice, somewhat loud, and full of exhilaration, from the hall. "I tell you, he'll give me

ple to be disturbed at his meals," said Patchey, obstinately. "I'll tel

ure of finding his place, and delighted to be "at home" once more. But Roger was suddenly interrupted, and struck dumb in his jubilant and rapid account of having been sent home with dispatches, and arriving suddenly without due time to warn his old friend of his approach. Susan rose from her place by the breakfast-table, and the young man lost his head and his tongue in an instant, scared by that formidable apparition. After a minute's interval, turning very red, and stammering out, "Miss Scarsdale?" Roger shyly approached the unlooked-for mistress of the house; while Susan on her part, with an equal blush, and a faltering exclamation of "Mr. Musgrave!" made an imperceptible step of advance, and gave her hand to Uncle Edward's "young friend." Uncle Edward himself, much amazed

llowed her to the door with his eyes, and made a confused pause; and then he burst into the very middle of a little

by surprise to see

ng the affront to his own eloquence, "yo

g man seemed disposed to make another pause after this false statement, and to fall into a state of reve

't want to steal into your confidence, or urge you to tell anything you may wish to conceal; but let me know this much, Musgrave. When you left Tillington did you leave anything behind you; any fooli

ed Roger, in amazement; "I know you don't mean t

m with that stoop of benign weakness-the touch of physical imper

-bye; but in the meantime say to me

e!" said Roger

not defiant as he might have been at Tillington, perfectly grave, conscious of nothing which sl

n her brother and an old man, in which your name was introduced, and mention made of a pension which the man thought you might be induced to give him, in consequence of some discovery. This Horace forbade his sister to repeat, but Susan told me, thinking there was something wrong at the bottom. You will f

our; he saw the trick of it, and had ha

ng else in his sublime, youthful contempt for this effort to dishonour him; he was innocent, and his veins tingled with momentary rage, proudl

quite hopeless of any good, and otherwise occupied in his mind. The old soldier was at last compelled to break up the conference from manifest signs of impatience on the part of his guest, who was anxious

s aware of this-of your suspicions?" he said, fumbli

chair, with a little humour in his smile. "I wonder, now, what it mattered if she had?" he said to himself; "they never excha

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while the placid firmament of Milnehill was disturbed by no apparition of a rival knight; and that the likelihood of spending some days under the same roof with Susan was, when he realized it, rather exhilarating to the young man's spirits. Susan, however, was in a very different position. She had seen what she supposed to be a sudden chill of discomfort fall upon the stranger at sight of her. She had observed his silence, his fallen looks, his diminished brightness, and it was impossible to attribute this change to anything but her own presence. Susan was very much mortified by this supposed discovery. She had known herself to be unregarded and unloved for the most part

ote to the Colonel's dear friend and ally, Mrs. Melrose, his sister-in-law, who was now his referee on all feminine topics. The tender-hearted old man concluded that Susan might possibly feel her position somewhat uncomfortable as hostess to the stranger, "especially if she likes him," thought Uncle Edward; a

at having a young man to entertain, and no other woman in the house? Nonsense! Susan is just the last girl in the world to be so foolish. What's a young man more than any other pers

ife, and that the regiment was ordered to Outerabad, "where we were when my poor General got his first step," said the old lady. "I hope it will be as fortunate with his son," answered Uncle Edward; and so they entered the house, to receive Susan's glad, astonished welcome. The advent of Mrs. Melrose almost delivered Susan from that rare fit of romantic and heroical sullenness. There was no necessity now for Mr. Musgrave being specially civil to herself. Now she had som

went, I can't say I have much confidence in him. And he is not married yet, the poor old sinner! My nephew, Musgrave, is-my nephew, as you said to-day, but I don't

f in his heart that anything could be found out to

see this lawyer whom Sir John has written to, Mr. Pouncet. Most likely he had the management of yo

said the young man warmly, reddening with that deep consciousness of blame cast upon the dead, which made his language more fervent than was any way needful-"was an old-fashioned country gentleman, and lived to the full extent of his means. Why shou

could induce Horace Scarsdale, who is penniless himself, to promise a pension to a cou

his an instant wit

ightly inclining that way, with visions of unknown rivals crowding darkly before his eyes,

nel, "what is the use of bringing Susan in? Susan is as my own child in my own house; think of y

being together sometimes, Colonel, if she pleases," added, w

mes together? Not much increase to your purse, Musgrave, nor advantage to either of you. If you have begun to entertain such fantastic thoughts, your best plan is to think over what I am sayi

ly look into it; but his thoughts at the present moment did not very well bear such an interruption. "It looks as if there must be something in it; but, Colonel, won't you postpone it

, "where my poor General got his first step," and where her son Charlie was now going. That practical and homely tale pleased Susan. She liked to hear of the economics of the young subaltern's wife; how she managed to do without superfluous servants, and strenuously laboured at the mending of that strange little hole in the purse through which their money seemed always running. Her contrivances about dress, when she and her lieutenant had an invitation to the Colonel's bungalow to dinner; the thrift with which this capable woman had managed that strange, half-savage, yet highly artificial and civilized household, with all its Anglo-Indian wants and luxuries. Susan was never tired of that long prolonged story, which always unfolded some new episode: "Did I ever tell you about so-and-so?" said the old lady, and forthwith ran into a variation which enlivened a

ry, which she meant to make an end of as soon as the gentlemen enter

han if you had waited till you were rich,"

on her face; "I'm an old woman, and should be a good adviser; but I never was a good adviser, as your Uncle Edward will tell you. Now everybody k

sis. Could anybody doubt that she believed them thoroughly? But

se was only a lieutena

beacon of me, Susan, my dear. Yes, it was years and years long before he was General Melrose, Mr. Musgrave; such years! years of trouble and toil and misery and ha

; but there were no tears in the old eyes which met in such a pathetic cheerful glance, and understood each other beyond all interpretation of words. Dear life, which they could still live cheerfully, all shorn a

appreciation of the same than all her three auditors put together, kept Roger and Susan breathless with her recollections, her anecdotes, her sallies of quiet fun. She consented to stay all night, at her brother-in-law's request and Susan's anxious entreaty, and took Roger entirely under her protection,

but made great haste to get to bed and avoid speculation, which, seeing it was after twelve o'

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rdians nor minority, began to speculate splendidly what he should do with his new wealth. He poured into his mother's ears a flood of intentions, vain, lavish, childish dreams of universal help. He was to send for Roger and give the greater half of all he had to his elder brother; he was to get everything she could desire for Mrs. Stenhouse; he was to send a present of the most beautiful horse in the world to Colonel Sutherland; and henceforward they were all to live together, and "my brother Roger" was to be supreme in the joint household. Mrs. Stenhouse, afraid to check him, and at the same time trembling for the effect of this excitement upon his weak frame, looked on with a troubled heart. She knew Edmund would not get his wild will now, as he supposed he should. She knew very well that nobody would permit him to do a tenth part of what he meant to do. But when he roused himself up out of his cha

der if he'd join the Edgehill Cricket-club, and get to be captain of the eleven-wouldn't it be famous. And I mean to get strong, I

you no thought to spare for him, now that he is gone? He loved you more than everything

up keenly at the weak

y good to me, was papa," continued the little man, with a reluctant tear in the corner of his eye; "but all of you say he's a deal better off no

tears of mortification and wounded feeling, some one beckoned her to the door of the room and gave her some letters. One of these was from Roger himself, announcing his arrival, and that he had gone to Milnehill; for Roger as yet did not know what had happened in his mother's house. This surprising announcement raised her out of her distress in a moment and dried her tears. A thrill of new freedom ran warm through her heart, stirring the blood in her dull veins. Roger, her fir

brother, my love;" and with an outcry of mingled terror, compunction, and delight, to feel herself daring enough in this ho

to himself, did not understand half of Mr. Pouncet's letter, but he gleaned enough out of it to know that something that concerned Roger had been a subject of importance likewise to his father and his father's friend; and that the writer of the present epistle, which had, it appeared, been delayed in the transmission, was in a state of considerable alarm and trepidation about something. What it was that Mr. Pouncet feared Edmund could not make out, but he jumped at the conclusion that something was wrong as rapidly as Susan had done. Afraid!-why should a man be afraid?-Roger wasn't. Roger was the epitome of Edmund's faith. He had been badly educated, this

He shan't go for a soldier any more; and I'll find out if anybody wants to do him any harm, and punish them, I will! Look here; it's something ab

asked Mrs. Scarsda

ll it means, neither could you if you was to try. Mamma, ring the bell and send for Scarsdale-he's got n

that did not enter into the poor woman's head. She sent for Scarsdale accordingly, not in little Edmund's imperative mood, but with a pleading message that Mr. Scarsdale would be so very good as to come to her as soon as it was quite convenient for him, as she was so anxious to consult him about a letter she had received. Her heart beat higher in her breast that day

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ntly at his desk, because he could not afford, in present circumstances, to sacrifice the salary which would shortly be paid to him, nor could he make up his mind, in spite of all the dark excitements which distracted him-the fascination of enmity and evil purpose which bound him to Marchmain, and the covetous and tyrannous impulse which placed so plainly before his eyes his power over Mr. Pouncet-to leave the place which contained Amelia, and where alone he had any likelihood of seeing her. After their last interview the lover was daring enough to ha

chamber; and there sat the child, consciously regnant and despotic, with his eager eyes blazing out of his sharp little face, and the hectic flush upon his cheeks. The mother watching always, to whom Edmund's illness had become quite a domestic institution, a thing which should last for ever, saw no change save of improvement; but the cold stranger's eye saw differently. The littl

t his eyes upon the letter which Mrs. Stenhouse

orning I have a letter from Sir John Armitage. It has oozed out, somehow or other, through young Scarsdale doubtless, that there is an old man somewhere in the district who knows some secret worth telling about young Musgrave. It is true, they have not an idea what it is, but Sir John charges me with the duty of searching it out and 'doing the boy justice.' Armitage of Armitage Park, my father's clients before mine-one of the oldest families in the county! I know his affairs better than he does himself; and he dares not cut down a

ow what I am doing. Advise me how to answer Armitage, and send me Scarsdale

Poun

me to make up a story-ask him what it means. Oh, Mr. Scarsdale, we're ve

n, without repenting of the wrong, would have suffered another death rather than allow this secret to be known to his child. Horace had given no promise, and thought no more of that last adjuration; but what was to become of the secret

t been a fortnight in his employment. I had not known him above a month when he died. Was he li

, and distress for her husband, mingled yet antagonistic; "he sent for you on his deathbed; there was something-something-God forg

th a sneer; "to induce me, a man of honour, just a week after, to

ld-me! I'm my father's heir, and I ought to know everything; and if you think me a child, it's because you don't know. Look here! I'

s some sad mystery here," she said, wringing her hands; "Edmund was not to know I heard him say; and then about seething the kid in his

s a good step-father to Roger Musgrave, and took care of his property that the poor boy m

to Horace Scarsdale? He went crushing Mr. Pouncet's letter in his hand; he had got possession of that, at all events, and he felt sure that poor trembling Mrs. Stenhouse could not make much of its hints, even though coupled with her husband's death-bed adj

elia was sadly tired of decorum by this time-decorum which lasts so much longer than grief, and is so exacting and punctilious. Though she put down her veil, her heart fluttered at the approach of Horace; and she was quite well pleased that he should turn with her, and accompany her back almost to the door of the house. He told her of his magnificent prospects, as he had never yet told any one; that when his father died he could make a very fine lady of her, and give her a house in town, and all the unhoped for delights of fashion; but that might be years hence-and in the meantime would she marry him? Amelia was too wise to say yes without due consideration; but she blushed through her veil, and was quite sure Mr. Scarsdale would give her a little time to think-would not be too urgent in the sad, sad position of the family. How could she think o

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and about it, as if to persuade himself that he was interested. In his progress he paused before an apothecary's shop-but did not enter there, nor till hours after, when he rushed in on his way to the railway, and made certain purchases. In haste to get his train, he did not permit himself time to look at the things he had bought, but hurried them into his pocket, and rushed on again as though it had been only a sudden thought which moved him. Yet he had never looked so d

spent a day or two of agony wondering into whose hands his letter was likely to fall. The advent of Horace was a relief for the moment: here he had, at least, an assistant, who could do any f

rs. Stenhouse," said Horace; "and you k

could not understand two words of it!" he excla

d curious, and knows very well that something is wrong, though she ca

. Pouncet, with a gasp o

roducing that document out of his pocket, "I m

s' names, which made his private office look so important, and would banish him at once from Armitage Park, and many another great house. The unfortunate lawyer was at his wit's end. That secret would have died with Stenhouse b

mstances and the fortune," said Mr. Pouncet, with a s

the lawyer opened his eyes. The heir of such a heap of money, penniless though he was at the present moment, was a very different individual from the poor Horace Scarsdale, with nothing but his cunni

his tone. One does not speak to an attorney's clerk, even when he knows one's

"Forbidden to borrow-debarred from all ordinary means of reaping some present advantage; unless-I can b

ddress. "Had you not better try," he suggested

th a certain suppressed exultation of enmity. "Besides, he hates me, and I'd much rather arrange with you. Look here, Pouncet-I want to get married. Give me a thousand a-year, and I'll giv

ar!" cried Mr. P

flying arrogance. "Besides, I could earn half as m

he heard that last speech, that the unfortunate lawyer would have made derisive faces at him had he dared. As it was, he turned away to his desk, and growled under his breath, "Catch me giving you fifty if

to marry? Any mo

hould like to know your decision at once

I suppose he is no older than I am?-he may live for twenty years,"

b convulsed, in spite of himself, the young man's heart, upon whi

s, to undertake paying you an income of a

race, loftily-"not to say my services for the present time. Don't do anything against your will. A lawsuit promoted

he cried aloud-"you!"-which was very imprudent, but a burst of nature. Then he cooled himself

s gesture; and Mr. Pouncet saw his whole substance, his business, and, worst of all,

ly when he judged Mr. Scarsdale to be about his own age, notwithstanding, with the reckless boldness of humanity, began to reckon in his mind all the chances against the recluse's life. The wonder seemed to be that such a man, in such circumstances, could last so long: there could not be much vigour of ex

e most perfect reliance, to make the fullest investigation throughout the district. Mr. Pouncet very much regretted that Sir John could not furnish him with particulars, or indeed any clue whatev

ck-and-a-bull story," and feminine powers of imagination, which the Colonel did not read to Susan; and all the parties concerned were comfortably lulle

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to the secrets there; this time how was he going?-in pretended friendship, or in open war? He could not tell. He only knew that a fascination too strong for him drew him on and on, though he fluttered in many a circle, prolonging his way, like a charmed bird, towards that house which contained the father of his life and the obstacle to his happiness. As he walked sullenly through these well-remembered paths, hovering round the borders of that moor which in May, sunshine, and daylight, a man with such black thoughts might well have feared to enter, he seemed to see perpetually before him, as in a picture, that pale spare figure in the dressing-gown-that fo

waste of unproductive soil, which at other times could look so dreary. The clump of firs on the hill-top looked down wistfully, no longer weird spies, but gentle gazers upon the changed scene. But no change had passed upon Marchmain. The house, if any thing, was a little more lonely than of old, betraying unconsciously that some of the little life it had, had ebbed out of it. Susan's flowerpots stood naked in the window, with withered stalks of plants, long since dead, standing up dead and dismal from the dry mould in which they had once grown; left here by Peggy as a grim reminder to her master of the daughter-the only chance of love and kindness which he had remaining in the world-whom he had thrust remor

at last, as if patience and strength were being exhausted out of her: her eyes were peevish and dilated, with dark rings round them; and she looked out with a keen, suspicious glance, as if even confidence in her own powers-that last stronghold-was failing her. When she saw Horace, a softening sentiment came over Peggy's face: she came softly to open the door to him, and brought him into the kit

rried about with him-were betrayed and visible to any eye that looked keenly at him. But Peggy did not look keenly; she faltered with a real emotion at the sight of him, and he trembled before her salutation with an intense anguish and remorse, of which he could not have supposed himself capable. Warnings sharp and terrible, of the remorse not to

he, Peggy?" said Horace, pointing to

cried Peggy, in a whisper. "If he knowed I

better mode of removing this hindrance than any expedient he could devise. "He hates me so, does he?" he added, wi

d Peggy. "Eyeh, Master Horry, if you knowed the wreck and the ru

leasure in his life?" said H

still more with tears, which did not flow, but only reddened and expanded the limits which they filled; "but ther

ng a pale, ominous look upon her, before which she shrank instinctive

ition of violence as tearful and faltering as her kindness. "God help us, master and servant, two lone people,

s much," said Horace, w

ter takes grit care, moor care nor I ever knew him take before, of his health and strength, as behoves a man at his time of life. He's aye at his medicine-chest off and on; and has the doors bo

longer out of my inheritance,"

chen, where she had been hastily laying out

she said solemnly, and wit

se humbugging me any longer,

stool before the fire, and throwing her apron over her head,

rgive me, didn't I say and prophesy that when wance the bairns knowed it the end would come? Oh, Mr. Horry! for the

is spirits at this stage of the interview; "especially as I presume your preparations were for me-and

he table beside the little dish of meat which she had ab

itch thoughts," said Peggy; "but I crave of

him, approached moment by moment. He got up from the table with a nervous, imperceptible trembling, and went to stand by the fire where Peggy was busy, and then to wander through the apartment, always restlessly returning to that bright spot. An impulse of flight seized him at one moment-at another, a wild thought of thrusting himself into his father's very presence, by way of escaping the devil within him, and rather getting into hot words and a violent contest than this miserable guilt. But while he was at the height of his horrible excitement, Peggy, calmly doing her usual business, went out of the kitchen to spread the table in her master's lonely dining-room. Horace, wild as in a fever, drew with trembling hands out of his pocket one of his mysterious packets. He burst the paper open clumsily, awkwardly, with fingers which seemed made of lead. A great shower of white powder fell upon the floor at his feet, but none reached the dish to which he supposed he had directed it. Trying to remedy this failure, he was startled by a sound, as of Peggy's return. With a g

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e, erect and motionless, which had shadowed, like a baleful tree, all his own young life. There he sat, a little turned aside from his familiar position at the head of the table, as though even he was glad to seek a little companionship in the morsel of evening fire which Peggy lighted in silent compassion every night; with his little reading-desk upon the table, and his glass of claret reflected in that shining surface, and the two tall candles lighting his white, worn visage, and the open page. There he sat, reading like an automaton, turning the leaves at regular intervals, doing the business to which he enforced himself, with his pale fingers and his rigid face. To think that one wicked,

's head drooping, in timid and terrified silence, opposite that lonely man. Had there been heart or hope in him, would he have banished the harmless girl, to whom Horace did contemptuous justice for once in his life? And as the young man gazed the fire burned. For a moment he seemed to see, by a better revelation, all the injury-a thousand times worse than disinheritance-which his father had done him; and became aware furiously, without regretting it, by some extraordinary magic of hatred, of

rough the darkness, Horace watched and noted. The box was left standing by his father's side on the table-where had he brought it from? The young man watched and waited, shivering for long hours, till Mr. Scarsdale's time for retiring came. Then he followed eagerly with his eyes the ghostly figure which glided out of the room, with the box under one arm. The light reappeared a few minutes after in the window of Mr. Scarsdale's bedroom, into the secrets of which he had no power of spying. Then he wandered

icious face, but thrust him into the kitchen with a haste and force which betrayed to Horace that, as

woman; "and what's your business if he's out or in? I tauld ye last time, and ye kno

said Horace, with a grim, and somewhat tremulous smile. "I had no desire to meet him, fierce and furiou

y fixing her eyes on his face, "did

w it in the fire? I was not aware of it," he said, with all

ging again," she said, with a voice of grieved uncomprehension. She

good it is to me, now I know all," said Horace, in a tone more natural than Peggy had ye

and observant. With a trembling yet rapid hand, Horace opened the box, and took out of it the little phial which he had seen his father use. It was carefully closed, with a piece of pink leather tied over the cork, and a very peculiar knot, which Horace, with his excited fingers, found great difficulty in opening. When he had succeeded, he poured out its contents, and replaced them from another of his own sealed packets. He did this mechanically and methodically, but with the cold dew bursting on his face, and his fingers, in their haste and tremble, fumbling over the knot, which he did not seem able to tie as it was before. When he had replaced it, and closed the box, he stood, trembling and miserable, looking at it. He could n

urned out again with a breathless flutter of excitement to see his principal, and speak as he best could about business. But neither Mr. Pouncet nor any other person had heard anything from Marchmain, and H

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the subject, bore the suspense with the greatest patience, and never, indeed, showed the least signs of anxiety, except when it seemed likely that a word or two of lamentation over his fate would call forth the compassion of the ladies-which compassion was very sincere on Susan's part, and good-humouredly satirical on that of Mrs. Melrose. "It's easy to see the poor young man's losing heart altogether with this waiting," the old lady would say

r suddenly, with a slight impetuous impulse, to the Colonel, who took it with his usual kind look of serious attention, put on his spectacles immediately, and addressed himself to the perusal of th

besides. The day before yesterday along with your letter there came a letter to my dear Mr. Stenhouse, which Edmund opened before I saw what he was doing. Edmund tells me to say that he does so hope you will come soon to see the cricketing in Leasough Park; and he thinks if you would join the Leasough eleven-Leasough is a village two miles off, where we always go for our drive, and where everybody knows Edmund-they would be sure to win. But about Mr. Pouncet's letter, my dear son. It seemed written in a great fright, saying that Sir John Armitage had written to him something about you, and what should he do?-and speaking in a very improper manner, actually cursing the day he did something, which it seems my dear Mr. Stenhouse must have known of, and asking that young Mr. Scarsdale, Colonel Sutherland's nephew, who seemed to know about it too, might be sent to Kenlisle at once. Edmund said, 'Mamma, send for Mr. Scarsdale directly' (he is so clever, the dear child), and so I did. But I must first go back to tell you that my dear Mr. Stenhouse himself had sent for young Mr. Scarsdale, and spoke with him in private, and charged him, as I heard with my own ears-dear Ju

my heart yearns for a sight of you. Oh, come to me! Let me see you under my own roof! Roger-my son-my dear

our lovin

tenho

onel, with some gravity, as he gave

her tea-pot and coffee-pot. Roger had made no answer as yet. While the Colonel inclined his ear attentively across the table for the young man's reply, Roger was studying Susan's face; and it is not hard to explain that common paradox of youthful nature, which made Susan's silent signs of sudden disappointment and vexation the most exhilarating sigh

ping towards his young guest, and putt

iment, got up simply as a trap for Susan-"If one could only find out the secret of ubiquity,

r tearfulness about her eyes; but, finding nothing but triumph and delight in his, returned,

re not more excited by your mother's communication, Roger. My dear fellow, it is quite evident now that there must be something in it; and a pretty person to conduct an investigation this Pouncet must be, after what you have just heard. Why, to

med as he spoke. "Amen," said the young man. "Till I can persuade some still kinder an

is young guest was speaking at Susan much more than to h

at his last shot had taken due

known of it; and he was a man of such character! I cannot think yet how it is possible that he could put himself or his reputation in danger t

-"most likely it was-well, well, well!-we cannot help it; it is to his own

o his side and sliding her hand into his, "i

nderly; "only I rather fear, Susan, as we both did when you came first to Milnehill, that

entreaty, to Roger's face. Poor Susan believed that these tears were all about her brother, and would not have ackn

tural restraint forbidding her to read, while her heart yearned, notwithstanding, towards Roger's mother; while Roger kept looking at her with anxious eyes, as earnest to have her read it as though his fate depended on the issue. Did either of them think of Horace in con

one quickly. Make up your mind, Roger, my good friend; but as for me, I am going off to Armitage by the first train. Susan, my love, Mrs. Melrose will stay with you; for this yo

room to give his instructions to Patchey, and Susan's one sole remaining intention, on which all her mind was fixed, was to rush after him; but that involuntary turn of her head and exclamat

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e, the empty and miserable condition of which came dolefully on his memory, now that he and his home were likely to have a lawful mistress. As they travelled, the Colonel exhausted himself in inquiries and suggestions as to what this hidden business could be, touching on every mode known to his innocence, by which an attorney could defraud a client, but of course never approaching within a thousand miles of the one method in which this attorney had succeeded in defrauding his; while Roger listened in a happy mist, half hearing-dwelling in his own mind on the plea he had already won, in the

ousand a-year which he had forced from Mr. Pouncet's fears and hopes, or the expectation which he entertained of being able to persuade Amelia Stenhouse into an immediate marriage, could make him insensible to that dread horror of suspense in which he lived. There were no letters, no newspaper paragraphs, or country intimation of a sudden death-darkness and silence immovable had dropped like a veil over all that district which enclosed Marchmain. Every day and every night Horace could see that wild stretch of moorland brooding under its dismal sky; and there was scarcely a mom

l. Knowing that his letter itself was out of their power, and could not be brought against him, he made his defence lightly. A lady's mistake, a thing most easily explained:-he had indeed written to his friend Stenhouse about some private matters of business, and his wife had made a woman's blunder about it, knowing nothing of business, and supposing, of course, that the

the confidential clerk, whom you sent to make inquiries, happ

"The young man's name was certainly Scarsda

rustworthy voice to which he listened. "Much grief as it gives me to say so, Armitage, I am afraid Horace would hinder rather than help. I don't know how he has mixed himself up with such an affair," said Uncle Edward, musing;

of a relative-ha, ha! Your candid judgment does you credit, I am sure, Colonel. Mr. Scarsdale is not here to-day, I am sorry to say; very unsettled lately he has appeared t

it than you choose to tell us, which appears to me, begging your pardon, a long way more likely than not; for who's to cheat a man if it isn't his own attorney? Send your clerk

at "motive" Horace could have for helping to injure Roger. Meanwhile, that young hero himself took, it is to be confessed, more amusement than anything else from the entire matter. His hopes were so slight that they did not at all excite him, whereas he could not

n chances to one, look you, Roger, that he's guilty; for if he's guilty, of course he knew every word you were going to say-whereas if he's innocent, he's taken by surprise and shows i

d into now? Well, Armitage, if I have less concern in it one way than you, I have more another. There's still a week before my Ned comes home, I'll see what I

painstaking kindness?" said Roger, forgetting h

ill my boy's holidays begin; but as for you, go on to whatever is the name of the place and see your mother, and the pretty sisters and the little b

not a chance that I shall f

ssessing demon, muttered to himself, "Pretty sisters!" Then added aloud, "Going to

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ough the cold, creeping silence, there came no sound; no cry of the death-agony which he had contrived, nor shout of the avenger of blood behind; no sobbing forth of the dear life shed by his hands, and no cry of Murder! Murder!-only a convulsive whisper of the word among the grass and leaves, and secret spies of nature, which pricked him into madness, and turned the blood in his veins to fire. He was changed, imperceptibly to himself, but in the strangest way. Every day of this week in which he had been compassing his father's death had made him more like his father. His face had lost its colour and roundness-the soft outline of youth was gone; and in its place had come a sharpened distinction of feature, unusual a

ss congregate. But, Amelia, which was she? He raised his eyes to the window which he knew was Amelia's, and tried to think of all the glories before him; fortune past counting, youth, love-nothing left out that was worth having, but-But!-that one miserable step out into the light across the blackness of darkness-the step which, God help his miserable brain, he was not about to take, but had taken, be the consequences what they might. When he thought of it there, opposite Amelia's window, standing in the darkness, his head swam and his tongue clove to his mouth. He had done it; he was not projecting, nor discussing, nor entertaining his subtle mind with the temptation; the temptation, with all its thrills of intoxicating excitement, its fascinations of fierce and hostile fancy-its wild impulses of passion-was over for ever, and for ever, and for ever!-and the victim, disenchanted, stood cold, looking always into the blanched face of

evens came to the door rubbing his eyes, and went down the street, with a sort of reluctant rapidity, to the doctor's house at the corner. Horace comprehended it as well as though he had been within and knew all. Edmund was ill. Death was not to be defrauded of that little victim: Edmund was going to die. When the servant came back with the doctor, Horace crossed the road and entered with them, nobody observing him in the excitement-e

of removal; but though propped up with pillows, for the sake of his painful and hard breathing, he looked very little different from his usual condition. He was shouting out eagerly for pen and paper wh

he glassful of some stimulating mixture which the anxious woman held to him. "I'm going to die! I tell you I've made up my mind

what he did. He was desperately interested, somehow, in this dread death which he had invoked. He was

ms the stranger who did not believe that Edmund was dying, and forgave Horace his former offences on the moment. "Oh, Mr. Scarsdale!-then you don

it all down about me, Edmund Stenhouse, like papa's-I'd do it myself, only I can't write as well as a grown-up man; and I want to leave everything-except plenty of money for

aid the doctor

oor foolish Mrs. Stenhouse, losing the morsel

w do exactly what he says. Thank heaven, there can't be much harm done in this

said little Edmund; "I can die all the same without you looking at me; but

g, my young hero. I'll see him to-morrow, Mrs. Stenhouse. Mind what I say, humour him-he

nd gentlest of the three sisters was with Mrs. Stenhouse, to help her in her watching, and had already begun to slumber peacefully in a chair. The mother herself sat at the foot of the sofa watching her boy, with eyes enlarged and dilated by many a vigil, and by that constant fear and scrutiny of his face; while, propped up among his pillows, Edmund half sat, half lay, dictating, with many a digression, his arbitrary, generous intentions. The will was still incomplete, when sleep stole over the would-be testator. He drooped back among the cushions, and could no longer keep his fiery little eyes open. Was he dying with that last flutter of words, "my brother Roger," about his lips? No, only falling safe into the restless sleep of a sick child. When his sharp little voice had died away, and all was silent in the room, the two by his bedside looked strangely into each other's faces. What brought you here with your black thoughts, oh! dangerous, guilty man? He rose up alone in the still house inhabited of women, feeling for an instant a vague sensation of that power and freedo

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red for nothing in the world but little Edmund and her other son. All this flood of question and statement poured upon Horace, who incautiously set the beautiful doubter's mind at rest by telling her that Edmund's will was as useless as any other toy of Edmund's, if the child died. Horace proceeded immediately to enlarge upon his own prospects, and the income he had already secured, but Amelia's heart was shut against him. She was not more cruel or cold-blooded than a great many other people; she did not wish Edmund's death; but that being a thing which everybody calculated upon as "rather to be desired than otherwise for his own sake, poor child," Amelia's spirits rose a little with the idea of finding herself an heiress, and once more regaining command of the house. That sickly child made a vast difference in various matters to Amelia; without Edmund she could easily subdue her mother; with Edmund, she was only Mr. Stenhouse's eldest daughter, with two or three thousand pounds; but without him she was the mistress of a very pretty fortune. Perhaps it was not much wonder if the thoughts of the ambitious and uneducated young beauty availed themselves of this prospect without too much delicacy, and thrust Edmund out of the way. However,

his mother's heart into a late summer of peace and thankfulness; making himself acceptable even to the pretty sisters who admired him, and whom he admired. But it was not Roger who had displaced Horace with Amelia. A young man who was her brother, and, consequently, not to be fascinated, was of no account in the eyes of the beauty; but Sir John Armitage, if he was not very young, had many other qualities which made up for that want, and Sir John had already concluded to himself that he had seen n

't expect to meet you here of all places in the world; did we, Roger, boy? Got something to say to you by-and-bye

walls had surrounded it, guarded by the trifling fingers of that stranger's hand. This newspaper, however-the common vulgar broadsheet-kept thus in his sight, yet beyond his reach, rapt the mind of Horace out of all excitement as to any other question. He knew well enough, with the dull certainty which other matters had in his mind, th

mamma out of her wits, and sending for the doctor and Mr. Scarsdale long past midnight, when everybody was asleep. I peeped in at the door just after the doctor went, and there was poor Mr. Scarsdale at the table

Mr. Scarsdale, Amelia

it again for his behalf, with a ludicrous sketch of Horace, "though he knew it was no good" making little Edmund's will. While this went on, Horace gradually wakened up into a grim surprise at this ridicule, and began to perceive that the object of his love really meant to hold him up to derision, and had changed her tone. The discovery roused him

dence of the head of the house," said Horace, with a sinister impulse of revenge-"the other scene m

a desperate struggle of passion, love, and jealousy, most flatteringly tragic, in the white fever which consumed him. Sir John regarded him with his head a little on one side, and made a moral remark upon the effects of dissipatio

o say? It could be nothing against my son," she continued, nervously taking Roger's hand. Sir John roused himself up a little. It was much more agreea

ou suppose I am going to betray him?" said Horace to Mrs. St

th it; or at least let's have a little private conversation, Scarsdale-there's a good fellow; a secret is the greatest humbug in the world-never does anybody any good to keep it. Sh

t, tell it here. I love a secre

uldering. How could she tell what the secret might be? She was vaguely afraid in the midst of her curio

John rose. "No, I do not trade in my friend's secrets. Mrs. Stenhouse, good

one, save Amelia, saw what he was going to do. She, foreseeing his intent

ery dreadful?" said the breathless Ame

s reputation?" said Horace, wit

s-if he did not mind, why should we?" sai

ood, Miss Stenhouse?" said the vindictive lover-"suppose I knew of a creditor who could empty thi

eyes fixed upon her with so intent a gaze. "What should I say?" said the troubled flirt, with a little gasp-"why, that you were bound to make up for it somehow, you cruel creature-you who were to be so very rich, too;" and Amelia escaped, scare

, for fear of attracting notice, in the dim cowardice of guilt, till he had shut himself up in his own room. But there was nothing in it; not a syllable in it about

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But Horace cared no longer for Mr. Pouncet's credit, or for his own income. The young man was desperate: he was ready at any moment, in pure recklessness, to have flung that secret at anybody's head whom it had a chance of harming, or rendering unhappy, though, with a characteristic sullen obstinacy, he kept it out of reach of those whom it might have served. Nor could he any longer discern, out of the fiery mists which blurred his future, any prospects of his own; he could not make any definite stand upon that visionary thousand pounds a-year which he had extorted from Mr. Pouncet;

edingly interesting consultation, in acknowledgment of the presence of her too ardent lover. Somehow, Horace's entrance, and all the restrained passion, unintelligible to them, which he carried about him, made the whole party uneasy. Amelia remembered with terror that, if provoked, he knew of somebody who could turn them out of doors, and leave them penniless. Mrs. Stenhouse regarded him with a vague awe, as holding in his hands at once her husband's good name and the well-being of her son; while Musgrave, with a good deal o

ouse's drawing-room. Roger had some letters, and opened them without waiting to be alone. When he had glanced over one he turned

he rose bolt upright, and stood with his face blanched out of all natural colour. He could not speak, it

seemed to him an overflowing of natural feeling; "only ill; don't look so alarmed-not even se

lines before him. He had enough to do to control himself, that nobody might see the wild tremor, exultation, horror, which possessed him. And yet what di

ling round the table with the charitable cordial to Horace's elbow. "How you did comfort me, to be sure, the other night about Edmund!-

taunt me?-as good a son as he was a father! Thank you, thank

edly; but almost before they had begun to wonder and talk

if-if I come back-I'll tell you something to your benefit. I

vil in everybody's mind. Great misery, it was clear enough, was in this sudden intimation. Was it the agonized apprehension of love fearin

his father dies," said Amelia; "not a common fortune-such a deal

u know, Amelia?" as

a pretty look of embarrassment, and a blush and simper, intended for the benefit of the b

delicate mind had remained totally unmoved to hear of; and entirely subdued by her fascinations, the bewitched baronet made up his own mind summarily. He flattered himself there wa

id not know that; he thought of nothing-not even of Amelia-as he rushed along to the railway, and flew by that iron road, at the swiftest pace, to the nearest neighbouring town he could reach in the vicinity of Lanwoth Moor; he was beyond thinking in the extremity of his haste and desperation. The blac

PTE

in twenty years, did not get up in the morning. When Peggy went to him, alarmed by this extraordinary occurrence, she found him in bed, paralysed in one side, unable to speak, his face somewhat distorted, and everything helpless about him except his eyes. It was evidently and beyond any doubt "a stroke," and poor Peggy, alone in her solitude, and not knowing what to do-afraid to leave him to seek assistance, and unable to ascertain what were his own wishes-put the disordered room tidy by instinct in the first place, until she was driven out of it, scared and breathless, by those eyes which followed her movements everywhere. "Like as if an evil spirit had ta'en possession," she said to herself, as she went quicker than usual in he

nd when he had done everything that his kind heart could suggest, went back slowly and thoughtfully across the moor, with very sad thoughts in that good heart. Not because he thought it sad to die; the Colonel had too many waiting for him on the other side of the river to compassionate those who were arriving at that conclusion of trouble; but it was sad to consider the ending of this melancholy and miserable life. Better for himself, for his children, for everybody wi

hat to restore his speech and faculties it would be well to rouse him, even to passion; but all without effect. Mr. Scarsdale lay in his dressing-gown among the bedclothes, in that dead silence which looked almost malicious, and of purpose, contrasted with the wild watchfulness of his eyes. One hand lay powerless and numb beside him; the other held with a tight grasp some folds of the white coverlid. There he lay stretched out motionless, attempting no notice of the remedies they applied to him, suffering himself to be moved and shifted about like a log, but following every movement, every gleam of light, every passing shadow, with th

e this was no time to think of herself. When Peggy was better, she took off her travelling dress, and went up without a moment's delay to her father's room, where Uncle Edward sat, pale with watching. Susan, too, was shocked and frightened more than she dared say by the sick man's attentive eyes; but she took the nurse's place with a natural and instinctive readiness, and begged her uncle to go away and get some rest. Why should they watch him with such careful, tender anxiety-the banished daughter and the insulted friend? Why, in this dismal need of his did these two come, whom he had sent away from him, and come as though that imprisoned spirit which th

leepless looks, which were all that remained of this man's will and mind-Susan got frightened in spite of herself. So alive, so waking, s

ears were in them; a momentary melting of the hard heart, a wandering movement of the unparalyzed hand to lay it on her head. Susan hid her face, weeping aloud, the touch going to her heart as never tender father's blessing went, and her whole young soul heaving within

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the young man's mind. He staggered back, startled out of all self-control, and uttering, in spite of himself, a cry, half of defiance, half of horror; while the unhappy father of these two children, thrusting, with the force of extremity, Susan's fair head away from him, swayed round, by a desperate impulse, his half-lifeless body, and turned his face to the wall. Startled out of her filial delusion, and with her faculties confused by the sudden thrust away, which was given with feverish force, Susan stumbled to her feet in sudden terror. Horace was standing ghastly pale by the door, his bloodless lips apart, his eyes dilated, his manner so frightfully e

But oh! before you speak to him, call Peggy first, and bid her tell

s he want with a doctor?" said Hor

-he has all but spoken! Oh! call the doctor, Horace!" cried Susan, eagerly; "per

had been when their eyes met, was less important now than that chest and its tell-tale contents. He gazed around with his wild eyes-so like his father's-looking at everything but his father, who lay motionless, his dread eyes closed now, and his face turned towards the wall. Susan, in wild impatience, stamped her foot upon the floor, hoping by that means to attract somebody. There was a stir below, as of some one who heard her; and Horace, roused by the sound, approached

his want of feeling, he urged the surgeon into descriptions of the complaint: what it was-and how it came on-and what were its particular features. While the astonished doctor replied as shortly as possible, and turned his back upon the heartless questioner, Horace hovered more and more closely about his father's bed. Another fit produced by the sudden appearance of his son had almost completed the mortal work which was going on in the emaciated frame of the recluse. It did not matter to anybody now that those eyes were faintly open, which a little while ago were full of unspeakable t

ive disgust. "You can't do any good here-be quiet and go to

followed her out of the room without saying anything. He was mad, crazed, int

ere. She shook her head at him in sad displeasure, but u

f a father to you, that you should break your heart for him; but be dacent, Mr. Horry

the horror of what he had done. The strength of an army could not have kept him from Marchmain at that terrible crisis and climax of his fate; but now when he was here, he could but lie prostrate in the wildest hopeless misery, or, mad with his guilt, peer like a ghoul about his father's death-bed. It was

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and found the sight of those last agonies intolerable and beyond her strength; the solemn bustle afterwards, when the last offices had to be performed-were all insufficient to awake Horace out of the deep but unquiet slumber, over which phantoms and fever brooded. He lay as Peggy had left him, in his travel-soiled and disordered dress, fatigued, haggard, bearing such weariness and exhaustion in his face, that it would have taken harder hearts than those of his sister and uncle to close themselves against him. But Horace was as unconscious of the visit of Susan and Uncle Edward as of any other incident of the

e than troubled; but I do not blame him; it was no

d Susan, looking up with

e richest men in England; your grandfather's will passed over your poor father, and left everything to Horace. Ah, Susan! nothing but passion, and misery, and black revenge on

very wrong, Uncle Edward?" said Susa

al, lay even in the sleep of Horace Scarsdale's face. Susan's mind did not take in or comprehend that statement about her grandfather and his wealth, and "one of the richest men in England." The words had no meaning to her at that melancholy moment. She

ement, and, perhaps, taking something he was not used to, overcame him last night. Sle

f love upon her father, than she had ever before felt herself to possess. The morning was kindling over the moor, brightening the golden-blossomed gorse, and glowing over the purple beds of heather; but the blinds were drawn down and the shutters closed in Marchmain; the obscure and gloomy atmosphere of death reigned in the house. Peggy sat by the kitchen-fire, with her white apron thrown over her head-her mind lost in long trains of recollection, sometimes her wearied frame yielding to a half-hour's sleep, sometimes her troubled thoughts overflowing in a few natur

s beating with the strength of fear. What was he thinking of?-the great stakes he had played for and won? the big inaccessible fortune which made him this day, in this obscure house, as Uncle Edward said, one of the richest men in England? the wealthy inheritance, which was all his own? He thought of no such thing, poor madman, in his frightful success and triumph; far from that ruined soul and miserable house were now the delusions of love and fortune which had wiled him into crime; no exultant thought of fortune gained-no lover's fancy of Amelia won, warmed him in the first sharp access of misery. He thought of one thing, and one only, in the abject horror of that guilt, which he himself knew, though no one else did. The fatal box in which he had laid his train of destruction-the medicine chest where his father had gone to seek healing and had found death. Where was it? He saw it in his burning imagination a far more dread obstacle than had been that life which he had destroyed, standing between him and all the objects of his ambition; he could not look anywhere but that fatal vision glided before him, clear with its brass-bound corners, its tiny phials, and t

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peering into the wardrobe, where his heart thrilled desperately to see the well-remembered garments which it was so hard to believe could never be worn again; and turning over familiar articles of daily use with awed and trembling fingers, as though they could betray him; but he could not find any trace of the object of his search. Its very absence seemed to him significant and terrible. Had some enemy taken it to testify against him? Had the dead man himself taken measures to secure his own revenge? Heavy, cold, clammy beads of moisture hung upon the young man's face; a chill as of death entered into his heart; deep to the very centre of his being he himself knew and felt his own

Peggy's troubled eyes, watching where he went and what he did, haunted his imagination. He could fancy them all grouped together under covert somewhere, watching that guilty, stealthy pause of his-watching his secret, clandestine footsteps as he stole downstairs. But still he did go down, in the breathless cowardice of his conscious crime; fearing every

d into that room so deeply instinct with his presence, where now more than ever he lived and had his sure abode. Almost more awful than the actual presence of the dead was that presence unseen and terrible, the invisible life of life, which death could not touch, and which should remain here for ever. Horace dared scarcely breathe the air of this deserted room. An hour's imprisonment in it, in his present state of mind, would have driven him into mad superstition, if not to positive frenzy; but h

one, but hastened to the fireplace, where the ashes of a fire still lay in the grate, and with trembling hands broke the neck of the bottle against the grate, and emptied out its contents-for he dared not go outside, lest some one should see him. As he paused, kneeling on the hearth, breathless and with a beating heart, he tried to take comfort and re-assure himself. It was gone; no evidence existed now that the son had entered in, murderous and secret, to the father's chamber. He tried to persuade himself that he

upon him the effect was like a stroke of magic. He stood staring at the paper, his eyes starting from his head, his face flushing and paling with wild vicissitudes of colour; then he dropped down heavily on the floor, thrusting aside unconsciously Mr. Scarsdale's chair, which stood in its usual place by the table. He could neither cry nor help himself; he fell heavily, like a man stunned by a sudden blow-voice, stre

e in the world could now ever tell; save as the expression of a vindictive sentiment, and secret triumph to himself in his solitude for discovering and baffling a secret enemy, there was no meaning in it, and the chances are that nothing would have brought these words from the unhappy fath

tents of this chest left untouched by me since the 3rd M

say nothing in his unspeakable relief. The desperate tension of his misery had kept him alive and conscious by very consequence of its sufferings-but when the bow was unstrung it yielded instantly. There he lay senseless where his father's feet had used to rest, smitten to the heart with an undeserved and unutterable consolation-guilty, yet not guilty, by some strange interposition of God.

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that family, Patchey, my lad-tak up your glass; ould comrades like you and me are n

eedily found out that good ale and company were to be had at the "Tillington Arms," where Mrs. Gilsland showed great respect and honour to the important Patchey. Patchey had alre

ld, where his own affairs is concerned. If it werena for me that ken the world, and keep a stric

wer to this question; "but it stands to natur that in the coorse of our

be a discreet lad, and wan that's to be trusted-as was known of ye since ever ye enter

to say over again; but this ye a' ken as well as me. The gentleman at Marchmain was married upon the Cornel's sister, and died of a stroke, a

in' at Marchmain, and for a screw and ould skinflint, that would give nowght but the lowest for whatever she wanted, I'll engage there's no the marrow of Peggy from Kenlisle to C

rogatory to his dignity, Patchey squared

ere persons have oucht to say agin the family at Marchmain

agin a family to say it's seen better days? Eyeh! wae is me! to think there's no a soul in the Grange but ould Sally, and the young Squire out upon the world to seek his fortin' l

's been visiting at our house, and the Cornel's tooken him up. I would not say but more folk nor the Co

it's Miss!" cried Mrs. Gilsland,

head with mysterious importance-"what's the rights o' that story if wan might ask, Patchey, my friend?-for

ed to be heard, out of me. But he's gane, poor gentleman, and a' the better for him, as I've little doubt; and Mr. Horry, as ye call him, has come into a great fortune. Ye see the rights of it was this:-the auld man of a', the grandfather, had been a captious auld sinner, though I say it that should not; and being displeased ae way or anither at his son, this ane that's now dead, he made a will, strick cutting him off, and leav

things than them two, begging your pardon, Mr. Patchey, were not in this countryside; and how they've comed up to be as they are is just one of the miracles of Providence. Neyther a play nor a lesson like oth

e Burmah war, and wherever bullets were flying, as the Sergeant can tell you. There was little time to think of our own bairns,

hey know, them easy foulks at home, what the like of huz souldiers goes through. Eat when you can a

ced away and 'listed all out of your flatteries?-or to the young Squire, when he hearkened to you? Eyeh, ye deceitful ould man! Is't a parcel o' stories,

's come true? Sam Gilsland's been home on furlough, Patchey-as pretty a lad as ever handled a gun-corporal, and well spoken on; and the

when the Cornel's tooken him up," said Patchey. "Our Cornel, he's that kind of a man when he takes an interest in a lad he's not on

grand gentleman when he came in at the door, before I saw his honest face," cried the good woman, with a sob of pride; "and the Cornel's good word is as good as a fortin', and he's uncommon kind is the young Squire. I wi

t the young gentleman the noo. He's showed great feeling after a', that young man; he was like a lad out of his mind when the faither was ill; and the day of the death, what

put to the door when he went for Mr. Kerry's things; and a lad like him, that was never greatly knawn for a loving heart,

ay, that though he's the Cornel's nevvy, and doubtless well connected, and g

weel-an hour mair or less will do the lad nae harm. I've little faith in physic for such like disorders. If ye've a good constitution and a clear conscience, and the help of Providence, ye'll figh

through the fragrant heather. Patchey's gravity and intense sense of decorum increased habitually with every glass he emptied; but, perhaps, when his moralities flourished most, he made least haste about his immediate business, and it is to be feared that the confid

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olonel Sutherland stood by gravely mournful, his noble old face clouded with compassion and sorrow, not for the death, but for the life that found its conclusion there-the mind of the countryside had changed. The group was one which those who saw it could not forget; and it began to be remembered, in the great houses near, that Mr. Scarsdale, on his arrival, had been thought worthy of a visit, and that the name of the gallant old Colonel was not unknown to fame. Then, when already the matrons near began to take pity upon Susan's lonely orphanage, and the dangerous illness of her brother, rumours, of which nobody could trace the origin, began to spread of the family history, and the great, unbelievable fortune which Mr. Scarsdale's death had put into the hands of his son. The story was tragical enough, and had s

nd that room was full of the luxuries of sickness-those luxuries which only the most close and affectionate care provides. In the wonder and weakness of his sudden awaking, he lay motionless for a time looking round him, unable to connect what he saw with any portion of his former life. Long experience and close observation of his nephew had convinced Colonel Sutherland that some great mental shock was the occasion of his sudden illness, and the tender-hearted old man, forgetting when he watched by Horace's bedside everything save that he was his sister's son, had caused every piece of furniture which could be changed in the room to be taken away, and replaced the familiar objects with safe unknown articles, which could recall no painful associations to his patient's mind. He was sea

t glimpse of Uncle Edward's face. He shut his eyes tightly again, with a longing to return to his insensibility, and gave a groan out of the depths of his miserable heart. H

u take care. And here is something you are to take," said the Colonel. "Hu

not guilty by the actual event. Then he opened his eyes and took the medicine, which his uncle had poured out for him. He was the same Horace as of old-subdued, but not changed; and in the sudden recollection that he was not a parricide, a rush of his old self-assertion returned to his awakening mind, and of his ol

dy and all its familiar objects, the medicine-chest standing on the table; somebody must have brought him from that place where he lost consciousness, to this w

near us. I put away the little medicine-chest," he continued, with hesitation, "and the paper which dropp

and the horror within him of knowing that so far as intention and purpose went he was as guilty as any actual murderer; the other grieved, silent, afraid, anxi

lips in an eager paroxysm of defence against himself, and v

said, quickly-"only, Horace, remember, you have been very near the grave; perhaps you know yourself that you have been near something more terrible than th

t of the horrible guilt from which, by accident, as it appeared, and interposition of God, the young man had been unwittingly preserved. God help him!-so young, so wretched, to drag the hideous burden of that remembran

in his guilt a thousand times more deeply than the pure heart beside him did, in its tender depths of pity. He lay still in his weakness, with a mortified consciousness of humiliation and inferiority, insufferable to his arrogant spirit. Then it occurred to him that there was st

to tell you-something to tell Roger Musgrave, which will remedy one evil a

faction of doing, at least, this piece of justice-but you are too late. The Kenlisle attorney, hearing of your connection with Musgrave, and of some promise you had made him when

ng of disappointment. He had still been reckoning on this as a moral compensation whi

sure. He loses Armitage's confidence, of course, and is no longer his man of business; but he preserves his character, and eases his conscience. All that is arran

ch was so strong a power within him. He once had it in his power to be at least Roger Musgrave's magnanimous deliverer, and to expose the fraud which had left the youth penniless; but he had lost his opportunity, and even that moral make-up for his other grievous guilt had slid away from him. He lay here powerless, known to one man, at lea

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d Peggy, have all the county wishing ye joy. Eh, weel! I'm an ould fool, and nowght else: I think upon the mistress, and I

ightened with the new life-examining one after another the pretty things which already began to be prepare

did with mamma. For, Peggy," added the bride, with her honest eyes smiling frank and sure out of the warm blush that rose over her fac

on the bride-white, and there's shadows o' shrouds and widow's mourning a' covered ower and hidden in the bonnie folds. The Lord preserve ye from all ill

she was grieved for Peggy, who, broken and nervous with her long solitude, was no longer like herself. She ca

, since he has been ill? I thought it would have turned his head to be so rich-but he does not seem to care;

hought, dried her eyes. Peggy's sentiments were changed. It was the younger generation who were now in the asc

dered when he brought me these India muslins, Peggy-do you remember? I thought you were all crazy when you spoke of me wearing them-and no

interjection; for Susan, having fully launched her

er how she can marry that odd old man; and so pretty as sh

does,'" said Susan's ora

Amelia out-and-out. I suppose she's too grand and too accomplished, and too clever, and that

ing of his body. That he was changed was certain, but it was doubtful whether the change was so entirely for the better as his sister charitably supposed. He did not look much more amiable at the present

not you know about it?" said Susan, innocently-"you, too, w

gs at such a time should gall the young man; the next moment they heard him up in his own room, making a great commotion there. Susan was a little startled and frightened in spite of herself. Horace took strange f

d send for his things, but might not see her for some time again, and so he held out a hot, trembling hand, and bade her "Good-bye-good-bye!" Susan tried some remonstrances, but he hurried out in the midst of them, and strode away across the moor in the bright

t was the last any of the party saw of Horace for many a year. The marriages took place in due time, and all went well with the new households; but the unhappy heir of the Scarsdales went out and was lost in the world, and its great waves concealed him and his pleasures and wretchedness. He had put himself out of the reach of common blessings and sorrows, the dews and sunshin

E

rs corrected by th

=> conclu

> ceasele

ake=> that he sh

> oneself