The Project Gutenberg eBook of Hide and Seek, by Wilkie Collins

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Title: Hide and Seek

Author: Wilkie Collins

Release Date: April, 2005  [EBook #7893]
[This file was first posted on November 28, 2003]
[Most recently updated: November 28, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: iso-8859-1

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, HIDE AND SEEK ***

This novel ranks the third, in order ofsuccession, of the works of fiction which I have produced. Thehistory of its reception, on its first appearance, is soon told.

Unfortunately for me, "Hide And Seek" was originally published inthe year eighteen hundred and fifty-four, at the outbreak of theCrimean War. All England felt the absorbing interest of watchingthat serious national event; and new books--someof them books of far higher pretensions than mine--found the mindsof readers in general pre-occupied or indifferent. My own littleventure in fiction necessarily felt the adverse influence of thetime. The demand among the booksellers was just large enough toexhaust the first edition, and there the sale of this novel, in itsoriginal form, terminated.

Since that period, the book has been,in the technical phrase, "out of print." Proposals have reached me,at various times, for its republication; but I have resolutelyabstained from availing myself of them for two reasons.

In thefirst place, I was anxious to wait until "Hide And Seek" could makeits re-appearance on a footing of perfect equality with my otherworks. In the second place, I was resolved to keep it back until itmight obtain the advantage of a careful revisal, guided by the lightof the author's later experience. The period for the accomplishmentof both these objects has now presented itself. "Hide And Seek," inthis edition, forms one among the uniform series of my novels, whichhas begun with "Antonina," "The Dead Secret," and "The Woman InWhite;" and which will be continued with "Basil," and "The Queen OfHearts." My project of revisal has, at the same time, been carefullyand rigidly executed. I have abridged, and in many cases omitted,several passages in the first edition, which made larger demandsupon the reader's patience than I should now think it desirable toventure on if I were writing a new book; and I have, in oneimportant respect, so altered the termination of the story as tomake it, I hope, more satisfactory and more complete than it was inits original form.

With such advantages, therefore, as my diligentrevision can give it, "Hide And Seek" now appeals, after an intervalof seven years, for another hearing. I cannot think itbecoming--especially in this age of universal self-assertion--tostate the grounds on which I believe my book to be worthy of gainingmore attention than it obtained, through accidental circumstances,when it was first published. Neither can I consent to shelter myselfunder the favorable opinions which many of my brother writers--andnotably, the great writer to whom "Hide And Seek" isdedicated--expressed of these pages when I originally wrote them. Ileave it to the reader to compare this novel--especially in referenceto the conception and delineation of character--with the two novels("Antonina" and "Basil") which preceded it; and then to decidewhether my third attempt in fiction, with all its faults, was, orwas not, an advance in Art on my earlier efforts. This is all thefavor I ask for a work which I once wrote with anxious care--which Ihave since corrected with no sparing hand--which I have now finallydismissed to take its second journey through the world of letters asusefully and prosperously as it can.

HARLEY STREET, LONDON,
SEPTEMBER, 1861.

At a quarter to one o'clock, on a wet Sundayafternoon, in November 1837, Samuel Snoxell, page to Mr. ZacharyThorpe, of Baregrove Square, London, left the area gate with threeumbrellas under his arm, to meet his master and mistress at thechurch door, on the conclusion of morning service. Snoxell had beenspecially directed by the housemaid to distribute his threeumbrellas in the following manner: the new silk umbrella was to begiven to Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe; the old silk umbrella was to be handedto Mr. Goodworth, Mrs. Thorpe's father; and the heavy gingham was tobe kept by Snoxell himself, for the special protection of "MasterZack," aged six years, and the only child of Mr. Thorpe. Furnishedwith these instructions, the page set forth on his way to thechurch.

The morning had been fine for November; but before middaythe clouds had gathered, the rain had begun, and the inveterate fogof the season had closed dingily over the wet streets, far and near.The garden in the middle of Baregrove Square--with its close-cutturf, its vacant beds, its bran-new rustic seats, its withered youngtrees that had not yet grown as high as the railings aroundthem--seemed to be absolutely rotting away in yellow mist andsoftly-steady rain, and was deserted even by the cats. All blinds weredrawn down for the most part over all windows; what light came fromthe sky came like light seen through dusty glass; the grim brown hueof the brick houses looked more dirtily mournful than ever; thesmoke from the chimney-pots was lost mysteriously in deepeningsuperincumbent fog; the muddy gutters gurgled; the heavy rain-dropsdripped into empty areas audibly. No object great or small, no out-of- door litter whatever appeared anywhere, to break the dismaluniformity of line and substance in the perspective of the square.No living being moved over the watery pavement, save the solitarySnoxell. He plodded on into a Crescent, and still the awful Sundaysolitude spread grimly humid all around him. He next entered astreet with some closed shops in it; and here, at last, someconsoling signs of human life attracted his attention. He now sawthe crossing-sweeper of the district (off duty till church came out)smoking a pipe under the covered way that led to a mews. Hedetected, through half closed shutters, a chemist's apprenticeyawing over a large book. He passed a navigator, an ostler, and twocostermongers wandering wearily backwards and forwards before aclosed public-house door. He heard the heavy clop clop ofthickly-booted feet advancing behind him, and a stern voicegrowling, "Now then! be off with you, or you'll get lockedup!"--and, looking round, saw an orange-girl, guilty of having obstructedan empty pavement by sitting on the curb-stone, driven along beforea policeman, who was followed admiringly by a ragged boy gnawing apiece of orange- peel. Having delayed a moment to watch this Sundayprocession of three with melancholy curiosity as it moved by him,Snoxell was about to turn the corner of a street which led directlyto the church, when a shrill series of cries in a child's voicestruck on his ear and stopped his progress immediately.

The pagestood stock-still in astonishment for an instant--then pulled thenew silk umbrella from under his arm, and turned the corner in aviolent hurry. His suspicions had not deceived him. There was Mr.Thorpe himself walking sternly homeward through the rain, beforechurch was over. He led by the hand "Master Zack," who was trottingalong under protest, with his hat half off his head, hanging as farback from his father's side as he possibly could, and howling allthe time at the utmost pitch of a very powerful pair of lungs.

Mr. Thorpe stopped as he passed the page, and snatched the umbrellaout of Snoxell's hand, with unaccustomed impetuity; said sharply,"Go to your mistress, go on to the church;" and then resumed hisroad home, dragging his son after him faster than ever.

"Snoxy!Snoxy!" screamed Master Zack, turning round towards the page, sothat he tripped himself up and fell against his father's legs atevery third step; "I've been a naughty boy at church!"

"Ah! youlook like it, you do," muttered Snoxell to himself sarcastically, ashe went on. With that expression of opinion, the page approached thechurch portico, and waited sulkily among his fellow servants andtheir umbrellas for the congregation to come out.

When Mr.Goodworth and Mrs. Thorpe left the church, the old gentleman,regardless of appearances, seized eagerly on the despised ginghamumbrella, because it was the largest he could get, and took hisdaughter home under it in triumph. Mrs. Thorpe was very silent, andsighed dolefully once or twice, when her father's attention wanderedfrom her to the people passing along the street.

"You're frettingabout Zack," said the old gentleman, looking round suddenly at hisdaughter. "Never mind! leave it to me. I'll undertake to beg him offthis time."

"It's very disheartening and shocking to find himbehaving so," said Mrs. Thorpe, "after the careful way we've broughthim up in, too!"

"Nonsense, my love! No, I don't mean that--I begyour pardon. But who can be surprised that a child of six years oldshould be tired of a sermon forty minutes long by my watch? I wastired of it myself I know, though I wasn't candid enough to show itas the boy did. There! there! we won't begin to argue: I'll beg Zackoff this time, and we'll say no more about it."

Mr. Goodworth'sannouncement of his benevolent intentions towards Zack seemed tohave very little effect on Mrs. Thorpe; but she said nothing on thatsubject or any other during the rest of the dreary walk home,through rain, fog, and mud, to Baregrove Square.

Rooms have theirmysterious peculiarities of physiognomy as well as men. There areplenty of rooms, all of much the same size, all furnished in muchthe same manner, which, nevertheless, differ completely inexpression (if such a term may be allowed) one from the other;reflecting the various characters of their inhabitants by such finevarieties of effect in the furniture-features generally common toall, as are often, like the infinitesimal varieties of eyes, noses,and mouths, too intricately minute to be traceable. Now, the parlorof Mr. Thorpe's house was neat, clean, comfortably and sensiblyfurnished. It was of the average size. It had the usual side- board,dining-table, looking-glass, scroll fender, marble chimney-piecewith a clock on it, carpet with a drugget over it, and wirewindow-blinds to keep people from looking in, characteristic of allrespectable London parlors of the middle class. And yet it was aninveterately severe-looking room--a room that seemed as if it hadnever been convivial, never uproarious, never anything but sternlycomfortable and serenely dull--a room which appeared to be asunconscious of acts of mercy, and easy unreasoning over-affectionateforgiveness to offenders of any kind--juvenile or otherwise--as ifit had been a cell in Newgate, or a private torturing chamber in theInquisition. Perhaps Mr. Goodworth felt thus affected by the parlor(especially in November weather) as soon as he entered it--for,although he had promised to beg Zack off, although Mr. Thorpe wassitting alone by the table and accessible to petitions, with a bookin his hand, the old gentleman hesitated uneasily for a minute ortwo, and suffered his daughter to speak first.

"Where is Zack?"asked Mrs. Thorpe, glancing quickly and nervously all round her.

"He is locked up in my dressing-room," answered her husband withouttaking his eyes off the book.

"In your dressing-room!" echoed Mrs.Thorpe, looking as startled and horrified as if she had received ablow instead of an answer; "in your dressing-room! Good heavens,Zachary! how do you know the child hasn't got at your razors?"

"They are locked up," rejoined Mr. Thorpe, with the mildest reproofin his voice, and the mournfullest self-possession in his manner. "Itook care before I left the boy, that he should get at nothing whichcould do him any injury. He is locked up, and will remain locked up,because"--

"I say, Thorpe! won't you let him off this time?"interrupted Mr. Goodworth, boldly plunging head foremost, with hispetition for mercy, into the conversation.

"If you had allowed meto proceed, sir," said Mr. Thorpe, who always called his father-in-law Sir, "I should have simply remarked that, after havingenlarged to my son (in such terms, you will observe, as I thoughtbest fitted to his comprehension) on the disgrace to his parents andhimself of his behavior this morning, I set him as a task threeverses to learn out of the 'Select Bible Texts for Children;'choosing the verses which seemed most likely, if I may trust my ownjudgment on the point, to impress on him what his behavior ought tobe for the future in church. He flatly refused to learn what I toldhim. It was, of course, quite impossible to allow my authority to beset at defiance by my own child (whose disobedient disposition hasalways, God knows, been a source of constant trouble and anxiety tome); so I locked him up, and locked up he will remain until he hasobeyed me. My dear," (turning to his wife and handing her a key), "Ihave no objection, if you wish, to your going and trying what you can do towards overcoming the obstinacy of this unhappy child."

Mrs. Thorpe took the key, and went up stairs immediately--went upto do what all women have done, from the time of the first mother;to do what Eve did when Cain was wayward in his infancy, and criedat her breast--in short, went up to coax her child.

Mr. Thorpe,when his wife closed the door, carefully looked down the open pageon his knee for the place where he had left off--found it--referredback a moment to the last lines of the preceding leaf--and then wenton with his book, not taking the smallest notice of Mr. Goodworth.

"Thorpe!" cried the old gentleman, plunging head-foremost again,into his son-in-law's reading this time instead of his talk, "Youmay say what you please; but your notion of bringing up Zack is awrong one altogether."

With the calmest imaginable expression offace, Mr. Thorpe looked up from his book; and, first carefullyputting a paper-knife between the leaves, placed it on the table. Hethen crossed one of his legs over the other, rested an elbow on eacharm of his chair, and clasped his hands in front of him. On the wallopposite hung several lithographed portraits of distinguishedpreachers, in and out of the Establishment--mostly represented asvery sturdily-constructed men with bristly hair, fronting thespectator interrogatively and holding thick books in their hands.Upon one of these portraits--the name of the original of which wasstated at the foot of the print to be the Reverend Aaron Yollop--Mr.Thorpe now fixed his eyes, with a faint approach to a smile onhis face (he never was known to laugh), and with a look and mannerwhich said as plainly as if he had spoken it: "This old man is aboutto say something improper or absurd to me; but he is my wife'sfather, it is my duty to bear with him, and therefore I am perfectlyresigned."

"It's no use looking in that way, Thorpe," growled theold gentleman; "I'm not to be put down by looks at my time of life.I may have my own opinions I suppose, like other people; and I don'tsee why I shouldn't express them, especially when they relate to myown daughter's boy. It's very unreasonable of me, I dare say, but Ithink I ought to have a voice now and then in Zack's bringing up."

Mr. Thorpe bowed respectfully--partly to Mr. Goodworth, partly tothe Reverend Aaron Yollop. "I shall always be happy, sir, to listento any expression of your opinion--"

"My opinion's this," burstout Mr. Goodworth. "You've no business to take Zack to church atall, till he's some years older than he is now. I don't deny thatthere may be a few children, here and there, at six years old, whoare so very patient, and so very--(what's the word for a child thatknows a deal more than he has any business to know at his age? Stop!I've got it!--precocious--that's the word)--so very patientand so very precocious that they will sit quiet in the same placefor two hours; making believe all the time that they understandevery word of the service, whether they really do or not. I don'tdeny that there may be such children, though I never met with themmyself, and should think them all impudent little hypocrites if Idid! But Zack isn't one of that sort: Zack's a genuine child (Godbless him)! Zack--"

"Do I understand you, my dear sir," interposedMr. Thorpe, sorrowfully sarcastic, "to be praising the conduct of myson in disturbing the congregation, and obliging me to take him outof church?"

"Nothing of the sort," retorted the old gentleman;"I'm not praising Zack's conduct, but I am blaming yours.Here it is in plain words:--You keep on cramming church downhis throat; and he keeps on puking at it as if it was physic,because he don't know any better, and can't know any better at hisage. Is that the way to make him take kindly to religious teaching?I know as well as you do, that he roared like a young Turk at thesermon. And pray what was the subject of the sermon? Justificationby Faith. Do you mean to tell me that he, or any other child at histime of life, could understand anything of such a subject as that;or get an atom of good out of it? You can't--you know you can't! Isay again, it's no use taking him to church yet; and what's more,it's worse than no use, for you only associate his first ideas ofreligious instruction with everything in the way of restraint anddiscipline and punishment that can be most irksome to him. There!that's my opinion, and I should like to hear what you've got to sayagainst it?"

"Latitudinarianism," said Mr. Thorpe, looking andspeaking straight at the portrait of the Reverend Aaron Yollop.

"You can't fob me off with long words, which I don't understand, andwhich I don't believe you can find in Johnson's Dictionary,"continued Mr. Goodworth doggedly. "You would do much better to takemy advice, and let Zack go to church, for the present, at hismother's knees. Let his Morning Service be about ten minutes long;let your wife tell him, out of the New Testament, about Our Savior'sgoodness and gentleness to little children; and then let her teachhim, from the Sermon on the Mount, to be loving and truthful andforbearing and forgiving, for Our Savior's sake. If such precepts asthose are enforced--as they may be in one way or another--byexamples drawn from his own daily life; from people around him; fromwhat he meets with and notices and asks about, out of doors andin--mark my words, he'll take kindly to his religious instruction. I'veseen that in other children: I've seen it in my own children, whowere all brought up so. Of course, you don't agree with me! Ofcourse you've got another objection all ready to bowl me down with?"

"Rationalism," said Mr. Thorpe, still looking steadily at thelithographed portrait of the Reverend Aaron Yollop.

"Well, yourobjection's a short one this time at any rate; and that's ablessing!" said the old gentleman rather irritably. "Rationalism--eh?I understand that ism, I rather suspect, better than theother. It means in plain English, that you think I'm wrong in onlywanting to give religious instruction the same chance with Zackwhich you let all other kinds of instruction have--the chance ofbecoming useful by being first made attractive. You can't get him tolearn to read by telling him that it will improve his mind--but youcan by getting him to look at a picture book. You can't get him todrink senna and salts by reasoning with him about its doing himgood--but you can by promising him a lump of sugar to take afterit. You admit this sort of principle so far, because you're obliged;but the moment anybody wants (in a spirit of perfect reverence anddesire to do good) to extend it to higher things, you purse up yourlips, shake your head, and talk about Rationalism--as if that was ananswer! Well! well! it's no use talking--go your own way--I wash myhands of the business altogether. But now I am at it I'lljust say this one thing more before I've done:--your way ofpunishing the boy for his behavior in church is, in my opinion,about as bad and dangerous a one as could possibly be devised. Whynot give him a thrashing, if you must punish the miserablelittle urchin for what's his misfortune as much as his fault? Whynot stop his pudding, or something of that sort? Here you areassociating verses in the Bible, in his mind, with the idea ofpunishment and being locked up in the cold! You may make him get histext by heart, I dare say, by fairly tiring him out; but I tell youwhat I'm afraid you'll make him learn too, if you don't mind--you'llmake him learn to dislike the Bible as much as other boys dislikethe birch-rod!"

"Sir," cried Mr. Thorpe, turning suddenly round,and severely confronting Mr. Goodworth, "once for all, I must mostrespectfully insist on being spared for the future any openprofanities in conversation, even from your lips. All my regard andaffection for you, as Mrs. Thorpe's father, shall not prevent mefrom solemnly recording my abhorrence of such awful infidelity as Ibelieve to be involved in the words you have just spoken! Myreligious convictions recoil--"

"Stop, sir!" said Mr. Goodworth,seriously and sternly.

Mr. Thorpe obeyed at once. The oldgentleman's manner was generally much more remarkable for heartinessthan for dignity; but it altered completely while he now spoke. Ashe struck his hand on the table, and rose from his chair, there wassomething in his look which it was not wise to disregard.

"Mr.Thorpe," he went on, more calmly, but very decidedly, "I refrainfrom telling you what my opinion is of the 'respect' and 'affection'which have allowed you to rebuke me in such terms asyou have chosen. I merely desire to say that I shall never need asecond reproof of the same kind at your hands; for I shall neveragain speak to you on the subject of my grandson's education. If, inconsideration of this assurance, you will now permit me, in myturn--not to rebuke--but to offer you one word of advice, I wouldrecommend you not to be too ready in future, lightly and cruelly toaccuse a man of infidelity because his religious opinions happen todiffer on some subjects from yours. To infer a serious motive foryour opponent's convictions, however wrong you may think them, cando you no harm: to infer a scoffing motive can do himno good. We will say nothing more about this, if you please. Let usshake hands, and never again revive a subject about which wedisagree too widely ever to discuss it with advantage."

At thismoment the servant came in with lunch. Mr. Goodworth poured himselfout a glass of sherry, made a remark on the weather, and soonresumed his cheerful, everyday manner. But he did not forget thepledge that he had given to Mr. Thorpe. From that time forth, henever by word or deed interfered again in his grandson's education.

While the theory of Mr. Thorpe'ssystem of juvenile instruction was being discussed in the free airof the parlor, the practical working of that theory, so far asregarded the case of Master Zack, was being exemplified in anythingbut a satisfactory manner, in the prison-region of the dressing-room.

While she ascended the first flight of stairs, Mrs. Thorpe'sears informed her that her son was firing off one uninterruptedvolley of kicks against the door of his place of confinement. Asthis was by no means an unusual circumstance, whenever the boyhappened to be locked up for bad behavior, she felt distressed, butnot at all surprised at what she heard; and went into the drawing-room,on her way up stairs, to deposit her Bible and Prayerbook(kept in a morocco case, with gold clasps) on the little side-table,upon which they were always placed during week-days. Possibly, shewas so much agitated that her hand trembled; possibly, she was intoo great a hurry; possibly, the household imp who rules the brittledestinies of domestic glass and china, had marked her out as hisdestroying angel for that day; but however it was, in placing themorocco case on the table, she knocked down and broke an ornamentstanding near it--a little ivory model of a church steeple in theflorid style, enshrined in a glass case. Picking up the fragments,and mourning over the catastrophe, occupied some little time, morethan she was aware of, before she at last left the drawing-room, toproceed on her way to the upper regions.

As she laid her hand onthe banisters, it struck her suddenly and significantly, that thenoises in the dressing-room above had entirely ceased.

The instantshe satisfied herself of this, her maternal imagination,uninfluenced by what Mr. Thorpe had said below stairs, conjured upan appalling vision of Zack before his father's looking-glass, withhis chin well lathered, and a bare razor at his naked throat. Thechild had indeed a singular aptitude for amusing himself with purelyadult occupations. Having once been incautiously taken into churchby his nurse, to see a female friend of hers married, Zack had, thevery next day, insisted on solemnizing the nuptial ceremony fromrecollection, before a bride and bridegroom of his own age, selectedfrom his playfellows in the garden of the square. Another time, whenthe gardener had incautiously left his lighted pipe on a bench whilehe went to gather a flower for one of the local nursery- maids, whomhe was accustomed to favor horticulturally in this way, Zackcontrived, undetected, to take three greedy whiffs of pigtail inclose succession; was discovered reeling about the grass like alittle drunkard; and had to be smuggled home (deadly pale, andbathed in cold perspiration) to recover, out of his mother's sight,in the congenial gloom of the back kitchen. Although the preciseinfantine achievements here cited were unknown to Mrs. Thorpe, therewere plenty more, like them, which she had discovered; and thewarning remembrance of which now hurried the poor lady up the secondflight of stairs in a state of breathless agitation and alarm.

Zack, however, had not got at the razors; for they were all lockedup, as Mr. Thorpe had declared. But he had, nevertheless, discoveredin the dressing-room a means of perpetrating domestic mischief,which his father had never thought of providing against. Findingthat kicking, screaming, stamping, sobbing, and knocking downchairs, were quite powerless as methods of enforcing his liberation,he suddenly suspended his proceedings; looked all round the room;observed the cock which supplied his father's bath with water; andinstantly resolved to flood the house. He had set the water going inthe bath, had filled it to the brim, and was anxiously waiting,perched up on a chair, to see it overflow--when his mother unlockedthe dressing-room door, and entered the room.

"Oh, you naughty,wicked, shocking child!" cried Mrs. Thorpe, horrified at what shebeheld, but instantly stopping the threatened deluge from motives ofprecaution connected with the drawing-room ceiling. "Oh, Zack! Zack!what will you do next? What would your papa say if he heardof this? You wicked, wicked, wicked child, I'm ashamed to look atyou!"

And, in very truth, Zack offered at that moment asufficiently disheartening spectacle for a mother's eyes to dwellon. There stood the young imp, sturdy and upright in his chair,wriggling his shoulders in and out of his frock, and holding hishands behind him in unconscious imitation of the favorite action ofNapoleon the Great. His light hair was all rumpled down over hisforehead; his lips were swelled; his nose was red; and from hisbright blue eyes Rebellion looked out frankly mischievous, amid asurrounding halo of dirt and tears, rubbed circular by his knuckles.After gazing on her son in mute despair for a minute or so, Mrs.Thorpe took the only course that was immediately open to her--or, inother words, took the child off the chair.

"Have you learnt yourlesson, you wicked boy?" she asked.

"No, I havn't," answeredZack, resolutely.

"Then come to the table with me: your papa'swaiting to hear you. Come here and learn your lesson directly," saidMrs. Thorpe, leading the way to the table.

"I won't!" rejoinedZack, emphasizing the refusal by laying tight hold of the wet sidesof the bath with both hands.

It was lucky for this rebel of sixyears old that he addressed those two words to his mother only. Ifhis nurse had heard them, she would instantly have employed thatold-established resource in all educational difficulties, familiarlyknown to persons of her condition under the appellation of "a smackon the head;" if Mr. Thorpe had heard them, the boy would have beensternly torn away, bound to the back of a chair, and placedignominiously with his chin against the table; if Mr. Goodworth hadheard them, the probability is that he would instantly have lost histemper, and soused his grandson head over ears in the bath. Not oneof these ideas occurred to Mrs. Thorpe, who possessed no ideas. Butshe had certain substitutes which were infinitely more useful in thepresent emergency: she had instincts.

"Look up at me, Zack," shesaid, returning to the bath, and sitting in the chair by its side;"I want to say something to you."

The boy obeyed directly. Hismother opened her lips, stopped suddenly, said a few words, stoppedagain, hesitated--and then ended her first sentence of admonition inthe most ridiculous manner, by snatching at the nearest towel, andbearing Zack off to the wash-hand basin.

The plain fact was, thatMrs. Thorpe was secretly vain of her child. She had long since, poorwoman, forced down the strong strait-waistcoats of prudery andrestraint over every other moral weakness but this--of all vanitiesthe most beautiful; of all human failings surely the most pure! Yes,she was proud of Zack! The dear, naughty, handsome, church-disturbing, door-kicking, house- flooding Zack! If he had been aplain-featured boy, she could have gone on more sternly with heradmonition: but to look coolly on his handsome face, made ugly bydirt, tears, and rumpled hair; to speak to him in that state, whilesoap, water, brush and towel, were all within reach, was more thanthe mother (or the woman either, for that matter) had the self-denial to do! So, before it had well begun, the maternal lectureended impotently in the wash-hand basin.

When the boy had beensmartened and brushed up, Mrs. Thorpe took him on her lap; andsuppressing a strong desire to kiss him on both his round, shiningcheeks, said these words:--

"I want you to learn your lesson,because you will please me by obeying your papa. I havealways been kind to you,--now I want you to be kind to me."

For the first time, Zack hung down his head, and seemedunprepared with an answer. Mrs. Thorpe knew by experience what thissymptom meant. "I think you are beginning to be sorry for what youhave done, and are going to be a good boy," she said. "If you are, Iknow you will give me a kiss." Zack hesitated again--then suddenlyreached up, and gave his mother a hearty and loud-sounding kiss onthe tip of her chin. "And now you will learn your lesson?" continuedMrs. Thorpe. "I have always tried to make you happy, and I amsure you are ready, by this time, to try and make me happy--areyou not, Zack?"

"Yes, I am," said Zack manfully. His mothertook him at once to the table, on which the "Select Bible Texts forChildren" lay open, and tried to lift him into a chair "No!" saidthe boy, resisting and shaking his head resolutely; "I want to learnmy lesson on your lap."

Mrs. Thorpe humored him immediately. Shewas not a handsome, not even a pretty woman; and the cold atmosphereof the dressing-room by no means improved her personal appearance.But, notwithstanding this, she looked absolutely attractive andinteresting at the present moment, as she sat with Zack in her arms,bending over him while he studied his three verses in the "BibleTexts." Women who have been ill-used by nature have this greatadvantage over men in the same predicament--wherever there is achild present, they have a means ready at hand, which they can allemploy alike, for hiding their personal deficiencies. Who ever sawan awkward woman look awkward with a baby in her arms? Who ever sawan ugly woman look ugly when she was kissing a child?

Zack, whowas a remarkably quick boy when he chose to exert himself, got hislesson by heart in so short a time that his mother insisted onhearing him twice over, before she could satisfy herself that he wasreally perfect enough to appear in his father's presence. The secondtrial decided her doubts, and she took him in triumph down stairs.

Mr. Thorpe was reading intently, Mr. Goodworth was thinkingprofoundly, the rain was falling inveterately, the fog wasthickening dirtily, and the austerity of the severe-looking parlorwas hardening apace into its most adamantine Sunday grimness, asZack was brought to say his lesson at his father's knees. He gotthrough it perfectly again; but his childish manner, during thisthird trial, altered from frankness to distrustfulness; and helooked much oftener, while he said his task, at Mr. Goodworth thanat his father. When the texts had been repeated, Mr. Thorpe justsaid to his wife, before resuming his book--"You may tell the nurse,my dear, to get Zachary's dinner ready for him--though he doesn'tdeserve it for behaving so badly about learning his lesson."

"Please, grandpapa, may I look at the picture-book you brought forme last night, after I was in bed?" said Zack, addressing Mr.Goodworth, and evidently feeling that he was entitled to his rewardnow he had suffered his punishment.

"Certainly not on a Sunday,"interposed Mr. Thorpe; "your grandpapa's book is not a book forSundays."

Mr. Goodworth started, and seemed about to speak; butrecollecting what he had said to Mr. Thorpe, contented himself withpoking the fire. The book in question was a certain romance,entitled "Jack and the Bean Stalk," adorned with illustrations inthe freest style of water-color art.

"If you want to look atpicture-books, you know what books you may have to-day; and yourmamma will get them for you when she comes in again," continued Mr.Thorpe.

The works now referred to were, an old copy of the"Pilgrim's Progress" containing four small prints of the period ofthe last century; and a "Life of Moses," illustrated by severeGerman outlines in the manner of the modern school. Zack knew wellenough what books his father meant, and exhibited his appreciationof them by again beginning to wriggle his shoulders in and out ofhis frock. He had evidently had more than enough already of the"Pilgrim's Progress" and the "Life of Moses."

Mr. Thorpe saidnothing more, and returned to his reading. Mr. Goodworth put hishands in his pockets, yawned disconsolately, and looked, with alanguidly satirical expression in his eyes, to see what his grandsonwould do next. If the thought passing through the old gentleman'smind at that moment had been put into words, it would have beenexactly expressed in the following sentence:--"You miserable littleboy! When I was your age, how I should have kicked at all this!"

Zack was not long in finding a new resource. He spied Mr.Goodworth's cane standing in a corner; and, instantly gettingastride of it, prepared to amuse himself with a little imaginaryhorse-exercise up and down the room. He had just started at a gentlecanter, when his father called out, "Zachary!" and brought the boyto a stand-still directly.

"Put back the stick where you took itfrom," said Mr. Thorpe; "you mustn't do that on Sunday. If you wantto move about, you can walk up and down the room."

Zack paused,debating for an instant whether he should disobey or burst outcrying.

"Put back the stick," repeated Mr. Thorpe.

Zackremembered the dressing-room and the "Select Bible Texts forChildren," and wisely obeyed. He was by this time completely crusheddown into as rigid a state of Sunday discipline as his father coulddesire. After depositing the stick in the corner, he slowly walkedup to Mr. Goodworth, with a comical expression of amazement anddisgust in his chubby face, and meekly laid down his head on hisgrandfather's knee.

"Never say die, Zack," said the kind oldgentleman, rising and taking the boy in his arms. "While nurse isgetting your dinner ready, let's look out of window, and see if it'sgoing to clear up."

Mr. Thorpe raised his head disapprovingly fromhis book, but said nothing this time.

"Ah, rain! rain! rain!"muttered Mr. Goodworth, staring desperately out at the miserableprospect, while Zack amused himself by rubbing his nose vacantlybackwards and forwards against a pane of glass. "Rain! rain! Nothingbut rain and fog in November. Hold up, Zack! Ding-dong, ding- dong;there go the bells for afternoon church! I wonder whether it will befine to-morrow? Think of the pudding, my boy!" whispered the oldgentleman with a benevolent remembrance of the consolation whichthat thought had often afforded to him, when he was a child himself.

"Yes," said Zack, acknowledging the pudding suggestion, butdeclining to profit by it. "And, please, when I've had my dinner,will somebody put me to bed?"

"Put you to bed!" exclaimed Mr.Goodworth. "Why, bless the boy! what's come to him now? He usedalways to be wanting to stop up."

"I want to go to bed, and get toto-morrow, and have my picture-book," was the weary and whimperinganswer.

"I'll be hanged, if I don't want to go to bed too!"soliloquized the old gentleman under his breath, "and get to to-morrow, and have my 'Times' at breakfast. I'm as bad as Zack, everybit!"

"Grandpapa," continued the child, more wearily than before,"I want to whisper something in your ear."

Mr. Goodworth bentdown a little. Zack looked round cunningly towards his father--thenputting his mouth close to his grandfather's ear, communicated theconclusion at which he had arrived, after the events of the day, inthese words--

"I say, granpapa, I hate Sunday!"

At the period when the episodejust related occurred in the life of Mr. Zachary Thorpe theyounger--that is to say, in the year 1837--Baregrove Square was thefarthest square from the city, and the nearest to the country, ofany then existing in the north-western suburb of London. But, by thetime fourteen years more had elapsed--that is to say, in the year1851--Baregrove Square had lost its distinctive characteraltogether; other squares had filched from it those last remnants ofhealthy rustic flavor from which its good name had been derived;other streets, crescents, rows, and villa-residences had forcedthemselves pitilessly between the old suburb and the country, andhad suspended for ever the once neighborly relations between thepavement of Baregrove Square and the pathways of the pleasantfields.

Alexander's armies were great makers of conquests; andNapoleon's armies were great makers of conquests; but the modernGuerilla regiments of the hod, the trowel, and the brick-kiln, arethe greatest conquerors of all; for they hold the longest the soilthat they have once possessed. How mighty the devastation whichfollows in the wake of these tremendous aggressors, as they marchthrough the kingdom of nature, triumphantly bricklaying beautywherever they go! What dismantled castle, with the enemy's flagflying over its crumbling walls, ever looked so utterly forlorn as apoor field-fortress of nature, imprisoned on all sides by the walledcamp of the enemy, and degraded by a hostile banner of pole andboard, with the conqueror's device inscribed on it--"THIS GROUND TOBE LET ON BUILDING LEASES?" What is the historical spectacle ofMarius sitting among the ruins of Carthage, but a trumperytheatrical set-scene, compared with the mournful modern sight of thelast tree left standing, on the last few feet of grass left growing,amid the greenly-festering stucco of a finished Paradise Row, or thenaked scaffolding poles of a half-completed Prospect Place? Oh,gritty-natured Guerilla regiments of the hod, the trowel, and thebrick-kiln! the town-pilgrim of nature, when he wanders out at fallof day into the domains which you have spared for a little while,hears strange things said of you in secret, as he duteouslyinterprets the old, primeval language of the leaves; as he listensto the death-doomed trees, still whispering mournfully around himthe last notes of their ancient even-song!

But what avails thevoice of lamentation? What new neighborhood ever stopped on its wayinto the country, to hearken to the passive remonstrance of thefields, or to bow to the indignation of outraged admirers of thepicturesque? Never was suburb more impervious to any faintinfluences of this sort, than that especial suburb which grew upbetween Baregrove Square and the country; removing a walk among thehedge-rows a mile off from the resident families, with a ruthlessrapidity at which sufferers on all sides stared aghast. Firststories were built, and mortgaged by the enterprising proprietors toget money enough to go on with the second; old speculators failedand were succeeded by new; foundations sank from bad digging; wallswere blown down in high winds from hasty building; bricks werecalled for in such quantities, and seized on in such haste, half-bakedfrom the kilns, that they set the carts on fire, and had to becooled in pails of water before they could be erected intowalls--and still the new suburb defied all accidents, and grewirrepressibly into a little town of houses, ready to be let andlived in, from the one end to the other.

The new neighborhoodoffered house- accommodation--accepted at the higher prices as yetonly to a small extent--to three distinct subdivisions of the greatmiddle class of our British population. Rents and premises wereadapted, in a steeply descending scale, to the means of the middleclasses with large incomes, of the middle classes with moderateincomes, and of the middle classes with small incomes. The abodesfor the large incomes were called "mansions," and were fortifiedstrongly against the rest of the suburb by being all built in onewide row, shut in at either end by ornamental gates, and called a"park." The unspeakable desolation of aspect common to the wholesuburb, was in a high state of perfection in this part of it.Irreverent street noises fainted dead away on the threshold of theornamental gates, at the sight of the hermit lodge- keeper. The cryof the costermonger and the screech of the vagabond London boy werebanished out of hearing. Even the regular tradesman's time-honoredbusiness noises at customers' doors, seemed as if they ought to havebeen relinquished here. The frantic falsetto of the milkman, thecrash of the furious butcher's cart over the never-to-be pulverizedstones of the new road through the "park," always sounded profanelyto the passing stranger, in the spick-and-span stillness of thisParadise of the large incomes.

The hapless small incomes had thevery worst end of the whole locality entirely to themselves, andabsorbed all the noises and nuisances, just as the large incomesabsorbed all the tranquillities and luxuries of suburban existence.Here were the dreary limits at which architectural invention stoppedin despair. Each house in this poor man's purgatory was, indeed, andin awful literalness, a brick box with a slate top to it. Every holedrilled in these boxes, whether door-hole or window-hole, was alwaysoverflowing with children. They often mustered by forties andfifties in one street, and were the great pervading feature of thequarter. In the world of the large incomes, young life sprang uplike a garden fountain, artificially playing only at stated periodsin the sunshine. In the world of the small incomes, young life flowedout turbulently into the street, like an exhaustless kennel-deluge,in all weathers. Next to the children of the inhabitants, invisible numerical importance, came the shirts and petticoats, andmiscellaneous linen of the inhabitants; fluttering out to drypublicly on certain days of the week, and enlivening the treelesslittle gardens where they hung, with lightsome avenues of pinafores,and solemn-spreading foliage of stout Welsh flannel. Here thatabsorbing passion for oranges (especially active when the fruit ishalf ripe, and the weather is bitter cold), which distinguishes thecity English girl of the lower orders, flourished in its finestdevelopment; and here, also, the poisonous fumes of the holydayshop-boy's bad cigar told all resident nostrils when it was Sunday,as plainly as the church bells could tell it to all resident ears.The one permanent rarity in this neighborhood, on week days, was todiscover a male inhabitant in any part of it, between the hours ofnine in the morning and six in the evening; the one sorrowful sightwhich never varied, was to see that every woman, even to theyoungest, looked more or less unhappy, often care-stricken, whileyouth was still in the first bud; oftener child-stricken beforematurity was yet in the full bloom.

As for the great centralportion of the suburb--or, in other words, the locality of themoderate incomes--it reflected exactly the lives of those whoinhabited it, by presenting no distinctive character of its own atall.

In one part, the better order of houses imitated as pompouslyas they could, the architectural grandeur of the mansions owned bythe large incomes; in another, the worst order of housesrespectably, but narrowly, escaped a general resemblance to thebrick boxes of the small incomes. In some places, the "park"influences vindicated their existence superbly in the persons ofisolated ladies who, not having a carriage to go out in for anairing, exhibited the next best thing, a footman to walk behindthem: and so got a pedestrian airing genteelly in that way. In otherplaces, the obtrusive spirit of the brick boxes rode about, thinlydisguised, in children's carriages, drawn by nursery-maids; orfluttered aloft, delicately discernible at angles of view, in theshape of a lace pocket-handkerchief or a fine-worked chemisette,drying modestly at home in retired corners of back gardens.Generally, however, the hostile influences of the large incomes andthe small mingled together on the neutral ground of the moderateincomes; turning it into the dullest, the dreariest, the mostoppressively conventional division of the whole suburb. It was justthat sort of place where the thoughtful man looking about himmournfully at the locality, and physiologically observing theinhabitants, would be prone to stop suddenly, and ask himself oneplain, but terrible question: "Do these people ever manage to getany real enjoyment out of their lives, from one year's end toanother?"

To the looker-on at the system of life prevailing amongthe moderate incomes in England, the sort of existence which thatsystem embodies seems in some aspects to be without a parallel inany other part of the civilized world. Is it not obviously truethat, while the upper classes and the lower classes of Englishsociety have each their own characteristic recreations for leisurehours, adapted equally to their means and to their tastes, themiddle classes, in general, have (to expose the sad reality) nothingof the sort? To take an example from those eating and drinkingrecreations which absorb so large a portion of existence:--If therich proprietors of the "mansions" in the "park" could give theirgrand dinners, and be as prodigal as they pleased with their first-ratechampagne, and their rare gastronomic delicacies; the poortenants of the brick boxes could just as easily enjoy their tea-gardenconversazione, and be just as happily and hospitablyprodigal, in turn, with their porter-pot, their teapot, their plateof bread-and-butter, and their dish of shrimps. On either side,these representatives of two pecuniary extremes in society, lookedfor what recreations they wanted with their own eyes, pursued thoserecreations within their own limits, and enjoyed themselvesunreservedly in consequence. Not so with the moderate incomes: they,in their social moments, shrank absurdly far from the poor people'sporter and shrimps; crawled contemptibly near to the rich people'srare wines and luxurious dishes; exposed their poverty in imitationby chemical champagne from second-rate wine merchants, by flabbysalads and fetid oyster-patties from second-rate pastry-cooks; were,in no one of their festive arrangements, true to their incomes, totheir order, or to themselves; and, in very truth, for all thesereasons and many more, got no real enjoyment out of their lives,from one year's end to another.

On the outskirts of that part ofthe new suburb appropriated to these unhappy middle classes withmoderate incomes, there lived a gentleman (by name Mr. ValentineBlyth) whose life offered as strong a practical contradiction as itis possible to imagine to the lives of his neighbors.

He was byprofession an artist--an artist in spite of circumstances. Neitherhis father, nor his mother, nor any relation of theirs, on eitherside, had ever practiced the Art of Painting, or had ever derivedany special pleasure from the contemplation of pictures. They wereall respectable commercial people of the steady fund-holding oldschool, who lived exclusively within their own circle; and had neverso much as spoken to a live artist or author in the whole course oftheir lives. The City- world in which Valentine's boyhood waspassed, was as destitute of art influences of any kind as if it hadbeen situated on the coast of Greenland; and yet, to theastonishment of everybody, he was always drawing and painting, inhis own rude way, at every leisure hour. His father was, as might beexpected, seriously disappointed and amazed at the strange directiontaken by the boy's inclinations. No one (including Valentinehimself) could ever trace them back to any recognizable source; buteveryone could observe plainly enough that there was no hope ofsuccessfully opposing them by fair means of any kind. Seeing this,old Mr. Blyth, like a wise man, at last made a virtue of necessity;and, giving way to his son, entered him, under strong commercialprotest, as a student in the Schools of the Royal Academy.

HereValentine remained, working industriously, until his twenty-firstbirthday. On that occasion, Mr. Blyth had a little serious talk withhim about his prospects in life. In the course of this conversation,the young man was informed that a rich merchant-uncle was ready totake him into partnership; and that his father was equally ready tostart him in business with his whole share, as one of threechildren, in the comfortable inheritance acquired for the family bythe well-known City house of Blyth and Company. If Valentineconsented to this arrangement, his fortune was secured, and he mightride in his carriage before he was thirty. If, on the other hand, hereally chose to fling away a fortune, he should not be pinched formeans to carry on his studies as a painter. The interest of hisinheritance on his father's death, should be paid quarterly to himduring his father's lifetime: the annual independence thus securedto the young artist, under any circumstances, being calculated asamounting to a little over four hundred pounds a year.

Valentinewas not deficient in gratitude. He took a day to consider what heshould do, though his mind was quite made up about his choicebeforehand; and then persisted in his first determination; throwingaway the present certainty of becoming a wealthy man, for the sakeof the future chance of turning out a great painter.

If he hadreally possessed genius, there would have been nothing veryremarkable in this part of his history, so far; but having nothingof the kind, holding not the smallest spark of the great creativefire in his whole mental composition, surely there was somethingvery discouraging to contemplate, in the spectacle of a manresolutely determining, in spite of adverse home circumstances andstrong home temptation, to abandon all those paths in life, alongwhich he might have walked fairly abreast with his fellows, for theone path in which he was predestinated by Nature to be always leftbehind by the way. Do the announcing angels, whose mission it is towhisper of greatness to great spirits, ever catch the infection offallibility from their intercourse with mortals? Do the voices whichsaid truly to Shakespeare, to Raphael, and to Mozart, in theiryouth-time,--You are chosen to be gods in this world--ever speakwrongly to souls which they are not ordained to approach? It may beso. There are men enough in all countries whose lives would seem toprove it--whose deaths have not contradicted it.

But even tovictims such as these, there are pleasant resting-places on thethorny way, and flashes of sunlight now and then, to make the cloudyprospect beautiful, though only for a little while. It is not allmisfortune and disappointment to the man who is mentally unworthy ofa great intellectual vocation, so long as he is morally worthy ofit; so long as he can pursue it honestly, patiently, andaffectionately, for its own dear sake. Let him work, though ever soobscurely, in this spirit towards his labor, and he shall find thelabor itself its own exceeding great reward. In that reward livesthe divine consolation, which, though Fame turn her back on himcontemptuously, and Affluence pass over unpitying to the other sideof the way, shall still pour oil upon all his wounds, and take himquietly and tenderly to the hard journey's end. To this oneexhaustless solace, which the work, no matter of what degree, canyield always to earnest workers, the man who has succeeded, and theman who has failed, can turn alike, as to a common mother--the one,for refuge from mean envy and slanderous hatred, from all the sorestevils which even the thriving child of Fame is heir to; the other,from neglect, from ridicule, from defeat, from all the pettytyrannies which the pining bondman of Obscurity is fated to undergo.

Thus it was with Valentine. He had sacrificed a fortune to hisArt; and his Art--in the world's eye at least--had given to himnothing in return. Friends and relatives who had not scrupled, onbeing made acquainted with his choice of a vocation, to call it inquestion, and thereby to commit that worst and most universal of allhuman impertinences, which consists of telling a man to his face, bythe plainest possible inference, that others are better able than heis himself to judge what calling in life is fittest and worthiestfor him--friends and relatives who thus upbraided Valentine for hisrefusal to accept the partnership in his uncle's house, affected, ondiscovering that he made no public progress whatever in Art, tobelieve that he was simply an idle fellow, who knew that hisfather's liberality placed him beyond the necessity of working forhis bread, and who had taken up the pursuit of painting as a mereamateur amusement to occupy his leisure hours. To a man who laboredlike poor Blyth, with the steadiest industry and the highestaspirations, such whispered calumnies as these were of allmortifications the most cruel, of all earthly insults the hardest tobear.

Still he worked on patiently, never losing faith or hope,because he never lost the love of his Art, or the enjoyment ofpursuing it, irrespective of results, however disheartening. Likemost other men of his slight intellectual caliber, the works heproduced were various, if nothing else. He tried the florid style,and the severe style; he was by turns devotional, allegorical,historical, sentimental, humorous. At one time, he abandonedfigure-painting altogether, and took to landscape; now producingconventional studies from Nature,--and now, again, reveling inpoetical compositions, which might have hung undetected in many acollection as doubtful specimens of Berghem or Claude.

Butwhatever department of painting Valentine tried to excel in, thesame unhappy destiny seemed always in reserve for each completedeffort. For years and years his pictures pleaded hard for admissionat the Academy doors, and were invariably (and not unfairly, it mustbe confessed) refused even the worst places on the walls of theExhibition rooms. Season after season he still bravely struggled on,never depressed, never hopeless while he was before his easel, untilat last the day of reward--how long and painfully wroughtfor!--actually arrived. A small picture of a very insignificantsubject--being only a kitchen "interior," with a sleek cat on a dresser,stealing milk from the tea-tray during the servant's absence--wasbenevolently marked "doubtful" by the Hanging Committee; wasthereupon kept in reserve, in case it might happen to fit anyforgotten place near the floor--did fit such a place--and was reallyhung up, as Mr. Blyth's little unit of a contribution to the onethousand and odd works exhibited to the public, that year, by theRoyal Academy.

But Valentine's triumph did not end here. Hispicture of the treacherous cat stealing the household milk--entitled,by way of appealing jocosely to the strong Protestantinterest, "The Jesuit in the Family,"--was really sold to an Art-Union prize-holder for ten pounds. Once furnished with a bank notewon by his own brush, Valentine indulged in the most extravagantanticipations of future celebrity and future wealth; and proved,recklessly enough, that he believed as firmly as any other visionaryin the wildest dreams of his own imagination, by marrying, andsetting up an establishment, on the strength of the success whichhad been achieved by "The Jesuit in the Family."

He had been forsome time past engaged to the lady who had now become Mrs. ValentineBlyth. She was the youngest of eight sisters, who formed part of thefamily of a poor engraver, and who, in the absence of any mere moneyqualifications, were all rich alike in the ownership of mostmagnificent Christian names. Mrs. Blyth was called Lavinia-Ada; andhers was by far the humblest name to be found among the wholesisterhood. Valentine's relations all objected strongly to thismatch, not only on account of the bride's poverty, but for anotherand a very serious reason, which events soon proved to be but toowell founded.

Lavinia had suffered long and severely, as a child,from a bad spinal malady. Constant attention, and such medicalassistance as her father could afford to employ, had, it was said,successfully combated the disorder; and the girl grew up, prettierthan any of her sisters, and apparently almost as strong as thehealthiest of them. Old Mr. Blyth, however, on hearing that his sonwas now just as determined to become a married man as he hadformerly been to become a painter, thought it advisable to makecertain inquiries about the young lady's constitution; and addressedthem, with characteristic caution, to the family doctor, at aprivate interview.

The result of this conference was far frombeing satisfactory. The doctor was suspiciously careful not tocommit himself: he said that he hoped the spine was no longer indanger of being affected; but that he could not conscientiouslyexpress himself as feeling quite sure about it. Having repeatedthese discouraging words to his son, old Mr. Blyth delicately andconsiderately, but very plainly, asked Valentine whether, after whathe had heard, he still honestly thought that he would be consultinghis own happiness, or the lady's happiness either, by marrying herat all? or, at least, by marrying her at a time when the doctorcould not venture to say that the poor girl might not be even yet indanger of becoming an invalid for life?

Valentine, as usual,persisted at first in looking exclusively at the bright side of thequestion, and made light of the doctor's authority accordingly.

"Lavvie and I love each other dearly," he said with a littletrembling in his voice, but with perfect firmness of manner. "I hopein God that what you seem to fear will never happen; but even if itshould, I shall never repent having married her, for I know that Iam just as ready to be her nurse as to be her husband. I am willingto take her in sickness and in health, as the Prayer-Book says. Inmy home she would have such constant attention paid to her wants andcomforts as she could not have at her father's, with his largefamily and his poverty, poor fellow! And this is reason enough, Ithink, for my marrying her, even if the worst should take place. ButI always have hoped for the best, as you know, father: and I mean togo on hoping for poor Lavvie, just the same as ever!"

What couldold Mr. Blyth, what could any man of heart and honor, oppose to suchan answer as this? Nothing. The marriage took place; and Valentine'sfather tried hard, and not altogether vainly, to feel as sanguineabout future results as Valentine himself.

For several months--howshort the time seemed, when they looked back on it in after-years!--thehappiness of the painter and his wife more than fulfilled thebrightest hopes which they had formed as lovers. As for the doctor'scautious words, they were hardly remembered now; or, if recalled,were recalled only to be laughed over. But the time of bitter grief,which had been appointed, though they knew it not, came inexorably,even while they were still lightly jesting at all medical authorityround the painter's fireside. Lavinia caught a severe cold. The coldturned to rheumatism, to fever, then to general debility, then tonervous attacks--each one of these disorders, being really but somany false appearances, under which the horrible spinal malady wastreacherously and slowly advancing in disguise.

When the firstpositive symptoms appeared, old Mr. Blyth acted with all hisaccustomed generosity towards his son. "My purse is yours,Valentine," said he; "open it when you like; and let Lavinia, whilethere is a chance for her, have the same advice and the sameremedies as if she was the greatest duchess in the land." The oldman's affectionate advice was affectionately followed. The mostrenowned doctors in England prescribed for Lavinia; everything thatscience and incessant attention could do, was done; but the terribledisease still baffled remedy after remedy, advancing surely andirresistibly, until at last the doctors themselves lost all hope. Sofar as human science could foretell events, Mrs. Blyth, in theopinion of all her medical advisers, was doomed for the rest of herlife never to rise again from the bed on which she lay; except,perhaps, to be sometimes moved to the sofa, or, in the event of somefavorable reaction, to be wheeled about occasionally in an invalidchair.

What the shock of this intelligence was, both to husbandand wife, no one ever knew; they nobly kept it a secret even fromeach other. Mrs. Blyth was the first to recover courage andcalmness. She begged, as an especial favor, that Valentine wouldseek consolation, where she knew he must find it sooner or later, bygoing back to his studio, and resuming his old familiar labors,which had been suspended from the time when her illness hadoriginally declared itself.

On the first day when, in obedience toher wishes, he sat before his picture again--the half-finishedpicture from which he had been separated for so many months--on thatfirst day, when the friendly occupation of his life seemed suddenlyto have grown strange to him; when his brush wandered idly among thecolors, when his tears dropped fast on the palette every time helooked down on it; when he tried hard to work as usual, though onlyfor half an hour, only on simple background places in thecomposition; and still the brush made false touches, and still thetints would not mingle as they should, and still the same words,repeated over and over again, would burst from his lips: "Oh, poorLavvie! oh, poor, dear, dear Lavvie!"--even then, the spirit of thatbeloved art, which he had always followed so humbly and sofaithfully, was true to its divine mission, and comforted and upheldhim at the last bitterest moment when he laid down his palette indespair.

While he was still hiding his face before the verypicture which he and his wife had once innocently and secretlyglorified together, in those happy days of its beginning that werenever to come again, the sudden thought of consolation shone out onhis heart, and showed him how he might adorn all his afterlife withthe deathless beauty of a pure and noble purpose. Thenceforth, hisvague dreams of fame, and of rich men wrangling with each other forthe possession of his pictures, took the second place in his mind;and, in their stead, sprang up the new resolution that he would winindependently, with his own brush, no matter at what sacrifice ofpride and ambition, the means of surrounding his sick wife with allthose luxuries and refinements which his own little income did notenable him to obtain, and which he shrank with instinctive delicacyfrom accepting as presents bestowed by his father's generosity. Herewas the consoling purpose which robbed affliction of half itsbitterness already, and bound him and his art together by a bondmore sacred than any that had united them before. In the very hourwhen this thought came to him, he rose without a pang to turn thegreat historical composition, from which he had once hoped so much,with its face to the wall, and set himself to finish an unpretendinglittle "Study" of a cottage courtyard, which he was certain ofselling to a picture-dealing friend. The first approach to happinesswhich he had known for a long, long time past, was on the evening ofthat day, when he went upstairs to sit with Lavinia; and, keepingsecret his purpose of the morning, made the sick woman smile inspite of her sufferings, by asking her how she should like to haveher room furnished, if she were the lady of a great lord, instead ofbeing only the wife of Valentine Blyth.

Then came the happy daywhen the secret was revealed, and afterwards the pleasant years whenpoor Mrs. Blyth's most splendid visions of luxury were all graduallyrealized through her husband's exertions in his profession. But forhis wife's influence, Valentine would have been in danger ofabandoning high Art and Classical Landscape altogether, for cheapportrait-painting, cheap copying, and cheap studies of Still Life. ButMrs. Blyth, bedridden as she was, contrived to preserve all her oldinfluence over the labors of the Studio, and would ask for nothing new,and receive nothing new, in her room, except on condition that herhusband was to paint at least one picture of High Art every year, forthe sake (as she proudly said) of "asserting his intellect and hisreputation in the eyes of the public." Accordingly, Mr. Blyth's timewas pretty equally divided between the production of great unsaleable"compositions," which were always hung near the ceiling in theExhibition, and of small marketable commodities, which were asinvariably hung near the floor.

Valentine's average earnings from hisart, though humble enough in amount, amply sufficed to fulfill theaffectionate purpose for which, to the last farthing, they wererigorously set aside. "Lavvie's Drawing-Room" (this was Mr. Blyth'sname for his wife's bed-room) really looked as bright and beautiful asany royal chamber in the universe. The rarest flowers, the prettiestgardens under glass, bowls with gold and silver fish in them, a smallaviary of birds, an Æolian harp to put on the window-sill insummertime, some of Valentine's best drawings from the old masters,prettily-framed proof-impressions of engravings done by Mrs. Blyth'sfather, curtains and hangings of the tenderest color and texture,inlaid tables, and delicately-carved book-cases, were among thedifferent objects of refinement and beauty which, in the course ofyears, Mr. Blyth's industry had enabled him to accumulate for hiswife's pleasure. No one but himself ever knew what he had sacrificed inlaboring to gain these things. The heartless people whose portraits hehad painted, and whose impertinences he had patiently submitted to; themean bargainers who had treated him like a tradesman; the dastardly menof business who had disgraced their order by taking advantage of hissimplicity--how hardly and cruelly such insect natures of this worldhad often dealt with that noble heart! how despicably they had plantedtheir small gad-fly stings in the high soul which it was neverpermitted to them to subdue!

No! not once to subdue, not once totarnish! All petty humiliations were forgotten in one look at "Lavvie'sDrawing-Room;" all stain of insolent words vanished from Valentine'smemory in the atmosphere of the Studio. Never was a more superficialjudgment pronounced than when his friends said that he had thrown awayhis whole life, because he had chosen a vocation in which he could winno public success. The lad's earliest instincts had indeed led himtruly, after all. The art to which he had devoted himself was the onlyearthly pursuit that could harmonize as perfectly with all theeccentricities as with all the graces of his character, that couldmingle happily with every joy, tenderly with every grief; belonging tothe quiet, simple, and innocent life, which, employ him anyhow, it wasin his original nature to lead. But for this protecting art, under whatprim disguises, amid what foggy social climates of classconventionality, would the worlds clerical, legal, mercantile,military, naval, or dandy, have extinguished this man, if any one ofthem had caught him in its snares! Where would then have been hisfrolicsome enthusiasm that nothing could dispirit; his inveterateoddities of thought, speech, and action, which made all his friendslaugh at him and bless him in the same breath; his affections, so manlyin their firmness, so womanly in their tenderness, so childlike intheir frank, fearless confidence that dreaded neither ridicule on theone side, nor deception on the other? Where, and how, would all thesecharacteristics have vanished, but for his art--but for the abidingspirit, ever present to preserve their vital warmth against the outerand earthly cold? The wisest of Valentine's friends, who shook theirheads disparagingly whenever his name was mentioned, were at least wiseenough in their generation never to ask themselves suchembarrassing questions as these.

Thus much for the historyof the painter's past life. We may now make his acquaintance in theappropriate atmosphere of his own Studio.

It was wintry weather--notsuch a November winter's day as some of us may remember looking atfourteen years ago, in Baregrove Square, but a brisk frosty morning inJanuary. The country view visible from the back windows of Mr. Blyth'shouse, which stood on the extreme limit of the new suburb, was thinlyand brightly dressed out for the sun's morning levée, in itsfinest raiment of pure snow. The cold blue sky was cloudless; everysound out of doors fell on the ear with a hearty and jocund ring; allnewly-lit fires burnt up brightly and willingly without coaxing; andthe robin-redbreasts hopped about expectantly on balconies andwindowsills, as if they only waited for an invitation to walk in andwarm themselves, along with their larger fellow creatures, round thekindly hearth.

The Studio was a large and lofty room, lighted by askylight, and running along the side of the house throughout its wholedepth. Its walls were covered with plain brown paper, and its floor wasonly carpeted in the middle. The most prominent pieces of furniturewere two large easels placed at either extremity of the room; eachsupporting a picture of considerable size, covered over for the presentwith a pair of sheets which looked woefully in want of washing. Therewas a painting-stand with quantities of shallow little drawers, sometoo full to open, others, again, too full to shut; there was a movableplatform to put sitters on, covered with red cloth much disguised indust; there was a small square table of new deal, and a large roundtable of dilapidated rosewood, both laden with sketch-books,portfolios, dog's-eared sheets of drawing paper, tin pots, scatteredbrushes, palette-knives, rags variously defiled by paint and oil,pencils, chalks, port-crayons--the whole smelling powerfully at allpoints of turpentine.

Finally, there were chairs in plenty, no one ofwhich, however, at all resembled the other. In one corner stood a moldyantique chair with a high back, and a basin of dirty water on the seat.By the side of the fireplace a cheap straw chair of the beehive patternwas tilted over against a dining-room chair, with a horse-hair cushion.Before the largest of the two pictures, and hard by a portable flightof steps, stood a rickety office-stool. On the platform for sitters amodern easy chair, with the cover in tatters, invited all models topicturesque repose. Close to the rosewood table was placed a rocking-chair,and between the legs of the deal table were huddled together acamp-stool and a hassock. In short, every remarkable variety of theillustrious family of Seats was represented in one corner or another ofMr. Blyth's painting-room.

All the surplus small articles whichshelves, tables, and chairs were unable to accommodate, reposed incomfortable confusion on the floor. One half at least of a pack ofcards seemed to be scattered about in this way. A shirt-collar, threegloves, a boot, a shoe, and half a slipper; a silk stocking, and a pairof worsted muffetees; three old play-bills rolled into a ball; apencil-case, a paper-knife, a tooth-powder-box without a lid, and asuperannuated black-beetle trap turned bottom upwards, assisted informing part of the heterogeneous collection of rubbish strewed aboutthe studio floor. And worse than all--as tending to show that thepainter absolutely enjoyed his own disorderly habits--Mr. Blyth hadjocosely desecrated his art, by making it imitate litter where, in allconscience, there was real litter enough already. Just in the way ofanybody entering the room, he had painted, on the bare floor, exactrepresentations of a new quill pen and a very expensive-looking sablebrush, lying all ready to be trodden upon by entering feet. Freshvisitors constantly attested the skillfulness of these imitations byinvoluntarily stooping to pick up the illusive pen and brush; Mr. Blythalways enjoying the discomfiture and astonishment of every new victim,as thoroughly as if the practical joke had been a perfectly new one oneach successive occasion.

Such was the interior condition of thepainting-room, after the owner had inhabited it for a period of littlemore than two months!

The church-clock of the suburb has just struckten, when quick, light steps approach the studio door. A gentlemanenters--trips gaily over the imitative pen and brush--and, walking upto the fire, begins to warm his back at it, looking about him ratherabsently, and whistling "Drops of Brandy" in the minor key. Thisgentleman is Mr. Valentine Blyth.

He looks under forty, but is reallya little over fifty. His face is round and rosy, and not marked by asingle wrinkle in any part of it. He has large, sparkling black eyes;wears neither whiskers, beard, nor mustache; keeps his thick curlyblack hair rather too closely cut; and has a briskly-comical kindnessof expression in his face, which it is not easy to contemplate for thefirst time without smiling at him. He is tall and stout, always wearsvery tight trousers, and generally keeps his wristbands turned up overthe cuffs of his coat. All his movements are quick and fidgety. Heappears to walk principally on his toes, and seems always on the pointof beginning to dance, or jump, or run whenever he moves about, eitherin or out of doors. When he speaks he has an odd habit of ducking hishead suddenly, and looking at the person whom he addresses over hisshoulder. These, and other little personal peculiarities of the sameundignified nature, all contribute to make him exactly that sort ofperson whom everybody shakes hands with, and nobody bows to, on a firstintroduction. Men instinctively choose him to be the recipient of ajoke, girls to be the male confidant of all flirtations which they liketo talk about, children to be their petitioner for the pardon of afault, or the reward of a half-holiday. On the other hand, he isdecidedly unpopular among that large class of Englishmen, whose onlytopics of conversation are public nuisances and political abuses; forhe resolutely looks at everything on the bright side, and has neverread a leading article or a parliamentary debate in his life. In brief,men of business habits think him a fool, and intellectual women withindependent views cite him triumphantly as an excellent specimen of theinferior male sex.

Still whistling, Mr. Blyth walks towards anearthen pipkin in one corner of the studio, and takes from it a littlechina palette which he has neglected to clean since he last used it.Looking round the room for some waste paper, on which he can depositthe half-dried old paint that has been scraped off with the paletteknife, Mr. Blyth's eyes happen to light first on the deal table, and onfour or five notes which lie scattered over it.

These he thinks willsuit his purpose as well as anything else, so he takes up the notes,but before making use of them, reads their contents over for the secondtime--partly by way of caution, partly though a dawdling habit, whichmen of his absent disposition are always too ready to contract. Threeof these letters happen to be in the same scrambling, blottedhandwriting. They are none of them very long, and are the production ofa former acquaintance of the reader's, who has somewhat altered inheight and personal appearance during the course of the last fourteenyears. Here is the first of the notes which Valentine is nowreading:--

"Dear Blyth,--My father says Theaters are the Devil'sHouses, and I must be home by eleven o'clock. I'm sure I never didanything wrong at a Theater, which I might not have done just the sameanywhere else; unless laughing over a good play is one of the national sins he's always talking about. I can't stand it muchlonger, even for my mother's sake! You are my only friend. I shall comeand see you to-morrow, so mind and be at home. How I wish I was anartist! Yours ever, Z. THORPE, JUN."

Shaking his head andsmiling at the same time, Mr. Blyth finishes this letter--drops aperfect puddle of dirty paint and turpentine in the middle, over thewords "national sins," throws the paper into the fire--and goes on tonote number two:

"Dear Blyth,--I couldn't come yesterday,because of another quarrel at home, and my mother crying about it, ofcourse. My father smelt tobacco smoke at morning prayers. It was mycoat, which I forgot to air at the fire the night before; and he foundit out, and said he wouldn't have me smoke, because it led todissipation--but I told him (which is true) that lots of parsonssmoked. I wish you visited at our house, and could come and say a wordon my side. Dear Blyth, I am perfectly wretched; for I have had all mycigars taken from me; and I am, yours truly, Z. THORPE, JUN."

A third note is required before the palette can be scraped clean.Mr. Blyth reads the contents rather gravely on this occasion; rapidlyplastering his last morsels of waste paint upon the paper as he goeson, until at length it looks as if it had been well peppered with allthe colors of the rainbow.

Zack's third letter of complaint certainlypromised serious domestic tribulation for the ruling power at BaregroveSquare:--

"Dear Blyth,--I have given in--at least for thepresent. I told my father about my wanting to be an artist, and aboutyour saying that I had a good notion of drawing, and an eye for alikeness; but I might just as well have talked to one of your easels.He means to make a man of business of me. And here I have been, for thelast three weeks, at a Tea Broker's office in the city, in consequence.They all say it's a good opening for me, and talk about therespectability of commercial pursuits. I don't want to be respectable,and I hate commercial pursuits. What is the good of forcing me into amerchant's office, when I can't say my Multiplication table? Ask mymother about that: she'll tell you! Only fancy me going roundtea warehouses in filthy Jewish places like St. Mary-Axe, to takesamples, with a blue bag to carry them about in; and a dirty juniorclerk, who cleans his pen in his hair, to teach me how to fold upparcels! Isn't it enough to make my blood boil to think of it? I can'tgo on, and I won't go on in this way! Mind you're at home to-morrow;I'm coming to speak to you about how I'm to begin learning to be anartist. The junior clerk is going to do all my sampling work for me inthe morning; and we are to meet in the afternoon, after I have comeaway from you, at a chop-house; and then go back to the office as if wehad been together all day, just as usual. Ever yours, Z. THORPE,JUN.--P. S. My mind's made up: if the worst comes to the worst, I shallleave home."

"Oh, dear me! oh, dear! dear me!" says Valentine,mournfully rubbing his palette clean with a bit of rag. "What will itall end in, I wonder. Old Thorpe's going just the way, with hisobstinate severity, to drive Zack to something desperate. Coming hereto-morrow, he says?" continues Mr. Blyth, approaching the smallest ofthe two pictures, placed on easels at opposite extremities of the room."Coming to-morrow! He never dates his notes; but I suppose, as this onecame last night, to-morrow means to-day."

Saying these words witheyes absently fixed on his picture, Valentine withdraws the sheetstretched over the canvas, and discloses a Classical Landscape of hisown composition.

If Mr. Blyth had done nothing else in producing thepicture which now confronted him, he had at least achieved one greatend of all Classic Art, by reminding nobody of anything simple,familiar, or pleasing to them in nature. In the foreground of hiscomposition, were the three lanky ruined columns, the dancingBacchantes, the musing philosopher, the mahogany-colored vegetation,and the bosky and branchless trees, with which we have all beenfamiliar, from our youth upwards, in "classical compositions." Down themiddle of the scene ran that wonderful river, which is always ripplingwith the same regular waves; and always bearing onward the samecapsizable galleys, with the same vermilion and blue revelers strikinglyres on the deck. On the bank where there was most room for it,appeared our old, old friend, the architectural City, which nobodycould possibly live in; and which is composed of nothing but temples,towers, monuments, flights of steps, and bewildering rows of pillars.In the distance, our favorite blue mountains were as blue and as peakyas ever, on Valentine's canvas; and our generally-approved pale yellowsun was still disfigured by the same attack of aërial jaundice,from which he has suffered ever since classical compositions firstforbade him to take refuge from the sight behind a friendly cloud.

After standing before his picture in affectionate contemplation of itsbeauties for a minute or so, Valentine resumes the business ofpreparing his palette.

As the bee comes and goes irregularly fromflower to flower; as the butterfly flutters in a zig-zag course fromone sunny place on the garden wall to another--or, as an old woman runsfrom wrong omnibus to wrong omnibus, at the Elephant and Castle, beforeshe can discover the right one; as a countryman blunders up one street,and down another, before he can find the way to his place ofdestination in London--so does Mr. Blyth now come and go, flutter, run,and blunder in a mighty hurry about his studio, in search of missingcolors which ought to be in his painting-box, but which are not to befound there. While he is still hunting through the room, his legs comeinto collision with a large drawing-board on which there is a blanksheet of paper stretched. This board seems to remind Mr. Blyth of someduty connected with it. He places it against two chairs, in a goodlight; then approaching a shelf on which some plaster-casts arearranged, takes down from it a bust of the Venus de Medici--which busthe next places on his old office stool, opposite to the two chairs andthe drawing-board. Just as these preparations are completed, the doorof the studio opens, and a very important member of the painter'shousehold--who has not yet been introduced to the reader, and who is inno way related either to Valentine or his wife--enters the room.

Thismysterious resident under Mr. Blyth's roof is a Young Lady.

She isdressed in very pretty, simple, Quaker-like attire. Her gown is of alight-gray color, covered by a neat little black apron in front, andfastened round the throat over a frill collar. The sleeves of thisdress are worn tight to the arm, and are terminated at the wrists byquaint-looking cuffs of antique lace, the only ornamental morsels ofcostume which she has on. It is impossible to describe how deliciouslysoft, bright, fresh, pure, and delicate, this young lady is, merely asan object to look at, contrasted with the dingy disorder of the studio-spherethrough which she now moves. The keenest observers, beholdingher as she at present appears, would detect nothing in her face orfigure, her manner or her costume, in the slightest degree suggestiveof impenetrable mystery, or incurable misfortune. And yet, she happensto be the only person in Mr. Blyth's household at whom prying glancesare directed, whenever she walks out; whose very existence is referredto by the painter's neighbors with an invariable accompaniment ofshrugs, sighs, and lamenting looks; and whose "case" is alwayscompassionately designated as "a sad one," whenever it is broughtforward, in the course of conversation, at dinner-tables and tea-tablesin the new suburb.

Socially, we may be all easily divided into twoclasses in this world--at least in the civilized part of it. If we arenot the people whom others talk about, then we are sure to be thepeople who talk about others. The young lady who had just entered Mr.Blyth's painting-room, belonged to the former order of human beings.

She seemed fated to be used as a constant subject of conversation byher fellow-creatures. Even her face alone--simply as a face--could notescape perpetual discussion; and that, too, among Valentine's friends,who all knew her well, and loved her dearly. It was the oddest thing inthe world, but no one of them could ever agree with another (except ona certain point, to be presently mentioned) as to which of her personalattractions ought to be first selected for approval, or quoted asparticularly asserting her claims to the admiration of all worshippersof beauty.

To take three or four instances of this. There was Mr.Gimble, the civil little picture-dealers and a very good friend inevery way to Valentine: there was Mr. Gimble, who declared that herprincipal charm was in her complexion--her fair, clear, wonderfulcomplexion--which he would defy any artist alive to paint, let him tryever so hard, or be ever so great a man. Then came the Dowager Countessof Brambledown, the frolicsome old aristocrat, who was generallybelieved to be "a little cracked;" who haunted Mr. Blyth's studio,after having once given him an order to paint her rare China tea-service, and her favorite muff, in one group; and who differed entirelyfrom the little picture-dealer. "Fiddle-de-dee!" cried her ladyship,scornfully, on hearing Mr. Gimble's opinion quoted one day. "The manmay know something about pictures, but he is an idiot about women. Hercomplexions indeed! I could make as good a complexion for myself (weold women are painters too, in our way, Blyth). Don't tell me about hercomplexion--it's her eyes! her incomparable blue eyes, which would havedriven the young men of my time mad--mad, I give you my word ofhonor! Not a gentleman, sir, in my youthful days--and they weregentlemen then--but would have been too happy to run away with her forher eyes alone; and what's more, to have shot any man who said as muchas 'Stop him!' Complexion, indeed, Mr. Gimble? I'll complexion you,next time I find my way into your picture-gallery! Take a pinch ofsnuff, Blyth; and never repeat nonsense in my hearing again."

Therewas Mr. Bullivant, the enthusiastic young sculptor, with the mangy flowof flaxen hair, and the plump, waxy face, who wrote poetry, and showed,by various sonnets, that he again differed completely about the younglady from the Dowager Countess of Brambledown and Mr. Gimble. Thisgentleman sang fluently, on paper--using, by the way, a professionalepithet--about her "chiselled mouth,"

"Whichbreathed of rapture and the balmy South."

He expatiated on

"Her sweet lips smiling ather dimpled chin,
Whose wealth of kisses gods might long to win--"

and much more to the same maudlin effect.In plain prose, the ardent Bullivant was all for the lower part of theyoung lady's face, and actually worried her, and Mr. Blyth, andeverybody in the house, until he got leave to take a cast of it.

Lastly, there was Mrs. Blyth's father; a meek old gentleman, with acontinual cold in the head; who lived on marvelously to the utmostverge of human existence--as very poor men, with very large families,who would be much better out of this world than in it, very often do.There was this low-speaking, mildly-infirm, and perpetually-snufflingengraver, who, on being asked to mention what he most admired in her,answered that he thought it was her hair, "which was of such a nicelight brown color; or, perhaps, it might be the pleasant way in whichshe carried her head, or, perhaps, her shoulders--or, perhaps, her headand shoulders, both together. Not that his opinion was good formuch in tasty matters of this kind, for which reason he begged toapologize for expressing it at all." In speaking thus of his opinion,the worthy engraver surely depreciated himself most unjustly: for, ifthe father of eight daughters cannot succeed in learning(philoprogenitively speaking) to be a good judge of women, what mancan?

However, there was one point on which Mr. Gimble, LadyBrambledown, Mr. Bullivant, Mrs. Blyth's father, and hosts of friendsbesides, were all agreed, without one discordant exception.

Theyunanimously asserted that the young lady's face was the nearest livingapproach they had ever seen to that immortal "Madonna" face, which hasfor ever associated the idea of beauty with the name of RAPHAEL. Theresemblance struck everybody alike, even those who were but slightlyconversant with pictures, the moment they saw her. Taken in detail, herfeatures might be easily found fault with. Her eyes might be pronouncedtoo large, her mouth too small, her nose not Grecian enough for somepeople's tastes. But the general effect of these features, the shape ofher head and face, and especially her habitual expression, reminded allbeholders at once, and irresistibly, of that image of softness, purity,and feminine gentleness, which has been engraven on all civilizedmemories by the "Madonnas" of Raphael.

It was in consequence of thisextraordinary resemblance, that her own English name of Mary had been,from the first, altered and Italianized by Mr. and Mrs. Blyth, and byall intimate friends, into "Madonna." One or two extremely strict andextremely foolish people objected to any such familiar application ofthis name, as being open, in certain directions, to an imputation ofirreverence. Mr. Blyth was not generally very quick at an answer; but,on this occasion, he had three answers ready before the objections werequite out of his friends' mouths.

In the first place, he said that heand his friends used the name only in an artist-sense, and only withreference to Raphael's pictures. In the next place, he produced anItalian dictionary, and showed that "Madonna" had a second meaning inthe language, signifying simply and literally, "My lady." And, inconclusion, he proved historically, that "Madonna" had been used in theold times as a prefix to the names of Italian women; quoting, forexample, "Madonna Pia," whom he happened to remember just at thatmoment, from having once painted a picture from one of the scenes ofher terrible story. These statements silenced all objections; and theyoung lady was accordingly much better known in the painter's house as"Madonna" than as "Mary."

On now entering the studio, she walked upto Valentine, laid a hand lightly on each of his shoulders, and solifted herself to be kissed on the forehead. Then she looked down onhis palette, and observing that some colors were still missing from it,began to search for them directly in the painting-box. She found themin a moment, and appealed to Mr. Blyth with an arch look of inquiry andtriumph. He nodded, smiled, and held out his palette for her to put thecolors on it herself. Having done this very neatly and delicately, shenext looked round the room, and at once observed the bust of Venusplaced on the office stool.

At the same time, Mr. Blyth, who saw thedirection taken by her eyes, handed to her a port-crayon with someblack chalk, which he had been carefully cutting to a point for thelast minute or two. She took it with a little mock curtsey, pouting herlip slightly, as if drawing the Venus was work not much to hertaste--smiled when she saw Valentine shaking his head, and frowningcomically at her--then went away at once to the drawing-board, and satdown opposite Venus, in which position she offered as decided a livingcontradiction as ever was seen to the assertion of the classical ideaof beauty, as expressed in the cast that she was about to copy.

Mr.Blyth, on his side, set to work at last on the Landscape; painting uponthe dancing Bacchantes in the foreground of his picture, whose scantydresses stood sadly in need of a little brightening up. While thepainter and the young lady are thus industriously occupied with thebusiness of the studio, there is leisure to remark on one ratherperplexing characteristic of their intercourse, so far as it has yetproceeded on this particular winter's morning.

Ever since Madonna hasbeen in the room, not one word has she spoken to Valentine; and not oneword has Valentine (who can talk glibly enough to himself) spoken toher. He never said "Good morning," when he kissed her--or, "Thank youfor finding my lost colors,"--or, "I have set the Venus, my dear, foryour drawing lesson to-day." And she, woman as she is, has actually notasked him a single question, since she entered the studio! What canthis absolute and remarkable silence mean between two people who lookas affectionately on each other as these two look, every time theireyes meet!

Is this one of the Mysteries of the painter's fireside?

Who is Madonna?

What is her real name besides Mary?

Is it MaryBlyth?

Some years ago, an extraordinaryadventure happened to Valentine in the circus of an itinerantEquestrian Company. In that adventure, and in the strange resultsattending it, the clue lies hidden, which leads to the Mystery of thepainter's fireside, and reveals the story of this book.

In the autumn of1838, Mrs. Blyth's malady had for some time past assumed the permanentform from which it seldom afterwards varied. She now suffered littleactual pain, except when she quitted a recumbent posture. But thegeneral disorganization produced by almost exclusive confinement to oneposition, had, even at this early period, begun to work sad changes inher personal appearance. She suffered that mortifying misfortune justas bravely and resignedly as she had suffered the first great calamityof her incurable disorder. Valentine never showed that he thought heraltered; Valentine's kindness was just as affectionate and as constantas it had ever been in the happier days of their marriage. Soencouraged, Lavinia had the heart to bear all burdens patiently; andcould find sources of happiness for herself, where others coulddiscover nothing but causes for grief.

The room she inhabited wasalready, through Valentine's self-denying industry, better furnishedthan any other room in the house; but was far from presenting the sameappearance of luxury and completeness to which it attained in thecourse of after-years.

The charming maple-wood and ivory bookcase,with the prettily-bound volumes ranged in such bright regularity alongits shelves, was there certainly, as early as the autumn of 1838. Itwould not, however, at that time have formed part of the furniture ofMrs. Blyth's room, if her husband had not provided himself with themeans of paying for it, by accepting a certain professional invitationto the country, which he knew before, and would enable him to face theterrors of the upholsterer's bill.

The invitation in question hadbeen sent to him by a clerical friend, the Reverend Doctor Joyce,Rector of St. Judy's, in the large agricultural town of Rubbleford.Valentine had produced a water-color drawing of one of the Doctor'sbabies, when the family at the Rectory were in London for a season, andthis drawing had been shown to all the neighbors by the worthyclergyman on his return. Now, although Mr. Blyth was not over-successful in the adult department of portrait-art, he was invariablyvictorious in the infant department. He painted all babies on oneingenious plan; giving them the roundest eyes, the chubbiest redcheeks, the most serenely good-humored smiles, and the neatest andwhitest caps ever seen on paper. If fathers and their male friendsrarely appreciated the fidelity of his likenesses, mothers and nursesinvariably made amends for their want of taste. It followed, therefore,almost as a matter of course, that the local exhibition of the Doctor'sdrawing must bring offers of long-clothes-portrait employment toValentine. Three resident families decided immediately to haveportraits of their babies, if the painter would only travel to theirhouses to take the likenesses. A bachelor sporting squire in theneighborhood also volunteered a commission of another sort. Thisgentleman arrived (by a logical process which it is hopeless to thinkof tracing) at the conclusion, that a man who was great at babies, mustnecessarily be marvelous at horses; and determined, in consequence,that Valentine should paint his celebrated cover-hack. In writing toinform his friend of these offers, Doctor Joyce added anotherprofessional order on his own account, by way of appropriate conclusionto his letter. Here, then, were five commissions, which would produceenough--cheaply as Valentine worked--to pay, not only for the newbookcase, but for the books to put in it when it came home.

Havingleft his wife in charge of two of her sisters, who were forbidden toleave the house till his return, Mr. Blyth started for the rectory; andonce there, set to work on the babies with a zeal and good-humor whichstraightway won the hearts of mothers and nurses, and made him a greatRubbleford reputation in the course of a few days. Having done thebabies to admiration, he next undertook the bachelor squire's hack.Here he had some trouble. The sporting gentleman would look over himwhile he painted; would bewilder him with the pedigree of the horse;would have the animal done in the most unpicturesque view; and sternlyforbade all introduction of "tone," "light and shade," or purelyartistic embellishment of any kind, in any part of the canvas. Inshort, the squire wanted a sign-board instead of a picture, and he atlast got what he wanted to his heart's content.

One evening, whileValentine--still deeply immersed in the difficulties of depicting thecover-hack--was returning to the Rectory, after a day's work at theSquire's house, his attention was suddenly attracted in the high streetof Rubbleford, by a flaming placard pasted up on a dead wall oppositethe market-house.

He immediately joined the crowd of rusticscongregated round the many-colored and magnificent sheet of paper, andread at the top of it, in huge blue letters:--"JUBBER'S CIRCUS. THEEIGHTH WONDER OF THE WORLD." After this came some small print, whichnobody lost any time in noticing. But below the small print appeared aperfect galaxy of fancifully shaped scarlet letters, which fascinatedall eyes, and informed the public that the equestrian company included"MISS FLORINDA BEVERLEY, known," (here the letters turned suddenlygreen) "wherever the English language was known, as The AmazonianEmpress of Equitation." This announcement was followed by the names ofinferior members of the Company; by a program of the evening'sentertainments; by testimonials extracted from the provincial press; byillustrations of gentlemen with lusty calves and spangled drawers, andof ladies with smiling faces, shameless petticoats, and pirouettinglegs. These illustrations, and the particulars which preceded them werecarefully digested by all Mr. Blyth's neighbors; but Mr. Blyth himselfpassed them over unnoticed. His eye had been caught by something at thebottom of the placard, which instantly absorbed his whole attention.

In this place the red letters appeared again, and formed the followingwords and marks of admiration:--

Underneathcame an explanation of what the red letters referred to, occupying noless than three paragraphs of stumpy small print, every word of whichValentine eagerly devoured. This is what he read:--

"Mr. Jubber, asproprietor of the renowned Circus, has the honor of informing thenobility, gentry, and public, that the above wonderful Deaf and DumbFemale Child will appear between the first and second parts of theevening's performances. Mr. J. has taken the liberty of entitling thisMarvel of Nature, The Mysterious Foundling; no one knowing who herfather is, and her mother having died soon after her birth, leaving herin charge of the Equestrian Company, who have been fond parents andcareful guardians to her ever since.

"She was originally celebratedin the annals of Jubber's Circus, or Eighth Wonder of the World, as TheHurricane Child of the Desert; having appeared in that character,whirled aloft at the age of seven years in the hand of Muley BenHassan, the renowned Scourer of Sahara, in his daring act ofEquitation, as exhibited to the terror of all England, in Jubber'sCircus. At that time she had her hearing and speech quite perfect. ButMr. J. deeply regrets to state that a terrific accident happened to hersoon afterwards. Through no fault on the part of The Scourer (who,overcome by his feelings at the result of the above-mentioned frightfulaccident, has gone back to his native wilds a moody and broken-heartedman), she slipped from his hand while the three horses bestrode by thefiery but humane Arab were going at a gallop, and fell, shocking torelate, outside the Ring, on the boarded floor of the Circus. She wassupposed to be dead. Mr. Jubber instantly secured the inestimableassistance of the Faculty, who found that she was still alive, and sether arm, which had been broken. It was only afterwards discovered thatshe had utterly lost her sense of hearing. To use the emphatic languageof the medical gentlemen (who all spoke with tears in their eyes), shehad been struck stone deaf by the shock. Under these melancholycircumstances, it was found that the faculty of speech soon failed heraltogether; and she is now therefore Totally Deaf AND Dumb--but Mr. J.rejoices to say, quite cheerful and in good health notwithstanding.

"Mr. Jubber being himself the father of a family, ventures to thinkthat these little particulars may prove of some interest to anIntelligent, a Sympathetic, and a Benevolent Public. He will simplyallude, in conclusion, to the performances of the Mysterious Foundling,as exhibiting perfection hitherto unparalleled in the Art ofLegerdemain, with wonders of untraceable intricacy on the cards,originally the result of abstruse calculations made by that renownedAlgebraist, Mohammed Engedi, extending over a period of ten years,dating from the year 1215 of the Arab Chronology. More than this Mr.Jubber will not venture to mention, for 'Seeing is Believing,' and theMysterious Foundling must be seen to be believed. For prices ofadmission consult bottom of bill."

Mr. Blyth read this grotesquelyshocking narrative with sentiments which were anything rather thancomplimentary to the taste, the delicacy, and the humanity of thefluent Mr. Jubber. He consulted the bottom of the bill, however, asrequested; and ascertained what were the prices of admission--thenglanced at the top, and observed that the first performance was fixedfor that very evening--looked about him absently for a minute ortwo--and resolved to be present at it.

Most assuredly, Valentine'sresolution did not proceed from that dastard insensibility to alldecent respect for human suffering which could feast itself on thespectacle of calamity paraded for hire, in the person of a deaf anddumb child of ten years old. His motives for going to the circus werestained by no trace of such degradation as this. But what were theythen? That question he himself could not have answered: it was a commonpredicament with him not to know his own motives, generally from notinquiring into them. There are men who run breathlessly--men who walkcautiously--and men who saunter easily through the journey of life.Valentine belonged to the latter class; and, like the rest of hisorder, often strayed down a new turning, without being able to realizeat the time what purpose it was which first took him that way. Ourdestinies shape the future for us out of strange materials: a travelingcircus sufficed them, in the first instance, to shape a new future forMr. Blyth.

He first went on to the Rectory to tell them where he wasgoing, and to get a cup of tea, and then hurried off to the circus, ina field outside the town.

The performance had begun some time when hegot in. The Amazonian Empress (known otherwise as Miss FlorindaBeverley) was dancing voluptuously on the back of a cantering piebaldhorse with a Roman nose. Round and round careered the Empress, beatingtime on the saddle with her imperial legs to the tune of "Let the Toastbe Dear Woman," played with intense feeling by the band. Suddenly themelody changed to "See the Conquering Hero Comes;" the piebald horseincreased his speed; the Empress raised a flag in one hand, and ajavelin in the other, and began slaying invisible enemies in the emptyair, at full (circus) gallop. The result on the audience was prodigious;Mr. Blyth alone sat unmoved. Miss Florinda Beverley was not even a goodmodel to draw legs from, in the estimation of this anti-Amazonianpainter!

When the Empress was succeeded by a SpanishGuerilla, who robbed, murdered, danced, caroused, and made love on theback of a cream-colored horse--and when the Guerilla was followed by aclown who performed superhuman contortions, and made jokes by the yard,without the slightest appearance of intellectual effort--still Mr.Blyth exhibited no demonstration of astonishment or pleasure. It wasonly when a bell rang between the first and second parts of theperformance, and the band struck up "Gentle Zitella," that he showedany symptoms of animation. Then he suddenly rose; and, moving down to abench close against the low partition which separated the ring from theaudience, fixed his eyes intently on a doorway opposite to him,overhung by a frowzy red curtain with a tinsel border.

From thisdoorway there now appeared Mr. Jubber himself, clothed in whitetrousers with a gold stripe, and a green jacket with militaryepaulettes. He had big, bold eyes, a dyed mustache, great fat, flabbycheeks, long hair parted in the middle, a turn-down collar with arose-colored handkerchief; and was, in every respect, the most atrociouslooking stage vagabond that ever painted a blackguard face. He led withhim, holding her hand, the little deaf and dumb girl, whose misfortunehe had advertised to the whole population of Rubbleford.

The face andmanner of the child, as she walked into the center of the circus, andmade her innocent curtsey and kissed her hand, went to the hearts ofthe whole audience in an instant. They greeted her with such a burst ofapplause as might have frightened a grown actress. But not a note fromthose cheering voices, not a breath of sound from those loudly clappinghands could reach her; she could see that they were welcoming herkindly, and that was all!

When the applause had subsided, Mr. Jubberasked for the loan of a handkerchief from one of the ladies present,and ostentatiously bandaged the child's eyes. He then lifted her uponthe broad low wall which encircled the ring, and walked her round alittle way (beginning from the door through which he had entered),inviting the spectators to test her total deafness by clapping theirhands, shouting, or making any loud noise they pleased close at herear. "You might fire off a cannon, ladies and gentlemen," said Mr.Jubber, "and it wouldn't make her start till after she'd smelt thesmoke!"

To the credit of the Rubbleford audience, the majority ofthem declined making any practical experiments to test the poor child'sutter deafness. The women set the example of forbearance, by entreatingthat the handkerchief might be taken off so that they might see herpretty eyes again. This was done at once, and she began to perform herconjuring tricks with Mr. Jubber and one of the ring-keepers on eitherside of her, officiating as assistants. These tricks, in themselves,were of the simplest and commonest kind; and derived all theirattraction from the child's innocently earnest manner of exhibitingthem, and from the novelty to the audience of communicating with heronly by writing on a slate. They never tired of scrawling questions, ofsaying "poor little thing!" and of kissing her whenever they could getthe opportunity, while she slowly went round the circus. "Deaf anddumb! ah, dear, dear, deaf and dumb!" was the general murmur ofsympathy which greeted her from each new group, as she advanced; Mr.Jubber invariably adding with a smile: "And as you see, ladies andgentlemen, in excellent health and spirits, notwithstanding: as heartyand happy, I pledge you my sacred word of honor, as the very best ofus!"

While she was thus delighting the spectators on one side of thecircus, how were the spectators on the other side, whose places she hadnot yet reached, contriving to amuse themselves?

From the moment ofthe little girl's first appearance, ample recreation had beenunconsciously provided for them by a tall, stout, and florid stranger,who appeared suddenly to lose his senses the moment he set eyes on thedeaf and dumb child. This gentleman jumped up and sat down againexcitably a dozen times in a minute; constantly apologizing on beingcalled to order, and constantly repeating the offense the momentafterwards. Mad and mysterious words, never heard before in Rubbleford,poured from his lips. "Devotional beauty," "Fra Angelico's angels,""Giotto and the cherubs," "Enough to bring the divine Raphael down fromheaven to paint her." Such were a few fragments of the mad gentleman'sincoherent mutterings, as they reached his neighbors' ears. Theamusement they yielded was soon wrought to its climax by a joke from anattorney's clerk, who suggested that this queer man, with the rosyface, must certainly be the long-lost father of the "MysteriousFoundling!" Great gratification was consequently anticipated from whatmight take place when the child arrived opposite the bench occupied bythe excitable stranger.

Slowly, slowly, the little light figure wentround upon the broad partition wall of the ring, until it came near,very near, to the place where Valentine was sitting.

Ah, woefulsight! so lovely, yet so piteous to look on! Shall she never hearkindly human voices, the song of birds, the pleasant murmur of thetrees again? Are all the sweet sounds that sing of happiness tochildhood, silent for ever to her? From those fresh, rosy lipsshall no glad words pour forth, when she runs and plays in thesunshine? Shall the clear, laughing tones be hushed always? the young,tender life be for ever a speechless thing, shut up in dumbness fromthe free world of voices? Oh! Angel of judgment! hast thou snatched herhearing and her speech from this little child, to abandon her inhelpless affliction to such profanation as she now undergoes? Oh,Spirit of mercy! how long thy white-winged feet have tarried on theirway to this innocent sufferer, to this lost lamb that cannot cry to thefold for help! Lead, ah, lead her tenderly to such shelter as she hasnever yet found for herself! Guide her, pure as she is now, from thistainted place to pleasant pastures, where the sunshine of humankindness shall be clouded no more, and Love and Pity shall temper everywind that blows over her with the gentleness of perpetual spring!

Slowly, slowly, the light figure went round the great circle of gazers,ministering obediently to their pleasure, waiting patiently till theircuriosity was satisfied. And now, her weary pilgrimage was well nighover for the night. She had arrived at the last group of spectators whohad yet to see what she looked like close, and what tricks she couldexhibit with her cards.

She stopped exactly opposite to Valentine;and when she looked up, she looked on him alone.

Was there somethingin the eager sympathy of his eyes as they met hers, which spoke to thelittle lonely heart in the sole language that could ever reach it? Didthe child, with the quick instinct of the deaf and dumb, read hiscompassionate disposition, his pity and longing to help her, in hisexpression at that moment? It might have been so. Her pretty lipssmiled on him as they had smiled on no one else that night; and whenshe held out some cards to be chosen from, she left unnoticed the eagerhands extended on either side of her, and presented them to Valentineonly.

He saw the small fingers trembling as they held the cards; hesaw the delicate little shoulders and the poor frail neck and chestbedizened with tawdry mock jewelry and spangles; he saw the innocentyoung face, whose pure beauty no soil of stage paint could disfigure,with the smile still on the parted lips, but with a patient forlornnessin the sad blue eyes, as if the seeing-sense that was left, mournedalways for the hearing and speaking senses that were gone--he markedall these things in an instant, and felt that his heart was sinking ashe looked. A dimness stole over his sight; a suffocating sensationoppressed his breathing; the lights in the circus danced and mingledtogether; he bent down over the child's hand, and took it in his own;twice kissed it fervently; then, to the utter amazement of the laughingcrowd about him, rose up suddenly, and forced his way out as if he hadbeen flying for his life.

There was a momentary confusion among theaudience. But Mr. Jubber was too old an adept in stage-business of allkinds not to know how to stop the growing tumult directly, and turn itinto universal applause.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he cried, with adeep theatrical quiver in his voice--"I implore you to be seated, andto excuse the conduct of the party who has just absented himself. Thetalent of the Mysterious Foundling has overcome people in that way inevery town of England. Do I err in believing that a Rubbleford audiencecan make kind allowances for their weaker fellow-creatures? Thanks, athousand thanks in the name of this darling and talented child, foryour cordial, your generous, your affectionate, your inestimablereception of her exertions to-night!" With this peroration Mr. Jubbertook his pupil out of the ring, amid the most vehement cheering andwaving of hats and handkerchiefs. He was too much excited by histriumph to notice that the child, as she walked after him, lookedwistfully to the last in the direction by which Valentine had gone out.

"The public like excitement," soliloquized Mr. Jubber, as hedisappeared behind the red curtain. "I must have all this in the billsto-morrow. It's safe to draw at least thirty shillings extra into thehouse at night."

In the meantime, Valentine, after some blundering atwrong doors, at last found his way out of the circus, and stood aloneon the cool grass, in the cloudless autumn moonlight. He struck hisstick violently on the ground, which at that moment represented to himthe head of Mr. Jubber; and was about to return straight to therectory, when he heard a breathless voice behind him, calling:--"Stop,sir! oh, do please stop for one minute!"

He turned round. A buxomwoman in a tawdry and tattered gown was running towards him as fast asher natural impediments to quick progression would permit.

"Please,sir," she cried--"Please, sir, wasn't you the gentleman that was takenqueer at seeing our little Foundling? I was peeping through the redcurtain, sir, just at the time."

Instead of answering the question,Valentine instantly began to rhapsodize about the child's face.

"Oh,sir! if you know anything about her," interposed the woman, "for God'ssake don't scruple to tell it to me! I'm only Mrs. Peckover, sir, thewife of Jemmy Peckover, the clown, that you saw in the circus to-night.But I took and nursed the little thing by her poor mother's own wish;and ever since that time--"

"My dear, good soul," said Mr. Blyth, "Iknow nothing of the poor little creature. I only wish from the bottomof my heart that I could do something to help her and make her happy.If Lavvie and I had had such an angel of a child as that," continuedValentine, clasping his hands together fervently, "deaf and dumb as sheis, we should have thanked God for her every day of our lives!"

Mrs.Peckover was apparently not much used to hear such sentiments as thesefrom strangers. She stared up at Mr. Blyth with two big tears rollingover her plump cheeks.

"Mrs. Peckover! Hullo there, Peck! where areyou?" roared a stern voice from the stable department of the circus,just as the clown's wife seemed about to speak again.

Mrs. Peckoverstarted, curtsied, and, without uttering another word, went back evenfaster than she had come out. Valentine looked after her intently, butmade no attempt to follow: he was thinking too much of the child tothink of that. When he moved again, it was to return to the rectory.

He penetrated at once into the library, where Doctor Joyce was spellingover the "Rubbleford Mercury," while Mrs. Joyce sat opposite to him,knitting a fancy jacket for her youngest but one. He was hardly insidethe door before he began to expatiate in the wildest manner on thesubject of the beautiful deaf and dumb girl. If ever man was in lovewith a child at first sight, he was that man. As an artist, as agentleman of refined tastes, and as the softest-hearted of male humanbeings, in all three capacities, he was enslaved by that littleinnocent, sad face. He made the Doctor's head whirl again; he fairlystopped Mrs. Joyce's progress with the fancy jacket, as he sang thechild's praises, and compared her face to every angel's face that hadever been painted, from the days of Giotto to the present time. Atlast, when he had fairly exhausted his hearers and himself, he dashedabruptly out of the room, to cool down his excitement by a moonlightwalk in the rectory garden.

"What a very odd man he is!" said Mrs.Joyce, taking up a dropped stitch in the fancy jacket.

"Valentine, mylove, is the best creature in the world," rejoined the doctor, foldingup the Rubbleford Mercury, and directing it for the post; "but, as Ioften used to tell his poor father (who never would believe me), alittle cracked. I've known him go on in this way about childrenbefore--though I must own, not quite so wildly, perhaps, as he talkedjust now."

"Do you think he'll do anything imprudent about the child?Poor thing! I'm sure I pity her as heartily as anybody can."

"I don'tpresume to think," answered the doctor, calmly pressing the blotting-paperover the address he had just written. "Valentine is one of thosepeople who defy all conjecture. No one can say what he will do, or whathe won't. A man who cannot resist an application for shelter and supperfrom any stray cur who wags his tail at him in the street; a man whoblindly believes in the troubles of begging-letter impostors; a manwhom I myself caught, last time he was down here, playing at marbleswith three of my charity-boys in the street, and promising to treatthem to hardbake and gingerbeer afterwards, is--in short, is not a manwhose actions it is possible to speculate on."

Here the door opened,and Mr. Blyth's head was popped in, surmounted by a ragged straw hatwith a sky-blue ribbon round it. "Doctor," said Valentine, "may I askan excellent woman, with whom I have made acquaintance, to bring thechild here to-morrow morning for you and Mrs. Joyce to see?"

"Certainly," said the good-humored rector, laughing. "The child by allmeans, and the excellent woman too."

"Not if it's Miss FlorindaBeverley!" interposed Mrs. Joyce (who had read the Circus placard)."Florinda, indeed! Jezebel would be a better name for her!"

"My dearMadam, it isn't Florinda," cried Valentine, eagerly. "I quite agreewith you; her name ought to be Jezebel. And, what's worse, her legs areout of drawing."

"Mr. Blyth!!!" exclaimed Mrs. Joyce, indignant atthis professional criticism on Jezebel's legs.

"Why don't you tell usat once who the excellent woman is?" cried the doctor, secretly tickledby the allusion which had shocked his wife.

"Her name's Peckover,"said Valentine; "she's a respectable married woman; she doesn't ride inthe circus at all; and she nursed the poor child by her mother's ownwish."

"We shall be delighted to see her to-morrow," said thewarm-hearted rector--"or, no--stop! Not to-morrow; I shall be out. Theday after. Cake and cowslip wine for the deaf and dumb child at twelveo'clock--eh, my dear?"

"That's right! God bless you! you're alwayskindness itself," cried Valentine; "I'll find out Mrs. Peckover, andlet her know. Not a wink of sleep for me to-night--never mind!" HereValentine suddenly shut the door, then as suddenly opened it again, andadded, "I mean to finish that infernal horse-picture to-morrow, and goto the circus again in the evening." With these words he vanished; andthey heard him soon afterwards whistling his favorite "Drops ofBrandy," in the rectory garden.

"Cracked! cracked!" cried the doctor."Dear old Valentine!"

"I'm afraid his principles are very loose,"said Mrs. Joyce, whose thoughts still ran on the unlucky professionalallusion to Jezebel's legs.

The next morning, when Mr. Blythpresented himself at the stables, and went on with the portrait of thecover-hack, the squire had no longer the slightest reason to complainof the painter's desire to combine in his work picturesqueness ofeffect with accuracy of resemblance. Valentine argued no longer aboutintroducing "light and shade," or "keeping the background subdued intone." His thoughts were all with the deaf and dumb child and Mrs.Peckover; and he smudged away recklessly, just as he was told, withoutonce uttering so much as a word of protest. By the evening he hadconcluded his labor. The squire said it was one of the best portraitsof a horse that had ever been taken: to which piece of criticism thewriter of the present narrative is bound in common candor to add, thatit was also the very worst picture that Mr. Blyth had ever painted.

On returning to Rubbleford, Valentine proceeded at once to the circus;placing himself, as nearly as he could, in the same position which hehad occupied the night before.

The child was again applauded by thewhole audience, and again went through her performance intelligentlyand gracefully, until she approached the place where Valentine wasstanding. She started as she recognized his face, and made a stepforward to get nearer to him; but was stopped by Mr. Jubber, who sawthat the people immediately in front of her were holding out theirhands to write on her slate, and have her cards dealt round to them intheir turn. The child's attention appeared to be distracted by seeingthe stranger again who had kissed her hand so fervently--she began tolook confused--and ended by committing an open and most palpableblunder in the very first trick that she performed.

The spectatorsgood-naturedly laughed, and some of them wrote on her slate, "Tryagain, little girl." Mr. Jubber made an apology, saying that theextreme enthusiasm of the reception accorded to his pupil had shakenher nerves; and then signed to her, with a benevolent smile, but with avery sinister expression in his eyes, to try another trick. Shesucceeded in this; but still showed so much hesitation, that Mr.Jubber, fearing another failure, took her away with him while there wasa chance of making a creditable exit.

As she was led across the ring,the child looked intently at Valentine.

There was terror in hereyes--terror palpable enough to be remarked by some of the carelesspeople near Mr. Blyth. "Poor little thing! she seems frightened at theman in the fine green jacket," said one. "And not without cause, I daresay," added another. "You don't mean that he could ever be brute enoughto ill use a child like that?--it's impossible!" cried a third.

Atthis moment the clown entered the ring. The instant before he shoutedthe well-known "Here we are!" Valentine thought he heard a strange crybehind the red curtain. He was not certain about it, but the mere doubtmade his blood run chill. He listened for a minute anxiously. There wasno chance now, however, for testing the correctness of his suspicion.The band had struck up a noisy jig tune, and the clown was capering andtumbling wonderfully, amid roars of laughter.

"This may be my fault,"thought Valentine. "This! What?" He was afraid to pursue thatinquiry. His ruddy face suddenly turned pale; and he left the circus,determined to find out what was really going on behind the red curtain.

He walked round the outside of the building, wasting some timebefore he found a door to apply at for admission. At last he came to asort of a passage, with some tattered horse-cloths hanging over itsouter entrance.

"You can't come in here," said a shabby lad, suddenlyappearing from the inside in his shirt sleeves.

Mr. Blyth took outhalf-a-crown. "I want to see the deaf and dumb child directly!"

"Oh,all right! go in," muttered the lad, pocketing the money greedily.

Valentine hastily entered the passage. As soon as he was inside, asound reached his ears at which his heart sickened and turned faint. Nowords can describe it in all the horror of its helplessness--it was themoan of pain from a dumb human creature.

He thrust aside a curtain,and stood in a filthy place, partitioned off from the stables on oneside, and the circus on the other, with canvas and old boards. There,on a wooden stool, sat the woman who had accosted him the night before,crying, and soothing the child, who lay shuddering on her bosom. Thesobs of the clown's wife mingled with the inarticulate wailing, so low,yet so awful to hear; and both sounds were audible with a fearful,unnatural distinctness, through the merry melody of the jig, and thepeals of hearty laughter from the audience in the circus.

"Oh, myGod!" cried Valentine, horror-struck at what he heard, "stop her! don'tlet her moan in that way!"

The woman started from her seat, and putthe child down, then recognized Mr. Blyth and rushed up to him.

"Hush!" she whispered eagerly, "don't call out like that! The villain,the brutal, heartless villain is somewhere about the stables. If hehears you, he'll come in and beat her again.--Oh, hush! hush, forGod's sake! It's true he beat her--the cowardly, hellish brute!--onlyfor making that one little mistake with the cards. No! no! no! don'tspeak out so loud, or you'll ruin us. How did you ever get in here?--Oh!you must be quiet! There, sit down--Hark! I'm sure he's coming! Oh!go away--go away!"

She tried to pull Valentine out of the chair intowhich she had thrust him but the instant before. He seized tight holdof her hand and refused to move. If Mr. Jubber had come in at thatmoment, he would have been thrashed within an inch of his life.

Thechild had ceased moaning when she saw Valentine. She anxiously lookedat him through her tears--then turned away quickly--took out her littlehandkerchief--and began to dry her eyes.

"I can't go yet--I'll promiseonly to whisper--you must listen to me," said Mr. Blyth, pale andpanting for breath; "I mean to prevent this from happening again--don'tspeak!--I'll take that injured, beautiful, patient little angelaway from this villainous place: I will, if I go before a magistrate!"

The woman stopped him by pointing suddenly to the child.

She hadput back the handkerchief, and was approaching him. She came close andlaid one hand on his knee, and timidly raised the other as high as shecould towards his neck. Standing so, she looked up quietly into hisface. The pretty lips tried hard to smile once more; but they onlytrembled for an instant, and then closed again. The clear, soft eyes,still dim with tears, sought his with an innocent gaze of inquiry andwonder. At that moment, the expression of the sad and lovely littleface seemed to say--"You look as if you wanted to be kind to me; I wishyou could find out some way of telling me of it."

Valentine's hearttold him what was the only way. He caught her up in his arms, and halfsmothered her with kisses. The frail, childish hands rose trembling,and clasped themselves gently round his neck; and the fair head droopedlower and lower, wearily, until it lay on his shoulder.

The clown'swife turned away her face, desperately stifling with both hands thesobs that were beginning to burst from her afresh. She whispered, "Oh,go, sir,--pray go! Some of the riders will be in here directly; you'llget us into dreadful trouble!"

Valentine rose, still holding thechild in his arms. "I'll go if you promise me--"

"I'll promise youanything, sir!"

"You know the rectory! Doctor Joyce's--theclergyman--my kind friend--"

"Yes, sir; I know it. Do please, forlittle Mary's sake be quick as you can!"

"Mary! Her name's Mary!"Valentine drew back into a corner, and began kissing the child again.

"You must be out of your senses to keep on in that way after what I'vetold you!" cried the clown's wife, wringing her hands in despair, andtrying to drag him out of the corner. "Jubber will be in here inanother minute. She'll be beaten again, if you're caught with her; ohLord! oh Lord! will nothing make you understand that?"

He understoodit only too well, and put the child down instantly, his face turningpale again; his agitation becoming so violent that he never noticed thehand which she held out towards him, or the appealing look that said soplainly and pathetically: "I want to bid you good-bye; but I can't sayit as other children can." He never observed this; for he had takenMrs. Peckover by the arm, and had drawn her away hurriedly after himinto the passage.

The child made no attempt to follow them: sheturned aside, and, sitting down in the darkest corner of the miserableplace, rested her head against the rough partition which was all thatdivided her from the laughing audience. Her lips began to trembleagain: she took out the handkerchief once more, and hid her face in it.

"Now, recollect your promise," whispered Valentine to the clown'swife, who was slowly pushing him out all the time he was speaking toher. "You must bring little Mary to the Rectory to-morrow morning attwelve o'clock exactly--you must! or I'll come and fetch her myself--"

"I'll bring her, sir, if you'll only go now. I'll bring her--I will,as true as I stand here!"

"If you don't!" cried Valentine, stilldistrustful, and trembling all over with agitation--"If you don't!"--Hestopped; for he suddenly felt the open air blowing on his face. Theclown's wife was gone, and nothing remained for him to threaten, butthe tattered horse-cloths that hung over the empty doorway.

It is a quarter totwelve by the hall clock at the Rectory, and one of the finest autumnmornings of the whole season. Vance, Doctor Joyce's middle-aged manservant, or "Bishop" Vance, as the small wits of Rubbleford call him,in allusion to his sleek and solemn appearance, his respectable manner,his clerical cravat, and his speckless black garments, is placing thecake and cowslip wine on the dining-table, with as much formality andprecision as if his master expected an archbishop to lunch, instead ofa clown's wife and a little child of ten years old. It is quite a sightto see Vance retiring and looking at the general effect of each knifeand fork as he lays it down; or solemnly strutting about the room, witha spotless napkin waving gently in his hand; or patronisinglyconfronting the pretty housemaid at the door, and taking plates anddishes from her with the air of a kitchen Sultan who can never affordto lose his dignity for a moment in the presence of the female slaves.

The dining-room window opens into the Rectory garden. The morningshadows cast by the noble old elm-trees that grow all round, are fadingfrom the bright lawn. The rich flower-beds gleam like beds of jewels inthe radiant sunshine. The rookery is almost deserted, a solitary sleepycaw being only heard now and then at long intervals. The singingof birds, and the buzzing of busy insects sound faint, distant, andmusical. On a shady seat, among the trees, Mrs. Joyce is just visible,working in the open air. One of her daughters sits reading on the turfat her feet. The other is giving the younger children a ride by turnson the back of a large Newfoundland dog, who walks along slowly withhis tongue hanging out, and his great bushy tail wagging gently. Aprettier scene of garden beauty and family repose could not be found inall England, than the scene which the view through the Rectory windownow presents. The household tranquillity, however, is not entirelyuninterrupted. Across the picture, of which Vance and the luncheon-tableform the foreground, and the garden with Mrs. Joyce and the youngladies the middle-distance and background, there flits from time totime an unquiet figure. This personage is always greeted by Leo, theNewfoundland dog, with an extra wag of the tail; and is apostrophizedlaughingly by the young ladies, under the appellation of "funny Mr.Blyth."

Valentine has in truth let nobody have any rest, either inthe house or the garden, since the first thing in the morning. Therector having some letters to write, has bolted himself into his studyin despair, and defies his excitable friend from that stronghold, untilthe arrival of Mrs. Peckover with the deaf and dumb child has quietedthe painter's fidgety impatience for the striking of twelve o'clock,and the presence of the visitors from the circus. As for the miserableVance, Mr. Blyth has discomposed, worried, and put him out, till helooks suffocated with suppressed indignation. Mr. Blyth has invaded hissanctuary to ask whether the hall clock is right, and has caught him"cleaning himself" in his shirt sleeves. Mr. Blyth has broken one ofhis tumblers, and has mutinously insisted on showing him how to drawthe cork of the cowslip wine bottle. Mr. Blyth has knocked down a forkand two spoons, just as they were laid straight, by whisking past thetable like a madman on his way into the garden. Mr. Blyth has bumped upagainst the housemaid in returning to the dining-room, and hasapologized to Susan by a joke which makes her giggle ecstatically inVance's own face. If this sort of thing is to go on for a day or twolonger, though he has been twenty years at the Rectory, Vance will begoaded into giving the doctor warning.

It is five minutes to twelve.Valentine has skipped into the garden for the thirtieth time at least,to beg that Mrs. Joyce and the young ladies will repair to the dining-room,and be ready to set Mrs. Peckover and her little charge quite attheir ease the moment they come in. Mrs. Joyce consents to thisproposal at last, and takes his offered arm; touching it, however, verygingerly, and looking straight before her, while he talks, with an airof matronly dignity and virtuous reserve. She is still convinced thatMr. Blyth's principles are extremely loose, and treats him as she mighthave treated Don Juan himself under similar circumstances.

They allgo into the dining-room. Mrs. Joyce and her daughters take theirplaces, looking deliciously cool and neat in their bright morningdresses. Leo drops down lazily on the rug inside the window, with athump of his great heavy body that makes the glasses ring. The doctorcomes in with his letters for the post, and apostrophizes Valentinewith a harmless clerical joke. Vance solemnly touches up the alreadyperfect arrangement of the luncheon table. The clock strikes twelve. Afaint meek ring is heard at the Rectory bell.

Vance struts slowly tothe door, when--Heaven and earth! are no conventions held sacred bythese painters of pictures?--Mr. Blyth dashes past him with a shout of"Here they are!" and flies into the hall to answer the gate himself.Vance turns solemnly round towards his master, trembling and purple inthe face, with an appealing expression, which says plainly enough:--"Ifyou mean to stand this sort of outrage, sir, I beg mostrespectfully to inform you that I don't." The rector bursts outlaughing; the young ladies follow his example; the Newfoundland dogjumps up, and joins in with his mighty bark. Mrs. Joyce sits silent,and looks at Vance, and sympathizes with him.

Mr. Blyth is soon heardagain in the hall, talking at a prodigious rate, without one audibleword of answer proceeding from any other voice. The door of thedining-room, which has swung to, is suddenly pushed open, jostling theoutraged Vance, who stands near it, into such a miserably undignifiedposition flat against the wall, that the young ladies begin to titterbehind their handkerchiefs as they look at him. Valentine enters,leading in Mrs. Peckover and the deaf and dumb child, with such an airof supreme happiness, that he looks absolutely handsome for the moment.The rector, who is, in the best and noblest sense of the word, agentleman, receives Mrs. Peckover as politely and cordially as he wouldhave received the best lady in Rubbleford. Mrs. Joyce comes forwardwith him, very kind too, but a little reserved in her manner,nevertheless; being possibly apprehensive that any woman connected withthe circus must be tainted with some slight flavor of Miss FlorindaBeverley. The young ladies drop down into the most charming positionson either side of the child, and fall straightway into fits of ecstasyover her beauty. The dog walks up, and pokes his great honest muzzleamong them companionably. Vance stands rigid against the wall, anddisapproves strongly of the whole proceeding.

Poor Mrs. Peckover! Shehad never been in such a house as the Rectory, she had never spoken toa doctor of divinity before in her life. She was very hot and red andtrembling, and made fearful mistakes in grammar, and clung as shyly toMr. Blyth as if she had been a little girl. The rector soon contrived,however, to settle her comfortably in a seat by the table. Shecurtseyed reverentially to Vance, as she passed by him; doubtless underthe impression that he was a second doctor of divinity, even greaterand more learned than the first. He stared in return straight over herhead, with small unwinking eyes, his cheeks turning slowly from deepred to dense purple. Mrs. Peckover shuddered inwardly, under theconviction that she had insulted a dignitary, who was hoisted up onsome clerical elevation, too tremendous to be curtseyed to by such asocial atom as a clown's wife.

Mrs. Joyce had to call three times toher daughters before she could get them to the luncheon-table. If shehad possessed Valentine's eye for the picturesque and beautiful, shewould certainly have been incapable of disturbing the group which herthird summons broke up.

In the center stood the deaf and dumb child,dressed in a white frock, with a little silk mantilla over it, madefrom a cast-off garment belonging to one of the ladies of the circus.She wore a plain straw hat, ornamented with a morsel of narrow whiteribbon, and tied under the chin with the same material. Her clear,delicate complexion was overspread by a slight rosy tinge--the tendercoloring of nature, instead of the coarsely-glaring rouge with whichthey disfigured her when she appeared before the public. Her wonderingblue eyes, that looked so sad in the piercing gas-light, appeared tohave lost that sadness in the mellow atmosphere of the Rectory dining-room.The tender and touching stillness which her affliction had castover her face, seemed a little at variance with its childish immaturityof feature and roundness of form, but harmonized exquisitely with thequiet smile which seemed habitual to her when she was happy--gratefullyand unrestrainedly happy, as she now felt among the new friends whowere receiving her, not like a stranger and an inferior, but like ayounger sister who had been long absent from them.

She stood near thewindow, the center figure of the group, offering a little slate thathung by her side, with a pencil attached to it, to the rector's eldestdaughter, who was sitting at her right hand on a stool. The second ofthe young ladies knelt on the other side, with both her arms round thedog's neck; holding him back as he stood in front of the child, so asto prevent him from licking her face, which he had made severalresolute attempts to do, from the moment when she first entered theroom. Both the Doctor's daughters were healthy, rosy English beautiesin the first bloom of girlhood; and both were attired in the simplestand prettiest muslin dresses, very delicate in color and pattern. Pityand admiration, mixed with some little perplexity and confusion, gavean unusual animation to their expressions; for they could hardlyaccustom themselves as yet to the idea of the poor child's calamity.They talked to her eagerly, as if she could hear and answer them--whileshe, on her part, stood looking alternately from one to the other,watching their lips and eyes intently, and still holding out the slate,with her innocent gesture of invitation and gentle look of apology, forthe eldest girl to write on. The varying expressions of the three; thedifference in their positions, the charming contrast between theirlight, graceful figures and the bulky strength and grand solidity ofform in the noble Newfoundland dog who stood among them; the lustrousbackground of lawn and flowers and trees, seen through the open window;the sparkling purity of the sunshine which fell brightly over one partof the group; the transparency of the warm shadows that lay socaressingly, sometimes on a round smooth cheek, sometimes over ringletsof glistening hair, sometimes on the crisp folds of a muslin dress--allthese accidental combinations of the moment, these natural and elegantpositions of nature's setting, these accessories of light and shade andbackground garden objects beautifully and tenderly filling up thescene, presented together a picture which it was a luxury to be able tolook on, which it seemed little short of absolute profanation todisturb.

Mrs. Joyce, nevertheless, pitilessly disarranged it. In amoment the living picture was destroyed; the young ladies were calledto their mother's side; the child was placed between Valentine and Mrs.Peckover, and the important business of luncheon began in earnest.

Itwas wonderful to hear how Mr. Blyth talked; how he alternatelyglorified the clown's wife for the punctual performance of her promise,and appealed triumphantly to the rector to say, whether he had notunderrated rather than exaggerated little Mary's beauty. It was alsowonderful to see Mrs. Peckover's blank look of astonishment when shefound the rigid doctor of divinity, who would not so much as notice hercurtsey, suddenly relax into blandly supplying her with everything shewanted to eat or drink. But a very much more remarkable study of humannature than either of these, was afforded by the grimly patronizing andprofoundly puzzled aspect of Vance, as he waited, under protest, upon awoman from a traveling circus. It is something to see the Pope servingthe Pilgrims their dinner, during the Holy Week at Rome. Even thatastounding sight, however, fades into nothing, as compared with thesublimer spectacle of Mr. Vance waiting upon Mrs. Peckover.

Therector, who was a sharp observer in his own quiet, unobtrusive way, wasstruck by two peculiarities in little Mary's behavior during lunch. Inthe first place, he remarked with some interest and astonishment, thatwhile the clown's wife was, not unnaturally, very shy and embarrassedin her present position, among strangers who were greatly her socialsuperiors, little Mary had maintained her self-possession, and hadunconsciously adapted herself to her new sphere from the moment whenshe first entered the dining-room. In the second place, he observedthat she constantly nestled close to Valentine; looked at him oftenerthan she looked at any one else; and seemed to be always trying,sometimes not unsuccessfully, to guess what he was saying to others bywatching his expression, his manner, and the action of his lips. "Thatchild's character is no common one," thought Doctor Joyce; "she isolder at heart than she looks; and is almost as fond of Blyth alreadyas he is of her."

When lunch was over, the eldest Miss Joycewhispered a petition in her mother's ear, "May Carry and I take thedear little girl out with us to see our gardens, mamma?"

"Certainly,my love, if she likes to go. You had better ask her--Ah, dear! dear! Iforgot--I mean, write on her slate. It's so hard to remember she's deafand dumb, when one sees her sitting there looking so pretty and happy.She seems to like the cake. Remind me, Emmy, to tie some up for her inpaper before she goes away."

Miss Emily and Miss Caroline went roundto the child directly, and made signs for the slate. They alternatelywrote on it with immense enthusiasm, until they had filled one side;signing their initials in the most business-like manner at the end ofeach line, thus:--

"Oh, do come and see my gardens. E. J."--"We willgather you such a nice nosegay. C. J."--"I have got some lovely littleguinea-pigs. B. J."--"And Mark, our gardener, has made me a summer-house, with such funny chairs in it. C. J."--"You shall have my parasolto keep the sun off. B. J."--"And we will send Leo into the water asoften as you like him to go. C. J."--Thus they went on till they got tothe bottom of the slate.

The child, after nodding her head andsmiling as she read each fresh invitation, turned the slate over, and,with some little triumph at showing that she could write too, beganslowly to trace some large text letters in extremely crooked lines. Ittook her a long time--especially as Mr. Blyth was breathlessly lookingover her shoulder all the while--to get through these words: "Thank youfor being so kind to me. I will go with you anywhere you like."

In afew minutes more the two young ladies and little Mary were walking overthe bright lawn, with Leo in close attendance, carrying a stick in hismouth.

Valentine started up to follow them; then appeared suddenly toremember something, and sat down again with a very anxious expressionon his face. He and Doctor Joyce looked at one another significantly.Before breakfast, that morning, they had been closeted at a privateinterview. Throughout the conversation which then took place, Mr. Blythhad been unusually quiet, and very much in earnest. The doctor hadbegun by being incredulous and sarcastic in a good-humored way; but hadended by speaking seriously, and making a promise under certainconditions. The time for the performance of that promise had nowarrived.

"You needn't wait, Vance," said the rector. "Never mindabout taking the things away. I'll ring when you're wanted."

Vancegloomily departed.

"Now the young people have left us, Mrs.Peckover," said Doctor Joyce, turning to the clown's wife, "there is agood opportunity for my making a proposition to you, on behalf of myold and dear friend here, Mr. Blyth, who, as you must have noticed,feels great sympathy and fondness for your little Mary. But, before Imention this proposal (which I am sure you will receive in the bestspirit, however it may surprise you), I should wish--we should allwish, if you have no objection--to hear any particulars you can give uson the subject of this poor child. Do you feel any reluctance to tellus in confidence whatever you know about her?"

"Oh dear no, sir!"exclaimed Mrs. Peckover, very much amazed. "I should be ashamed ofmyself if I went making any objections to anything you wanted to knowabout little Mary. But it's strange to me to be in a beautiful placelike this, drinking wine with gentlefolks--and I'm almost afraid--"

"Not afraid, I hope, that you can't tell us what we are so anxious toknow, quite at your ease, and in your own way?" said the rector,pleasantly. "Pray, Mrs. Peckover, believe I am sincere in saying thatwe meet on equal terms here. I have heard from Mr. Blyth of yourmotherly kindness to that poor helpless child; and I am indeed proud totake your hand, and happy to see you here, as one who should always bean honored guest in a clergyman's house--the doer of a good andcharitable deed. I have always, I hope, valued the station to which ithas pleased God to call me, because it especially offers me theprivilege of being the friend of all my fellow-christians, whetherricher or poorer, higher or lower in worldly rank, than am myself."

Mrs. Peckover's eyes began to fill. She could have worshipped DoctorJoyce at that moment.

"Mr. Blyth!" exclaimed Mrs. Joyce, sharply,before another word could be spoken--"excuse me, Mr. Blyth; butreally--"

Valentine was trying to pour out a glass of sherry for Mrs.Peckover. His admiration of the doctor's last speech, and his extremeanxiety to reassure the clown's wife, must have interfered with hisprecision of eye and hand; for one-half of the wine, as he held thedecanter, was dropping into the glass, and the other half was dribblinginto a little river on the cloth. Mrs. Joyce thought of the walnut-woodtable underneath, and felt half distracted as she spoke. Mrs. Peckover,delighted to be of some use, forgot her company manners in an instant,pulled out her red cotton pocket-handkerchief and darted at the spiltsherry. But the rector was even quicker with his napkin. Mrs. Peckover'scheeks turned the color of her handkerchief as she put it back in herpocket, and sat down again.

"Much obliged--no harm done--muchobliged, ma'am," said Doctor Joyce. "Now, Valentine, if you don'tleave off apologizing, and sit down directly in that arm-chair againstthe wall, I shall take Mrs. Peckover into my study, and hear everythingshe has to say, at a private interview. There! we are all comfortableand composed again at last, and ready to be told how little Mary andthe good friend who has been like a mother to her first met."

Thusappealed to, Mrs. Peckover began her narrative; sometimes addressing itto the Doctor, sometimes to Mrs. Joyce, and sometimes to Valentine.From beginning to end, she was only interrupted at rare intervals by aword of encouragement, or sympathy, or surprise, from her audience.Even Mr. Blyth sat most uncharacteristically still and silent; hisexpression alone showing the varying influences of the story on him,from its strange commencement to its melancholy close.

"It'sbetter than ten years ago, sir," began the clown's wife, speaking firstto Doctor Joyce, "since my little Tommy was born; he being now, if youplease, at school and costing nothing, through a presentation, as theycall it I think, which was given us by a kind patron to my husband.Some time after I had got well over my confinement, I was out oneafternoon taking a walk with baby and Jemmy; which last is my husband,ma'am. We were at Bangbury, then, just putting up the circus: it was afine large neighborhood, and we hoped to do good business there. Jemmyand me and the baby went out into the fields, and enjoyed ourselvesvery much; it being such nice warm spring weather, though it was Marchat the time. We came back to Bangbury by the road; and just as we gotnear the town, we see a young woman sitting on the bank, and holdingher baby in her arms, just as I had got my baby in mine.

"'Howdreadful ill and weak she do look, don't she?' says Emmy. Before Icould say as much as 'Yes,' she stares up at us, and asks in a wildvoice, though it wasn't very loud either, if we can tell her the way toBangbury workhouse. Having pretty sharp eyes of our own, we both of usknew that a workhouse was no fit place for her. Her gown was verydusty, and one of her boots was burst, and her hair was draggled allover her face, and her eyes was sunk in her head, like; but we sawsomehow that she was a lady--or, if she wasn't exactly a lady, that noworkhouse was proper for her, at any rate. I stooped down to speak toher; but her baby was crying so dreadful she could hardly hear me. 'Isthe poor thing ill?' says I. 'Starving,' says she, in such a desperate,fierce way, that it gave me a turn. 'Is that your child?' says I, a bitfrightened about how she'd answer me. 'Yes,' she says in quite a newvoice, very soft and sorrowful, and bending her face away from me overthe child. 'Then why don't you suckle it?' says I. She looks up at me,and then at Jenny and shakes her head, and says nothing. I give my babyto Jemmy to hold, and went and sat down by her. He walked away alittle; and I whispered to her again, 'Why don't you suckle it?' andshe whispered to me, 'My milk's all dried up. I couldn't wait to hearno more till I'd got her baby at my own breast.

"That was the firsttime I suckled little Mary, ma'am. She wasn't a month old then, and oh,so weak and small! such a mite of a baby compared to mine!

"You maybe sure, sir, that I asked the young woman lots of questions, while Iwas sitting side by side with her. She stared at me with a dazed lookin her face, seemingly quite stupefied by weariness or grief, or bothtogether. Sometimes she give me an answer and sometimes she wouldn't.She was very secret. She wouldn't say where she come from, or who herfriends were, or what her name was. She said she should never have nameor home or friends again. I just quietly stole a look down at her lefthand, and saw that there was no wedding-ring on her finger, and guessedwhat she meant. 'Does the father know you are wandering about in thisway?' says I. She flushes up directly; 'No;' says she, 'he doesn't knowwhere I am. He never had any love for me, and he has no pity for menow. God's curse on him wherever he goes!'--'Oh, hush! hush!' says I,'don't talk like that!' 'Why do you ask me questions?' says she morefiercely than ever. 'What business have you to ask me questions thatmake me mad?' 'I've only got one more to bother you with,' says I,quite cool; 'and that is, haven't you got any money at all with you?'You see, ma'am, now I'd got her child at my own bosom, I didn't carefor what she said, or fear for what she might do to me. The poor miteof a baby was sure to be a peacemaker between us, sooner or later.

"It turned out she'd got sixpence and a few half-pence--not a farthingmore, and too proud to ask help from any one of her friends. I managedto worm out of her that she had run away from home before herconfinement, and had gone to some strange place to be confined, wherethey'd ill-treated and robbed her. She hadn't long got away from thewretches who'd done it. By the time I'd found out all this, her babywas quite quiet, and ready to go to sleep. I gave it her back. She saidnothing, but took and kissed my hand, her lips feeling like burningcoals on my flesh. 'You're kindly welcome,' says I, a little flusteredat such a queer way of thanking me. 'Just wait a bit while I speak tomy husband.' Though she'd been and done wrong, I couldn't for the lifeof me help pitying her, for her fierce ways. She was so young, and soforlorn and ill, and had such a beautiful face (little Mary's is theimage of it, 'specially about the eyes), and seemed so like a lady,that it was almost a sin, as I thought, to send her to such a place asa workhouse.

"Well: I went and told Jemmy all I had got out of her--myown baby kicking and crowing in my arms again, as happy as a king,all the time I was speaking. 'It seems shocking,' says I, 'to let suchas her go into a workhouse. What had we better do?'--Says Jemmy, 'Let'stake her with us to the circus and ask Peggy Burke.'

"Peggy Burke, ifyou please, sir, was the finest rider that ever stepped on a horse'sback. We've had nothing in our circus to come near her, since she wentto Astley's. She was the wildest devil of an Irish girl--oh! I humblybeg your pardon, sir, for saying such a word; but she really wasso wild, I hope you'll excuse it. She'd go through fire and water, asthey say, to serve people she liked; but as for them she didn't, she'doften use her riding-whip among 'em as free as her tongue. Thatcowardly brute Jubber would never have beaten my little Mary, if Peggyhad been with us still! He was so frightened of her that she couldtwist him round her finger; and she did, for he dursn't quarrel withthe best rider in England, and let other circuses get hold of her.Peggy was a wonderful sharp girl besides, and was always fond of me,and took my part; so when Jemmy said he thought it best to ask her whatwe had better do, you may be sure that I thought it best too. We tookthe young woman and the baby with us to the circus at once. She neverasked any questions; she didn't seem to care where she went, or whatshe did; she was dazed and desperate--a sight, Ma'am, to make yourheart ache.

"They were just getting tea in the circus, which wasnearly finished. We mostly have tea and dinner there, sir; finding itcome cheaper in the end to mess together when we can. Peggy Burke, Iremember, was walking about on the grass outside, whistling (that wasone of her queer ways) 'The girl I left behind me.' 'Ah! Peck,' saysshe, 'what have you been after now? Who's the company lady ye'vebrought to tea with us?' I told her, sir, all I have told you; whileJemmy set the young woman down on one of our trunks, and got her a cupof tea. 'It seems dreadful,' says I when I'd done, 'to send such as herto the workhouse, don't it?' 'Workhouse!' says Peggy, firing updirectly; 'I only wish we could catch the man who's got her in thatscrape, and put him in there on water-gruel for the rest of his life.I'd give a shillin' a wheal out of my own pocket for the blessedprivilege of scoring the thief's face with my whip, till his own motherwouldn't know him!' And then she went on, sir, abusing all the men inher Irish way, which I can't repeat. At last she stops, and claps me onthe back. 'You're a darlin' old girl, Peck!' says she, 'and yourfriends are my friends. Stop where you are, and let me speak a word tothe young woman on the trunk.'

"After a little while she comes back,and says, 'I've done it, Peck! She's mighty close, and as proud asLucifer; but she's only a dressmaker, for all that.' 'A dressmaker!'says I; 'how did you find out she was a dressmaker?' 'Why, I looked ather forefinger, in course,' says Peggy, 'and saw the pricks of theneedle on it, and soon made her talk a bit after that. She knows fancy-workand cuttin' out--would ye ever have thought it? And I'll show herhow to give the workhouse the go-by to-morrow, if she only holds out,and keeps in her senses. Stop where you are, Peck! I'm going to makeJubber put his dirty hand into his pocket and pull out some money; andthat's a sight worth stoppin' to see any day in the week.'

"I waitedas she told me; and she called for Jubber, just as if he'd been herservant; and he come out of the circus. 'I want ten shillings advanceof wages for that lady on the trunk,' says Peggy. He laughed at her.'Show your ugly teeth at me again,' says she, 'and I'll box your ears.I've my light hand for a horse's mouth, and my heavy hand for a man'scheek; you ought to know that by this time! Pull out the tenshillings.' 'What for?' said he, frowning at her. 'Just this,' saysshe. 'I mean to leave your circus, unless I get those six characterdresses you promised me; and the lady there can do them up beautiful.Pull out the ten shillings! for I've made up my mind to appear beforethe Bangbury public on Garryowen's back, as six women at once.'

"Whatshe meant by this, sir, was, that she was to have six different dresseson, one over another; and was to go galloping round the ring onGarryowen (which was a horse), beginning, I think it was, as Empress ofRoossia; and then throwing off the top dress without the horsestopping, and showing next as some famous Frenchwoman, in the dressunderneath; and keeping on so with different nations, till she got downto the last dress, which was to be Britannia and the Union-Jack. We'dgot bits of remnants, and old dresses and things to make and alter, buthadn't anybody clever enough at cutting out, and what they call'Costoom,' to do what Peggy wanted--Jubber being too stingy to pay theregular people who understand such things. The young woman, knowing asshe did about fancy work, was just what was wanted, if she could onlyget well enough to use her needle. 'I'll see she works the money out,'says Peggy; 'but she's dead beat to-night, and must have her rest andbit o' supper, before she begins to-morrow.' Jubber wanted to give lessthan ten shillings; but between threatening, and saying it should buytwenty shillings' worth of tailor's work, she got the better of him.And he gave the money, sulky enough.

"'Now,' says Peggy, 'you takeher away, and get her a lodging in the place where you're staying; andI'll come tomorrow with some of the things to make up.' But, ah dearme! sir, she was never to work as much as sixpence of that tenshillings out. She was took bad in the night, and got so much worse inthe morning that we had to send for the doctor.

"As soon as he'd seenher, he takes me into the passage, and says he to me, 'Do you know whoher friends are?' 'No, sir,' says I; 'I can't get her to tell me. Ionly met her by accident yesterday.' 'Try and find out again,' says he;'for I'm afraid she won't live over the night. I'll come back in theevening and see if there is any change.'

"Peggy and me went into herroom together; but we couldn't even get her to speak to us for ever solong a time. All at once she cries out, 'I can't see things as I ought.Where's the woman who suckled my baby when I was alone by theroadside?' 'Here,' says I--'here; I've got hold of your hand. Do tellus where we can write to about you.' 'Will you promise to take care ofmy baby, and not let it go into the workhouse?' says she. 'Yes, Ipromise,' says I; 'I do indeed promise with my whole heart.' 'We'll alltake care of the baby,' says Peggy; 'only you try and cheer up, andyou'll get well enough to see me on Garryowen's back, before we leaveBangbury--you will for certain, if you cheer up a bit.' 'I give mybaby,' she says, clutching tight at my hand, 'to the woman who suckledit by the roadside; and I pray God to bless her and forgive me, for Jesus Christ's sake.' After that, she lay quiet for aminute or two. Then she says faintly, 'Its name's to be Mary. Put itinto bed to me again; I should like to touch its cheek, and feel howsoft and warm it is once more.' And I took the baby out of its crib,and lifted it, asleep as it was, into the bed by her side, and guidedher hand up to its cheek. I saw her lips move a little, and bent downover her. 'Give me one kiss,' she whispered, 'before I die.' And Ikissed her, and tried to stop crying as I did it. Then I says to Peggy,'You wait here while I run and fetch the doctor back; for I'm afraidshe's going fast.' He wasn't at home when I got to his house. I did'n'tknow what to do next, when I see a gentleman in the street who lookedlike a clergyman, and I asked him if he was one; and he said 'Yes;' andhe went back with me. I heard a low wailing and crying in the room, andsaw Peggy sitting on the bundle of dresses she'd brought in themorning, rocking herself backwards and forwards as Irish people alwaysdo when they're crying. I went to the bed, and looked through thecurtains. The baby was still sleeping as pretty as ever, and itsmother's hand was touching one of its arms. I was just going to speakto her again, when the clergyman said 'Hush,' and took a bit oflooking-glass that was set up on the chimney-piece, and held it overher lips. She was gone. Her poor white wasted hand lay dead on theliving baby's arm.

"I answered all the clergyman's questions quitestraightforward, telling him everything I knew from beginning to end.When I'd done, Peggy starts up from the bundle and says, 'Mind, sir,whatever you do, the child's not to be took away from this person here,and sent to the workhouse. The mother give it to her on that very bed,and I'm a witness of it.' 'And I promised to be a mother to the baby,sir,' says I. He turns round to me, and praises me for what I done, andsays nobody shall take it away from me, unless them as can show theirright comes forward to claim it. 'But now,' says he, 'we must think ofother things. We must try and find out something about this poor womanwho has died in such a melancholy way.'

"It was easier to say thatthan to do it. The poor thing had nothing with her but a change oflinen for herself and the child, and that gave us no clue. Then wesearched her pocket. There was a cambric handkerchief in it, marked 'M.G.;' and some bits of rusks to sop for the child; and the sixpence andhalfpence which she had when I met her; and beneath all, in a corner,as if it had been forgotten there, a small hair bracelet. It was madeof two kinds of hair--very little of one kind, and a good deal of theother. And on the flat clasp of the bracelet there was cut in tinyletters, 'In memory of S. G.' I remember all this, sir, for I'veoften and often looked at the bracelet since that time.

"We foundnothing more--no letters, or cards, or anything. The clergyman saidthat the 'M. G.' on the handkerchief must be the initials of her name;and the 'S. G.' on the bracelet must mean, he thought, some relationwhose hair she wore as a sort of keepsake. I remember Peggy and mewondering which was S. G.'s hair; and who the other person might be,whose hair was wove into the bracelet. But the clergyman he soon cut usshort by asking for pen, ink, and paper directly. 'I'm going to writeout an advertisement,' says he, 'saying how you met with the youngwoman, and what she was like, and how she was dressed.' 'Do you mean tosay anything about the baby, sir?' says I. 'Certainly,' says he; 'it'sonly right, if we get at her friends by advertising, to give them thechance of doing something for the child. And if they live anywhere incounty, I believe we shall find them out; for the BangburyChronicle, into which I mean to put the advertisement, goeseverywhere in our part of England.'

"So he sits down, and writes whathe said he would, and takes it away to be printed in the next day'snumber of the newspaper. 'If nothing comes of this,' says he, 'I thinkI can manage about the burial with a charitable society here. I'll takecare and inform you the moment the advertisement's answered.' I hardlyknow how it was, sir; but I almost hoped they wouldn't answer it.Having suckled the baby myself, and kissed its mother before she died,I couldn't make up my mind to the chance of its being took away from mejust then. I ought to have thought how poor we were, and how hard itwould be for us to bring the child up. But, somehow, I never did thinkof that--no more did Peggy--no more did Jemmy; not even when we put thebaby to bed that night along with our own.

"Well, sir, sure enough,two days after the advertisement come out, it was answered in thecruelest letter I ever set eyes on. The clergyman he come to me withit. 'It was left this evening,' says he, 'by a strange messenger, whowent away directly. I told my servant to follow him; but it was toolate--he was out of sight.' The letter was very short, and we thoughtit was in a woman's handwriting--a feigned handwriting, the clergymansaid. There was no name signed, and no date at top or bottom. Inside itthere was a ten-pound bank-note; and the person as sent it wrote thatit was enclosed to bury the young woman decently. 'She was better deadthan alive'--the letter went on--'after having disgraced her father andher relations. As for the child, it was the child of sin, and had noclaim on people who desired to preserve all that was left of their goodname, and to set a moral example to others. The parish must support itif nobody else would. It would be useless to attempt to trace them, orto advertise again. The baby's father had disappeared, they didn't knowwhere; and they could hold no communication now with such a monster ofwickedness, even if he was found. She was dead in her shame and hersin; and her name should never be mentioned among them she belonged tohenceforth for ever.'

"This was what I remember in the letter, sir. Ashocking and unchristian letter I said; and the clergyman he said sotoo.

"She was buried in the poor corner of the churchyard. Theymarked out the place, in case anybody should ever want to see it, bycutting the two letters M. G., and the date of when she died, upon aboard of wood at the head of the grave. The clergyman then give me thehair bracelet and the handkerchief, and said, 'You keep these ascareful as you keep the child; for they may be of great importance oneof these days. I shall seal up the letter (which is addressed to me)and put it in my strong box.' He'd asked me, before this, if I'dthought of what a responsibility it was for such as me to provide forthe baby. And I told him I'd promised, and would keep my promise, andtrust to God's providence for the rest. The clergyman was a very kindgentleman, and got up a subscription for the poor babe; and PeggyBurke, when she had her benefit before the circus left Bangbury, givehalf of what she got as her subscription. I never heard nothing aboutthe child's friends from that time to this; and I know no more who itsfather is now than I did then. And glad I am that he's never comeforward--though, perhaps, I oughtn't to say so. I keep the hairbracelet and the handkerchief as careful as the clergyman told me, forthe mother's sake as well as the child's. I've known some sorrow withher since I took her as my own; but I love her only the dearer for it,and still think the day a happy day for both of us, when I firststopped and suckled her by the road-side.

"This is all I have to say,if you please, sir, about how I first met with little Mary; and I wishI could have told it in a way that was more fit for such as you tohear."

Asthe clown's wife ended her narrative, but little was said in the way ofcomment on it by those who had listened to her. They were too muchaffected by what they had heard to speak, as yet, except briefly and inlow voices. Mrs. Joyce more than once raised her handkerchief to hereyes. Her husband murmured some cordial words of sympathy and thanks--inan unusually subdued manner, however. Valentine said nothing; but hedrew his chair close to Mrs. Peckover, and turning his face away as ifhe did not wish it to be seen, took her hand in one of his and pattedit gently with the other. There was now perfect silence in the room fora few minutes. Then they all looked out with one accord, and as itseemed with one feeling, towards the garden.

In a shady place, justvisible among the trees, the rector's daughters, and little Mary, andthe great Newfoundland dog were all sitting together on the grass. Thetwo young ladies appeared to be fastening a garland of flowers roundthe child's neck, while she was playfully offering a nosegay for Leo tosmell at. The sight was homely and simple enough; but it was full ofthe tenderest interest--after the narrative which had just engagedthem--to those who now witnessed it. They looked out on the gardenscene silently for some little time. Mrs. Joyce was the first to speakagain.

"Would it be asking too much of you, Mrs. Peckover," said she,"to inquire how the poor little thing really met with the accident thatcaused her misfortune? I know there is an account of it in the bills ofthe circus but--"

"It's the most infamous thing I ever read!"interrupted Mr. Blyth indignantly. "The man who wrote it ought to beput in the pillory. I never remember wanting to throw a rotten egg atany of my fellow-creatures before; but I feel certain that I shouldenjoy having a shy at Mr. Jubber!"

"Gently, Valentine--gently,"interposed the rector. "I think, my love," he continued, turning toMrs. Joyce, "that it is hardly considerate to Mrs. Peckover to expecther to comply with your request. She has already sacrificed herselfonce to our curiosity; and, really, to ask her now to recur a secondtime to recollections which I am sure must distress her--"

"It'sworse than distressing, indeed, sir, even to think of that dreadfulaccident," said Mrs. Peckover, "and specially as I can't help takingsome blame to myself for it. But if the lady wishes to know how ithappened, I'm sure I'm agreeable to tell her. People in our way oflife, ma'am--as I've often heard Peggy Burke say--are obliged to drythe tear at their eyes long before it's gone from their hearts. Butpray don't think, sir, I mean that now about myself and in yourcompany. If I do feel low at talking of little Mary'smisfortune, I can take a look out into the garden there, and see howhappy she is--and that's safe to set me right again."

"I ought totell you first, sir," proceeded the clown's wife, after waitingthoughtfully for a moment or two before she spoke again, "that I got onmuch better with little Mary than ever I thought I should for the firstsix years of her life. She grew up so pretty that gentlefolks wasalways noticing her, and asking about her; and nearly in every placethe circus went to they made her presents, which helped nicely in herkeep and clothing. And our own people, too, petted her and were fond ofher. All those six years we got on as pleasantly as could be. It wasnot till she was near her seventh birthday that I was wicked andfoolish enough to consent to her being shown in the performances.

"Iwas sorely tried and tempted before I did consent. Jubber first said hewanted her to perform with the riders; and I said 'No' at once, thoughI was awful frightened of him in those days. But soon after, Jemmy (whowasn't the clown then that he is now, sir; there was others to be gotfor his money, to do what he did at that time)--Jemmy comes to me,saying he's afraid he shall lose his place, if I don't give in aboutMary. This staggered me a good deal; for I don't know what we shouldhave done then, if my husband had lost his engagement. And, besides,there was the poor dear child herself, who was mad to be carried up inthe air on horseback, always begging and praying to be made a littlerider of. And all the rest of 'em in the circus worried and laughed atme; and, in short, I give in at last against my conscience, but Icouldn't help it.

"I made a bargain, though, that she should only betrusted to the steadiest, soberest man, and the best rider of the wholelot. They called him 'Muley' in the bills, and stained his face to makehim look like a Turk, or something of that sort; but his real name wasFrancis Yapp, and a very good fatherly sort of man he was in his way,having a family of his own to look after. He used to ride splendid, atfull straddle, with three horses under him--one foot, you know, sir,being on the outer horse's back, and one foot on the inner. Him andJubber made it out together that he was to act a wild man, flying forhis life across some desert, with his only child, and poor little Marywas to be the child. They darkened her face to look like his; and putan outlandish kind of white dress on her; and buckled a red belt roundher waist, with a sort of handle in it for Yapp to hold her by. Afterfirst making believe in all sorts of ways, that him and the child wasin danger of being taken and shot, he had to make believe afterwardsthat they had escaped; and to hold her up, in a sort of triumph, at thefull stretch of his arm--galloping round and round the ring all thewhile. He was a tremendous strong man, and could do it as easy as Icould hold up a bit of that plum cake.

"Poor little love! she soongot over the first fright of the thing, and had a sort of mad fondnessfor it that I never liked to see, for it wasn't natural to her. Yapp,he said, she'd got the heart of a lion, and would grow up the finestwoman-rider in the world. I was very unhappy about it, and lived amiserable life, always fearing some accident. But for some time nothingnear an accident happened; and lots of money come into the circus tosee Yapp and little Mary--but that was Jubber's luck and not ours. Onenight--when she was a little better than seven year old--

"Oh, ma'am,how I ever lived over that dreadful night I don't know! I was a sinful,miserable wretch not to have starved sooner than let the child go intodanger; but I was so sorely tempted and driven to it, God knows!--No,sir! no, ma'am; and many thanks for your kindness, I'll go on now I'vebegun. Don't mind me crying; I'll manage to tell it somehow. Thestrap--no, I mean the handle; the handle in the strap gave way all of asudden--just at the last too! just at the worst time, when he couldn'tcatch her!--

"Never--oh, never, never, to my dying day shall I forgetthe horrible screech that went up from the whole audience; and thesight of the white thing lying huddled dead-still on the boards! Wehadn't such a number in as usual that night; and she fell on an emptyplace between the benches. I got knocked down by the horses in runningto her--I was clean out of my senses, and didn't know where I wasgoing--Yapp had fallen among them, and hurt himself badly, trying tocatch her--they were running wild in the ring--the horses was--frantic-likewith the noise all round them. I got up somehow, and a crowd ofpeople jostled me, and I saw my innocent darling carried among them. Ifelt hands on me, trying to pull me back; but I broke away, and gotinto the waiting-room along with the rest.

"There she was--my own, ownlittle Mary, that I'd promised her poor mother to take care of--thereshe was, lying all white and still on an old box, with my cloakrolled up as a pillow for her. And people crowding round her. And adoctor feeling her head all over. And Yapp among them, held up by twomen, with his face all over blood. I wasn't able to speak or move; Ididn't feel as if I was breathing even, till the doctor stopped, andlooked up; and then a great shudder went through all of us together, asif we'd been one body, instead of twenty or more.

"'It's not killedher,' says the doctor. 'Her brain's escaped injury.'

"I didn't hearanother word.

"I don't know how long it was before I seemed to wakeup like, with a dreadful feeling of pain and tearing of everythinginside me. I was on the landlady's bed, and Jemmy was standing over mewith a bottle of salts. 'They've put her to bed,' he says to me, 'andthe doctor's setting her arm.' I didn't recollect at first; but when Idid, it was almost as bad as seeing the dreadful accident all overagain.

"It was some time before any of us found out what had reallyhappened. The breaking of her arm, the doctor said, had saved her head;which was only cut and bruised a little, not half as bad as was feared.Day after day, and night after night, I sat by her bedside, comfortingher through her fever, and the pain of the splints on her arm, andnever once suspecting--no more, I believe, than she did--the awfulmisfortune that had really happened. She was always wonderful quiet andsilent for a child, poor lamb, in little illnesses that she'd hadbefore; and somehow, I didn't wonder--at least, at first--why she neversaid a word, and never answered me when I spoke to her.

"This wenton, though, after she got better in her health; and a strange look cameover her eyes. They seemed to be always wondering and frightened, in aconfused way, about something or other. She took, too, to rolling herhead about restlessly from one side of the pillow to the other; makinga sort of muttering and humming now and then, but still never seemingto notice or to care for anything I said to her. One day, I was warmingher a nice cup of beef-tea over the fire, when I heard, quite suddenand quite plain, these words from where she lay on the bed, 'Why areyou always so quiet here? Why doesn't somebody speak to me?'

"I knewthere wasn't another soul in the room but the poor child at that time;and yet, the voice as spoke those words was no more like little Mary'svoice, than my voice, sir, is like yours. It sounded, somehow, hoarseand low, and deep and faint, all at the same time; the strangest,shockingest voice to come from a child, who always used to speak soclearly and prettily before, that ever I heard. If I was only clevererwith my words, ma'am, and could tell you about it properly--but Ican't. I only know it gave me such a turn to hear her, that I upset thebeef-tea, and ran back in a fright to the bed. 'Why, Mary! Mary!' saysI, quite loud, 'are you so well already that you're trying to imitateMr. Jubber's gruff voice?'

"There was the same wondering look in hereyes--only wilder than I had ever seen it yet--while I was speaking.When I'd done, she says in the same strange way, 'Speak out, mother; Ican't hear you when you whisper like that.' She was as long sayingthese words, and bungled over them as much, as if she was only justlearning to speak. I think I got the first suspicion then, of what hadreally happened. 'Mary!' I bawled out as loud as I could, 'Mary! can'tyou hear me?' She shook her head, and stared up at me with thefrightened, bewildered look again: then seemed to get pettish andimpatient all of a sudden--the first time I ever saw her so--and hidher face from me on the pillow.

"Just then the doctor come in. 'Oh,sir!' says I, whispering to him--just as if I hadn't found out a minuteago that she couldn't hear me at the top of my voice--'I'm afraidthere's something gone wrong with her hearing--.' 'Have you only justnow suspected that?' says he; 'I've been afraid of it for some dayspast, but I thought it best to say nothing till I'd tried her; andshe's hardly well enough yet, poor child, to be worried withexperiments on her ears.' 'She's much better,' says I; 'indeed, she'smuch better to-day, sir! Oh, do try her now, for it's so dreadful to bein doubt a moment longer than we can help.'

"He went up to thebedside, and I followed him. She was lying with her face hidden awayfrom us on the pillow, just as it was when I left her. The doctor saysto me, 'Don't disturb her, don't let her look round, so that she cansee us--I'm going to call to her.' And he called 'Mary' out loud,twice; and she never moved. The third time he tried her, it was withsuch a shout at the top of his voice, that the landlady come up,thinking something had happened. I was looking over his shoulder, andsaw that my dear child never started in the least. 'Poor little thing,'says the doctor, quite sorrowful, 'this is worse than I expected.' Hestooped down and touched her, as he said this; and she turned rounddirectly, and put out her hand to have her pulse felt as usual. I triedto get out of her sight, for I was crying, and didn't wish her to seeit; but she was too sharp for me. She looked hard in my face and thelandlady's, then in the doctor's, which was downcast enough; for he hadgot very fond of her, just as everybody else did who saw much of littleMary.

"'What's the matter?' she says, in the same sort of strangeunnatural voice again. We tried to pacify her, but only made her worse.'Why do you keep on whispering?' she asks. 'Why don't you speak outloud, so that I can--,' and then she stopped, seemingly in a sort ofhelpless fright and bewilderment. She tried to get up in bed, and herface turned red all over. 'Can she read writing?' says the doctor. 'Oh,yes, sir, says I; 'she can read and write beautiful for a child of herage; my husband taught her.' 'Get me paper and pen and ink directly,'says he to the landlady; who went at once and got him what he wanted.'We must quiet her at all hazards,' says the doctor, 'or she'll exciteherself into another attack of fever. She feels what's the matter withher, but don't understand it; and I'm going to tell her by means ofthis paper. It's a risk,' he says, writing down on the paper in largeletters, You Are Deaf; 'but I must try all I can do for her earsimmediately; and this will prepare her,' says he, going to the bed, andholding the paper before her eyes.

"She shrank back on the pillow, asstill as death, the instant she saw it; but didn't cry, and looked morepuzzled and astonished, I should say, than distressed. But she wasbreathing dreadful quick--I felt that, as I stooped down and kissedher. 'She's too young,' says the doctor, 'to know what the extent ofher calamity really is. You stop here and keep her quiet till I comeback, for I trust the case is not hopeless yet.' 'But whatever has madeher deaf, sir?' says the landlady, opening the door for him. 'The shockof that fall in the circus,' says he, going out in a very great hurry.I thought I should never have held up my head again, as I heard themwords, looking at little Mary, with my arm round her neck all the time.

"Well, sir, the doctor come back; and he syringed her ears first--andthat did no good. Then he tried blistering, and then he put onleeches; and still it was no use. 'I'm afraid it is a hopeless case,'says he; 'but there's a doctor who's had more practice than I've hadwith deaf people, who comes from where he lives to our Dispensary oncea week. To-morrow's his day, and I'll bring him here with me.'

"Andhe did bring this gentleman, as he promised he would--an old gentleman,with such a pleasant way of speaking that I understood everything hesaid to me directly. 'I'm afraid you must make up your mind to theworst,' says he. 'I have been hearing about the poor child from myfriend who's attended her; and I'm sorry to say I don't think there'smuch hope.' Then he goes to the bed and looks at her. 'Ah,' says he,'there's just the same expression in her face that I remember seeing ina mason's boy--a patient of mine--who fell off a ladder, and lost hishearing altogether by the shock. You don't hear what I'm saying, doyou, my dear?' says he in a hearty cheerful way. 'You don't hear mesaying that you're the prettiest little girl I ever saw in my life?'She looked up at him confused, and quite silent. He didn't speak to heragain, but told me to turn her on the bed, so that he could get at oneof her ears.

"He pulled out some instruments, while I did what heasked, and put them into her ear, but so tenderly that he never hurther. Then he looked in, through a sort of queer spy-glass thing. Thenhe did it all over again with the other ear; and then he laid down theinstruments and pulled out his watch. 'Write on a piece of paper,' sayshe to the other doctor: 'Do you know that the watch is ticking?'When this was done, he makes signs to little Mary to open her mouth,and puts as much of his watch in as would go between her teeth, whilethe other doctor holds up the paper before her. When he took the watchout again, she shook her head, and said 'No,' just in the same strangevoice as ever. The old gentleman didn't speak a word as he put thewatch back in his fob; but I saw by his face that he thought it was allover with her hearing, after what had just happened.

"'Oh, try and dosomething for her, sir!' says I. 'Oh, for God's sake, don't give herup, sir!' 'My good soul,' says he, 'you must set her an example ofcheerfulness, and keep up her spirits--that's all that can be done forher now.' 'Not all, sir,' says I, 'surely not all!''Indeed it is,' says he; 'her hearing is completely gone; theexperiment with my watch proves it. I had an exactly similar case withthe mason's boy,' he says, turning to the other doctor. 'The shock ofthat fall has, I believe, paralyzed the auditory nerve in her, as itdid in him.' I remember those words exactly, sir, though I didn't quiteunderstand them at the time. But he explained himself to me verykindly; telling me over again, in a plain way, what he'd just told thedoctor. He reminded me, too, that the remedies which had been alreadytried had been of no use; and told me I might feel sure that any otherswould only end in the same way, and put her to useless pain into thebargain. 'I hope,' says he, 'the poor child is too young to suffer muchmental misery under her dreadful misfortune. Keep her amused, and keepher talking, if you possibly can--though I doubt very much whether, ina little time, you won't fail completely in getting her to speak atall.'

"'Don't say that, sir,' says I; 'don't say she'll be dumb aswell as deaf; it's enough to break one's heart only to think of it.''But I must say so,' says he; 'for I'm afraid it's the truth.'And then he asks me whether I hadn't noticed already that she wasunwilling to speak; and that, when she did speak, her voice wasn't thesame voice it used to be. I said 'Yes,' to that; and asked him whetherthe fall had had anything to do with it. He said, taking me up veryshort, it had everything to do with it, because the fall had made her,what they call, stone deaf, which prevented her from hearing the soundof her own voice. So it was changed, he told me, because she had no earnow to guide herself by in speaking, and couldn't know in the leastwhether the few words she said were spoken soft or loud, or deep orclear. 'So far as the poor child herself is concerned,' says he, 'shemight as well be without a voice at all; for she has nothing but hermemory left to tell her that she has one.'

"I burst out a-crying ashe said this; for somehow I'd never thought of anything so dreadfulbefore. 'I've been a little too sudden in telling you the worst,haven't I?' says the old gentleman kindly; 'but you must be taught howto make up your mind to meet the full extent of this misfortune for thesake of the child, whose future comfort and happiness depend greatly onyou.' And then he bid me keep up her reading and writing, and force herto use her voice as much as I could, by every means in my power. Hetold me I should find her grow more and more unwilling to speak everyday, just for the shocking reason that she couldn't hear a single wordshe said, or a single tone of her own voice. He warned me that she wasalready losing the wish and the want to speak; and that it would verysoon be little short of absolute pain to her to be made to say even afew words; but he begged and prayed me not to let my good nature getthe better of my prudence on that account, and not to humor her,however I might feel tempted to do so--for if I did, she would be dumbas well as deaf most certainly. He told me my own common sense wouldshow me the reason why; but I suppose I was too distressed or toostupid to understand things as I ought. He had to explain it to me inso many words, that if she wasn't constantly exercised in speaking, shewould lose her power of speech altogether, for want of practice--justthe same as if she'd been born dumb. 'So, once again,' says he, 'mindyou make her use her voice. Don't give her her dinner, unless she asksfor it. Treat her severely in that way, poor little soul, because it'sfor her own good.'

"It was all very well for him to say that,but it was impossible for me to do it. The dear child, ma'am,seemed to get used to her misfortune, except when we tried to make herspeak. It was the saddest, prettiest sight in the world to see howpatiently and bravely she bore with her hard lot from the first. As shegrew better in her health, she kept up her reading and writing quitecleverly with my husband and me; and all her nice natural cheerful wayscome back to her just the same as ever. I've read or heard somewhere,sir, about God's goodness in tempering the wind to the shorn lamb. Idon't know who said that first; but it might well have been spoken onaccount of my own darling little Mary, in those days. Instead of usbeing the first to comfort her, it was she that was first to comfortus. And so she's gone on ever since--bless her heart! Only treat herkindly, and, in spite of her misfortune, she's the merriest, happiestlittle thing--the easiest pleased and amused, I do believe, that everlived.

"If we were wrong in not forcing her to speak more than wedid, I must say this much for me and my husband, that we hadn't theheart to make her miserable and keep on tormenting her from morning tonight, when she was always happy and comfortable if we would only lether alone. We tried our best for some time to do what the gentlemantold us; but it's so hard--as you've found I dare say, ma'am--not toend by humoring them you love! I never see the tear in her eye, exceptwhen we forced her to speak to us; and then she always cried, and wasfretful and out of sorts for the whole day. It seemed such a dreadfuldifficulty and pain to her to say only two or three words; and theshocking husky moaning voice that sounded somehow as if it didn'tbelong to her, never changed. My husband first gave up worrying her tospeak. He practiced her with her book and writing, but let her have herown will in everything else; and he teached her all sorts of tricks onthe cards, for amusement, which was a good way of keeping her goingwith her reading and her pen pleasantly, by reason, of course, of himand her being obliged to put down everything they had to say to eachother on a little slate that we bought for her after she got well.

"It was Mary's own notion, if you please, ma'am, to have the slatealways hanging at her side. Poor dear! she thought it quite a splendidornament, and was as proud of it as could be. Jemmy, being neat-handedat such things, did the frame over for her prettily with red morocco,and got our propertyman to do it all round with a bright golden border.And then we hung it at her side, with a nice little bit of silkcord--just as you see it now.

"I held out in making her speak sometime after my husband: but at last I gave in too. I know it was wrongand selfish of me; but I got a fear that she wouldn't like me as wellas she used to do, and would take more kindly to Jemmy than to me, if Iwent on. Oh, how happy she was the first day I wrote down on her slatethat I wouldn't worry her about speaking any more! She jumped up on myknees--being always as nimble as a squirrel--and kissed me over andover again with all her heart. For the rest of the day she run aboutthe room, and all over the house, like a mad thing, and when Jemmy camehome at night from performing, she would get out of bed and romp withhim, and ride pickaback on him, and try and imitate the funny facesshe'd seen him make in the ring. I do believe, sir, that was the firstregular happy night we had all had together since the dreadful timewhen she met with her accident.

"Long after that, my conscience wasuneasy though, at times, about giving in as I had. At last I got achance of speaking to another doctor about little Mary; and he told methat if we had kept her up in her speaking ever so severely, it wouldstill have been a pain and a difficulty to her to say her words, to herdying day. He said too, that he felt sure--though he couldn't explainit to me--that people afflicted with such stone deafness as hers didn'tfeel the loss of speech, because they never had the want to use theirspeech; and that they took to making signs, and writing, and such like,quite kindly as a sort of second nature to them. This comforted me, andsettled my mind a good deal. I hope in God what the gentleman said wastrue; for if I was in fault in letting her have her own way and behappy, it's past mending by this time. For more than two years, ma'am,I've never heard her say a single word, no more than if she'd been borndumb, and it's my belief that all the doctors in the world couldn'tmake her speak now.

"Perhaps, sir, you might wish to know how shefirst come to show her tricks on the cards in the circus. There was nodanger in her doing that, I know--and yet I'd have given almosteverything I have, not to let her be shown about as she is. But I wasthreatened again, in the vilest, wickedest way--I hardly know how totell it, gentlemen, in the presence of such as you--Jubber, you mustknow--"

Just as Mrs. Peckover, with very painful hesitation,pronounced the last words, the hall clock of the Rectory struck two.She heard it, and stopped instantly.

"Oh, if you please, sir, wasthat two o'clock?" she asked, starting up with a look of alarm.

"Yes,Mrs. Peckover," said the rector; "but really, after having beenindebted to you for so much that has deeply interested and affected us,we can't possibly think of letting you and little Mary leave theRectory yet."

"Indeed we must, sir; and many thanks to you forwanting to keep us longer," said Mrs. Peckover. "What I was going tosay isn't much; it's quite as well you shouldn't hear it--and indeed,indeed, ma'am, we must go directly. I told this gentleman here, Mr.Blyth, when I come in, that I'd stolen to you unawares, under pretenseof taking little Mary out for a walk. If we are not back to the twoo'clock dinner in the circus, it's unknown what Jubber may not do. Thisgentleman will tell you how infamously he treated the poor child lastnight--we must go, sir, for her sake; or else--"

"Stop!" criedValentine, all his suppressed excitability bursting bounds in aninstant, as he took Mrs. Peckover by the arm, and pressed her back intoher chair. "Stop!--hear me; I must speak, or I shall go out of mysenses! Don't interrupt me, Mrs. Peckover; and don't get up. All I wantto say is this: you must never take that little angel of a child nearJubber again--no, never! By heavens! if I thought he was likely totouch her any more, I should go mad, and murder him!--Let me alone,doctor! I beg Mrs. Joyce's pardon for behaving like this; I'll never doit again. Be quiet, all of you! I must take the child home with me--oh,Mrs. Peckover, don't, don't say no! I'll make her as happy as the dayis long. I've no child of my own: I'll watch over her, and love her,and teach her all my life. I've got a poor, suffering, bedridden wifeat home, who would think such a companion as little Mary the greatestblessing God could send her. My own dear, patient Lavvie! Oh, doctor,doctor! think how kind Lavvie would be to that afflicted little child;and try if you can't make Mrs. Peckover consent. I can't speak anymore--I know I'm wrong to burst out in this way; and I beg all yourpardons for it, I do indeed! Speak to her, doctor--pray speak to herdirectly, if you don't want to make me miserable for the rest of mylife!"

With those words, Valentine darted precipitately into thegarden, and made straight for the spot where the little girls werestill sitting together in their shady resting-place among the trees.

Theclown's wife had sat very pale and very quiet under the wholeoverwhelming torrent of Mr. Blyth's apostrophes, exclamations, andentreaties. She seemed quite unable to speak, after he was fairly gone;and only looked round in a bewildered manner at the rector, with fearas well as amazement expressed vividly in her hearty, healthy face.

"Pray compose yourself, Mrs. Peckover," said Doctor Joyce; "and kindlygive me your best attention to what I am about to say. Let me beg you,in the first place, to excuse Mr. Blyth's odd behavior, which I see hasstartled and astonished you. But, however wildly he may talk, I assureyou he means honorably and truthfully in all that he says. You willunderstand this better if you will let me temperately explain to youthe proposal, which he has just made so abruptly and confusedly in hisown words."

"Proposal, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Peckover faintly, lookingmore frightened than ever--"Proposal! Oh, sir! you don't mean to saythat you're going to ask me to part from little Mary?"

"I will askyou to do nothing that your own good sense and kind heart may notapprove," answered the rector. "In plain terms then, and not to wastetime by useless words of preface, my friend, Mr. Blyth, feels suchadmiration for your little Mary, and such a desire to help her, as faras may be, in her great misfortune, that he is willing and eager tomake her future prospects in life his own peculiar care, by adoptingher as his daughter. This offer, though coming, as I am aware, from aperfect stranger, can hardly astonish you, I think, if you reflect onthe unusually strong claims which the child has to the compassion andkindness of all her fellow-creatures. Other strangers, as you have toldus, have shown the deepest interest in her on many occasions. It is nottherefore at all wonderful that a gentleman, whose Christian integrityof motive I have had opportunities of testing during a friendship ofnearly twenty years, should prove the sincerity of his sympathy for thepoor child, by such a proposal as I have now communicated to you."

"Don't ask me to say yes to it, sir!" pleaded Mrs. Peckover, with tearsin her eyes. "Don't ask me to do that! Anything else to prove mygratitude for your kindness to us; but how can I part from my ownlittle Mary? You can't have the heart to ask it of me!"

"I have theheart, Mrs. Peckover, to feel deeply for your distress at the idea ofparting from the child; but, for her sake, I must again ask you tocontrol your feelings. And, more than that, I must appeal to you byyour love to her, to grant a fair hearing to the petition which I nowmake on Mr. Blyth's behalf."

"I would, indeed, if I could, sir,--butit's just because I love her so, that I can't! Besides, as you yourselfsaid, he's a perfect stranger."

"I readily admit the force of thatobjection on your part, Mrs. Peckover; but let me remind you, that Ivouch for the uprightness of his character, and his fitness to betrusted with the child, after twenty years' experience of him. You mayanswer to that, that I am a stranger, too; and I can only ask you, inreturn, frankly to accept my character and position as the best proofsI can offer you that I am not unworthy of your confidence. If youplaced little Mary for instruction (as you well might) in an asylum forthe deaf and dumb, you would be obliged to put implicit trust in theauthorities of that asylum, on much the same grounds as those I nowadvance to justify you in putting trust in me."

"Oh, sir! don'tthink--pray don't think I am unwilling to trust you--so kind and goodas you have been to us to-day--and a clergyman too--I should be ashamedof myself, if I could doubt--"

"Let me tell you, plainly andcandidly, what advantages to the child Mr. Blyth's proposal holds out.He has no family of his own, and his wife is, as he has hinted to you,an invalid for life. If you could only see the gentleness and sweetpatience with which she bears her affliction, you would acknowledgethat little Mary could appeal for an affectionate welcome to no kinderheart than Mrs. Blyth's. I assure you most seriously, that the onlydanger I fear for the child in my friend's house, is that she would bespoilt by excessive indulgence. Though by no means a rich man, Mr.Blyth is in an independent position, and can offer her all the comfortsof life. In one word, the home to which he is ready to take her, is ahome of love and happiness and security, in the best and purest meaningof those words."

"Don't say any more, sir! Don't break my heart bymaking me part with her!"

"You will live, Mrs. Peckover, to thank mefor trying your fortitude as I try it now. Hear me a little longer,while I tell you what terms Mr. Blyth proposes. He is not only willingbut anxious--if you give the child into his charge--that you shouldhave access to her whenever you like. He will leave his address inLondon with you. He desires, from motives alike honorable to you and tohimself, to defray your traveling expenses whenever you wish to see thechild. He will always acknowledge your prior right to her affection andher duty. He will offer her every facility in his power for constantlycorresponding with you; and if the life she leads in his house be, evenin the slightest respect, distasteful to her, he pledges himself togive her up to you again--if you and she desire it--at any sacrifice ofhis own wishes and his own feelings. These are the terms he proposes,Mrs. Peckover, and I can most solemnly assure you on my honor as aclergyman and a gentleman, that he will hold sacred the strictperformance of all and each of these conditions, exactly as I havestated them."

"I ought to let her go, sir--I know I ought to show howgrateful I am for Mr. Blyth's generosity by letting her go--but how canI, after all the long time she's been like my own child to me? Oh,ma'am, say a word for me!--I seem so selfish for not giving her up--saya word for me!"

"Will you let me say a word for little Mary,instead?" rejoined Mrs. Joyce. "Will you let me remind you that Mr.Blyth's proposal offers her a secure protection against that inhumanwretch who has ill-used her already, and who may often ill-use heragain, in spite of everything you can do to prevent him. Pray think ofthat, Mrs. Peckover--pray do!"

Poor Mrs. Peckover showed that shethought of it bitterly enough, by a fresh burst of tears.

The rectorpoured out a glass of water, and gave it to her. "Do not think usinconsiderate or unfeeling," he said, "in pressing Mr. Blyth's offer onyou so perseveringly. Only reflect on Mary's position, if she remainsin the circus as she grows up! Would all your watchful kindness besufficient to shield her against dangers to which I hardly dareallude?--against wickedness which would take advantage of herdefenselessness, her innocence, and even her misfortune? Consider allthat Mr. Blyth's proposal promises for her future life; for the sacredpreservation of her purity of heart and mind. Look forward to the daywhen little Mary will have gown up to be a young woman; and I willanswer, Mrs. Peckover, for your doing full justice to the importance ofmy friend's offer."

"I know it's all true, sir; I know I'm anungrateful, selfish wretch--but only give me a little time to think; alittle time longer to be with the poor darling that I love like my ownchild!"

Doctor Joyce was just drawing his chair closer to Mrs.Peckover before he answered, when the door opened, and the respectableVance softly entered the room.

"What do you want here?" said therector, a little irritably. "Didn't I tell you not to come in againtill I rang for you?'

"I beg your pardon, sir," answered Vance,casting rather a malicious look at the clown's wife as he closed thedoor behind him--"but there's a person waiting in the hall, who says hecomes on important business, and must see you directly."

"Who is he?What's his name?"

"He says his name is Jubber, if you please, sir."

Mrs. Peckover started from her chair with a scream. "Don't--pray, formercy's sake, sir, don't let him into the garden where Mary is!" shegasped, clutching Doctor Joyce by the arm in the extremity of herterror. "He's found us out, and come here in one of his dreadfulpassions! He cares for nothing and for nobody, sir: he's bad enough toill-treat her even before you. What am I to do? Oh, good graciousheavens! what am I to do?"

"Leave everything to me, and sit downagain," said the rector kindly. Then, turning to Vance, headded:--"Show Mr. Jubber into the cloak-room, and say I will be withhim directly."

"Now, Mrs. Peckover," continued Doctor Joyce, in themost perfectly composed manner, "before I see this man (whose businessI can guess at) I have three important questions to ask of you. In thefirst place, were you not a witness, last night, of his cruel ill-usageof that poor child? (Mr. Blyth told me of it.) The fellow actually beather, did he not?"

"Oh, indeed he did, sir!--beat her most cruellywith a cane."

"And you saw it all yourself?"

"I did, sir. He'd haveused her worse, if I hadn't been by to prevent him."

"Very well. Nowtell me if you or your husband have signed any agreement--any papers, Imean, giving this man a right to claim the child as one of hisperformers?"

"Me sign an agreement, sir! I never did such athing in all my life. Jubber would think himself insulted, if you onlytalked of his signing an agreement with such as me or Jemmy."

"Betterand better. Now, my third question refers to little Mary herself. Iwill undertake to put it out of this blackguard's power ever to lay afinger on her again--but I can only do so on one condition, which itrests entirely with you to grant."

"I'll do anything to save her,sir; I will indeed."

"The condition is that you consent to Mr.Blyth's proposal; for I can only ensure the child's safety on thoseterms."

"Then, sir, I consent to it," said Mrs. Peckover, speakingwith a sudden firmness of tone and manner which almost startled Mrs.Joyce, who stood by listening anxiously. "I consent to it; for I shouldbe the vilest wretch in the world, if I could say 'no' at such a timeas this. I will trust my precious darling treasure to you, sir, and toMr. Blyth; from this moment. God bless her, and comfort me! for I want comfort badly enough. Oh, Mary! Mary! my own littleMary! to think of you and me ever being parted like this!" The poorwoman turned towards the garden as she pronounced those words; all herfortitude forsook her in an instant; and she sank back in her chair,sobbing bitterly.

"Take her out into the shrubbery where the childrenare, as soon as she recovers a little," whispered the rector to hiswife, as he opened the dining-room door.

Though Mr. Jubber presented,to all appearance, the most scoundrelly aspect that humanity canassume, when he was clothed in his evening uniform, and illuminated byhis own circus lamplight, he nevertheless reached an infinitely loftierclimax of blackguard perfection when he was arrayed in his privatecostume, and was submitted to the tremendous ordeal of pure daylight.The most monstrous ape that could be picked from the cages of theZoological Gardens would have gained by comparison with him as he nowappeared, standing in the Rectory cloak-room, with his debauchedbloodshot eyes staring grimly contemptuous all about him, with hisyellow flabby throat exposed by a turn-down collar and a light blueneck-tie, with the rouge still smeared over his gross unhealthy cheeks,with his mangy shirt-front bespattered with bad embroidery and falsejewelry that had not even the politic decency to keep itself clean. Hehad his hat on, and was sulkily running his dirty fingers through thegreasy black ringlets that flowed over his coat-collar, when DoctorJoyce entered the cloak-room.

"You wished to speak with me?" said therector, not sitting down himself, and not asking Mr. Jubber to sitdown.

"Oh! you're Doctor Joyce?" said the fellow, assuming his mostinsolent familiarity of manner directly.

"That is my name," said Dr.Joyce very quietly. "Will you have the goodness to state your businesswith me immediately, and in the fewest possible words?"

"Hullo! Youtake that tone with me, do you?" said Jubber, setting his arms akimbo,and tapping his foot fiercely on the floor; "you're trying to comeTommy Grand over me already, are you? Very good! I'm the man to giveyou change in your own coin--so here goes! What do you mean by enticingaway my Mysterious Foundling? What do you mean by this private swindleof talent that belongs to my circus?"

"You had better proceed alittle," said the rector, more quietly than before. "Thus far Iunderstand nothing whatever, except that you wish to behave offensivelyto me; which, in a person of your appearance, is, I assure you, of notthe slightest consequence. You had much better save time by statingwhat you have to say in plain words."

"You want plain words--eh?"cried Jubber, losing his temper. "Then, by God, you shall have them,and plain enough!"

"Stop a minute," said Doctor Joyce. "If you useoaths in my presence again, I shall ring for my servant, and order himto show you out of the house."

"You will?"

"I will, mostcertainly."

There was a moment's pause, and the blackguard and thegentleman looked one another straight in the face. It was the old,invariable struggle, between the quiet firmness of good breeding, andthe savage obstinacy of bad; and it ended in the old, invariable way.The blackguard flinched first.

"If your servant lays a finger on me,I'll thrash him within an inch of his life," said Jubber, lookingtowards the door, and scowling as he looked. "But that's not the point,just now--the point is, that I charge you with getting my deaf and dumbgirl into your house, to perform before you on the sly. If you're toovirtuous to come to my circus--and better than you have been there--youought to have paid the proper price for a private performance. What doyou mean by treating a public servant, like me, with your infernalaristocratic looks, as if I was dirt under your feet, after such shabbydoings as you've been guilty of--eh?"

"May I ask how you know thatthe child you refer to has been at my house to-day?" asked DoctorJoyce, without taking the slightest notice of Mr. Jubber's indignation.

"One of my people saw that swindling hypocrite of a Peckover takingher in, and told me of it when I missed them at dinner. There! that'sgood evidence, I rather think! Deny it if you can."

"I have not theslightest intention of denying it. The child is now in my house."

"And has gone through all her performances, of course? Ah! shabby!shabby! I should be ashamed of myself, if I'd tried to do a manout of his rights like that."

"I am most unaffectedly rejoiced tohear that you are capable, under any circumstances, of being ashamed ofyourself at all," rejoined the rector. "The child, however, has gonethrough no performances here, not having been sent for with any suchpurpose as you suppose. But, as you said just now, that's not thepoint. Pray, why did you speak of the little girl, a moment ago, as your child?"

"Because she's one of my performers, of course. But,come! I've had enough of this; I can't stop talking here all day; Iwant the child--so just deliver her up at once, will you?--and turn outPeck as soon as you like after. I'll cure them both of ever doing thissort of thing again! I'll make them stick tight to the circus for thefuture! I'll show them--"

"You would be employing your time muchmore usefully," said Doctor Joyce, "if you occupied it in altering thebills of your performance, so as to inform the public that the deaf anddumb child will not appear before them again."

"Not appear again?--notappear to-night in my circus? Why, hang me! if I don't think you'retrying to be funny all of a sudden! Alter my bills--eh? Not bad! Uponmy soul, not at all bad for a parson! Give us another joke, sir; I'mall attention." And Mr. Jubber put his hand to his ear, grinning in aperfect fury of sarcasm.

"I am quite in earnest," said the rector. "Afriend of mine has adopted the child, and will take her home with himtomorrow morning. Mrs. Peckover (the only person who has any right toexercise control over her) has consented to this arrangement. If yourbusiness here was to take the child back to your circus, it is right toinform you that she will not leave my house till she goes to Londonto-morrow with my friend."

"And you think I'm the sort of man to standthis?--and give up the child?--and alter the bills?--and lose money?--andbe as mild as mother's milk all the time? Oh! yes, of course! I'mso devilish fond of you and your friend! You're such nice men, you canmake me do anything! Damn all this jabber and nonsense!" roared theruffian, passing suddenly from insolence to fury, and striking his fiston the table. "Give me the child at once, do you hear? Give her up, Isay. I won't leave the house till I've got her!"

Just as Mr. Jubberswore for the second time, Doctor Joyce rang the bell. "I told you whatI should do, if you used oaths in my presence again," said the rector.

"And I told you I'd kill the servant, if he laid afinger on me," said Jubber, knocking his hat firmly on his head, andtucking up his cuffs.

Vance appeared at the door, much less pompousthan usual and displaying an interesting paleness of complexion. Jubberspat into the palm of each of his hands, and clenched his fists.

"Have you done dinner down stairs?" asked Doctor Joyce, reddening alittle, but still very quiet.

"Yes, sir," answered Vance, in aremarkably conciliating voice.

"Tell James to go to the constable,and say I want him; and let the gardener wait with you outside there inthe hall."

"Now," said the rector, shutting the door again afterissuing these orders, and placing himself once more face to face withMr. Jubber. "Now I have a last word or two to say, which I recommendyou to hear quietly. In the first place, you have no right over thechild whatever; for I happen to know that you are without a signedagreement promising you her services. (You had better hear me out foryour own sake.) You have no legal right, I say, to control the child inany manner. She is a perfectly free agent, so far as you areconcerned.--Yes! yes! you deny it, of course! I have only to say that,if you attempt to back that denial by still asserting your claim toher, and making a disturbance in my house, as sure as you stand there,I'll ruin you in Rubbleford and in all the country round. (It's no uselaughing--I can do it!) You beat the child in the vilest manner lastnight. I am a magistrate; and I have my prosecutor and my witness ofthe assault ready whenever I choose to call them. I can fine orimprison you, which I please. You know the public; you know what theythink of people who ill-use helpless children. If you appeared in thatcharacter before me, the Rubbleford paper would report it; and, so faras the interests of your circus are concerned, you would be a ruinedman in this part of the country--you would, you know it! Now I willspare you this--not from any tenderness towards you--oncondition that you take yourself off quietly, and never let us hearfrom you again. I strongly advise you to go at once; for if you waittill the constable comes, I will not answer for it that my sense ofduty may not force me into giving you into custody." With which wordsDoctor Joyce threw open the door, and pointed to the hall.

Throughoutthe delivery of this speech, violent indignation, ungovernablesurprise, abject terror, and impotent rage ravaged by turns the breastof Mr. Jubber. He stamped about the room, and uttered fragments ofoaths, but did not otherwise interrupt Dr. Joyce, while that gentlemanwas speaking to him. When the rector had done, the fellow had hisinsolent answer ready directly. To do him justice, he was consistent,if he was nothing else--he was bully and blackguard to the very last.

"Magistrate or parson," he cried, snapping his fingers, "I don't carea damn for you in either capacity. You keep the child here at yourperil! I'll go to the first lawyer in Rubbleford, and bring an actionagainst you. I'll show you a little legal law! You ruin meindeed! I can prove that I only thrashed the little toad, the nastydeaf idiot, because she deserved it. I'll be even with you! I'll havethe child back wherever you take her to. I'll show you a little legallaw! (Here he stepped to the hall door.) I'll be even with you, damme!I'll charge you with setting on your menial servants to assault me.(Here he looked fiercely at the gardener, a freckled Scotch giant ofsix feet three, and instantly descended five steps.) Lay a finger onme, if you dare! I'm going straight from this house to the lawyer's.I'm a free Englishman, and I'll have my rights and my legal law! I'llbring my action! I'll ruin you! I'll strip your gown off your back I'llstop your mouth in your own pulpit!" Here he strutted into the frontgarden; his words grew indistinct, and his gross voice became graduallyless and less audible. The coachman at the outer gate saw the last ofhim, and reported that he made his exit striking viciously at theflowers with his cane, and swearing that he would ruin the rector with"legal law."

After leaving certain directions with his servants, inthe very improbable event of Mr. Jubber's return, Doctor Joyce repairedimmediately to his dining-room. No one was there, so he went on intothe garden.

Here he found the family and the visitors all assembledtogether; but a great change had passed over the whole party during hisabsence. Mr. Blyth, on being informed of the result of the rector'sconversation with Mrs. Peckover, acted. with his usual impetuosity andutter want of discretion; writing down delightedly on little Mary'sslate, without the slightest previous preparation or coaxing, that shewas to go home with him to-morrow, and be as happy as the day was long,all the rest of her life. The result of this incautious method ofproceeding was that the child became excessively frightened, and ranaway from everybody to take refuge with Mrs. Peckover. She was stillcrying, and holding tight by the good woman's gown with both hands; andValentine was still loudly declaring to everybody that he loved her allthe better for showing such faithful affection to her earliest and bestfriend, when the rector joined the party under the coolly-murmuringtrees.

Doctor Joyce spoke but briefly of his interview with Mr.Jubber, concealing much that had passed at it, and making very light ofthe threats which the fellow had uttered on his departure. Mrs.Peckover, whose self-possession seemed in imminent danger of beingoverthrown by little Mary's mute demonstrations of affection, listenedanxiously to every word the Doctor uttered; and, as soon as he haddone, said that she must go back to the circus directly, and tell herhusband the truth about all that had occurred, as a necessary set-offagainst the slanders that were sure to be spoken against her by Mr.Jubber.

"Oh, never mind me, ma'am!" she said, in answer to theapprehensions expressed by Mrs. Joyce about her reception when she gotto the circus. "The dear child's safe; and that's all I care about. I'mbig enough and strong enough to take my own part; and Jemmy, he'salways by to help me when I can't. May I come back, if you please, sir,this evening; and say--and say?--"

She would have added, "and saygood-bye;" but the thoughts which now gathered round that one word,made it too hard to utter. She silently curtseyed her thanks for thewarm invitation that was given to her to return; stooped down to thechild; and, kissing her, wrote on the slate, "I shall be back, dear, inthe evening, at seven o'clock"--then disengaged the little hands thatstill held fast by her gown, and hurried from the garden, without onceventuring to look behind her as she crossed the sunny lawn.

Mrs.Joyce, and the young ladies, and the rector, all tried their best toconsole little Mary; and all failed. She resolutely, though verygently, resisted them; walking away into corners by herself, andlooking constantly at her slate, as if she could only find comfort inreading the few words which Mrs. Peckover had written on it. At last,Mr. Blyth took her up on his knee. She struggled to get away, for amoment--then looked intently in his face; and, sighing very mournfully,laid her head down on his shoulder. There was a world of promise forthe future success of Valentine's affectionate project in that simpleaction, and in the preference which it showed.

The day wore onquietly--evening came--seven o'clock struck--then half-past--theneight--and Mrs. Peckover never appeared. Doctor Joyce grew uneasy, andsent Vance to the circus to get some news of her.

It was again Mr.Blyth--and Mr. Blyth only--who succeeded in partially quieting littleMary under the heavy disappointment of not seeing Mrs. Peckover at theappointed time. The child had been restless at first, and had wanted togo to the circus. Finding that they tenderly, but firmly, detained herat the Rectory, she wept bitterly--wept so long, that at last shefairly cried herself asleep in Valentine's arms. He sat anxiouslysupporting her with a patience that nothing could tire. The sunsetrays, which he had at first carefully kept from falling on her face,vanished from the horizon; the quiet luster of twilight overspread thesky--and still he refused to let her be taken from him; and said hewould sit as he was all through the night rather than let her bedisturbed.

Vance came back, and brought word that Mrs. Peckover wouldfollow him in half an hour. They had given her some work to do at thecircus, which she was obliged to finish before she could return to theRectory.

Having delivered this message, Vance next produced ahandbill, which he said was being widely circulated all overRubbleford; and which proved to be the composition of Mr. Jubberhimself. That ingenious ruffian, having doubtless discovered that"legal law" was powerless to help him to his revenge, and that it wouldbe his wisest proceeding to keep clear of Doctor Joyce in the rectory'smagisterial capacity, was now artfully attempting to turn the loss ofthe child to his own profit, by dint of prompt lying in his favoritelarge type, sprinkled with red letters. He informed the public, throughthe medium of his hand-bills, that the father of the MysteriousFoundling had been "most providentially" discovered, and that he (Mr.Jubber) had given the child up immediately, without a thought of whathe might personally suffer, in pocket as well as in mind, by hisgenerosity. After this, he appealed confidently to the sympathy ofpeople of every degree, and of "fond parents" especially, to compensatehim by flocking in crowds to the circus; adding, that if additionalstimulus were wanting to urge the public into "rallying round theRing," he was prepared to administer it forthwith, in the shape of thesmallest dwarf in the world, for whose services he was then in treaty,and whose first appearance before a Rubbleford audience would certainlytake place in the course of a few days.

Such was Mr. Jubber'singenious contrivance for turning to good pecuniary account theignominious defeat which he had suffered at the hands of Dr. Joyce.

After much patient reasoning and many earnest expostulations, Mrs.Joyce at last succeeded in persuading Mr. Blyth that he might carrylittle Mary upstairs to her bed, without any danger of awakening her.The moonbeams were streaming through the windows over the broad,old-fashioned landings of the rectory stair-case, and bathed the child'ssleeping face in their lovely light, as Valentine carefully bore her inhis own arms to her bedroom. "Oh!" he whispered to himself as he pausedfor an instant where the moon shone clearest on the landing; and lookeddown on her--"Oh! if my poor Lavvie could only see little Mary now."

They laid her, still asleep, on the bed, and covered her over lightlywith a shawl--then went down stairs again to wait for Mrs. Peckover.

The clown's wife came in half an hour, as she had promised. They sawsorrow and weariness in her face, as they looked at her. Besides abundle with the child's few clothes in it, she brought the hairbracelet and the pocket-handkerchief which had been found on littleMary's mother.

"Wherever the child goes," she said, "these two thingsmust go with her." She addressed Mr. Blyth as she spoke, and gave thehair bracelet and the handkerchief into his own hands.

It seemedrather a relief than a disappointment to Mrs. Peckover to hear that thechild was asleep above stairs. All pain of parting would now be spared,on one side at least. She went up to look at her on her bed, and kissedher--but so lightly that little Mary's sleep was undisturbed by thatfarewell token of tenderness and love.

"Tell her to write to me,sir," said poor Mrs. Peckover, holding Valentine's hand fast, andlooking wistfully in his face through her gathering tears. "I shallprize my first letter from her so much, if it's only a couple of lines.God bless you, sir; and good-bye. It ought to be a comfort to me, andit is, to know that you will be kind to her--I hope I shall get up toLondon some day, and see her myself. But don't forget the letter, sir:I shan't fret so much after her when once I've got that!"

She wentaway, sadly murmuring these last words many times over, while Valentinewas trying to cheer and reassure her, as they walked together to theouter gate. Doctor Joyce accompanied them down the front-garden path,and exacted from her a promise to return often to the Rectory, whilethe circus was at Rubbleford; saying also that he and his familydesired her to look on them always as her fast and firm friends in anyemergency. Valentine entreated her, over and over again, to rememberthe terms of their agreement, and to come and judge for herself of thechild's happiness in her new home. She only answered "Don't forget theletter, sir!" And so they parted.

Early the next morning,Mr. Blyth and little Mary left the Rectory, and started for London bythe first coach.

The result of Mr. Blyth's Adventure in the travelingCircus, and of the events which followed it, was that little Mary atonce became a member of the painter's family, and grew up happily, inher new home, into the young lady who was called "Madonna" byValentine, by his wife, and by all intimate friends who were in thehabit of frequenting the house.

Mr. Blyth's first proceeding, afterhe had brought the little girl home with him, was to take her to themost eminent aural surgeon of the day. He did this, not in the hope ofany curative result following the medical examination, but as a firstduty which he thought he owed to her, now that she was under his solecharge. The surgeon was deeply interested in the case; but, aftergiving it the most careful attention, he declared that it was hopeless.Her sense of hearing, he said, was entirely gone; but her faculty ofspeech, although it had been totally disused (as Mrs. Peckover hadstated) for more than two years past, might, he thought, be imperfectlyregained, at some future time, if a tedious, painful, and uncertainprocess of education were resorted to, under the direction of anexperienced teacher of the deaf and dumb. The child, however, had sucha horror of this resource being tried, when it was communicated to her,that Mr. Blyth instinctively followed Mrs. Peckover's example, andconsulted the little creature's feelings, by allowing her in thisparticular--and indeed in most others--to remain perfectly happy andcontented in her own way.

The first influence which reconciled heralmost immediately to her new life, was the influence of Mrs. Blyth.The perfect gentleness and patience with which the painter's wife boreher incurable malady, seemed to impress the child in a very remarkablemanner from the first. The sight of that frail, wasted life, which theytold her, by writing, had been shut up so long in the same room, andhad been condemned to the same weary inaction for so many years past,struck at once to Mary's heart and filled her with one of those new andmysterious sensations which mark epochs in the growth of a child'smoral nature. Nor did these first impressions ever alter. When yearshad passed away, and when Mary, being "little" Mary no longer,possessed those marked characteristics of feature and expression whichgained for her the name of "Madonna," she still preserved all herchild's feeling for the painter's wife. However playful her mannermight often be with Valentine, it invariably changed when she was inMrs. Blyth's presence; always displaying, at such times, the sameanxious tenderness, the same artless admiration, and the same watchfuland loving sympathy. There was something secret and superstitious inthe girl's fondness for Mrs. Blyth. She appeared unwilling to letothers know what this affection really was in all its depth andfullness: it seemed to be intuitively preserved by her in the mostsacred privacy of her own heart, as if the feeling had been part of herreligion, or rather as if it had been a religion in itself.

Her lovefor her new mother, which testified itself thus strongly and sincerely,was returned by that mother with equal fervor. From the day when littleMary first appeared at her bedside, Mrs. Blyth felt, to use her ownexpression, as if a new strength had been given her to enjoy her newhappiness. Brighter hopes, better health, calmer resignation, and purerpeace seemed to follow the child's footsteps and be always inherent inher very presence, as she moved to and fro in the sick room. All thelittle difficulties of communicating with her and teaching her, whichher misfortune rendered inevitable, and which might sometime have beenfelt as tedious by others, were so many distinct sources of happiness,so many exquisite occupations of once-weary time to Mrs. Blyth. All thefriends of the family declared that the child had succeeded wheredoctors, and medicines, and luxuries, and the sufferer's own courageousresignation had hitherto failed--for she had succeeded in endowing Mrs.Blyth with a new life. And they were right. A fresh object for theaffections of the heart and the thoughts of the mind, is a fresh lifefor every feeling and thinking human being, in sickness even as well asin health.

In this sense, indeed, the child brought fresh life withher to all who lived in her new home--to the servants, as well as tothe master and mistress. The cloud had rarely found its way into thathappy dwelling in former days: now the sunshine seemed fixed there forever. No more beautiful and touching proof of what the heroism ofpatient dispositions and loving hearts can do towards guiding humanexistence, unconquered and unsullied, through its hardest trials, couldbe found anywhere than was presented by the aspect of the painter'shousehold. Here were two chief members of one little family circle,afflicted by such incurable bodily calamity as it falls to the lot ofbut few human beings to suffer--yet here were no sighs, no tears, novain repinings with each new morning, no gloomy thoughts to set woe andterror watching by the pillow at night. In this homely sphere, life,even in its frailest aspects, was still greater than its greatesttrials; strong to conquer by virtue of its own innocence and purity,its simple unworldly aspirations, its self-sacrificing devotion to thehappiness and the anxieties of others.

As the course of her educationproceeded, many striking peculiarities became developed in Madonna'sdisposition, which seemed to be all more or less produced by thenecessary influence of her affliction on the formation of hercharacter. The social isolation to which that affliction condemned her,the solitude of thought and feeling into which it forced her, tendedfrom an early period to make her mind remarkably self-reliant, for soyoung a girl. Her first impression of strangers seemed invariably todecide her opinion of them at once and for ever. She liked or dislikedpeople heartily; estimating them apparently from considerationsentirely irrespective of age, or sex, or personal appearance.Sometimes, the very person who was thought certain to attract her,proved to be absolutely repulsive to her--sometimes, people, who, inMr. Blyth's opinion, were sure to be unwelcome visitors to Madonna,turned out, incomprehensibly, to be people whom she took a violentliking to directly. She always betrayed her pleasure or uneasiness inthe society of others with the most diverting candor--showing theextremest anxiety to conciliate and attract those whom she liked;running away and hiding herself like a child, from those whom shedisliked. There were some unhappy people, in this latter class, whom nopersuasion could ever induce her to see a second time.

She couldnever give any satisfactory account of how she proceeded in forming heropinions of others. The only visible means of arriving at them, whichher deafness and dumbness permitted her to use, consisted simply inexamination of a stranger's manner, expression, and play of features ata first interview. This process, however, seemed always amplysufficient for her; and in more than one instance events proved thather judgment had not been misled by it. Her affliction had tended,indeed, to sharpen her faculties of observation and her powers ofanalysis to such a remarkable degree, that she often guessed thegeneral tenor of a conversation quite correctly, merely by watchingthe minute varieties of expression and gesture in the personsspeaking--fixing her attention always with especial intentness on thechangeful and rapid motions of their lips.

Exiled alike from the worldsof sound and speech, the poor girl's enjoyment of all that she could stillgain of happiness, by means of the seeing sense that was left her, washardly conceivable to her speaking and hearing fellow-creatures. Allbeautiful sights, and particularly the exquisite combinations thatNature presents, filled her with an artless rapture, which it affectedthe most unimpressible people to witness. Trees were beyond all otherobjects the greatest luxuries that her eyes could enjoy. She would sitfor hours, on fresh summer evenings, watching the mere waving of theleaves; her face flushed, her whole nervous organization trembling withthe sensations of deep and perfect happiness which that simple sightimparted to her. All the riches and honors which this world can afford,would not have added to her existence a tithe of that pleasure whichValentine easily conferred on her, by teaching her to draw; he mightalmost be said to have given her a new sense in exchange for the sensesthat she had lost. She used to dance about the room with the recklessecstasy of a child, in her ungovernable delight at the prospect of asketching expedition with Mr. Blyth in the Hampstead fields.

At avery early date of her sojourn with Valentine, it was discovered thather total deafness did not entirely exclude her from every effect ofsound. She was acutely sensitive to the influence of percussion--thatis to say (if so vague and contradictory an expression may be allowed),she could, under certain conditions, feel the sounds that shecould not hear. For example, if Mr. Blyth wished to bring her to hisside when they were together in the painting-room, and when shehappened neither to be looking at him nor to be within reach of a touchhe used to rub his foot, or the end of his mahl-stick gently againstthe floor. The slight concussion so produced, reached her nervesinstantly; provided always that some part of her body touched the flooron which such experiments were tried.

As a means of extending herfacilities of social communication, she was instructed in the deaf anddumb alphabet by Valentine's direction; he and his wife, of course,learning it also; and many of their intimate friends, who were often inthe house, following their example for Madonna's sake. Oddly enough,however, she frequently preferred to express herself, or to beaddressed by others, according to the clumsier and slower system ofsigns and writing, to which she had been accustomed from childhood. Shecarefully preserved her little slate, with its ornamented frame, andkept it hanging at her side, just as she wore it on the morning of hervisit to the Rectory-house at Rubbleford.

In one exceptional case,and one only, did her misfortune appear to have the power of affectingher tranquillity seriously. Whenever, by any accident, she happened tobe left in the dark, she was overcome by the most violent terror. Itwas found, even when others were with her, that she still lost herself-possession at such times. Her own explanation of her feelings onthese occasions, suggested the simplest of reasons to account for thisweakness in her character. "Remember," she wrote on her slate, when anew servant was curious to know why she always slept with a light inher room--"Remember that I am deaf and blind too in thedarkness. You, who can hear, have a sense to serve you instead ofsight, in the dark--your ears are of use to you then, as your eyes arein the light. I hear nothing, and see nothing--I lose all mysenses together in the dark."

It was only by rare accidents, whichthere was no providing against, that she was ever terrified in thisway, after her peculiarity had first disclosed itself. In small thingsas well as in great, Valentine never forgot that her happiness was hisown especial care. He was more nervously watchful over her than anyoneelse in the house--for she cost him those secret anxieties which makethe objects of our love doubly precious to us. In all the years thatshe had lived under his roof, he had never conquered his morbid dreadthat Madonna might be one day traced and discovered by her father, orby relatives, who might have a legal claim to her. Under thisapprehension he had written to Doctor Joyce and Mrs. Peckover a day ortwo after the child's first entry under his roof, pledging both thepersons whom he addressed to the strictest secrecy in all that relatedto Madonna and to the circumstances which had made her his adoptedchild. As for the hair bracelet, if his conscience had allowed him, hewould have destroyed it immediately; but feeling that this would be aninexcusable breach of trust, he was fain to be content with locking itup, as well as the pocket-handkerchief, in an old bureau in hispainting-room, the key of which he always kept attached to his ownwatch chain.

Not one of his London friends ever knew how he first metwith Madonna. He boldly baffled all forms of inquiry by requesting thatthey would consider her history before she came into his house as aperfect blank, and by simply presenting her to them as his adoptedchild. This method of silencing troublesome curiosity succeededcertainly to admiration; but at the expense of Mr. Blyth's own moralcharacter. Persons who knew little or nothing of his real dispositionand his early life, all shook their heads, and laughed in secret;asserting that the mystery was plain enough to the most ordinarycapacity, and that the young lady could be nothing more nor less than anatural child of his own.

Mrs. Blyth was far more indignant at thisreport than her husband, when in due time it reached the painter'shouse. Valentine rather approved of the scandal than not, because itwas likely to lead inquisitive people in the wrong direction. He mighthave been now perfectly easy about the preservation of his secret, butfor the distrust which still clung to him, in spite of himself, on thesubject of Mrs. Peckover's discretion. He never wearied of warning thatexcellent woman to be careful in keeping the important secret, everytime she came to London to see Madonna. Whether she only paid them avisit for the day, and then went away again; or whether she spent herChristmas with them, Valentine's greeting always ended nervously withthe same distrustful question:--"Excuse me for asking, Mrs. Peckover,but are you quite sure you have kept what you know about little Maryand her mother, and dates and places and all that, properly hidden fromprying people, since you were here last?" At which point Mrs. Peckovergenerally answered by repeating, always with the same sarcasticemphasis:--"Properly hidden, did you say, sir? Of course I keep what Iknow properly hidden, for of course I can hold my tongue. In my time,sir, it used always to take two parties to play at a game of Hide andSeek. Who in the world is seeking after little Mary, I should like toknow?"

Perhaps Mrs. Peckover's view of the case was the right one;or, perhaps, the extraordinary discretion observed by the persons whowere in the secret of Madonna's history, prevented any disclosure ofthe girl's origin from reaching her father or friends--presuming themto be still alive and anxiously looking for her. But, at any rate, thismuch at least is certain:--Nobody appeared to assert a claim toValentine's adopted child, from the time when he took her home with himas his daughter, to the time when the reader first made hisacquaintance, many pages back, in the congenial sphere of his ownpainting-room.*

* See note at the end of the book.

It is now some timesince we left Mr. Blyth and Madonna in the studio. The first wasengaged, it may be remembered, in the process of brushing upBacchanalian Nymphs in the foreground of a Classical landscape. Thesecond was modestly occupied in making a copy of the head of the Venusde' Medici.

The clock strikes one--and a furious ring is heard at thehouse-bell.

"There he is!" cries Mr. Blyth to himself. "There's Zack!I know his ring among a thousand; it's worse even than the postman's;it's like an alarm of fire!"

Here Valentine drums gently with hismahl-stick on the floor. Madonna looks towards him directly; he waveshis hand round and round rapidly above his head. This is the sign whichmeans "Zack." The girl smiles brightly, and blushes as she sees it.Zack is apparently one of her special favorites.

While the younggentleman is being admitted at the garden gate, there is a leisuremoment to explain how he became acquainted with Mr. Blyth.

Valentine's father, and Mrs. Thorpe's father (the identical Mr.Goodworth who figures at the beginning of this narrative as one of theactors in the Sunday Drama at Baregrove Square), had been intimateassociates of the drowsy-story-telling and copious-port-drinking oldschool. The friendly intercourse between these gentlemen spread,naturally enough, to the sons and daughters who formed their respectivefamilies. From the time of Mr. Thorpe's marriage to Miss Goodworth,however, the connection between the junior Goodworths and Blyths beganto grow less intimate--so far, at least, as the new bride and Valentinewere concerned. The rigid modern Puritan of Baregrove Square, and theeccentric votary of the Fine Arts, mutually disapproved of each otherfrom the very first. Visits of ceremony were exchanged at longintervals; but even these were discontinued on Madonna's arrival underValentine's roof: Mr. Thorpe being one of the first of the charitablefriends of the family who suspected her to be the painter's naturalchild. An almost complete separation accordingly ensued for some years,until Zack grew up to boy's estate, and was taken to see Valentine, oneday in holiday time, by his grandfather. He and the painter becamefriends directly. Mr. Blyth liked boys, and boys of all degrees likedhim. From this time, Zack frequented Valentine's house at everyopportunity, and never neglected his artist-friend in after years. Atthe date of this story, one of the many points in his son's conduct ofwhich Mr. Thorpe disapproved on the highest moral grounds, was the firmdetermination the lad showed to keep up his intimacy with Mr. Blyth.

We may now get back to the ring at the bell.

Zack's approach to thepainting-room was heralded by a scuffling of feet, a loud noise oftalking, and a great deal of suspicious giggling on the part of thehousemaid, who had let him in. Suddenly these sounds ceased--the doorwas dashed open--and Mr. Thorpe, junior, burst into the room.

"Dearold Blyth! how are you?" cried Zack. "Have you had any leap-frog sinceI was here last? Jump up, and let's celebrate my return to thepainting-room with a bit of manly exercise in our old way. Come on!I'll give the first back. No shirking! Put down your palette; and one,two, three--and over!"

Pronouncing these words, Zack ran to the endof the room opposite to Valentine; and signalized his entry into thestudio by the extraordinary process of giving its owner, what is termedin the technical language of leap-frog, "a capital back."

Mr. Blythput down his palette, brushes, and mahl-stick--tucked up his cuffs andsmiled--took a little trial skip into the air--and, running down theroom with the slightly tremulous step of a gentleman of fifty, clearedZack in gallant style; fell over on the other side, all in a lump onhis hands and feet; gave the return "back" conscientiously, at theother end of the studio; and was leapt over in an instant, with a shoutof triumph, by Zack. The athletic ceremonies thus concluded, the twostood up together and shook hands heartily.

"Too stiff, Blyth--toostiff and shaky by half," said young Thorpe. "I haven't kept you upenough in your gymnastics lately. We must have some more leap-frog inthe garden; and I'll bring my boxing gloves next time, and open yourchest by teaching you to fight. Splendid exercise, and so good for yoursluggish old liver."

Delivering this opinion, Zack ran off toMadonna, who had been keeping the Venus de' Medici from being shakendown, while she looked on at the leap-frog. "How is the dearest,prettiest, gentlest love in the world?" cried Zack, taking her hand,and kissing it with boisterous fondness. "Ah! she lets other oldfriends kiss her cheek, and only lets me kiss her hand!--I say, Blyth,what a little witch she is--I'll lay you two to one she's guessed whatI've just been saying to her."

A bright flush overspread the girl'sface while Zack addressed her. Her tender blue eyes looked up at him,shyly conscious of the pleasure that their expression was betraying;and the neat folds of her pretty grey dress, which had lain so stillover her bosom when she was drawing, began to rise and fall gently now,when Zack was holding her hand. If young Thorpe had not been the mostthoughtless of human beings--as much a boy still, in many respects, aswhen he was locked up in his father's dressing-room for bad behavior atchurch--he might have guessed long ago why he was the only one ofMadonna's old friends whom she did not permit to kiss her on the cheek!

But Zack neither guessed, nor thought of guessing, anything of thissort. His flighty thoughts flew off in a moment from the young lady tohis cigar-case; and he walked away to the hearth-rug, twisting up apiece of waste paper into a lighter as he went.

When Madonna returnedto her drawing, her eyes wandered timidly once or twice to the placewhere Zack was standing, when she thought he was not looking at her;and, assuredly, so far as personal appearance was concerned, youngThorpe was handsome enough to tempt any woman into glancing at him withapproving eyes. He was over six feet in height; and, though then littlemore than nineteen years old, was well developed in proportion to hisstature. His boxing, rowing, and other athletic exercises had donewonders towards bringing his naturally vigorous, upright frame to theperfection of healthy muscular condition. Tall and strong as he was,there was nothing stiff or ungainly in his movements, He trod easilyand lightly, with a certain youthful suppleness and hardy grace in allhis actions, which set off his fine bodily formation to the bestadvantage. He had keen, quick, mischievous grey eyes--a thoroughlyEnglish red and white complexion--admirably bright and regular teeth--andcurly light brown hair, with a very peculiar golden tinge in it,which was only visible when his head was placed in a particular light.In short, Zack was a manly, handsome fellow, a thorough Saxon, everyinch of him; and (physically speaking at least) a credit to the parentsand the country that had given him birth.

"I say, Blyth, do you andMadonna mind smoke?" asked Zack, lighting his cigar before there wastime to answer him.

"No--no," said Valentine. "But, Zack, you wroteme word that your father had taken all your cigars away from you--"

"So he has, and all my pocket-money too. But I've taken to helpingmyself, and I've got some splendid cigars. Try one, Blyth," said theyoung gentleman, luxuriously puffing out a stream of smoke through eachnostril.

"Taken to helping yourself!" exclaimed Mr. Blyth. "What doyou mean?"

"Oh!" said Zack, "don't be afraid. It's not thieving--it'sonly barter. Look here, my dear fellow, this is how it is. A friend ofmine, a junior clerk in our office, has three dozen cigars, and I havetwo staring flannel shirts, which are only fit for a snob to wear. Thejunior clerk gives me the three dozen cigars, and I give the juniorclerk the two staring flannel shirts. That's barter, and barter'scommerce, old boy! it's all my father's fault; he will make a tradesmanof me. Dutiful behavior, isn't it, to be doing a bit of commercealready on my own account?"

"I'll tell you what, Zack," said Mr.Blyth, "I don't like the way you're going on in at all. Your lastletter made me very uneasy, I can promise you."

"You can't be half asuneasy as I am," rejoined Zack. "I'm jolly enough here, to be sure,because I can't help it somehow; but at home I'm the most miserabledevil on the face of the earth. My father baulks me in everything, andmakes me turn hypocrite, and take him in, in all sorts of ways--which Ihate myself for doing; and yet can't help doing, because he forces meto it. Why does he want to make me live in the same slow way that hedoes himself? There's some difference in our ages, I rather think! Whydoes he bully me about being always home by eleven o'clock? Why does heforce me into a tea-merchant's office, when I want to be an artist,like you? I'm a perfect slave to commerce already. What do you think?I'm supposed to be sampling in the city at this very moment. The juniorclerk's doing the work for me; and he's to have one of my dress-waistcoatsto compensate him for the trouble. First my shirts; then mywaistcoat; then my--confound it, sir, I shall be stripped to the skin,if this sort of thing goes on much longer!"

"Gently, Zack, gently.What would your father say if he heard you?"

"Oh, yes! it's all verywell, you old humbug, to shake your head at me; but you wouldn't likebeing forced into an infernal tea-shop, and having all yourpocket-money stopped, if it was your case. I won't stand it--I have thepatience of Job--but I won't stand it! My mind's made up: I want to bean artist, and I will be an artist. Don't lecture, Blyth--it'sno use; but just tell me how I'm to begin learning to draw."

HereZack cunningly touched Valentine on his weak point. Art was his grandtopic; and to ask his advice on that subject was to administer thesweetest flattery to his professional pride. He wheeled his chair rounddirectly, so as to face young Thorpe. "If you're really set on being anartist," he began enthusiastically, "I rather fancy, Master Zack, I'mthe man to help you. First of all, you must purify your taste bycopying the glorious works of Greek sculpture--in short, you must formyourself on the Antique. Look there!--just what Madonna's doing now; she's forming herself on the Antique."

Zack went immediately tolook at Madonna's drawing, the outline of which was now finished."Beautiful! Splendid! Ah! confound it! yes! the glorious Greeks, and soforth, just as you say, Blyth. A most wonderful drawing! the finestthing of the kind I ever saw in my life!" Here he transferred hissuperlatives to his fingers, communicating them to Madonna through themedium of the deaf and dumb alphabet, which he had superficiallymastered with extraordinary rapidity under Mr. and Mrs. Blyth'stuition. Whatever Zack's friends did Zack always admired with thewildest enthusiasm, and without an instant's previous consideration.Any knowledge of what he praised, or why he praised it, was a slightsuperfluity of which he never felt the want. If Madonna had been agreat astronomer, and had shown him pages of mathematical calculations,he would have overwhelmed her with eulogies just as glibly as--by meansof the finger alphabet--he was overwhelming her now.

But Valentine'spupil was used to be criticized as well as praised; and her head was inno danger of being turned by Zack's admiration of her drawing. Lookingup at him with a sly expression of incredulity, she signed these wordsin reply:--"I am afraid it ought to be a much better drawing than itis. Do you really like it?" Zack rejoined impetuously by a freshtorrent of superlatives. She watched his face, for a moment, ratheranxiously and inquiringly, then bent down quickly over her drawing. Hewalked back to Valentine. Her eyes followed him--then returned oncemore to the paper before her. The color began to rise again in hercheek; a thoughtful expression stole calmly over her clear, happy eyes;she played nervously with the port-crayon that held her black and whitechalk; looked attentively at the drawing; and, smiling very prettily atsome fancy of her own, proceeded assiduously with her employment,altering and amending, as she went on, with more than usual industryand care.

What was Madonna thinking of? If she had been willing, andable, to utter her thoughts, she might have expressed them thus: "Iwonder whether he likes my drawing? Shall I try hard if I can't make itbetter worth pleasing him? I will! it shall be the best thing I haveever done. And then, when it is nicely finished, I will take itsecretly to Mrs. Blyth to give from me, as my present to Zack."

"Lookthere," said Valentine, turning from his picture towards Madonna,"look, my boy, how carefully that dear good girl there is working fromthe Antique! Only copy her example, and you may be able to draw fromthe life in less than a year's time."

"You don't say so? I shouldlike to sit down and begin at once. But, look here, Blyth, when you say'draw from the life,' there can't be the smallest doubt, of course,about what you mean--but, at the same time, if you would only be alittle less professional in your way of expressing yourself--"

"Goodheavens, Zack, in what barbarous ignorance of art your parents musthave brought you up! 'Drawing from the life,' means drawing the livinghuman figure from the living human being which sits at a shilling anhour, and calls itself a model."

"Ah, to be sure! Some of these verymodels whose names are chalked up here over your fireplace?--Delightful!Glorious! Drawing from the life--just the very thing I longfor most. Hullo!" exclaimed Zack, reading the memoranda, which it wasMr. Blyth's habit to scrawl, as they occurred to him, on the wall overthe chimney-piece--"Hullo! here's a woman-model; 'Amelia Bibby'--Blyth!let me dash at once into drawing from the life, and let me beginwith Amelia Bibby."

"Nothing of the sort, Master Zack," saidValentine. "You may end with Amelia Bibby, when you are fit to study atthe Royal Academy. She's a capital model, and so is her sister, Sophia.The worst of it is, they quarreled mortally a little while ago; andnow, if an artist has Sophia, Amelia won't come to him. And Sophia ofcourse returns the compliment, and won't sit to Amelia's friends. It'sawkward for people who used to employ them both, as I did."

"What didthey quarrel about?" inquired Zack.

"About a tea-pot," answered Mr.Blyth. "You see, they are daughters of one of the late king's footmen,and are desperately proud of their aristocratic origin. They used tolive together as happy as birds, without a hard word ever being spokenbetween them, till, one day, they happened to break their tea-pot,which of course set them talking about getting a new one. Sophia saidit ought to be earthenware, like the last; Amelia contradicted her, andsaid it ought to be metal. Sophia said all the aristocracy usedearthenware; Amelia said all the aristocracy used metal. Sophia saidshe was oldest, and knew best; Amelia said she was youngest, and knewbetter. Sophia said Amelia was an impudent jackanapes; Amelia saidSophia was a plebeian wretch. From that moment, they parted. Sophiasits in her own lodging, and drinks tea out of earthenware; Amelia sitsin her own lodging, and drinks tea out of metal. They swearnever to make it up, and abuse each other furiously to everybody whowill listen to them. Very shocking, and very curious at the sametime--isn't it, Zack?"

"Oh, capital! A perfect picture of human natureto us men of the world," exclaimed the young gentleman, smoking with theair of a profound philosopher. "But tell me, Blyth, which is theprettiest, Amelia or Sophia? Metal or Earthenware? My mind's made up,beforehand, to study from the best-looking of the two, if you have noobjection."

"I have the strongest possible objection, Zack, totalking nonsense where a serious question is concerned. Are you, or areyou not, in earnest in your dislike of commerce and your resolution tobe an artist?"

"I mean to be a painter, or I mean to leave home,"answered Zack, resolutely. "If you don't help me, I'll be off as sureas fate! I have half a mind to cut the office from this moment. Lend mea shilling, Blyth; and I'll toss up for it. Heads--liberty and the finearts! Tails--the tea-merchant!"

"If you don't go back to the Cityto-day," said Valentine, "and stick to your engagements, I wash my handsof you--but if you wait patiently, and promise to show all theattention you can to your father's wishes, I'll teach you myself todraw from the Antique. If somebody can be found who has influenceenough with your father to get him to enter you at the Royal Academy,you must be prepared beforehand with a drawing that's fit to show. Now,if you promise to be a good boy, you shall come here, and learn the A BC of Art, every evening if you like. We'll have a regular littleacademy," continued Valentine, putting down his palette and brushes,and rubbing his hands in high glee; "and if it isn't too much forLavvie, the evening studies shall take place in her room; and she shalldraw, poor dear soul, as well as the rest of us. There's an idea foryou, Zack! Mr. Blyth's Drawing Academy, open every evening--with lightrefreshment for industrious students. What do you say to it?"

"Say?by George, sir, I'll come every night, and get through acres of chalkand miles of drawing paper!" cried Zack, catching all Valentine'senthusiasm on the instant. "Let's go up stairs and tell Mrs. Blythabout it directly."

"Stop a minute, Zack," interposed Mr. Blyth."What time ought you to be back in the City? it's close on two o'clocknow."

"Oh! three o'clock will do. I've got lots of time, yet--I canwalk it in half-an-hour."

"You have got about ten minutes more tostay," said Valentine in his firmest manner. "Occupy them if you like,in going up stairs to Mrs. Blyth, and take Madonna with you. I'llfollow as soon as I've put away my brushes."

Saying those words, Mr.Blyth walked to the place where Madonna was still at work. She was sodeeply engaged over her drawing that she had never once looked up fromit, for the last quarter-of-an-hour, or more; and when Valentine pattedher shoulder approvingly, and made her a sign to leave off, sheanswered by a gesture of entreaty, which eloquently enough implored himto let her proceed a little longer with her employment. She had neverat other times claimed an indulgence of this kind, when she was drawingfrom the Antique--but then, she had never, at other times, beenoccupied in making a copy which was secretly intended as a present forZack.

Valentine, however, easily induced her to relinquish her port-crayon. He laid his hand on his heart, which was the sign that had beenadopted to indicate Mrs. Blyth. Madonna started up, and put her drawingmaterials aside immediately.

Zack, having thrown away the end of hiscigar, gallantly advanced and offered her his arm. As she approached,rather shyly, to take it, he also laid his hand on his heart, andpointed up stairs. The gesture was quite enough for her. She understoodat once that they were going together to see Mrs. Blyth.

"WhetherZack really turns out a painter or not," said Valentine to himself, asthe door closed on the two young people, "I believe I have hit on thebest plan that ever was devised for keeping him steady. As long as hecomes to me regularly, he can't break out at night, and get intomischief. Upon my word, the more I think of that notion of mine thebetter I like it. I shouldn't at all wonder if my evening Academydoesn't end in working the reformation of Zack!"

When Mr.Blyth pronounced those last words, if he could only have looked alittle way into the future--if he could only have suspected howstrangely the home-interests dearest to his heart were connected withhis success in working the reformation of Zack--the smile which was nowon his face would have left it in a moment; and, for the first time inhis life, he would have sat before one of his own pictures in thecharacter of an unhappy man.

A week elapsed before Mrs. Blyth'swavering health permitted her husband to open the sittings of hisevening drawing-academy in the invalid room.

During every day of thatweek, the chances of taming down Zack into a reformed character grewsteadily more and more hopeless. The lad's home-position, at thisperiod, claims a moment's serious attention. Zack's resistance to hisfather's infatuated severity was now shortly to end in results of thelast importance to himself, to his family, and to his friends.

A specimen has already been presented of Mr. Thorpe's method ofreligiously educating his son, at six years old, by making him attend achurch service of two hours in length; as, also, of the manner in whichhe sought to drill the child into premature discipline by dint ofSabbath restrictions and Select Bible Texts. When that child grew to aboy, and when the boy developed to a young man, Mr. Thorpe'seducational system still resolutely persisted in being what it hadalways been from the first. His idea of Religion defined it to be asystem of prohibitions; and, by a natural consequence, his idea ofEducation defined that to be a system of prohibitions also.

His method of bringing up his son once settled, no earthlyconsideration could move him from it an inch, one way or the other. Hehad two favorite phrases to answer every form of objection, everyvariety of reasoning, every citation of examples. No matter with whatarguments the surviving members of Mrs. Thorpe's family from time totime assailed him, the same two replies were invariably shot back atthem in turn from the parental quiver. Mr. Thorpe calmly--alwayscalmly--said, first, that he "would never compound with vice" (whichwas what nobody asked him to do), and, secondly, that he would, in noinstance, great or small, "consent to act from a principle ofexpediency:" this last assertion, in the case of Zack, being aboutequivalent to saying that if he set out to walk due north, and met alively young bull galloping with his head down, due south, he would notconsent to save his own bones, or yield the animal space enough to runon, by stepping aside a single inch in a lateral direction, east orwest.

"My son requires the most unremitting parental discipline andcontrol," Mr. Thorpe remarked, in explanation of his motives forforcing Zack to adopt a commercial career. "When he is not under my owneye at home, he must be under the eyes of devout friends, in whom I canplace unlimited confidence. One of these devout friends is ready toreceive him into his counting-house; to keep him industriously occupiedfrom nine in the morning till six in the evening; to surround him withestimable examples; and, in short, to share with me the solemnresponsibility of managing his moral and religious training. Personswho ask me to allow motives of this awfully important nature to bemodified in the smallest degree by any considerations connected withthe lad's natural disposition (which has been a source of grief to mefrom his childhood) with his bodily gifts of the flesh (which havehitherto only served to keep him from the cultivation of the gifts ofthe spirit); or with his own desires (which I know by bitter experienceto be all of the world, worldly);--persons, I say, who ask me to do anyof these things, ask me also to act from a godless principle ofexpediency, and to violate moral rectitude by impiously compoundingwith vice."

Acting on such principles of parental discipline asthese, Mr. Thorpe conscientiously believed that he had done his duty,when he had at last forced his son into the merchant's office. He had,in truth, perpetrated one of the most serious mistakes which it ispossible for a wrong-headed father to commit. For once, Zack had notexaggerated in saying that his aversion to employment in a counting-houseamounted to absolute horror. His physical peculiarities, and thehabits which they had entailed on him from boyhood, made life in theopen air, and the constant use of his hardy thews and sinews aconstitutional necessity. He felt--and there was no self-delusion inthe feeling--that he should mope and pine, like a wild animal in acage, under confinement in an office, only varied from morning toevening by commercial walking expeditions of a miserable mile or two inclose and crowded streets. These forebodings--to say nothing of hisnatural yearning towards adventure, change of scene, and exhilaratingbodily exertion--would have been sufficient of themselves to havedecided him to leave his home, and battle his way through the world (hecared not where or how, so long as he battled it freely), but for oneconsideration. Reckless as he was, that consideration stayed his feeton the brink of a sacred threshold which he dared not pass, perhaps toleave it behind him for ever--the threshold of his mother's door.

Strangely as it expressed itself, and irregularly as it influenced hisconduct, Zack's love for his mother was yet, in its own nature, abeautiful and admirable element in his character; full of promise forthe future, if his father had been able to discover it, and had beenwise enough to be guided by the discovery. As to outward expression,the lad's fondness for Mrs. Thorpe was a wild, boisterous,inconsiderate, unsentimental fondness, noisily in harmony with histhoughtless, rattle-pated disposition. It swayed him by fits andstarts; influencing him nobly to patience and forbearance at one time;abandoning him, to all appearance, at another. But it was genuine,ineradicable fondness, nevertheless--however often heedlessness andtemptation might overpower the still small voice in which its impulsesspoke to his conscience, and pleaded with his heart.

Among otherunlucky results of Mr. Thorpe's conscientious imprisonment of his sonin a merchant's office, was the vast increase which Zack's commercialpenance produced in his natural appetite for the amusements anddissipations of the town. After nine hours of the most ungrateful dailylabor that could well have been inflicted on him, the sight of play-bills and other wayside advertisements of places of public recreationappealed to him on his way home, with irresistible fascination.

Mr.Thorpe drew the line of demarcation between permissible and forbiddenevening amusements at the lecture-rooms of the Royal and PolytechnicInstitutions, and the oratorio performances in Exeter Hall. All gatesopening on the outer side of the boundary thus laid down, were gates ofVice--gates that no son of his should ever be allowed to pass. Thedomestic laws which obliged Zack to be home every night at eleveno'clock, and forbade the possession of a door-key, were directedespecially to the purpose of closing up against him the forbiddenentrances to theaters and public gardens--places of resort which Mr.Thorpe characterized, in a strain of devout allegory, as "Labyrinths ofNational Infamy." It was perfectly useless to suggest to the father (assome of Zack's maternal relatives did suggest to him), that the son wasoriginally descended from Eve, and was consequently possessed of anhereditary tendency to pluck at forbidden fruit; and that hisdisposition and age made it next to a certainty, that if he wererestrained from enjoying openly the amusements most attractive to him,he would probably end in enjoying them by stealth. Mr. Thorpe met allarguments of this kind by registering his usual protest against"compounding with vice;" and then drew the reins of discipline tighterthan ever, by way of warning off all intrusive hands from attempting torelax them for the future.

Before long, the evil results predicted bythe opponents of the father's plan for preventing the son fromindulging in public amusements, actually occurred. At first, Zackgratified his taste for the drama, by going to the theater whenever hefelt inclined; leaving the performances early enough to get home byeleven o'clock, and candidly acknowledging how he had occupied theevening, when the question was asked at breakfast the next morning.This frankness of confession was always rewarded by rebukes, threats,and reiterated prohibitions, administered by Mr. Thorpe with a crushingassumption of superiority to every mitigating argument, entreaty, orexcuse that his son could urge, which often irritated Zack intoanswering defiantly, and recklessly repeating his offense. Finding thatall menaces and reproofs only ended in making the lad ill-tempered andinsubordinate for days together, Mr. Thorpe so far distrusted his ownpowers of correction as to call in the aid of his prime clericaladviser, the Reverend Aaron Yollop; under whose ministry he sat, andwhose portrait, in lithograph, hung in the best light on the dining-room wall at Baregrove Square.

Mr. Yollop's interference was at leastweighty enough to produce a positive and immediate result: it droveZack to the very last limits of human endurance. The reverendgentleman's imperturbable self possession defied the young rebel'sutmost powers of irritating reply, no matter how vigorously he mightexert them. Once vested with the paternal commission to rebuke,prohibit, and lecture, as the spiritual pastor and master of Mr.Thorpe's disobedient son, Mr. Yollop flourished in his new vocation inexact proportion to the resistance offered to the exercise of hisauthority. He derived a grim encouragement from the wildest explosionsof Zack's fury at being interfered with by a man who had no claim ofrelationship over him, and who gloried, professionally, inexperimenting on him, as a finely-complicated case of spiritualdisease. Thrice did Mr. Yollop, in his capacity of a moral surgeon,operate on his patient, and triumph in the responsive yells which hiscurative exertions elicited. At the fourth visit of attendance,however, every angry symptom suddenly and marvelously disappearedbefore the first significant flourish of the clerical knife. Mr. Yollophad triumphed where Mr. Thorpe had failed! The case which had defiedlay treatment had yielded to the parsonic process of cure; and Zack,the rebellious, was tamed at last into spending his evenings indecorous dullness at home!

It never occurred to Mr. Yollop to doubt,or to Mr. Thorpe to ascertain, whether the young gentleman really wentto bed, after he had retired obediently, at the proper hour, to hissleeping room. They saw him come home from business sullenly docile andspeechlessly subdued, take his dinner and his book in the evening, andgo up stairs quietly, after the house door had been bolted for thenight. They saw him thus acknowledge, by every outward proof, that hewas crushed into thorough submission; and the sight satisfied them totheir heart's content. No men are so short-sighted as persecuting men.Both Mr. Thorpe and his coadjutor were persecutors on principle,wherever they encountered opposition; and both were consequentlyincapable of looking beyond immediate results. The sad truth was,however, that they had done something more than discipline the lad.They had fairly worried his native virtues of frankness and fair-dealing out of his heart; they had beaten him back, inch by inch, intothe miry refuge of sheer duplicity. Zack was deceiving them both.

Eleven o'clock was the family hour for going to bed at BaregroveSquare. Zack's first proceeding on entering his room was to open hiswindow softly, put on an old traveling cap, and light a cigar. It wasDecember weather at that time; but his hardy constitution rendered himas impervious to cold as a young Polar bear. Having smoked quietly forhalf an hour, he listened at his door till the silence in Mr. Thorpe'sdressing-room below assured him that his father was safe in bed, andinvited him to descend on tiptoe--with his boots under his arm--intothe hall. Here he placed his candle, with a box of matches by it, on achair, and proceeded to open the house door with the noiselessdexterity of a practiced burglar--being always careful to facilitatethe safe performance of this dangerous operation by keeping lock, bolt,and hinges well oiled. Having secured the key, blown out the candle,and noiselessly closed the door behind him, he left the house, andstarted for the Haymarket, Covent Garden, or the Strand, a littlebefore midnight--or, in other words, set forth on a nocturnal tour ofamusement, just at the time when the doors of respectable places ofpublic recreation (which his father prevented him from attending) wereall closed, and the doors of disreputable places all thrown open.

Oneprecaution, and one only, did Zack observe while enjoying the dangerousdiversions into which paternal prohibitions, assisted by filialperversity, now thrust him headlong, He took care to keep sober enoughto be sure of getting home before the servants had risen, and to becertain of preserving his steadiness of hand and stealthiness of foot,while bolting the door and stealing up stairs for an hour or two ofbed. Knowledge of his own perilous weakness of brain, as a drinker,rendered him thus uncharacteristically temperate and self-restrained,so far as indulgence in strong liquor was concerned. His first glass ofgrog comforted him; his second agreeably excited him; his third (as heknew by former experience) reached his weak point on a sudden, androbbed him treacherously of his sobriety.

Three or four times a week,for nearly a month, had he now enjoyed his unhallowed nocturnal rambleswith perfect impunity--keeping them secret even from his friend Mr.Blyth, whose toleration, expansive as it was, he well knew would notextend to viewing leniently such offenses as haunting night-houses attwo in the morning, while his father believed him to be safe in bed.But one mitigating circumstance can be urged in connection with thecourse of misconduct which he was now habitually following. He hadstill grace enough left to feel ashamed of his own successfulduplicity, when he was in his mother's presence.

But circumstancesunhappily kept him too much apart from Mrs. Thorpe, and so preventedthe natural growth of a good feeling, which flourished only under herinfluence: and which, had it been suffered to arrive at maturity, mighthave led to his reform. All day he was at the office, and his irksomelife there only inclined him to look forward with malicious triumph tothe secret frolic of the night. Then, in the evening, Mr. Thorpe oftenthought it advisable to harangue him seriously, by way of not lettingthe reformed rake relapse for want of a little encouraging admonitionof the moral sort. Nor was Mr. Yollop at all behindhand in takingsimilar precautions to secure the new convert permanently, after havingonce caught him. Every word these two gentlemen spoke only served toharden the lad afresh, and to deaden the reproving and reclaiminginfluence of his mother's affectionate looks and confiding words. "Ishould get nothing by it, even if I could turn over a new leaf;"thought Zack, shrewdly and angrily, when his father or his father'sfriend favored him with a little improving advice: "Here they are,worrying away again already at their pattern good boy, to make him abetter."

Such was the point at which the Tribulations of Zack hadarrived, at the period when Mr. Valentine Blyth resolved to set up adomestic Drawing Academy in his wife's room; with the double purpose ofamusing his family circle in the evening, and reforming his wild youngfriend by teaching him to draw from the "glorious Antique."

When theweek of delay had elapsed, and when Mrs. Blyth felt strong enough toreceive company in her room, Valentine sent the promised invitation toZack which summoned him to his first drawing-lesson.

The locality inwhich the family drawing academy was to be held deserves a word ofpreliminary notice. It formed the narrow world which bounded, by dayand night alike, the existence of the painter's wife.

By throwingdown a partition-wall, Mrs. Blyth's room had been so enlarged, as toextend along the whole breadth of one side of the house, measuring fromthe front to the back garden windows. Considerable as the space waswhich had been thus obtained, every part of it from floor to ceilingwas occupied by objects of beauty proper to the sphere in which theywere placed: some, solid and serviceable, where usefulness wasdemanded; others light and elegant, where ornament alone wasnecessary--and all won gloriously by Valentine's brush; by the long,loving, unselfish industry of many years. Mrs. Blyth's bed, likeeverything else that she used in her room, was so arranged as to offerher the most perfect comfort and luxury attainable in her sufferingcondition. The framework was broad enough to include within itsdimensions a couch for day and a bed for night. Her reading easel andwork-table could be moved within reach, in whatever position she lay.Immediately above her hung an extraordinary complication of loosecords, which ran through ornamental pulleys of the quaintest kind,fixed at different places in the ceiling, and communicating with thebell, the door, and a pane of glass in the window which opened easilyon hinges. These were Valentine's own contrivances to enable his wifeto summon attendance, admit visitors, and regulate the temperature ofher room at will, by merely pulling at any one of the loops hangingwithin reach of her hand, and neatly labeled with ivory tablets,inscribed "Bell," "Door," "Window." The cords comprising this riggingfor invalid use were at least five times more numerous than wasnecessary for the purpose they were designed to serve; but Mrs. Blythwould never allow them to be simplified by dexterous hands. Clumsy astheir arrangement might appear to others, in her eyes it was without afault: every useless cord was sacred from the reforming knife, forValentine's sake.

Imprisoned to one room, as she had now been foryears, she had not lost her natural womanly interest in the littleoccupations and events of household life. From the studio to thekitchen, she managed every day, through channels of communicationinvented by herself, to find out the latest domestic news; to bepresent in spirit at least if not in body, at family consultationswhich could not take place in her room; to know exactly how her husbandwas getting on downstairs with his pictures; to rectify in time anyomission of which Mr. Blyth or Madonna might be guilty in making thedinner arrangements, or in sending orders to tradespeople; to keep theservants attentive to their work, and to indulge or control them, asthe occasion might require. Neither by look nor manner did she betrayany of the sullen listlessness or fretful impatience sometimesattendant on long, incurable illness. Her voice, low as its tones were,was always cheerful, and varied musically and pleasantly with hervarying thoughts. On her days of weakness, when she suffered much underher malady, she was accustomed to be quite still and quiet, and to keepher room darkened--these being the only signs by which any increase inher disorder could be detected by those about her. She never complainedwhen the bad symptoms came on; and never voluntarily admitted, even onbeing questioned, that the spine was more painful to her than usual.

She was dressed very prettily for the opening night of the DrawingAcademy, wearing a delicate lace cap, and a new silk gown ofValentine's choosing, made full enough to hide the emaciation of herfigure. Her husband's love, faithful through all affliction and changeto the girlish image of its first worship, still affectionately exactedfrom her as much attention to the graces and luxuries of dress as shemight have bestowed on them of her own accord, in the best and gayestdays of youth and health. She had never looked happier and better inany new gown than in that, which Mr. Blyth had insisted on giving her,to commemorate the establishment of the domestic drawing school in herown room.

Seven o'clock had been fixed as the hour at which thebusiness of the academy was to begin. Always punctual, wherever hisprofessional engagements were concerned, Valentine put the finishingtouch to his preparations as the clock struck; and perching himselfgaily on a corner of Mrs. Blyth's couch, surveyed his drawing-boards,his lamps, and the plaster cast set up for his pupils to draw from,with bland artistic triumph.

"Now, Lavvie," he said, "before Zackcomes and confuses me, I'll just check off all the drawing things oneafter another, to make sure that nothing's left down stairs in thestudio, which ought to be up here."

As her husband said these words,Mrs. Blyth touched Madonna gently on the shoulder. For some little timethe girl had been sitting thoughtfully, with her head bent down, hercheek resting on her hand, and a bright smile just parting her lipsvery prettily. The affliction which separated her from the worlds ofhearing and speech--which set her apart among her fellow-creatures, asolitary living being in a sphere of death-silence that others mightapproach, but might never enter--gave a touching significance to thedeep, meditative stillness that often passed over her suddenly, even inthe society of her adopted parents, and of friends who were all talkingaround her. Sometimes, the thoughts by which she was thusabsorbed--thoughts only indicated to others by the shadow of theirmysterious presence, moving in the expression that passed over herface--held her long under their influence: sometimes, they seemed to dieaway in her mind almost as suddenly as they had arisen to life in it. Itwas one of Valentine's many eccentric fancies that she was not meditatingonly, at such times as these, but that, deaf and dumb as she was with thecreatures of this world, she could talk with the angels, and could hearwhat the heavenly voices said to her in return.

The moment she wastouched on the shoulder, she looked up, and nestled close to heradopted mother; who, passing one arm round her neck, explained to her,by means of the manual signs of the deaf and dumb alphabet, whatValentine was saying at that moment.

Nothing was more characteristicof Mrs. Blyth's warm sympathies and affectionate consideration forMadonna than this little action. The kindest people rarely think itnecessary, however well practiced in communicating by the fingers withthe deaf, to keep them informed of any ordinary conversation which maybe proceeding in their presence. Wise disquisitions, witty sayings,curious stories, are conveyed to their minds by sympathizing friendsand relatives, as a matter of course; but the little chatty nothings ofeveryday talk, which most pleasantly and constantly employ our speakingand address our hearing faculties, are thought too slight and fugitivein their nature to be worthy of transmission by interpreting fingers orpens, and are consequently seldom or never communicated to the deaf. Nodeprivation attending their affliction is more severely felt by themthan the special deprivation which thus ensues; and which exiles theirsympathies, in a great measure, from all share in the familiar socialinterests of life around them.

Mrs. Blyth's kind heart, quickintelligence, and devoted affection for her adopted child, had longsince impressed it on her, as the first of duties and pleasures, toprevent Madonna from feeling the excluding influences of her calamity,while in the society of others, by keeping her well informed of everyone of the many conversations, whether jesting or earnest, that wereheld in her presence, in the invalid-room. For years and years past,Mrs. Blyth's nimble fingers had been accustomed to interpret all thatwas said by her bedside before the deaf and dumb girl, as they wereinterpreting for her now.

"Just stop me, Lavvie, if I miss anythingout, in making sure that I've got all that's wanted for everybody'sdrawing lesson," said Valentine, preparing to reckon up the list of hismaterials correctly, by placing his right forefinger on his left thumb."First, there's the statue that all my students are to draw from--theDying Gladiator. Secondly, the drawing-boards and paper. Thirdly, theblack and white chalk. Fourthly,--where are the port-crayons to holdthe chalk? Down in the painting-room, of course. No! no! don't troubleMadonna to fetch them. Tell her to poke the fire instead: I'll be backdirectly." And Mr. Blyth skipped out of the room as nimbly as if he hadbeen fifteen instead of fifty.

No sooner was Valentine's back turnedthan Mrs. Blyth's hand was passed under the pretty swan's-down coverletthat lay over her couch, as if in search of something hidden beneathit. In a moment the hand reappeared, holding a chalk drawing veryneatly framed. It was Madonna's copy from the head of the Venus de'Medici--the same copy which Zack had honored with his most superlativeexaggeration of praise, at his last visit to the studio. She had notsince forgotten, or altered her purpose of making him a present of thedrawing which he had admired so much. It had been finished with theutmost care and completeness which she could bestow upon it; had beenput into a very pretty frame which she had paid for out of her ownlittle savings of pocket-money; and was now hidden under Mrs. Blyth'scoverlet, to be drawn forth as a grand surprise for Zack, and forValentine too, on that very evening.

After looking once or twicebackwards and forwards between the copyist and the copy, her pale kindface beaming with the quiet merriment that overspread it, Mrs. Blythlaid down the drawing, and began talking with her fingers to Madonna.

"So you will not even let me tell Valentine who this is a presentfor?" were the first words which she signed.

The girl was sittingwith her back half turned on the drawing; glancing at it quickly fromtime to time with a strange shyness and indecision, as if the work ofher own hands had undergone some transformation which made her doubtwhether she was any longer privileged to look at it. She shook her headin reply to the question just put to her, then moved round suddenly onher chair; her fingers playing nervously with the fringes of thecoverlet at her side.

"We all like Zack," proceeded Mrs. Blyth,enjoying the amusement which her womanly instincts extracted fromMadonna's confusion; "but you must like him very much, love, to takemore pains with this particular drawing than with any drawing you everdid before."

This time Madonna neither looked up nor moved an inch inher chair, her fingers working more and more nervously amid the fringe;her treacherous cheeks, neck, and bosom answered for her.

Mrs. Blythtouched her shoulder gaily, and, after placing the drawing again underthe coverlet, made her look up, while signing these words;

"I shallgive the drawing to Zack very soon after he comes in. It is sure tomake him happy for the rest of the evening, and fonder of you thanever."

Madonna's eyes followed Mrs. Blyth's fingers eagerly to thelast letter they formed; then rose softly to her face with the samewistful questioning look which they had assumed before Valentine, yearsand years ago, when he first interfered to protect her in the travelingcircus. There was such an irresistible tenderness in the faint smilethat wavered about her lips; such a sadness of innocent beauty in herface, now growing a shade paler than it was wont to be, that Mrs.Blyth's expression became serious the instant their eyes met. She drewthe girl forward and kissed her. The kiss was returned many times, witha passionate warmth and eagerness remarkably at variance with the usualgentleness of all Madonna's actions. What had changed her thus? Beforeit was possible to inquire or to think, she had broken away from thekind arms that were round her, and was kneeling with her face hidden inthe pillows that lay over the head of the couch.

"I must quiet herdirectly. I ought to make her feel that this is wrong," said Mrs. Blythto herself; looking startled and grieved as she withdrew her hand wetwith tears, after trying vainly to raise the girl's face from thepillows. "She has been thinking too much lately--too much about thatdrawing; too much, I am afraid, about Zack."

Just at that moment Mr.Blyth opened the door. Feeling the slight shock, as he let it bang toafter entering, Madonna instantly started up and ran to the fireplace.Valentine did not notice her when he came in.

He bustled about theneighborhood of the Dying Gladiator, talking incessantly, arranging hisport-crayons by the drawing-boards, and trimming the lamps that lit themodel. Mrs. Blyth cast many an anxious look towards the fireplace.After the lapse of a few minutes Madonna turned round and came back tothe couch. The traces of tears had almost entirely disappeared from herface. She made a little appealing gesture that asked Mrs. Blyth to besilent about what had happened while they were alone; kissed, as a signthat she wished to be forgiven, the hand that was held out to her; andthen sat down quietly again in her accustomed place.

At the samemoment a voice was heard talking and laughing boisterously in the hall.Then followed a long whispering, succeeded by a burst of giggling fromthe housemaid, who presently ascended to Mrs. Blyth's room alone, andentered--after an explosion of suppressed laughter behind thedoor--holding out at arm's length a pair of boxing-gloves.

"If you please,sir," said the girl, addressing Valentine, and tittering hystericallyat every third word, "Master Zack's down stairs on the landing, and hesays you're to be so kind as put on these things (he's putting anotherpair on hisself) and give him the pleasure of your company for a fewminutes in the painting-room."

"Come on, Blyth," cried the voice fromthe stairs. "I told you I should bring the gloves, and make a fightingman of you, last time I was here, you know. Come on! I only want toopen your chest by knocking you about a little in the painting-roombefore we begin to draw."

The servant still held the gloves away fromher at the full stretch of her arm, as if she feared they were yetalive with the pugilistic energies that had been imparted to them bytheir last wearer. Mrs. Blyth burst out laughing, Valentine followedher example. The housemaid began to look bewildered, and begged to knowif her master would be so kind as to take "the things" away from her.

"Did you say, come up stairs?" continued the voice outside. "Allright; I have no objection, if Mrs. Blyth hasn't." Here Zack came inwith his boxing-gloves fitted on. "How are you, Blyth? These are thepills for that sluggish old liver of yours that you're alwayscomplaining of. Put 'em on. Stand with your left leg forward--keep yourright leg easily bent--and fix your eye on me!"

"Hold your tongue!"cried Mr. Blyth, at last recovering breath enough to assert his dignityas master of the new drawing-school. "Take off those things directly!What do you mean, sir, by coming into my academy, which is devoted tothe peaceful arts, in the attitude of a prize-fighter?"

"Don't loseyour temper, my dear fellow," rejoined Zack; "you will never learn touse your fists prettily if you do. Here, Patty, the boxing lesson's putoff till to-morrow. Take the gloves up-stairs into your master'sdressing-room, and put them in the drawer where his clean shirts are,because they must be kept nice and dry. Shake hands, Mrs. Blyth: itdoes one good to see you laugh like that, you look so much the betterfor it. And how is Madonna? I'm afraid she's been sitting before thefire, and trying to spoil her pretty complexion. Why, what's the matterwith her? Poor little darling, her hands are quite cold!"

"Come toyour lesson, sir, directly," said Valentine, assuming his most despoticvoice, and leading the disorderly student by the collar to hisappointed place.

"Hullo!" cried Zack, looking at the Dying Gladiator."The gentleman in plaster's making a face--I'm afraid he isn't quitewell. I say, Blyth, is that the statue of an ancient Greek patient,suffering under the prescription of an ancient Greek physician?"

"Will you hold your tongue and take up your drawing-board?" criedMr. Blyth. "You young barbarian, you deserve to be expelled my academyfor talking in that way of the Dying Gladiator. Now then; where'sMadonna? No! stop where you are, Zack. I'll show her her place, andgive her the drawing-board. Wait a minute, Lavvie! Let me prop you upcomfortably with the pillows before you begin. There! I never saw amore beautiful effect of light and shade, my dear, than there is onyour view of the model. Has everybody got a port-crayon and two bits ofchalk? Yes, everybody has. Order! order! order!" shouted Valentine,suddenly forgetting his assumed dignity in the exultation of themoment. "Mr. Blyth's drawing academy for the promotion of family Art isnow open, and ready for general inspection. Hooray!"

"Hooray!" echoedZack, "hooray for family Art! I say, Blyth, which chalk do I beginwith--the white or the black? The black--eh? Do I start with the what'shis name's wry face? and if so, where am I to begin? With his eyes, orhis nose, or his mouth, or the top of his head, or the bottom of hischin--or what?"

"First sketch in the general form with a light andflowing stroke, and without attention to details," said Mr. Blyth,illustrating these directions by waving his hand gracefully about hisown person. "Then measure with the eye, assisted occasionally by theport-crayon, the proportion of the parts. Then put dots on the paper; adot where his head comes; another dot where his elbows and knees come,and so forth. Then strike it all in boldly--it's impossible to give youbetter advice than that--strike it in, Zack; strike it in boldly!"

"Here goes at his head and shoulders to begin with," said Zack, takingone comprehensive and confident look at the Dying Gladiator, anddrawing a huge half circle, with a preliminary flourish of his hand onthe paper. "Oh, confound it, I've broken the chalk!"

"Of course youhave," retorted Valentine. "Take another bit; the Academy grantssupplementary chalk to ignorant students, who dig their lines on thepaper, instead of drawing them. Now, break off a bit of that bread-crumb,and rub out what you have done. 'Buy a penny loaf, and rub itall out,' as Mr. Fuseli once said to me in the Schools of the RoyalAcademy, when I showed him my first drawing, and was excessivelyconceited about it."

"I remember," said Mrs. Blyth, "when my fatherwas working at his great engraving, from Mr. Scumble's picture of the'Fair Gleaner Surprised,' that he used often to say how much harder hisart was than drawing, because you couldn't rub out a false line oncopper, like you could on paper. We all thought he never would get thatprint done, he used to groan over it so in the front drawing-room,where he was then at work. And the publishers paid him infamously, allin bills, which he had to get discounted; and the people who gave himthe money cheated him. My mother said it served him right for beingalways so imprudent; which I thought very hard on him, and I took hispart--so harassed too as he was by the tradespeople at that time."

"Ican feel for him, my love," said Valentine, pointing a piece of chalkfor Zack. "The tradespeople have harassed me--not because Icould not pay them certainly, but because I could not add up theirbills. Never owe any man enough, Zack, to give him the chance ofpunishing you for being in his debt, with a sum to do in simpleaddition. At the time when I had bills (go on with your drawing; youcan listen, and draw too), I used, of course, to think it necessary tocheck the tradespeople, and see that their Total was right. You willhardly believe me, but I don't remember ever making the sum what theshop made it, on more than about three occasions. And, what was worse,if I tried a second time, I could not even get it to agree with what Ihad made it myself the first time. Thank Heaven, I've no difficultiesof that sort to grapple with now! Everything's paid for the moment itcomes in. If the butcher hands a leg of mutton to the cook over theairey railings, the cook hands him back six and nine--or whatever itis--and takes his bill and receipt. I eat my dinners now, with theblessed conviction that they won't all disagree with me in anarithmetical point of view at the end of the year. What are youstopping and scratching your head for in that way?"

"It's no use,"replied Zack; "I've tried it a dozen times, and I find I can't draw aGladiator's nose."

"Can't!" cried Mr. Blyth, "what do you mean byapplying the word 'can't' to any process of art in my presence?There, that's the line of the Gladiator's nose. Go over it yourselfwith this fresh piece of chalk. No; wait a minute. Come here first, andsee how Madonna is striking in the figure; the front view of it,remember, which is the most difficult. She hasn't worked as fast asusual, though. Do you find your view of the model a little too much foryou, my love?" continued Valentine, transferring the last words to hisfingers, to communicate them to Madonna.

She shook her head inanswer. It was not the difficulty of drawing from the cast before her,but the difficulty of drawing at all, which was retarding her progress.Her thoughts would wander to the copy of the Venus de Medici that washidden under Mrs. Blyth's coverlid; would vibrate between tremblingeagerness to see it presented without longer delay, and groundlessapprehension that Zack might, after all, not remember it, or not careto have it when it was given to him. And as her thoughts wandered, soher eyes followed them. Now she stole an anxious, inquiring look atMrs. Blyth, to see if her hand was straying towards the hidden drawing.Now she glanced shyly at Zack--only by moments at a time, and only whenhe was hardest at work with his port-crayon--to assure herself that hewas always in the same good humor, and likely to receive her littlepresent kindly, and with some appearance of being pleased to see whatpains she had taken with it. In this way her attention wanderedincessantly from her employment; and thus it was that she made so muchless progress than usual, and caused Mr. Blyth to suspect that the taskhe had set her was almost beyond her abilities.

"Splendid beginning,isn't it?" said Zack, looking over her drawing. "I defy the whole RoyalAcademy to equal it," continued the young gentleman, scrawling thisuncompromising expression of opinion on the blank space at the bottomof Madonna's drawing, and signing his name with a magnificent flourishat the end.

His arm touched her shoulder while he wrote. She coloreda little, and glanced at him, playfully affecting to look very proud ofhis sentence of approval--then hurriedly resumed her drawing as theireyes met. He was sent back to his place by Valentine before he couldwrite anything more. She took some of the bread-crumb near her to rub outwhat he had written--hesitated as her hand approached the lines--coloredmore deeply than before, and went on with her drawing, leavingthe letters beneath it to remain just as young Thorpe had traced them.

"I shall never be able to draw as well as she does," said Zack,looking at the little he had done with a groan of despair. "The factis, I don't think drawing's my forte. It's color, depend upon it. Onlywait till I come to that; and see how I'll lay on the paint! Didn't youfind drawing infernally difficult, Blyth, when you first began?"

"Ifind it difficult still, Master Zack," replied Mr. Blyth. "Art wouldn'tbe the glorious thing it is, if it wasn't all difficulty from beginningto end; if it didn't force out all the fine points in a man's characteras soon as he takes to it. Just eight o'clock," continued Valentine,looking at his watch. "Put down your drawing-boards for the present. Ipronounce the sitting of this Academy to be suspended till after tea."

"Valentine, dear," said Mrs. Blyth, smiling mysteriously, as sheslipped her hand under the coverlid of the couch, "I can't get Madonnato look at me, and I want her here. Will you oblige me by bringing herto my bedside?"

"Certainly, my love," returned Mr. Blyth, obeying therequest. "You have a double claim on my services to-night, for you haveshown yourself the most promising of my pupils. Come here, Zack, andsee what Mrs. Blyth has done. The best drawing of the evening--justwhat I thought it would be--the best drawing of the evening!"

Zack,who had been yawning disconsolately over his own copy, with his fistsstuck into his cheeks, and his elbows on his knees, bustled up to thecouch directly. As he approached, Madonna tried to get back to herformer position at the fireplace, but was prevented by Mrs. Blyth, whokept tight hold of her hand. Just then, Zack fixed his eyes on her andincreased her confusion.

"She looks prettier than ever to-night,don't she, Mrs. Blyth?" he said, sitting down and yawning again. "Ialways like her best when her eyes brighten up and look twentydifferent ways in a minute, just as they're doing now. She may not beso like Raphael's pictures at such times, I dare say (here he yawnedonce more); but for my part--What's she wanting to get away for? Andwhat are you laughing about, Mrs. Blyth? I say, Valentine, there's somejoke going on here between the ladies!"

"Do you remember this, Zack?"asked Mrs. Blyth, tightening her hold of Madonna with one hand, andproducing the framed drawing of the Venus de' Medici with the other.

"Madonna's copy from my bust of the Venus!" cried Valentine,interposing with his usual readiness, and skipping forward with hisaccustomed alacrity.

"Madonna's copy from Blyth's bust of the Venus,"echoed Zack, coolly; his slippery memory not having preserved theslightest recollection of the drawing at first sight of it.

"Dear me!how nicely it's framed, and how beautifully she has finished it!"pursued Valentine, gently patting Madonna's shoulder, in token of hishigh approval and admiration.

"Very nicely framed, and beautifullyfinished, as you say, Blyth," glibly repeated Zack, rising from hischair, and looking rather perplexed, as he noticed the expression withwhich Mrs. Blyth was regarding him.

"But who got it framed?" askedValentine. "She would never have any of her drawings framed before. Idon't understand what it all means."

"No more do I," said Zack,dropping back into his chair in lazy astonishment. "Is it some riddle,Mrs. Blyth? Something about why is Madonna like the Venus de' Medici,eh? If it is, I object to the riddle, because she's a deal prettierthan any plaster face that ever was made. Your face beats Venus'shollow," continued Zack, communicating this bluntly sincere complimentto Madonna by the signs of the deaf and dumb alphabet.

She smiled asshe watched the motion of his fingers--perhaps at his mistakes, for hemade two in expressing one short sentence of five words--perhaps at thecompliment, homely as it was.

"Oh, you men, how dreadfully stupid youare sometimes!" exclaimed Mrs. Blyth. "Why, Valentine, dear, it's theeasiest thing in the world to guess what she has had the drawing framedfor. To make it a present to somebody, of course! And who does she meanto give it to?"

"Ah! who indeed?" interrupted Zack, sliding downcozily in his chair, resting his head on the back rail, and spreadinghis legs out before him at full stretch.

"I have a great mind tothrow the drawing at your head, instead of giving it to you!" criedMrs. Blyth, losing all patience.

"You don't mean to say the drawing'sa present to me!" exclaimed Zack, starting from his chair withone prodigious jump of astonishment.

"You deserve to have your earswell boxed for not having guessed that it was long ago!" retorted Mrs.Blyth. "Have you forgotten how you praised that very drawing, when yousaw it begun in the studio? Didn't you tell Madonna--"

"Oh! the dear,good, generous, jolly little soul!" cried Zack, snatching up thedrawing from the couch, as the truth burst upon him at last in a flashof conviction. "Tell her on your fingers, Mrs. Blyth, how proudI am of my present. I can't do it with mine, because I can't let go ofthe drawing. Here, look here!--make her look here, and see how I likeit!" And Zack hugged the copy of the Venus de' Medici to his waistcoat,by way of showing how highly he prized it.

At this outburst ofsentimental pantomime, Madonna raised her head and glanced at youngThorpe. Her face, downcast, anxious, and averted even from Mrs. Blyth'seyes during the last few minutes (as if she had guessed every word thatcould pain her, out of all that had been said in her presence), nowbrightened again with pleasure as she looked up--with innocent,childish pleasure, that affected no reserve, dreaded nomisconstruction, foreboded no disappointment. Her eyes, turning quicklyfrom Zack, and appealing gaily to Valentine, beamed with triumph whenhe pointed to the drawing, and smilingly raised his hands inastonishment, as a sign that he had been pleasantly surprised by thepresentation of her drawing to his new pupil. Mrs. Blyth felt the handwhich she still held in hers, and which had hitherto trembled a littlefrom time to time, grow steady and warm in her grasp, and dropped it.There was no fear that Madonna would now leave the side of the couchand steal away by herself to the fireplace.

"Go on, Mrs. Blyth--younever make mistakes in talking on your fingers, and I always do--go on,please, and tell her how much I thank her," continued Zack, holding outthe drawing at arm's length, and looking at it with his head on oneside, by way of imitating Valentine's manner of studying his ownpictures. "Tell her I'll take such care of it as I never took ofanything before in my life. Tell her I'll hang it up in my bed-room,where I can see it every morning as soon as I wake. Have you told herthat?--or shall I write it on her slate? Hullo! here comes the tea.And, by heavens, a whole bagful of muffins! What!!! the kitchen fire'stoo black to toast them. I'll undertake the whole lot in thedrawing academy. Here, Patty, give us the toasting-fork: I'm going tobegin. I never saw such a splendid fire for toasting muffins before inmy life! Rum-dum-diddy-iddy-dum-dee, dum-diddy-iddy-dum!" And Zack fellon his knees at the fireplace, humming "Rule Britannia," and toastinghis first muffin in triumph; utterly forgetting that he had leftMadonna's drawing lying neglected, with its face downwards, on the endof Mrs. Blyth's couch.

Valentine, who in the innocence of his heartsuspected nothing, burst out laughing at this new specimen of Zack'sinveterate flightiness. His kind instincts, however, guided his hand atthe same moment to the drawing. He took it up carefully, and placed iton a low bookcase at the opposite side of the room. If any increase hadbeen possible in his wife's affection for him, she would have loved himbetter than ever at the moment when he performed that one littleaction.

As her husband removed the drawing, Mrs. Blyth looked atMadonna. The poor girl stood shrinking close to the couch, with herhands clasped tightly together in front of her, and with no trace oftheir natural lovely color left on her cheeks. Her eyes followedValentine listlessly to the bookcase, then turned towards Zack, notreproachfully nor angrily--not even tearfully--but again with that samelook of patient sadness, of gentle resignation to sorrow, which used tomark their expression so tenderly in the days of her bondage among themountebanks of the traveling circus. So she stood, looking towards thefireplace and the figure kneeling at it, bearing her new disappointmentjust as she had borne many a former mortification that had tried hersorely while she was yet a little child. How carefully she had laboredat that neglected drawing in the secrecy of her own room! How happy shehad been in anticipating the moment when it would be given to youngThorpe; in imagining what he would say on receiving it, and how hewould communicate his thanks to her; in wondering what he would do withit when he got it: where he would hang it, and whether he would oftenlook at his present after he had got used to seeing it on the wall!Thoughts such as these had made the moment of presenting that drawingthe moment of a great event in her life--and there it was now, placedon one side by other hands than the hands into which it had been given;laid down carelessly at the mere entrance of a servant with a tea-tray;neglected for the childish pleasure of kneeling on the hearth-rug, andtoasting a muffin at a clear coal-fire!

Mrs. Blyth's generous,impulsive nature, and sensitively tempered affection for her adoptedchild, impelled her to take instant and not very merciful notice ofZack's unpardonable thoughtlessness. Her face flushed, her dark eyessparkled, as he turned quickly on her couch towards the fire-place.But, before she could utter a word, Madonna's hand was on her lips, andMadonna's eyes were fixed with a terrified, imploring expression on herface. The next instant, the girl's trembling fingers rapidly signedthese words:

"Pray--pray don't say anything! I would not have youspeak to him just now for the world!"

Mrs. Blyth hesitated, andlooked towards her husband; but he was away at the other end of theroom, amusing himself professionally by casting the drapery of thewindow-curtains hither and thither into all sorts of picturesque folds.She looked next at Zack. Just at that moment he was turning his muffinand singing louder than ever. The temptation to startle him out of hisprovoking gaiety by a good sharp reproof was almost too strong to beresisted; but Mrs. Blyth forced herself to resist it, nevertheless, forMadonna's sake. She did not, however, communicate with the girl, eitherby signs or writing, until she had settled herself again in her formerposition; then her fingers expressed these sentences of reply:

"Ifyou promise not to let his thoughtlessness distress you, my love, Ipromise not to speak to him about it. Do you agree to that bargain? Ifyou do, give me a kiss."

Madonna only paused to repress a sigh thatwas just stealing from her, before she gave the required pledge. Hercheeks did not recover their color, nor her lips the smile that hadbeen playing on them earlier in the evening; but she arranged Mrs.Blyth's pillow even more carefully than usual, before she left thecouch, and went away to perform as neatly and prettily as ever, her ownlittle household duty of making the tea.

Zack, entirely unconsciousof having given pain to one lady and cause of anger to another, had goton to his second muffin, and had changed his accompanying song from"Rule Britannia" to the "Lass o' Gowrie," when the hollow, ringingsound of rapidly-running wheels penetrated into the room from thefrosty road outside; advancing nearer and nearer, and then suddenlyceasing opposite Mr. Blyth's own door.

"Dear me!--surely that's atour gate," exclaimed Valentine; "who can be coming to see us so late,on such a cold night as this? And in a carriage, too!"

"It's a cab,by the rattling of the wheels, and it brings us the 'Lass o' Gowrie,'"sang Zack, combining the original text of his song, and the suggestionof a possible visitor, in his concluding words.

"Do leave off singingnonsense out of tune, and let us listen when the door opens," said Mrs.Blyth, glad to seize the slightest opportunity of administering thesmallest reproof to Zack.

"Suppose it should be Mr. Gimble, come todeal at last for that picture of mine that he has talked of buying solong," exclaimed Valentine.

"Suppose it should be my father!" criedZack, suddenly turning round on his knees with a very blank face. "Orthat infernal old Yollop, with his gooseberry eyes and his hands fullof tracts. They're both of them quite equal to coming after me andspoiling my pleasure here, just as they spoil it everywhere else."

"Hush!" said Mrs. Blyth. "The visitor has come in, whoever it is. Itcan't be Mr. Gimble, Valentine; he always runs up two stairs at atime."

"And this is one of the heavy-weights. Not an ounce less thansixteen stone, I should say, by the step," remarked Zack, letting hismuffin burn while he listened.

"It can't be that tiresome old LadyBrambledown come to worry you again about altering her picture," saidMrs. Blyth.

"Stop! surely it isn't--" began Valentine. But before hecould say another word, the door opened; and, to the utter amazement ofeverybody but the poor girl whose ear no voice could reach, the servantannounced:

"MRS. PECKOVER."

Time had lavishly added to Mrs.Peckover's size, but had generously taken little or nothing from her inexchange. Her hair had certainly turned grey since the period whenValentine first met her at the circus; but the good-humored facebeneath was just as hearty to look at now, as ever it had been informer days. Her cheeks had ruddily expanded; her chin had passed fromthe double to the triple stage of jovial development--any faint tracesof a waist which she might formerly have possessed were utterlyobliterated--but it was pleasantly evident, to judge only from themanner of her bustling entry into Mrs. Blyth's room, that her activedisposition had lost nothing of its early energy, and could still gailydefy all corporeal obstructions to the very last.

Nodding and smilingat Mr. and Mrs. Blyth, and Zack, till her vast country bonnet trembledaguishly on her head, the good woman advanced, shaking every moveableobject in the room, straight to the tea-table, and enfolded Madonna inher capacious arms. The girl's light figure seemed to disappear in asmothering circumambient mass of bonnet ribbons and unintelligibledrapery, as Mrs. Peckover saluted her with a rattling fire of kisses,the report of which was audible above the voluble talking of Mr. Blythand the boisterous laughter of Zack.

"I'll tell you all about how Icame here directly, sir; only I couldn't help saying how-d'ye-do in theold way to little Mary to begin with," said Mrs. Peckoverapologetically. It had been found impossible to prevail on her tochange the familiar name of "little Mary," which she had pronounced sooften and so fondly in past years, for the name which had superseded itin Valentine's house. The truth was, that this worthy creature knewnothing whatever about Raphael; and, considering "Madonna" to be anoutlandish foreign word intimately connected with Guy Fawkes and theGunpowder Plot, firmly believed that no respectable Englishwoman oughtto compromise her character by attempting to pronounce it.

"I'll tellyou, sir--I'll tell you directly why I've come to London," repeatedMrs. Peckover, backing majestically from the tea-table, and rollinground easily on her own axis in the direction of the couch, to ask forthe fullest particulars of the state of Mrs. Blyth's health.

"Muchbetter, my good friend--much better," was the cheerful answer; "but dotell us (we are so glad to see you!) how you came to surprise us all inthis way?"

"Well, ma'am," began Mrs. Peckover, "it's almost as greata surprise to me to be in London, as it is--Be quiet, youngGood-for-Nothing; I won't even shake hands with you if you don't behaveyourself!" These last words she addressed to Zack, whose favorite jokeit had always been, from the day of their first acquaintance atValentine's house, to pretend to be violently in love with her. He wasnow standing with his arms wide open, the toasting-fork in one hand andthe muffin he had burnt in the other, trying to look languishing, andentreating Mrs. Peckover to give him a kiss.

"When you know how totoast a muffin properly, p'raps I may give you one," said she,chuckling as triumphantly over her own small retort as if she had beena professed wit. "Do, Mr. Blyth, sir, please to keep him quiet, or Ishan't be able to get on with a single word of what I've got to say.Well, you see, ma'am, Doctor Joyce--"

"How is he?" interruptedValentine, handing Mrs. Peckover a cup of tea.

"He's the bestgentleman in the world, sir, but he will have his glass of port afterdinner; and the end of it is, he's laid up again with the gout."

"AndMrs. Joyce?"

"Laid up too, sir--it's a dreadful sick house at theRectory--laid up with the inferlenzer."

"Have any of the childrencaught the influenza too?" asked Mrs. Blyth. "I hope not."

"No,ma'am, they're all nicely, except the youngest; and it's on account ofher--don't you remember her, sir, growing so fast, when you was last atthe Rectory?--that I'm up in London.

"Is the child ill?" askedValentine anxiously. "She's such a picturesque little creature, Lavvie!I long to paint her."

"I'm afraid, sir, she's not fit to be put intoa picter now," said Mrs. Peckover. "Mrs. Joyce is in sad trouble abouther, because of one of her shoulders which has growed out somehow. Thedoctor at Rubbleford don't doubt but what it may be got right again;but he said she ought to be shown to some great London doctor as soonas possible. So, neither her papa nor her mamma being able to take herup to her aunt's house, they trusted her to me. As you know, sir, eversince Doctor Joyce got my husband that situation at Rubbleford, I'vebeen about the Rectory, helping with the children and the housekeeping,and all that:--and Miss Lucy being used to me, we come along togetherin the railroad quite pleasant and comfortable. I was glad enough, youmay be sure, of the chance of getting here, after not having seenlittle Mary for so long. So I just left Miss Lucy at her aunt's, wherethey were very kind, and wanted me to stop all night. But I told themthat, thanks to your goodness, I always had a bed here when I was inLondon; and I took the cab on, after seeing the little girl safe andcomfortable up-stairs. That's the whole story of how I come to surpriseyou in this way, ma'am,--and now I'll finish my tea."

Having got tothe bottom of her cup, and to the end of a muffin amorously presentedto her by the incorrigible Zack, Mrs. Peckover had leisure to turnagain to Madonna; who, having relieved her of her bonnet and shawl, wasnow sitting close at her side.

"I didn't think she was looking quiteso well as usual, when I first come in," said Mrs. Peckover, pattingthe girl's cheek with her chubby fingers; "but she seems to havebrightened up again now." (This was true: the sad stillness had leftMadonna's face, at sight of the friend and mother of her early days.)"Perhaps she's been sticking a little too close to her drawinglately--"

"By the bye, talking of drawings, what's become of mydrawing?" cried Zack, suddenly recalled for the first time to theremembrance of Madonna's gift.

"Dear me!" pursued Mrs. Peckover,looking towards the three drawing-boards, which had been placedtogether round the pedestal of the cast; "are all those little Mary'sdoings? She's cleverer at it, I suppose, by this time, than ever. Ah,Lord! what an old woman I feel, when I think of the many years ago--"

"Come and look at what she has done to-night," interrupted Valentine,taking Mrs. Peckover by the arm, and pressing it very significantly ashe glanced at the part of the table where young Thorpe was sitting.

"My drawing--where's my drawing?" repeated Zack. "Who put it away whentea came in? Oh, there it is, all safe on the book case."

"Icongratulate you, sir, on having succeeded at last in remembering thatthere is such a thing in the world as Madonna's present," said Mrs.Blyth sarcastically.

Zack looked up bewildered from his tea, andasked directly what those words meant.

"Oh, never mind," said Mrs.Blyth in the same tone, "they're not worth explaining. Did you everhear of a young gentleman who thought more of a plate of muffins thanof a lady's gift? I dare say not! I never did. It's too ridiculouslyimprobable to be true, isn't it? There! don't speak to me; I've got abook here that I want to finish. No, it's no use; I shan't say anotherword."

"What have I done that's wrong?" asked Zack, looking piteouslyperplexed as he began to suspect that he had committed someunpardonable mistake earlier in the evening. "I know I burnt a muffin;but what has that got to do with Madonna's present to me?" (Mrs. Blythshook her head; and, opening her book, became quite absorbed over it ina moment.) "Didn't I thank her properly for it? I'm sure I meant to."(Here he stopped; but Mrs. Blyth took no notice of him.) "I supposeI've got myself into some scrape? Make as much fun as you like aboutit; but tell me what it is. You won't? Then I'll find out all about itfrom Madonna. She knows, of course; and she'll tell me. Look here, Mrs.Blyth; I'm not going to get up till she's told me everything." AndZack, with a comic gesture of entreaty, dropped on his knees byMadonna's chair; preventing her from leaving it, which she tried to do,by taking immediate possession of the slate that hung at her side.

While young Thorpe was scribbling questions, protestations, andextravagances of every kind, in rapid succession, on the slate; andwhile Madonna, her face half smiling, half tearful, as she felt that hewas looking up at it--was reading what he wrote, trying hard, at first,not to believe in him too easily when he scribbled an explanation, andnot to look down on him too leniently when he followed it up by anentreaty; and ending at last, in defiance of Mrs. Blyth's private signsto the contrary, in forgiving his carelessness, and letting him takeher hand again as usual, in token that she was sincere,--while thislittle scene of the home drama was proceeding at one end of the room, ascene of another kind--a dialogue in mysterious whispers--was in fullprogress between Mr. Blyth and his visitor from the country, at theother.

Time had in no respect lessened Valentine's morbid anxietyabout the strict concealment of every circumstance attending Mrs.Peckover's first connection with Madonna, and Madonna's mother. Theyears that had now passed and left him in undisputed possession of hisadopted child, had not diminished that excess of caution in keepingsecret all the little that was known of her early history, which hadeven impelled him to pledge Doctor and Mrs. Joyce never to mention inpublic any particulars of the narrative related at the Rectory. Still,he had not got over his first dread that she might one day be traced,claimed, and taken away from him, if that narrative, meagre as it was,should ever be trusted to other ears than those which had originallylistened to it. Still, he kept the hair bracelet and the handkerchiefthat had belonged to her mother carefully locked up out of sight in hisbureau; and still, he doubted Mrs. Peckover's discretion in thegovernment of her tongue, as he had doubted it in the bygone days whenthe little girl was first established in his own home.

After making apretense of showing her the drawings begun that evening, Mr. Blythartfully contrived to lead Mrs. Peckover past them into a recess at theextreme end of the room.

"Well," he said, speaking in anunnecessarily soft whisper, considering the distance which nowseparated him from Zack. "Well, I suppose you're quite sure of nothaving let out anything by chance, since I last saw you, about how youfirst met with our darling girl? or about her poor mother? or--?"

"What, you're at it again, sir," interrupted Mrs. Peckover loftily, butdropping her voice in imitation of Mr. Blyth,--"a clever man, too, likeyou! Dear, dear me! how often must I keep on telling you that I'm oldenough to be able to hold my tongue? How much longer are you going toworrit yourself about hiding what nobody's seeking after?"

"I'mafraid I shall always worry myself about it," replied Valentineseriously. "Whenever I see you, my good friend, I fancy I hear all thatmelancholy story over again about our darling child, and that poor lostforsaken mother of hers, whose name even we don't know. I feel, too,when you come and see us, almost more than at other times, howinexpressibly precious the daughter whom you have given to us is toLavvie and me; and I think with more dread than I well know how todescribe, of the horrible chance, if anything was incautiously said,and carried from mouth to mouth--about where you met with her mother,for instance, or what time of the year it was, and so forth--that itmight lead, nobody knows how, to some claim being laid to her, bysomebody who might be able to prove the right to make it."

"Lord,sir! after all these years, what earthly need have you to be anxiousabout such things as that?"

"I'm never anxious long, Mrs. Peckover.My good spirits always get the better of every anxiety, great andsmall. But while I don't know that relations of hers--perhaps her vilefather himself--may not be still alive, and seeking for her--"

"Blessyour heart, Mr. Blyth, none of her relations are alive; or if they are,none of them care about her, poor lamb; I'll answer for it."

"I hopein God you are right," said Valentine, earnestly. "But let us think nomore about it now," he added, resuming his usual manner. "I have askedmy regular question, that I can't help asking whenever I see you; andyou have forgiven me, as usual, for putting it; and now I am quitesatisfied. Take my arm, Mrs. Peckover: I mean to give the students ofmy new drawing academy a holiday for the rest of the night, in honor ofyour arrival. What do you say to devoting the evening in the old way toa game at cards?"

"Just what I was thinking I should like myself aslong as it's only sixpence a game, sir," said Mrs. Peckover gaily. "Isay, young gentleman," she continued, addressing Zack after Mr. Blythhad left her to look for the cards, "what nonsense are you writing onour darling's slate that puts her all in a flutter, and makes her blushup to the eyes, when she's only looking at her poor old Peck? Bless herheart! she's just as easily amused now as when she was a child. Give usanother kiss, my own little love. You understand what I mean, don'tyou, though you can't hear me? Ah, dear, dear! when she stands andlooks at me with her eyes like that, she's the living image of--"

"Cribbage," cried Mr. Blyth, knocking a triangular board for threeplayers on the table, and regarding Mrs. Peckover with the mostreproachful expression that his features could assume.

She felt thatthe look had been deserved, and approached the card-table ratherconfusedly, without uttering another word. But for Valentine's secondinterruption she would have declared, before young Thorpe, that "littleMary" was the living image of her mother.

"Madonna's going to play,as usual. Will you make the third, Lavvie?" inquired Valentine,shuffling the cards. "It's no use asking Zack; he can't even countyet."

"No, thank you, dear. I shall have quite enough to do in goingon with my book, and trying to keep master Mad-Cap in order while youplay," replied Mrs. Blyth.

The game began. It was a regular custom,whenever Mrs. Peckover came to Mr. Blyth's house, that cribbage shouldbe played, and that Madonna should take a share in it. This was done,on her part, principally in affectionate remembrance of the old timeswhen she lived under the care of the clown's wife, and when she hadlearnt cribbage from Mr. Peckover to amuse her, while the frightfulaccident which had befallen her in the circus was still a recent event.It was characteristic of the happy peculiarity of her disposition thatthe days of suffering and affliction, and the after-period of hardtasks in public, with which cards were connected in her case, neverseemed to recur to her remembrance painfully when she saw them in laterlife. The pleasanter associations which belonged to them, and whichreminded her of homely kindness that had soothed her in pain,and self-denying affection that had consoled her in sorrow, were theassociations instinctively dwelt on by her heart to the exclusion ofall others.

To Mrs. Blyth's great astonishment, Zack, for full tenminutes, required no keeping in order whatever while the rest wereplaying at cards. It was the most marvelous of human phenomena, butthere he certainly was, standing quietly by the fireplace with thedrawing in his hand, actually thinking! Mrs. Blyth's amazement at thisunexampled change in his manner so completely overcame her, that shefairly laid down her book to look at him. He noticed the action, andapproached the couch directly.

"That's right," he said; "don't readany more. I want to have a serious consultation with you."

First avisit from Mrs. Peckover, then a serious consultation with Zack. Thisis a night of wonders!--thought Mrs. Blyth.

"I've made it all rightwith Madonna," Zack continued. "She don't think a bit the worse of mebecause I went on like a fool about the muffins at tea-time. But that'snot what I want to talk about now: it's a sort of secret. In the firstplace--"

"Do you usually mention your secrets in a voice thateverybody can hear?" asked Mrs. Blyth, laughing.

"Oh, never mindabout that," he replied, not lowering his tone in the least; "it's onlya secret from Madonna, and we can talk before her, poor littlesoul, just as if she wasn't in the room. Now this is the thing: she'smade me a present, and I think I ought to show my gratitude by makingher another in return." (He resumed his ordinary manner as he warmedwith the subject, and began to walk up and down the room in his usualflighty way.) "Well, I have been thinking what the present ought tobe--something pretty, of course. I can't do her a drawing worth afarthing; and even if I could--"

"Suppose you come here and sit down,Zack," interposed Mrs. Blyth. "While you are wandering backwards andforwards in that way before the card-table, you take Madonna'sattention off the game."

No doubt he did. How could she see himwalking about close by her, and carrying her drawing with him whereverhe went--as if he prized it too much to be willing to put itdown--without feeling gratified in more than one of the innocent littlevanities of her sex, without looking after him much too often to beproperly alive to the interests of her game?

Zack took Mrs. Blyth'sadvice, and sat down by her, with his back towards the cribbageplayers.

"Well, the question is, What present am I to give her?" hewent on. "I've been twisting and turning it over in my mind, and thelong and the short of it is--"

("Fifteen two, fifteen four, and apair's six," said Valentine, reckoning up the tricks he had in his handat that moment.)

"Did you ever notice that she has a particularlypretty hand and arm?" proceeded Zack, somewhat evasively. "I'm rather ajudge of these things myself; and of all the other girls I ever saw--"

"Never mind about other girls," said Mrs. Blyth. "Tell me what youmean to give Madonna."

("Two for his heels," cried Mrs. Peckover,turning up a knave with great glee.)

"I mean to give her a Bracelet,"said Zack.

Valentine looked up quickly from the card table.

("Play,please sir," said Mrs. Peckover; "little Mary's waiting for you.")

"Well, Zack," rejoined Mrs. Blyth, "your idea of returning a presentonly errs on the side of generosity. I should recommend something lesscostly. Don't you know that it's one of Madonna's oddities not to careabout jewelry? She might have bought herself a bracelet long ago, outof her own savings, if trinkets had been things to tempt her."

"Waita bit, Mrs. Blyth," said Zack, "you haven't heard the best of my notionyet: all the pith and marrow of it has got to come. The bracelet I meanto give her is one that she will prize to the day of her death, orshe's not the affectionate, warm-hearted girl I take her for. What doyou think of a bracelet that reminds her of you and Valentine, andjolly old Peck there--and a little of me, too, which I hope won't makeher think the worse of it. I've got a design against all your heads,"he continued, imitating the cutting action of a pair of scissors withtwo of his fingers, and raising his voice in high triumph. "It's asplendid idea: I mean to give Madonna a Hair Bracelet!"

Mrs. Peckoverand Mr. Blyth started back in their chairs, and stared at each other asamazedly as if Zack's last words had sprung from a charged battery, andhad struck them both at the same moment with a smart electrical shock.

"Of all the things in the world, how came he ever to think of givingher that!" ejaculated Mrs. Peckover under her breath; her memoryreverting, while she spoke, to the mournful day when strangers hadsearched the body of Madonna's mother, and had found the Hair Bracelethidden away in a corner of the dead woman's pocket.

"Hush! let's goon with the game," said Valentine. He, too, was thinking of the HairBracelet--thinking of it as it now lay locked up in his bureau downstairs, remembering how he would fain have destroyed it years ago, butthat his conscience and sense of honor forbade him; pondering on thefatal discoveries to which, by bare possibility, it might yet lead, ifever it should fall into strangers' hands.

"A Hair Bracelet,"continued Zack, quite unconscious of the effect he was producing on twoof the card-players behind him; "and such hair, too, as I meanit to be made of!--Why, Madonna will think it more precious than allthe diamonds in the world. I defy anybody to have hit on a better ideaof the sort of present she's sure to like; it's elegant andappropriate, and all that sort of thing--isn't it?"

"Oh, yes! verynice and pretty indeed," replied Mrs. Blyth, rather absently andconfusedly. She knew as much of Madonna's history as her husband did;and was wondering what he would think of the present which young Thorpeproposed giving to their adopted child.

"The thing I want most toknow," said Zack, "is what you think would be the best pattern for thebracelet. There will be two kinds of hair in it, which can be made intoany shape, of course--your hair and Mrs. Peckover's."

("Not a morselof my hair shall go towards the bracelet!" muttered Mrs. Peckover, whowas listening to what was said, while she went on playing.)

"Thedifficult hair to bring in, will be mine and Valentine's," pursuedZack. "Mine's long enough, to be sure; I ought to have got it cut amonth ago; but it's so stiff and curly; and Blyth keeps his cropped soshort--I don't see what they can do with it (do you?), unless they makerings, or stars, or knobs, or something stumpy, in the way of a crosspattern of it."

"The people at the shop will know best," said Mrs.Blyth, resolving to proceed cautiously.

"One thing I'm determined on,though, beforehand," cried Zack,--"the clasp. The clasp shall be aserpent, with turquoise eyes, and a carbuncle tail; and all ourinitials scored up somehow on his scales. Won't that be splendid? Ishould like to surprise Madonna with it this very evening."

("Youshall never give it to her, if I can help it," grumbled Mrs.Peckover, still soliloquizing under her breath. "If anything in thisworld can bring her ill-luck, it will be a Hair Bracelet!")

Theselast words were spoken with perfect seriousness; for they were theresult of the strongest superstitious conviction.

From the time whenthe Hair Bracelet was found on Madonna's mother, Mrs. Peckover hadpersuaded herself--not unnaturally, in the absence of any informationto the contrary--that it had been in some way connected with the ruinand shame which had driven its unhappy possessor forth as an outcast,to die amongst strangers. To believe, in consequence, that a HairBracelet had brought "ill-luck" to the mother, and to derive from thatbelief the conviction that a Hair Bracelet would therefore also bring"ill-luck" to the child, was a perfectly direct and inevitabledeductive process to Mrs. Peckover's superstitious mind. The motiveswhich had formerly influenced her to forbid her "little Mary" ever tobegin anything important on a Friday, or ever to imperil her prosperityby walking under a ladder, were precisely the motives by which she wasnow actuated in determining to prevent the presentation of youngThorpe's ill-omened gift.

Although Valentine had only caught a wordhere and there, to guide him to the subject of Mrs. Peckover'smutterings to herself while the game was going on, he guessed easilyenough the general tenor of her thoughts, and suspected that she would,ere long, begin to talk louder than was at all desirable, if Zackproceeded much further with his present topic of conversation.Accordingly, he took advantage of a pause in the game, and of a relapseinto another restless fit of walking about the room on young Thorpe'spart, to approach his wife's couch, as if he wanted to find somethinglying near it, and to whisper to her, "Stop his talking any more aboutthat present to Madonna; I'll tell you why another time."

Mrs. Blythvery readily and easily complied with this injunction, by telling Zack(with perfect truth) that she had been already a little too muchexcited by the events of the evening; and that she must put off allfurther listening or talking, on her part, till the next night, whenshe promised to advise him about the bracelet to the best of her power.

He was, however, still too full of his subject to relinquish iteasily under no stronger influence than the influence of a polite hint.Having lost one listener in Mrs. Blyth, he boldly tried the experimentof inviting two others to replace her, by addressing himself to theplayers at the card-table.

"I dare say you have heard what I havebeen talking about to Mrs. Blyth?" he began.

"Lord, Master Zack!"said Mrs. Peckover, "do you think we haven't had something else to dohere, besides listening to you? There, now, don't talk to us, please,till we are done, or you'll throw us out altogether. Don't, sir, on anyaccount, because we are playing for money--sixpence a game."

Repelledon both sides, Zack was obliged to give way. He walked off to try andamuse himself at the book-case. Mrs. Peckover, with a very triumphantair, nodded and winked several times at Valentine across the table;desiring, by these signs, to show him that she could not only be silentherself when the conversation was in danger of approaching a forbiddensubject, but could make other people hold their tongues too.

The roomwas now perfectly quiet, and the game at cribbage proceeded smoothlyenough, but not so pleasantly as usual on other occasions. Valentinedid not regain his customary good spirits; and Mrs. Peckover relapsedinto whispering discontentedly to herself--now and then looking towardsthe bookcase, where young Thorpe was sitting sleepily, with a volume ofengravings on his knee. It was, more or less, a relief to everybodywhen the supper-tray came up, and the cards were put away for thenight.

Zack, becoming quite lively again at the prospect of a littleeating and drinking, tried to return to the dangerous subject of theHair Bracelet; addressing himself, on this occasion, directly toValentine. He was interrupted, however, before he had spoken threewords. Mr. Blyth suddenly remembered that he had an importantcommunication of his own to make to young Thorpe.

"Excuse me, Zack,"he said, "I have some news to tell you, which Mrs. Peckover's arrivaldrove out of my head; and which I must mention at once, while I havethe opportunity. Both my pictures are done--what do you think ofthat?--done, and in their frames. I settled the titles yesterday. Theclassical landscape is to be called 'The Golden Age,' which is a prettypoetical sort of name; and the figure-subject is to be 'Columbus inSight of the New World;' which is, I think, simple, affecting, andgrand. Wait a minute! the best of it has yet to come. I am going toexhibit both the pictures in the studio to my friends, and my friends'friends, as early as Saturday next."

"You don't mean it!" exclaimedZack. "Why, it's only January now; and you always used to have yourprivate view of your own pictures, in April, just before they were sentinto the Academy Exhibition."

"Quite right," interposed Valentine,"but I am going to make a change this year. The fact is, I have got ajob to do in the provinces, which will prevent me from having mypicture-show at the usual time. So I mean to have it now. The cards ofinvitation are coming home from the printer's tomorrow morning. I shallreserve a packet, of course, for you and your friends, when we see youto-morrow night."

Just as Mr. Blyth spoke those words, the clock onthe mantel-piece struck the half hour after ten. Having his own privatereasons for continuing to preserve the appearance of perfect obedienceto his father's domestic regulations, Zack rose at once to say goodnight, in order to insure being home before the house-door was boltedat eleven o'clock. This time he did not forget Madonna's drawing; but,on the contrary, showed such unusual carefulness in tying his pocket-handkerchief over the frame to preserve it from injury as he carried itthrough the streets, that she could not help--in the fearless innocenceof her heart--unreservedly betraying to him, both by look and manner,how warmly she appreciated his anxiety for the safe preservation of hergift. Never had the bright, kind young face been lovelier in itsartless happiness than it appeared at the moment when she was shakinghands with Zack.

Just as Valentine was about to follow his guest outof the room, Mrs. Blyth called him back, reminding him that he had acold, and begging him not to expose himself to the wintry night air bygoing down to the door.

"But the servants must be going to bed bythis time; and somebody ought to fasten the bolts," remonstrated Mr.Blyth.

"I'll go, sir," said Mrs. Peckover, rising with extraordinaryalacrity. "I'll see Master Zack out, and do up the door. Bless yourheart! it's no trouble to me. I'm always moving about at home frommorning to night, to prevent myself getting fatter. Don't say no, Mr.Blyth, unless you are afraid of trusting an old gossip like me alonewith your visitors."

The last words were intended as a sarcasm, andwere whispered into Valentine's ear. He understood the allusion totheir private conversation together easily enough; and felt that unlesshe let her have her own way without further contest, he must riskoffending an old friend by implying a mistrust of her, which would besimply ridiculous, under the circumstances in which they were placed.So, when his wife nodded to him to take advantage of the offer justmade, he accepted it forthwith.

"Now, I'll stop his giving Mary aHair Bracelet!" thought Mrs. Peckover, as she bustled out after youngThorpe, and closed the room door behind her.

"Wait a bit, younggentleman," she said, arresting his further progress on the firstlanding. "Just leave off talking a minute, and let me speak. I've gotsomething to say to you. Do you really mean to give Mary that HairBracelet?"

"Oho! then you did hear something at the card-table aboutit, after all?" said Zack. "Mean? Of course I mean--"

"And you wantto put some of my hair in it?"

"To be sure I do! Madonna wouldn'tlike it without."

"Then you had better make up your mind at once togive her some other present; for not one morsel of my hair shall youhave. There now! what do you think of that?"

"I don't believe it, myold darling."

"It's true enough, I can tell you. Not a hair of myhead shall you have."

"Why not?"

"Never mind why. I've got my ownreasons."

"Very well: if you come to that, I've got my reasons forgiving the bracelet; and I mean to give it. If you won't let any ofyour hair be plaited up along with the rest, it's Madonna you willdisappoint--not me."

Mrs. Peckover saw that she must change hertactics, or be defeated.

"Don't you be so dreadful obstinate, MasterZack, and I'll tell you the reason," she said in an altered tone,leading the way lower down into the passage. "I don't want you to giveher a Hair Bracelet, because I believe it will bring ill-luck to her--there!"

Zack burst out laughing. "Do you call that a reason? Who everheard of a Hair Bracelet being an unlucky gift?"

At this moment, thedoor of Mrs. Blyth's room opened.

"Anything wrong with the lock?"asked Valentine from above. He was rather surprised at the time thatelapsed without his hearing the house-door shut.

"All quite right,sir," said Mrs. Peckover; adding in a whisper to Zack:--"Hush! don'tsay a word!"

"Don't let him keep you in the cold with his nonsense,"said Valentine.

"My nonsense!--" began Zack, indignantly.

"He'sgoing, sir," interrupted Mrs. Peckover. "I shall be upstairs in amoment."

"Come in, dear, pray! You're letting all the cold air intothe room," exclaimed the voice of Mrs. Blyth.

The door of the roomclosed again.

"What are you driving at?" asked Zack, inextreme bewilderment.

"I only want you to give her some otherpresent," said Mrs. Peckover, in her most persuasive tones. "You maythink it all a whim of mine, if you like--I dare say I'm an old fool;but I don't want you to give her a Hair Bracelet."

"A whim ofyours!!!" repeated Zack, with a look which made Mrs. Peckover's cheeksredden with rising indignation. "What! a woman at your time of lifesubject to whims! My darling Peckover, it won't do! My mind's made upto give her the Hair Bracelet. Nothing in the world can stop me--except,of course, Madonna's having a Hair Bracelet already, which Iknow she hasn't."

"Oh! you know that, do you, you mischievous Imp?Then, for once in a way, you just know wrong!" exclaimed Mrs. Peckover,losing her temper altogether.

"You don't mean to say so? How veryremarkable, to think of her having a Hair Bracelet already, and of mynot knowing it!--Mrs. Peckover," continued Zack, mimicking the tone andmanner of his old clerical enemy, the Reverend Aaron Yollop, "what I amnow about to say grieves me deeply; but I have a solemn duty todischarge, and in the conscientious performance of that duty, I nowunhesitatingly express my conviction that the remark you have just madeis--a flam."

"It isn't--Monkey!" returned Mrs. Peckover, her angerfairly boiling over, as she nodded her head vehemently in Zack's face.

Just then, Valentine's step became audible in the room above; firstmoving towards the door, then suddenly retreating from it, as if he hadbeen called back.

"I hav'n't let out what I oughtn't, have I?"thought Mrs. Peckover; calming down directly, when she heard themovement upstairs.

"Oh, you stick to it, do you?" continued Zack."It's rather odd, old lady, that Mrs. Blyth should have said nothingabout this newly-discovered Hair Bracelet of yours while I was talkingto her. But she doesn't know, of course: and Valentine doesn't knoweither, I suppose? By Jove! he's not gone to bed yet: I'll run back,and ask him if Madonna really has got a Hair Bracelet!"

"ForGod's sake don't!--don't say a word about it, or you'll get me intodreadful trouble!" exclaimed Mrs. Peckover, turning pale as she thoughtof possible consequences, and catching young Thorpe by the arm when hetried to pass her in the passage.

The step up stairs crossed the roomagain.

"Well, upon my life," cried Zack, "of all the extraordinaryold women

"Hush! he's going to open the door this time; he isindeed!"

"Never mind if he does; I won't say anything," whisperedyoung Thorpe, his natural good nature prompting him to relieve Mrs.Peckover's distress, the moment he became convinced that it wasgenuine.

"That's a good chap! that's a dear good chap!" exclaimedMrs. Peckover, squeezing Zack's hand in a fervor of unboundedgratitude.

The door of Mrs. Blyth's room opened for the second time.

"He's gone, sir; he's gone at last!" cried Mrs. Peckover, shuttingthe house door on the parting guest with inhospitable rapidity, andlocking it with elaborate care and extraordinary noise.

"I mustmanage to make it all safe with Master Zack tomorrow night; though Idon't believe I have said a single word I oughtn't to say," thoughtshe, slowly ascending the stairs. "But Mr. Blyth makes such fusses, andworks himself into such fidgets about the poor thing being traced andtaken away from him (which is all stuff and nonsense), that he would gohalf distracted if he knew what I said just now to Master Zack. Notthat it's so much what I said to him, as what he made outsomehow and said to me. But they're so sharp, these young Londonchaps--they are so awful sharp!"

Here she stopped on the landing torecover her breath; then whispered to herself, as she went on andapproached Mr. Blyth's door:

"But one thing I'm determined on; littleMary shan't have that Hair Bracelet!"

Even as Mrs. Peckover walked thinking all the way up-stairs, so didZack walk wondering all the way home.

What the deuce could theseextraordinary remonstrances about his present to Madonna possibly mean?Was it not at least clear from Mrs. Peckover's terror when he talked ofasking Blyth whether Madonna really had a Hair Bracelet, that she hadtold the truth after all? And was it not even plainer still that shehad let out a secret in telling that truth, which Blyth must haveordered her to keep? Why keep it? Was this mysterious Hair Braceletmixed up somehow with the grand secret about Madonna's past history,which Valentine had always kept from him and from everybody? Verylikely it was--but why cudgel his brains about what didn't concern him?Was it not--considering the fact, previously forgotten, that he had butfifteen shillings and threepence of disposable money in the world--ratherlucky than otherwise that Mrs. Peckover had taken it into herhead to stop him from buying what he hadn't the means of paying for?What other present could he buy for Madonna that was pretty, and cheapenough to suit the present state of his pocket? Would she like athimble? or an almanack? or a pair of cuffs? or a pot of bear's grease?

Here Zack suddenly paused in his mental interrogatories; for he hadarrived within sight of his home in Baregrove Square.

A change passedover his handsome face: he frowned, and his color deepened as he lookedup at the light in his father's window.

"I'll slip out again to-night, and see life," he muttered doggedly to himself, approaching thedoor. "The more I'm bullied at home, the oftener I'll go out on thesly."

This rebellious speech was occasioned by the recollection of adomestic scene, which had contributed, early that evening, to swell thelist of the Tribulations of Zack. Mr. Thorpe had moral objections toMr. Blyth's profession, and moral doubts on the subject of Mr. Blythhimself--these last being strengthened by that gentleman's own refusalto explain away the mystery which enveloped the birth and parentage ofhis adopted child. As a necessary consequence, Mr. Thorpe consideredthe painter to be no fit companion for a devout young man; andexpressed, severely enough, his unmeasured surprise at finding that hisson had accepted an invitation from a person of doubtful character.Zack's rejoinder to his father's reproof was decisive, if it wasnothing else. He denied everything alleged or suggested against hisfriend's reputation--lost his temper on being sharply rebuked for the"indecent vehemence" of his language--and left the paternal tea-tablein defiance, to go and cultivate the Fine Arts in the doubtful companyof Mr. Valentine Blyth.

"Just in time, sir," said the page, grinningat his young master as he opened the door. "It's on the stroke ofeleven."

Zack muttered something savage in reply, which it is notperhaps advisable to report. The servant secured the lock and bolts,while he put his hat on the hall table, and lit his bedroom candle.

Rather more than an hour after thistime--or, in other words, a little past midnight--the door opened againsoftly, and Zack appeared on the step, equipped for his nocturnalexpedition.

He hesitated, as he put the key into the lock fromoutside, before he closed the door behind him. He had never done thison former occasions; he could not tell why he did it now. We aremysteries even to ourselves; and there are times when the Voices of thefuture that are in us, yet not ours, speak, and make the earthly partof us conscious of their presence. Oftenest our mortal sense feels thatthey are breaking their dread silence at those supreme moments ofexistence, when on the choice between two apparently triflingalternatives hangs suspended the whole future of a life. And thus itwas now with the young man who stood on the threshold of his home,doubtful whether he should pursue or abandon the purpose which was thenuppermost in his mind. On his choice between the two alternatives ofgoing on, or going back--which the closing of a door would decide--dependedthe future of his life, and of other lives that were mingledwith it.

He waited a minute undecided, for the warning Voices withinhim were stronger than his own will: he waited, looking up thoughtfullyat the starry loveliness of the winter's night--then closed the doorbehind him as softly as usual--hesitated again at the last step thatled on to the pavement--and then fairly set forth from home, walking ata rapid pace through the streets.

He was not in his usual goodspirits. He felt no inclination to sing as was his wont, while passingthrough the fresh, frosty air: and he wondered why it was so.

TheVoices were still speaking faintly and more faintly within him. But wemust die before we can become immortal as they are; and their languageto us in this life is often as an unknown tongue.

The Roman poet who, writing of vice, ascribed its influenceentirely to the allurement of the fair disguises that it wore, andasserted that it only needed to be seen with the mask off to excite thehatred of all mankind, uttered a very plausible moral sentiment, whichwants nothing to recommend it to the admiration of posterity but aseasoning of practical truth. Even in the most luxurious days of oldRome, it may safely be questioned whether vice could ever afford todisguise itself to win recruits, except from the wealthier classes ofthe population. But in these modern times it may be decidedly assertedas a fact, that vice, in accomplishing the vast majority of itsseductions, uses no disguise at all; appears impudently in its nakeddeformity; and, instead of horrifying all beholders, in accordance withthe prediction of the classical satirist, absolutely attracts a muchmore numerous congregation of worshippers than has ever yet beenbrought together by the divinest beauties that virtue can display forthe allurement of mankind.

That famous place of public amusementknown, a few years since, to the late-roaming youth of London by thename of the Snuggery, affords, among hosts of other instances whichmight be cited, a notable example to refute the assertion of theancient poet. The place was principally devoted to the exhibition ofmusical talent, and opened at a period of the night when theperformances at the theaters were over. The orchestral arrangementswere comprised in one bad piano, to which were occasionally added, byway of increasing the attractions, performances on the banjo andguitar. All the singers were called "ladies and gentlemen;" and the onelong room in which the performances took place was simply furnishedwith a double row of benches, bearing troughs at their backs for thereception of glasses of liquor.

Innocence itself must have seen at aglance that the Snuggery was an utterly vicious place. Vice never somuch as thought of wearing any disguise here. No glimmer of wit playedover the foul substance of the songs that were sung, and hid it indazzle from too close observation. No relic of youth and freshness, noartfully-assumed innocence and vivacity, concealed the squaliddeterioration of the worn-out human counterfeits which stood up tosing, and were coarsely painted and padded to look like fine women.Their fellow performers among the men were such sodden-facedblackguards as no shop-boy who applauded them at night would dare towalk out with in the morning. The place itself had as little of theallurement of elegance and beauty about it as the people. Here was nobright gilding on the ceiling--no charm of ornament, no comfort ofconstruction even, in the furniture. Here were no viciously-attractivepictures on the walls--no enervating sweet odors in the atmosphere--nocontrivances of ventilation to cleanse away the stench of bad tobacco-smokeand brandy-flavored human breath with which the room reeked allnight long. Here, in short, was vice wholly undisguised; recklesslyshowing itself to every eye, without the varnish of beauty, without thetinsel of wit, without even so much as the flavor of cleanliness torecommend it. Were all beholders instinctively overcome by horror atthe sight? Far from it. The Snuggery was crammed to its last benchesevery night; and the proprietor filled his pockets from the purses ofapplauding audiences. For, let classical moralists say what they may,vice gathers followers as easily, in modern times, with the mask off,as ever it gathered them in ancient times with the mask on.

It was two o'clock in the morning; and the entertainments in theSnuggery were fast rising to the climax of joviality. A favorite comicsong had just been sung by a bloated old man with a bald head and ahairy chin. There was a brief lull of repose, before the amusementsresumed their noisy progress. Orders for drink were flying abroad inall directions. Friends were talking at the tops of their voices, andstrangers were staring at each other--except at the lower end of theroom, where the whole attention of the company was concentratedstrangely upon one man.

The person who thus attracted to himself thewandering curiosity of all his neighbors had come in late, had takenthe first vacant place he could find near the door, and had sat therelistening and looking about him very quietly. He drank and smoked likethe rest of the company; but never applauded, never laughed, neverexhibited the slightest symptom of astonishment, or pleasure, orimpatience, or disgust--though it was evident, from his manner ofentering and giving his orders to the waiters, that he visited theSnuggery that night for the first time.

He was not in mourning, forthere was no band round his hat; but he was dressed nevertheless in ablack frock-coat, waistcoat, and trousers, and wore black kid gloves.He seemed to be very little at his ease in this costume, moving hislimbs, whenever he changed his position, as cautiously andconstrainedly as if he had been clothed in gossamer instead of stoutblack broadcloth, shining with its first new gloss on it. His face wastanned to a perfectly Moorish brown, was scarred in two places by themarks of old wounds, and was overgrown by coarse, iron-grey whiskers,which met under his chin. His eyes were light, and rather large, andseemed to be always quietly but vigilantly on the watch. Indeed thewhole expression of his face, coarse and heavy as it was in form, wasremarkable for its acuteness, for its cool, collected penetration, forits habitually observant, passively-watchful look. Any one guessing athis calling from his manner and appearance would have set him downimmediately as the captain of a merchantman, and would have beenwilling to lay any wager that he had been several times round theworld.

But it was not his face, or his dress, or his manner, thatdrew on him the attention of all his neighbors; it was his head. Underhis hat, (which was bran new, like everything else he wore), thereappeared, fitting tight round his temples and behind his ears, a blackvelvet skull-cap. Not a vestige of hair peeped from under it. All roundhis head, as far as could be seen beneath his hat, which he wore farback over his coat collar, there was nothing but bare flesh, encircledby a rim of black velvet.

From a great proposal for reform, to asmall eccentricity in costume, the English are the most intolerantpeople in the world, in their reception of anything which presentsitself to them under the form of a perfect novelty. Let any man displaya new project before the Parliament of England, or a new pair of light-green trousers before the inhabitants of London, let the projectproclaim itself as useful to all listening ears, and the trouserseloquently assert themselves as beautiful to all beholding eyes, thenation will shrink suspiciously, nevertheless, both from the one andthe other; will order the first to "lie on the table," and will hoot,laugh, and stare at the second; will, in short, resent either noveltyas an unwarrantable intrusion, for no other discernible reason thanthat people in general are not used to it.

Quietly as the strange manin black had taken his seat in the Snuggery, he and his skull-capattracted general attention; and our national weakness displayed itselfimmediately.

Nobody paused to reflect that he probably wore his blackvelvet head-dress from necessity; nobody gave him credit for havingobjections to a wig, which might be perfectly sensible and wellfounded; and nobody, even in this free country, was liberal enough toconsider that he had really as much right to put on a skull-cap underhis hat if he chose, as any other man present had to put on a shirtunder his waistcoat. The audience saw nothing but the novelty in theway of a head-dress which the stranger wore, and they resented itunanimously, because it was a novelty. First, they expressed thisresentment by staring indignantly at him, then by laughing at him, thenby making sarcastic remarks on him. He bore their ridicule with themost perfect and provoking coolness. He did not expostulate, or retort,or look angry, or grow red in the face, or fidget in his seat, or getup to go away. He just sat smoking and drinking as quietly as ever, nottaking the slightest notice of any of the dozens of people who were alltaking notice of him.

His unassailable composure only served toencourage his neighbors to take further liberties with him. One ricketylittle man, with a spirituous nose and watery eyes, urged on by somewomen near him, advanced to the stranger's bench, and, expressing hisadmiration of a skull-cap as a becoming ornamental addition to a hat,announced, with a bow of mock politeness, his anxiety to feel thequality of the velvet. He stretched out his hand as he spoke, not aword of warning or expostulation being uttered by the victim of theintended insult; but the moment his fingers touched the skull-cap, thestrange man, still without speaking, without even removing his cigarfrom his mouth, very deliberately threw all that remained of the glassof hot brandy and water before him in the rickety gentleman's face.

With a scream of pain as the hot liquor flew into his eyes, themiserable little man struck out helplessly with both his fists, andfell down between the benches. A friend who was with him, advanced toavenge his injuries, and was thrown sprawling on the floor. Yells of"Turn him out!" and "Police!" followed; people at the other end of theroom jumped up excitably on their seats; the women screamed, the menshouted and swore, glasses were broken, sticks were waved, benches werecracked, and, in one instant, the stranger was assailed by every one ofhis neighbors who could get near him, on pretense of turning him out.

Just as it seemed a matter of certainty that he must yield to numbers,in spite of his gallant resistance, and be hurled out of the door downthe flight of stairs that led to it, a tall young gentleman, with aquantity of light curly hair on his hatless head, leapt up on one ofthe benches at the opposite side of the gangway running down the middleof the room, and apostrophized the company around him with vehementfistic gesticulation. Alas for the tranquillity of parents withpleasure-loving sons!--alas for Mr. Valentine Blyth's idea of teachinghis pupil to be steady, by teaching him to draw!--this furious younggentleman was no other than Mr. Zachary Thorpe, Junior, of BaregroveSquare.

"Damn you all, you cowardly counter-jumping scoundrels!"roared Zack, his eyes aflame with valor, generosity, and gin-and-water."What do you mean by setting on one man in that way? Hit out, sir--hitout right and left! I saw you insulted; and I'm coming to help you!"

With these words Zack tucked up his cuffs, and jumped into the crowdabout him. His height, strength, and science as a boxer carried himtriumphantly to the opposite bench. Two or three blows on the ribs, andone on the nose which drew blood plentifully, only served to stimulatehis ardor and increase the pugilistic ferocity of his expression. In aminute he was by the side of the man with the skull-cap; and the twowere fighting back to back, amid roars of applause from the audience atthe upper end of the room, who were only spectators of the disturbance.

In the meantime the police had been summoned. But the waiters down-stairs, in their anxiety to see a struggle between two men on one side,and somewhere about two dozen on the other, had neglected to close thestreet door. The consequence was, that all the cabmen on the standoutside, and all the vagabond night-idlers in the vagabond neighborhoodof the Snuggery, poured into the narrow passage, and got up animpromptu riot of their own with the waiters, who tried, too late, toturn them out. Just as the police were forcing their way through thethrong below, Zack and the stranger had fought their way out of thethrong above, and had got clear of the room.

On the right of thelanding, as they approached it, was a door, through which the man withthe skull-cap now darted, dragging Zack after him. His temper was justas cool, his quick eye just as vigilant as ever. The key of the doorwas inside. He locked it, amid a roar of applauding laughter from thepeople on the staircase, mixed with cries of "Police!" and "Stop 'em inthe Court!" from the waiters. The two then descended a steep flight ofstairs at headlong speed, and found themselves in a kitchen,confronting an astonished man cook and two female servants. Zackknocked the man down before he could use the rolling-pin which he hadsnatched up on their appearance; while the stranger coolly took a hatthat stood on the dresser, and jammed it tight with one smack of hislarge hand on young Thorpe's bare head. The next moment they were outin a court into which the kitchen opened, and were running at the topof their speed.

The police, on their side, lost no time; but they hadto get out of the crowd in the passage and go round the front of thehouse, before they could arrive at the turning which led into the courtfrom the street. This gave the fugitives a start; and the neighborhoodof alleys, lanes, and by-streets in which their flight immediatelyinvolved them, was the neighborhood of all others to favor theirescape. While the springing of rattles and the cries of "Stop thief!"were rending the frosty night air in one direction, Zack and thestranger were walking away quietly, arm in arm, in the other.

The manwith the skull-cap had taken the lead hitherto, and he took it still;though, from the manner in which he stared about him at corners ofstreets, and involved himself and his companion every now and then inblind alleys, it was clear enough that he was quite unfamiliar with thepart of the town through which they were now walking. Zack, havingtreated himself that night to his fatal third glass of grog, and havingfinished half of it before the fight began, was by this time in nocondition to care about following any particular path in the greatlabyrinth of London. He walked on, talking thickly and incessantly tothe stranger, who never once answered him. It was of no use to applaudhis bravery; to criticize his style of fighting, which was anything butscientific; to express astonishment at his skill in knocking his hat onagain, all through the struggle, every time it was knocked off; and todeclare admiration of his quickness in taking the cook's hat to coverhis companion's bare head, which might have exposed him to suspicionand capture as he passed through the streets. It was of no use to speakon these subjects, or on any others. The imperturbable hero who had notuttered a word all through the fight, was as imperturbable as ever, andwould not utter a word after it.

They strayed at last into FleetStreet, and walked to the foot of Ludgate Hill. Here the strangerstopped--glanced towards the open space on the right, where the riverran--gave a rough gasp of relief and satisfaction--and made directlyfor Blackfriars bridge. He led Zack, who was still thick in hisutterance, and unsteady on his legs, to the parapet wall; let go ofhis arm there, and looking steadily in his face by the light of thegas-lamp, addressed him, for the first time, in a remarkably grave,deliberate voice, and in these words:

"Now, then, young 'un, supposeyou pull a breath, and wipe that bloody nose of yours."

Zack, insteadof resenting this unceremonious manner of speaking to him--which hemight have done, had he been sober--burst into a frantic fit oflaughter. The remarkable gravity and composure of the stranger's toneand manner, contrasted with the oddity of the proposition by which heopened the conversation, would have been irresistibly ludicrous even toa man whose faculties were not in an intoxicated condition.

WhileZack was laughing till the tears rolled down his cheeks, his oddcompanion was leaning over the parapet of the bridge, and pulling offhis black kid gloves, which had suffered considerably during theprogress of the fight. Having rolled them up into a ball, he jerkedthem contemptuously into the river.

"There goes the first pair ofgloves as ever I had on, and the last as ever I mean to wear," he said,spreading out his brawny hands to the sharp night breeze.

YoungThorpe heaved a few last expiring gasps of laughter; then became quietand serious from sheer exhaustion.

"Go it again," said the man of theskull-cap, staring at him as gravely as ever, "I like to hear you."

"I can't go it again," answered Zack faintly; "I'm out of breath. Isay, old boy, you're quite a character! Who are you?"

"I ain't nobodyin particular; and I don't know as I've got a single friend to careabout who I am, in all England," replied the other. "Give us your hand,young 'un! In the foreign parts where I come from, when one man standsby another, as you've stood by me to-night, them two are brotherstogether afterwards. You needn't be a brother to me, if you don't like.I mean to be a brother to you, whether you like it or not. My name'sMat. What's your's?"

"Zack," returned young Thorpe, clapping his newacquaintance on the back with brotherly familiarity already. "You're aglorious fellow; and I like your way of talking. Where do you comefrom, Mat? And what do you wear that queer cap under your hat for?"

"I come from America last," replied Mat, as grave and deliberate asever. "And I wear this cap because I haven't got no scalp on my head."

"What do you mean?" cried Zack, startled into temporary sobriety,and taking his hand off his new friend's shoulder as quickly as if hehad put it on red-hot iron.

"I always mean what I say," continuedMat; "I've got that much good about me, if I haven't got no more. Meand my scalp parted company years ago. I'm here, on a bridge in London,talking to a young chap of the name of Zack. My scalp's on the top of ahigh pole in some Indian village, anywhere you like about the Amazoncountry. If there's any puffs of wind going there, like there is here,it's rattling just now, like a bit of dry parchment; and all my hair'sa flip-flapping about like a horse's tail, when the flies is in season.I don't know nothing more about my scalp or my hair than that. If youdon't believe me, just lay hold of my hat, and I'll show you--"

"No,thank you!" exclaimed Zack, recoiling from the offered hat. "I don'twant to see it. But how the deuce do you manage without a scalp?--Inever heard of such a thing before in my life--how is it you're notdead? eh?"

"It takes a deal more to kill a tough man than you Londonchaps think," said Mat. "I was found before my head got cool, andplastered over with leaves and ointment. They'd left a bit of scalp atthe back, being in rather too great a hurry to do their work as handilyas usual; and a new skin growed over, after a little--a babyish sort ofskin, that wasn't half thick enough, and wouldn't bear no new crop ofhair. So I had to eke out and keep my head comfortable with an oldyellow handkercher; which I always wore till I got to San Francisco, onmy way back here. I met with a priest at San Francisco, who told methat I should look a little less like a savage, if I wore a skull-caplike his, instead of a handkercher, when I got back into what he calledthe civilized world. So I took his advice, and bought this cap. Isuppose it looks better than my old yellow handkercher; but it ain'thalf as comfortable."

"But how did you lose your scalp?" askedZack--"tell us all about it. Upon my life, you're the most interestingfellow I ever met with! And, I say, let's walk about, while we talk. Ifeel steadier on my legs now; and it's so infernally cold standinghere."

"Which way can we soonest get out of this muck of houses andstreets?" asked Mat, surveying the London view around him with anexpression of grim disgust. "There ain't no room, even on this bridge,for the wind to blow fairly over a man. I'd just as soon be smotheredup in a bed, as smothered up in smoke and stink here."

"What adelightful fellow you are! so entirely out of the common way! Steady,my dear friend. The grog's not quite out of my head yet; and I findI've got the hiccups. Here's my way home, and your way into the freshair, if you really want it. Come along; and tell me how you lost yourscalp."

"There ain't nothing particular to tell. What's your nameagain?"

"Zack."

"Well, Zack, I was out on the tramp, dodging aboutafter any game that turned up, on the banks of the Amazon--"

"Amazon?what's that? a woman? or a place?"

"Did you ever hear of SouthAmerica?"

"I can't positively swear to it; but, to the best of mybelief, I think I have."

"Well; the Amazon's a longish bit of a riverin those parts. I was out, as I told you, on the tramp."

"So I shouldthink! you look like the sort of man who has tramped everywhere, anddone everything."

"You're about right there, for a wonder! I've druvcattle in Mexico; I've been out with a gang that went to find anoverland road to the North Pole; I've worked through a season or two incatching wild horses on the Pampas; and another season or two indigging gold in California. I went away from England, a tidy lad aboardship; and here I am back again now, an old vagabond as hasn't a friendto own him. If you want to know exactly who I am, and what I've been upto all my life, that's about as much as I can tell you."

"You don'tsay so! Wait a minute, though; there's one thing--you're not troubledwith the hiccups, are you, after eating supper? (I've been a martyr tohiccups ever since I was a child.) But, I say, there's one thing youhaven't told me yet; you haven't told me what your other name isbesides Mat. Mine's Thorpe."

"I haven't heard the sound of the othername you're asking after for a matter of better than twenty year: and Idon't care if I never hear it again." His voice sank huskily, and heturned his head a little away from Zack, as he said those words. "Theynicknamed me 'Marksman,' when I used to go out with the exploringgangs, because I was the best shot of all of them. You call meMarksman, too, if you don't like Mat. Mister Mathew Marksman, if youplease: everybody seems to be a 'Mister' here. You're one, of course. Idon't mean to call you 'Mister' for all that. I shall stick to Zack;it's short, and there's no bother about it."

"All right, old fellow!and I'll stick to Mat, which is shorter still by a whole letter. But, Isay, you haven't told the story yet about how you lost your scalp."

"There's no story in it, Do you know what it is to have a man dodgingafter you through these odds and ends of streets here? I dare say youdo. Well, I had three skulking thieves of Indians dodging after me,over better than four hundred miles of lonesome country, where I mighthave bawled for help for a whole week on end, and never made anybodyhear me. They wanted my scalp, and they wanted my rifle, and they gotboth at last, at the end of their man-hunt, because I couldn't get anysleep."

"Not get any sleep. Why not?"

"Because they was three, andI was only one, to be sure! One of them kep' watch while the other twoslept. I hadn't nobody to keep watch for me; and my life depended on myeyes being open night and day. I took a dog's snooze once, and was wokeout of it by an arrow in my face. I kep' on a long time after that,before I give out; but at last I got the horrors, and thought theprairie was all a-fire, and run from it. I don't know how long I run onin that mad state; I only know that the horrors turned out to be thesaving of my life. I missed my own trail, and struck into another,which was a trail of friendly Indians--people I'd traded with, youknow. And I came up with 'em somehow, near enough for the stragglers oftheir hunting party to hear me skreek when my scalp was took. Now youknow as much about it as I do; I can't tell you no more, except that Iwoke up like, in an Indian wigwam, with a crop of cool leaves on myhead, instead of a crop of hair."

"A crop of leaves! What a jolly oldJack-in-the-Green you must have looked like! Which of those scars onyour face is the arrow-wound, eh? Oh, that's it--is it? I say, old boy,you've got a black eye! Did any of those fellows in the Snuggery hithard enough to hurt you?"

"Hurt me? Chaps like them hurt Me!!"Tickled by the extravagance of the idea which Zack's question suggestedto him, Mat shook his sturdy shoulders, and indulged himself in a gruffchuckle, which seemed to claim some sort of barbarous relationship witha laugh.

"Ah! of course they haven't hurt you;--I didn't think theyhad," said Zack, whose pugilistic sympathies were deeply touched by thecontempt with which his new friend treated the bumps and bruisesreceived in the fight. "Go on, Mat, I like adventures of your sort.What did you do after your head healed up?"

"Well, I got tired ofdodging about the Amazon, and went south, and learnt to throw a lasso,and took a turn at the wild horses. Galloping did my head good."

"It's just what would do my head good too. Yours is the sort of life,Mat, for me! How did you first come to lead it? Did you run away fromhome?"

"No. I served aboard ship, where I was put out, being too idlea vagabond to be kep' at home. I always wanted to run wild somewheresfor a change; but I didn't really go to do it, till I picked up aletter which was waiting for me in port, at the Brazils. There was newsin that letter which sickened me of going home again; so I deserted,and went off on the tramp. And I've been mostly on the tramp eversince, till I got here last Sunday."

"What! have you only been inEngland since Sunday?"

"That's all. I made a good time of it inCalifornia, where I've been last, digging gold. My mate, as was withme, got a talking about the old country, and wrought on me so that Iwent back with him to see it again. So, instead of gambling away all mymoney over there" (Mat carelessly jerked his hand in a westerlydirection), "I've come to spend it over here; and I'm going down intothe country to-morrow, to see if anybody lives to own me at the oldplace."

"And suppose nobody does? What then?"

"Then I shall go backagain. After twenty years among the savages, or little better, I'm notfit for the sort of thing as goes on among you here. I can't sleep in abed; I can't stop in a room; I can't be comfortable in decent clothes;I can't stray into a singing-shop, as I did to-night, without a dustbeing kicked up all round me, because I haven't got a proper head ofhair like everybody else. I can't shake up along with the rest of you,nohow; I'm used to hard lines and a wild country; and I shall go backand die over there among the lonesome places where there's plenty ofroom for me." And again Mat jerked his hand carelessly in the directionof the American continent.

"Oh, don't talk about going back!" criedZack; "you're sure to find somebody left at home--don't you think soyourself, old fellow?"

Mat made no answer. He suddenly slackened;then, as suddenly, increased his pace; dragging young Thorpe with himat a headlong rate.

"You're sure to find somebody," continued Zack,in his offhand, familiar way. "I don't know--gently! we're not walkingfor a wager--I don't know whether you're married or not?" (Mat stillmade no answer, and walked faster than ever.) "But if you havn't gotwife or child, every fellow's got a father and mother, you know; andmost fellows have got brothers or sisters--"

"Good night," said Mat,stopping short, and abruptly holding out his hand.

"Why! what's thematter now?" asked Zack, in astonishment. "What do you want to partcompany for already? We are not near the end of the streets yet. Have Isaid anything that's offended you?"

"No, you havn't. You can come andtalk to me if you like, the day after to-morrow. I shall be back then,whatever happens. I said I'd be like a brother to you; and that means,in my lingo, doing anything you ask. Come and smoke a pipe along withme, as soon as I'm back again. Do you know Kirk Street? It's nigh onthe Market. Do you know a 'bacco shop in Kirk Street? It's got a greendoor, and Fourteen written on it in yaller paint. When I am shutup in a room of my own, which isn't often, I'm shut up there. I can'tgive you the key of the house, because I want it myself."

"KirkStreet? That's my way. Why can't we go on together? What do you want tosay good-night here for?"

"Because I want to be left by myself. It'snot your fault; but you've set me thinking of something that don't makeme easy in my mind. I've led a lonesome life of it, young 'un; strayingaway months and months out in the wilderness, without a human being tospeak to, I dare say that wasn't a right sort of life for a man to takeup with; but I did take up with it; and I can't get over likingit sometimes still. When I'm not easy in my mind, I want to be leftlonesome as I used to be. I want it now. Good night ."

Before Zackcould enter his new friend's address in his pocket-book, Mat hadcrossed the road, and had disappeared in the dark distance dotted withgaslights. In another moment, the last thump of his steady footstepdied away on the pavement, in the morning stillness of the street.

"That's rather an odd fellow"--thought Zack as he pursued his ownroad--"and we have got acquainted with each other in rather an odd way.I shall certainly go and see him though, on Thursday; something maycome of it, one of these days."

Zack was a careless guesser; but, inthis case, he guessed right. Something did come of it.

When Zackreached Baregrove Square, it was four in the morning. The neighboringchurch clock struck the hour as he approached his own door.

Immediately after parting with Mat, malicious Fate so ordained it thathe passed one of those late--or, to speak more correctly,early--public-houses, which are open to customers during the "small hours"of the morning. He was parched with thirst; and the hiccuping fit whichhad seized him in the company of his new friend had not yet subsided."Suppose I try what a drop of brandy will do for me," thought Zack,stopping at the fatal entrance of the public-house.

He went in easilyenough--but he came out with no little difficulty. However, he hadachieved his purpose of curing the hiccups. The remedy employed acted,to be sure, on his legs as well as his stomach--but that was a triflingphysiological eccentricity quite unworthy of notice.

He was far tooexclusively occupied in chuckling over the remembrance of the agreeablyriotous train of circumstances which had brought his new acquaintanceand himself together, to take any notice of his own personal condition,or to observe that his course over the pavement was of a somewhatsinuous nature, as he walked home. It was only when he pulled the door-keyout of his pocket, and tried to put it into the keyhole, that hisattention was fairly directed to himself; and then he discovered thathis hands were helpless, and that he was also by no means rigidlysteady on his legs.

There are some men whose minds get drunk, andsome men whose bodies get drunk, under the influence of intoxicatingliquor. Zack belonged to the second class. He was perfectly capable ofunderstanding what was said to him, and of knowing what he saidhimself, long after his utterance had grown thick, and his gait hadbecome uncertain. He was now quite conscious that his visit to thepublic-house had by no means tended to sober him; and quite awake tothe importance of noiselessly stealing up to bed--but he was, at thesame time, totally unable to put the key into the door at the firstattempt, or to look comfortably for the key-hole, without previouslyleaning against the area railings at his side.

"Steady," mutteredZack, "I'm done for if I make any noise." Here he felt for the keyhole,and guided the key elaborately, with his left hand, into its properplace. He next opened the door, so quietly that he was astonished athimself--entered the passage with marvelous stealthiness--then closedthe door again, and cried "Hush!" when he found that he had let thelock go a little too noisily.

He listened before he attempted tolight his candle. The air of the house felt strangely close and hot,after the air out of doors. The dark stillness above and around him wasinstinct with an awful and virtuous repose; and was deepened ominouslyby the solemn tick-tick of the kitchen clock--never audible fromthe passage in the day time: terribly and incomprehensibly distinct atthis moment.

"I won't bolt the door," he whispered to himself, "tillI have struck a--" Here the unreliability of brandy as a curative agentin cases of fermentation in the stomach, was palpably demonstrated by asudden return of the hiccuping fit. "Hush!" cried Zack for the secondtime; terrified at the violence and suddenness of the relapse, andclapping his hand to his mouth when it was too late.

After groping,on his knees, with extraordinary perseverance all round the rim of hisbed-room candlestick, which stood on one of the hall chairs, hesucceeded--not in finding the box of matches--but in knocking it offthe chair, and sending it rolling over the stone floor, until it wasstopped by the opposite wall. With some difficulty he captured it, andstruck a light. Never, in all Zack's experience, had any former matchescaught flame with such a shrill report, as was produced from the onedisastrous match which he happened to select to light his candle with.

The next thing to be done was to bolt the door. He succeeded verywell with the bolt at the top, but failed signally with the bolt at thebottom, which appeared particularly difficult to deal with that night.It first of all creaked fiercely on being moved--then stuck spitefullyjust at the entrance of the staple--then slipped all of a sudden, undermoderate pressure, and ran like lightning into its appointed place,with a bang of malicious triumph. "If that doesn't bring my fatherdown"--thought Zack, listening with all his ears, and stifling thehiccups with all his might--"he's a harder sleeper than I take himfor."

But no door opened, no voice called, no sound of any kind brokethe mysterious stillness of the bedroom regions. Zack sat down on thestairs, and took his boots off, got up again with some littledifficulty, listened, took his candlestick, listened once more,whispered to himself, "Now for it!" and began the perilous ascent tohis own room.

He held tight by the banisters, only falling againstthem, and making them crack from top to bottom once, before he reachedthe drawing-room landing. He ascended the second flight of stairswithout casualties of any kind, until he got to the top step, close byhis father's bed-room door. Here, by a dire fatality, the stifledhiccups burst beyond all control; and distinctly asserted themselves byone convulsive yelp, which betrayed Zack into a start of horror. Thestart shook his candlestick: the extinguisher, which lay loose in it,dropped out, hopped playfully down the stone stairs, and rolled overthe landing with a loud and lively ring--a devilish and brazen flourishof exultation in honor of its own activity.

"Oh Lord!" faintlyejaculated Zack, as he heard somebody's voice speaking, and somebody'sbody moving, in the bed-room; and remembered that he had to mountanother flight of stairs--wooden stairs this time--before he got to hisown quarters on the garret-floor.

He went up, however, directly, withthe recklessness of despair; every separate stair creaking and crackingunder him, as if a young elephant had been retiring to bed instead of ayoung man. He blew out his light, tore off his clothes, and, slippingbetween the sheets, began to breathe elaborately, as if he was fastasleep--in the desperate hope of being still able to deceive hisfather, if Mr. Thorpe came up stairs to look after him.

No sooner hadhe assumed a recumbent position than a lusty and ceaseless singingbegan in his ears, which bewildered and half deafened him. His bed, theroom, the house, the whole world tore round and round, and heaved upand down frantically with him. He ceased to be a human being: he becamea giddy atom, spinning drunkenly in illimitable space. He started up inbed, and was recalled to a sense of his humanity by a cold perspirationand a deathly qualm. Hiccups burst from him no longer; but they weresucceeded by another and a louder series of sound--sounds familiar toeverybody who has ever been at sea--sounds nautically and lamentablyassociated with white basins, whirling waves, and misery of mortalstomachs wailing in emetic despair.

In the momentary pauses betweenthe rapidly successive attacks of the malady which now overwhelmed him,and which be attributed in after-life entirely to the dyspepticinfluences of toasted cheese, Zack was faintly conscious of the soundof slippered feet ascending the stairs. His back was to the door. Hehad no strength to move, no courage to look round, no voice to raise insupplication. He knew that his door was opened--that a light came intothe room--that a voice cried "Degraded beast!"--that the door wassuddenly shut again with a bang--and that he was left once more intotal darkness. He did not care for the light, or the voice, or thebanging of the door: he did not think of them afterwards; he did notmourn over the past, or speculate on the future. He just sank back onhis pillow with a gasp, drew the clothes over him with a groan, andfell asleep, blissfully reckless of the retribution that was to comewith the coming daylight.

When he woke, late the next morning,conscious of nothing, at first, except that it was thawing fast out ofdoors, and that he had a violent headache, but gradually recalled to aremembrance of the memorable fight in the Snuggery by a sense ofsoreness in his ribs, and a growing conviction that his nose had becometoo large for his face, Zack's memory began, correctly thoughconfusedly, to retrace the circumstances attending his return home, andhis disastrous journey up stairs to bed. With these recollections weremingled others of the light which had penetrated into his room, afterhis own candle was out; of the voice which had denounced him as a"Degraded beast;" and of the banging of the door which had followed.There could be no doubt that it was his father who had entered the roomand apostrophized him in the briefly emphatic terms which he was nowcalling to mind. Never had Mr. Thorpe, on any former occasion, beenknown to call names, or bang doors. It was quite clear that he haddiscovered everything, and was exasperated with his son as he had neverbeen exasperated with any other human being before in his life.

Justas Zack arrived at this conclusion, he heard the rustling of hismother's dress on the stairs, and Mrs. Thorpe, with her handkerchief toher eyes, presented herself woefully at his bedside. Profoundly andpenitently wretched, he tried to gain his mother's forgiveness beforehe encountered his father's wrath. To do him justice, he was sothoroughly ashamed to meet her eye, that he turned his face to thewall, and in that position appealed to his mother's compassion in themost moving terms, and with the most vehement protestations which hehad ever addressed to her.

The only effect he produced on Mrs. Thorpewas to make her walk up and down the room in violent agitation, sobbingbitterly. Now and then a few words burst lamentably and incoherentlyfrom her lips. They were just articulate enough for him to gather fromthem that his father had discovered everything, had suffered inconsequence from an attack of palpitation of the heart, and had felthimself, on rising that morning, so unequal, both in mind and body, todeal unaided with the enormity of his son's offense, that he had justgone out to request the co-operation of the Reverend Aaron Yollop. Ondiscovering this, Zack's penitence changed instantly into a curiousmixture of indignation and alarm. He turned round quickly towards hismother. But, before he could open his lips, she informed him, speakingwith an unexampled severity of tone, that he was on no account to thinkof going to the office as usual, but was to wait at home until hisfather's return--and then hurried from the room. The fact was, thatMrs. Thorpe distrusted her own inflexibility, if she stayed too long inthe presence of her penitent son; but Zack could not, unhappily, knowthis. He could only see that she left him abruptly, after delivering anominous message; and could only place the gloomiest interpretation onher conduct.

"When mother turns against me, I've lost my lastchance." He stopped before he ended the sentence, and sat up in bed,deliberating with himself for a minute or two. "I could make up my mindto bear anything from my father, because he has a right to be angrywith me, after what I've done. But if I stand old Yollop again, I'llbe--" Here, whatever Zack said was smothered in the sound of a blow,expressive of fury and despair, which he administered to the mattresson which he was sitting. Having relieved himself thus, he jumped out ofbed, pronouncing at last in real earnest those few words of fatal slangwhich had often burst from his lips in other days as an empty threat:--

"It's all over with me; I must bolt from home."

He refreshed bothmind and body by a good wash; but still his resolution did not falter.He hurried on his clothes, looked out of window, listened at his door;and all this time his purpose never changed. Remembering but too wellthe persecution he had already suffered at the hands of Mr. Yollop, theconviction that it would now be repeated with fourfold severity wasenough of itself to keep him firm to his desperate intention. When hehad done dressing, his thoughts were suddenly recalled by the sight ofhis pocket-book to his companion of the past night. As he reflected onthe appointment for Thursday morning, his eyes brightened, and he saidto himself aloud, while he turned resolutely to the door, "That queerfellow talked of going back to America. If I can't do anything else,I'll go back with him!"

Just as his hand was on the lock, he wasstartled by a knock at the door. He opened it, and found the housemaidon the landing with a letter for him. Returning to the window, hehastily undid the envelope. Several gaily-printed invitation cards withgilt edges dropped out. There was a letter among them, which proved tobe in Mr. Blyth's handwriting, and ran thus:--

"Wednesday.

"MY DEAR ZACK--The enclosed are the tickets for mypicture show, which I told you about yesterday evening. I send themnow, instead of waiting to give them to you to-night, at Lavvie'ssuggestion. She thinks only three days' notice, from now to Saturday,rather short, and considers it advisable to save even a few hours, soas to enable you to give your friends the most time possible to maketheir arrangements for coming to my studio. Post all the invitationtickets, therefore, that you send about among your connection, at once,as I am posting mine; and you will save a day by that means, which is agood deal. Patty is obliged to pass your house this morning on anerrand, so I send my letter by her. How conveniently things sometimesturn out, don't they?

"Introduce anybody you like; but I shouldprefer intellectual people; my figure-subject of 'Columbus insight of the New World' being treated mystically, and, therefore,adapted to tax the popular mind to the utmost. Please warn your friendsbeforehand that it is a work of high art, and that nobody can hope tounderstand it in a hurry.

"Affectionately yours,

"V. BLYTH."

The perusal of this letter remindedZack of certain recent aspirations in the direction of the fine arts,which had escaped his slippery memory altogether, while he was thinkingof his future prospects. "I'll stick to my first idea," he thought,"and be an artist, if Blyth will let me, after what's happened. If hewon't, I've got Mat to fall back upon; and I'll run as wild in Americaas ever he did."

Reflecting thus, Zack descended cautiously to theback parlor, which was called a "library." The open door showed himthat no one was in the room. He went in, and in great haste scrawledthe following answer to Mr. Blyth's letter:--

"MY DEARBLYTH--Thank you for the tickets. I have got into a dreadful scrape,having been found out coming home tipsy at four in the morning, which Idid by stealing the family door-key. My prospects after this are soextremely unpleasant that I am going to make a bolt of it. I writethese lines in a tearing hurry, for fear my father should come homebefore I have done--he having gone to Yollop's to set the parson at meagain worse than ever.

"I can't come to you to-night, because yourhouse would be the first place they would send to after me. But I meanto be an artist, if you won't desert me. Don't, my dear fellow! I knowI'm a scamp; but I'll try and be a reformed character, if you will onlystick by me. When you take your walk tomorrow, I shall be at theturnpike in the Laburnum Road, waiting for you, at three o'clock. Ifyou won't come there, or won't speak to me when you do come, I shallleave England and take to something desperate.

"I have got a newfriend--the best and most interesting fellow in the world. He has beenhalf his life in the wilds of America; so, if you don't give me thego-by, I shall bring him to see your picture of Columbus.

"I feel somiserable, and have got such a headache, that I can't write any more.Ever yours,

"Z. THORPE, JUN."

Afterdirecting this letter, and placing it in his pocket to be put into thepost by his own hand, Zack looked towards the door and hesitated--advanceda step or two to go out--and ended by returning to thewriting-table, and taking a fresh sheet of paper out of the portfoliobefore him.

"I can't leave the old lady (though she won't forgive me)without writing a line to keep up her spirits and say goodbye," hethought, as he dipped the pen in the ink, and began in his usualdashing, scrawling way. But he could not get beyond "My dear Mother."The writing of those three words seemed to have suddenly paralyzed him.The strong hand that had struck out so sturdily all through the fight,trembled now at merely touching a sheet of paper. Still, he trieddesperately to write something, even if it were only the one word,"Goodbye."--tried till the tears came into his eyes, and made allfurther effort hopeless.

He crumpled up the paper and rose hastily,brushing away the tears with his hand, and feeling a strange dread anddistrust of himself as he did so. It was rarely, very rarely, that hiseyes were moistened as they were moistened now. Few human beings havelived to be twenty years of age without shedding more tears than hadever been shed by Zack.

"I can't write to her while I'm at home, andI know she's in the next room to me. I will send her a letter when I'mout of the house, saying it's only for a little time, and that I'mcoming back when the angry part of this infernal business is all blownover." Such was his resolution, as he tore up the crumpled paper, andwent out quickly into the passage.

He took his hat from the table. His hat? No: he remembered that it was the hat which had beentaken from the man at the tavern. At the most momentous instant of hislife--when his heart was bowing down before the thought of hismother--when he was leaving home in secret, perhaps for ever--the currentof his thoughts could be incomprehensibly altered in its course by theinfluence of such a trifle as this!

It was thus with him; it is thuswith all of us. Our faculties are never more completely at the mercy ofthe smallest interests of our being, than when they appear to be mostfully absorbed by the mightiest. And it is well for us that thereexists this seeming imperfection in our nature. The first cure of manya grief, after the hour of parting, or in the house of death, hasbegun, insensibly to ourselves, with the first moment when we werebetrayed into thinking of so little a thing even as a daily meal.

Therain which had accompanied the thaw was falling faster and faster;inside the house was dead silence, and outside it damp desolation, asZack opened the street door, and, without hesitating a moment, dashedout desperately through mud and wet, to cast himself loose on thethronged world of London as a fugitive from his own home.

He pausedbefore he took the turning out of the square; the recollections ofweeks, months, years past, all whirling through his memory in a fewmoments of time. He paused, looking through the damp, foggy atmosphereat the door which he had just left--never, it might be, to approach itagain; then moved away, buttoned his coat over his chest withtrembling, impatient fingers, and saying to himself, "I've done it, andnothing can undo it now," turned his back resolutely on BaregroveSquare.

The street which Mat had chosen for his place of residence in London,was situated in a densely populous, and by no means respectableneighborhood. In Kirk Street the men of the fustian-jacket and seal-skincap clustered tumultuous round the lintels of the gin-shop doors.Here ballad-bellowing, and organ grinding, and voices of costermongers,singing of poor men's luxuries, never ceased all through the hum ofday, and penetrated far into the frowzy repose of latest night. Here,on Saturday evenings especially, the butcher smacked with appreciatinghand the fat carcasses that hung around him; and flourishing his steel,roared aloud to every woman who passed the shop door with a basket, tocome in and buy--buy--buy! Here, with foul frequency, the language ofthe natives was interspersed with such words as reporters indicate inthe newspapers by an expressive black line; and on this "beat," morethan on most others, the night police were chosen from men of mightystrength to protect the sober part of the street community, and ofnotable cunning to persuade the drunken part to retire harmlesslybrawling into the seclusion of their own homes.

Such was the place inwhich Mat had set up his residence, after twenty years of wanderingamid the wilds of the great American Continent.

Never was tenant ofany order or degree known to make such conditions with a landlord aswere made by this eccentric stranger. Every household convenience withwhich the people at the lodgings could offer to accommodate him, Matconsidered to be a domestic nuisance which it was particularlydesirable to get rid of. He stipulated that nobody should be allowed toclean his room but himself; that the servant-of-all-work should neverattempt to make his bed, or offer to put sheets on it, or venture tocook him a morsel of dinner when he stopped at home; and that he shouldbe free to stay away unexpectedly for days and nights together, if hechose, without either landlord or landlady presuming to be anxious orto make inquiries about him, as long as they had his rent in theirpockets. This rent he willingly covenanted to pay beforehand, week byweek, as long as his stay lasted; and he was also ready to fee theservant occasionally, provided she would engage solemnly "not to upsethis temper by doing anything for him."

The proprietor of the house(and tobacco-shop) was at first extremely inclined to be distrustful;but as he was likewise extremely familiar with poverty, he was notproof against the auriferous halo which the production of a handful ofbright sovereigns shed gloriously over the oddities of the new lodger.The bargain was struck; and Mat went away directly to fetch hispersonal baggage.

After an absence of some little time, he returnedwith a large corn-sack on his back, and a long rifle in his hand. Thiswas his luggage.

First putting the rifle on his bed, in the backroom, he cleared away all the little second-hand furniture with whichthe front room was decorated; packing the three rickety chairs togetherin one corner, and turning up the cracked round table in another. Then,untying a piece of cord which secured the mouth of the corn-sack, heemptied it over his shoulder into the middle of the room--just (as thelandlady afterwards said) as if it was coals coming in instead of luggage.Among the things which fell out on the floor in a heap, were--somebearskins and a splendid buffalo-hide, neatly packed; a pipe, twored flannel shirts, a tobacco-pouch, and an Indian blanket; a leatherbag, a gunpowder flask, two squares of yellow soap, a bullet mold, anda nightcap; a tomahawk, a paper of nails, a scrubbing-brush, a hammer,and an old gridiron. Having emptied the sack, Mat took up the buffalohide, and spread it out on his bed, with a very expressive sneer at thepatchwork counterpane and meager curtains. He next threw down the bearskins, with the empty sack under them, in an unoccupied corner; proppedup the leather bag between two angles of the wall; took his pipe fromthe floor; left everything else lying in the middle of the room; and,sitting down on the bearskins with his back against the bag, told theastonished landlord that he was quite settled and comfortable, andwould thank him to go down stairs, and send up a pound of the strongesttobacco he had in the shop.

Mat's subsequent proceedings during therest of the day--especially such as were connected with his method oflaying in a stock of provisions, and cooking his own dinner--exhibitedthe same extraordinary disregard of all civilized precedent which hadmarked his first entry into the lodgings. After he had dined, he took anap on his bear skins; woke up grumbling at the close air and theconfined room; smoked a long series of pipes, looking out of window allthe time with quietly observant, constantly attentive eyes; and,finally, rising to the climax of all his previous oddities, came downwhen the tobacco shop was being shut up after the closing of theneighboring theater, and coolly asked which was his nearest way intothe country, as he wanted to clear his head, and stretch his legs, bymaking a walking night of it in the fresh air.

He began the nextmorning by cleaning both his rooms thoroughly with his own hands; andseemed to enjoy the occupation mightily in his own grim, grave way. Hisdining, napping, smoking, and observant study of the street view fromhis window, followed as on the previous day. But at night, instead ofsetting forth into the country as before, he wandered into the streets;and, in the course of his walk, happened to pass the door of theSnuggery. What happened to him there is already known; but what becameof him afterwards remains to be seen.

On leaving Zack, he walkedstraight on; not slackening his pace, not noticing whither he went, notturning to go back till daybreak. It was past nine o'clock before hepresented himself at the tobacco-shop, bringing in with him a goodlyshare of mud and wet from the thawing ground and rainy sky outside. Hislong walk did not seem to have relieved the uneasiness of mind whichhad induced him to separate so suddenly from Zack. He talked almostperpetually to himself in a muttering, incoherent way; his heavy browwas contracted, and the scars of the old wounds on his face lookedangry and red. The first thing he did was to make some inquiries of hislandlord relating to railway traveling, and to the part of London inwhich a certain terminus that he had been told of was situated. Findingit not easy to make him understand any directions connected with thislatter point, the shopkeeper suggested sending for a cab to take him tothe railway. He briefly assented to that arrangement; occupying thetime before the vehicle arrived, in walking sullenly backwards andforwards over the pavement in front of the shop door.

When the cabcame to take him up, he insisted, with characteristic regardlessness ofappearances, on riding upon the roof, because he could get more air toblow over him, and more space for stretching his legs in, there thaninside. Arriving in this irregular and vagabond fashion at theterminus, he took his ticket for DIBBLEDEAN, a quiet little market townin one of the midland counties.

When he was set down at the station,he looked about him rather perplexedly at first; but soon appeared torecognize a road, visible at some little distance, which led to thetown; and towards which he immediately directed his steps, scorning alloffers of accommodation from the local omnibus.

It did not happen tobe market day; and the thaw looked even more dreary at Dibbledean thanit looked in London. Down the whole perspective of the High Streetthere appeared only three human figures--a woman in pattens; a childunder a large umbrella; and a man with a hamper on his back, walkingtowards the yard of the principal inn.

Mat had slackened his pacemore and more as he approached the town, until he slackened italtogether at last, by coming to a dead stand-still under the walls ofthe old church, which stood at one extremity of the High Street, inwhat seemed to be the suburban district of Dibbledean. He waited forsome time, looking over the low parapet wall which divided thechurchyard from the road--then slowly approached a gate leading to apath among the grave-stones--stopped at it--apparently changed hispurpose--and, turning off abruptly, walked up the High Street.

He didnot pause again till he arrived opposite a long, low, gabled house,evidently one of the oldest buildings in the place, though brightlypainted and whitewashed, to look as new and unpicturesque as possible.The basement story was divided into two shops; which, however,proclaimed themselves as belonging now, and having belonged also informer days, to one and the same family. Over the larger of the two waspainted in letters of goodly size:--

Bradford and Son (late JoshuaGrice), Linendrapers, Hosiers, &c., &c.

The board onwhich these words were traced was continued over the smaller shop,where it was additionally superscribed thus:--

Mrs. Bradford (lateJoanna Grice), Milliner and Dressmaker.

Regardless of rain, anddroppings from eaves that trickled heavily down his hat and coat, Matstood motionless, reading and re-reading these inscriptions from theopposite side of the way. Though the whole man, from top to toe, wasthe very impersonation of firmness, he nevertheless hesitated mostunnaturally now. At one moment he seemed to be on the point of enteringthe shop before him--at another, he turned half round towards thechurchyard which he had left behind him. At last he decided to go backto the churchyard, and retraced his steps accordingly.

He enteredquickly by the gate at which he had delayed before; and pursued thepath among the graves a little way. Then striking off over the grass,after a moment's consideration and looking about him, he wound hiscourse hither and thither among the turf mounds, and stopped suddenlyat a plain flat tombstone, raised horizontally above the earth by afoot or so of brickwork. Bending down over it, he read the charactersengraven on the slab.

There were four inscriptions, all of thesimplest and shortest kind, comprising nothing but a record of thenames, ages, and birth and death dates of the dead who lay beneath. Thefirst two inscriptions notified the deaths of children:--"JoshuaGrice, son of Joshua and Susan Grice, of this parish, aged four years;"and "Susan Grice, daughter of the above, aged thirteen years." The nextdeath recorded was the mother's: and the last was the father's, at theage of sixty-two. Below this followed a quotation from the NewTestament:--Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, andI will give you rest. It was on these lines, and on the recordabove them of the death of Joshua Grice the elder, that the eyes of thelonely reader rested longest; his lips murmuring several times, as helooked down on the letters:--"He lived to be an old man--he lived tobe an old man after all!"

There was sufficient vacant space lefttowards the bottom of the tombstone for two or three more inscriptions;and it appeared as if Mat expected to have seen more. He lookedintently at the vacant space, and measured it roughly with his fingers,comparing it with the space above, which was occupied by letters. "Notthere, at any rate!" he said to himself, as he left the churchyard, andwalked back to the town.

This time he entered the double shop--thehosiery division of it--without hesitation. No one was there, but theyoung man who served behind the counter. And right glad the young manlooked, having been long left without a soul to speak to on that rainymorning, to see some one--even a stranger with an amazing skull-capunder his hat--enter the shop at last.

What could he serve thegentleman with? The gentleman had not come to buy. He only desired toknow whether Joanna Grice, who used to keep the dressmaker's shop, wasstill living?

Still living, certainly! the young man replied, withbrisk civility. Miss Grice, whose brother once had the business nowcarried on by Bradford and Son, still resided in the town; and was avery curious old person, who never went out, and let nobody inside herdoors. Most of her old friends were dead; and those who were stillalive she had broken with. She was full of fierce, wild ways; wassuspected of being crazy; and was execrated by the boys of Dibbledeanas an "old tiger-cat." In all probability, her intellects were a littleshaken, years ago, by a dreadful scandal in the family, which quitecrushed them down, being very respectable, religious people--

At thispoint the young man was interrupted, in a very uncivil manner, by thestranger, who desired to hear nothing about the scandal, but who hadanother question to ask. This question seemed rather a difficult one toput; for he began it two or three times, in two or three differentforms of words, and failed to get on with it. At last, he ended byasking, generally, whether any other members of old Mr. Grice's familywere still alive.

For a moment or so the shopman was stupid andpuzzled, and asked what other members the gentleman meant. Old Mrs.Grice had died some time ago; and there had been two children who diedyoung, and whose names were in the churchyard. "Did the gentleman meanthe second daughter, who lived and grew up beautiful, and was, as thestory went, the cause of all the scandal? If so, the young person ranaway, and died miserably somehow--nobody knew how; and was supposed tohave been buried like a pauper somewhere--nobody knew where, unless itwas Miss Grice--"

The young man stopped and looked perplexed. Asudden change had passed over the strange gentleman's face. His swarthycheeks had turned to a cold clay color, through which his two scarsseemed to burn fiercer than ever, like streaks of fire. His heavy handand arm trembled a little as he leaned against the counter. Was hegoing to be taken ill? No: he walked at once from the counter to thedoor--turned round there, and asked where Joanna Grice lived. The youngman answered, the second turning to the right, down a street, whichended in a lane of cottages. Miss Grice's was the last cottage on theleft hand; but he could assure the gentleman that it would be quiteuseless to go there, for she let nobody in. The gentleman thanked him,and went, nevertheless.

"I didn't think it would have took me so,"Mat said, walking quickly up the street; "and it wouldn't if I'd heardit anywhere else. But I'm not the man I was, now I'm in the old placeagain. Over twenty year of hardening, don't seem to have hardened meyet!"

He followed the directions given him, correctly enough, arrivedat the last cottage on his left hand, and tried the garden gate. It waslocked; and there was no bell to ring. But the paling was low, and Matwas not scrupulous. He got over it, and advanced to the cottage door.It opened, like other doors in the country, merely by turning thehandle of the lock. He went in without any hesitation, and entered thefirst room into which the passage led him. It was a small parlor; and,at the back window, which looked out on a garden, sat Joanna Grice, athin, dwarfish old woman, poring over a big book which looked like aBible. She started from her chair, as she heard the sound of footsteps,and tottered up fiercely, with wild wandering grey eyes and hornythreatening hands, to meet the intruder. He let her come close to him;then mentioned a name--pronouncing it twice, very distinctly.

Shepaused instantly, livid pale, with gaping lips, and arms hanging rigidat her side; as if that name, or the voice in which it had beenuttered, had frozen up in a moment all the little life left in her.Then she moved back slowly, groping with her hands like one in thedark--back, till she touched the wall of the room Against this sheleaned, trembling violently; not speaking a word; her wild eyes staringpanic-stricken on the man who was confronting her.

He sat downunbidden, and asked if she did not remember him. No answer was given;no movement made that might serve instead of an answer. He asked again;a little impatiently this time. She nodded her head and stared at him--stillspeechless, still trembling.

He told her what he had heard atthe shop; and using the shopman's phrases, asked whether it was truethat the daughter of old Mr. Grice, who was the cause of all thescandal in the family, had died long since, away from her home, and ina miserable way?

There was something in his look, as he spoke, whichseemed to oblige her to answer against her will. She said Yes; andtrembled more violently than ever.

He clasped his hands together; hishead drooped a little; dark shadows seemed to move over his bent face;and the scars of the old wounds deepened to a livid violet hue.

Hissilence and hesitation seemed to inspire Joanna Grice with suddenconfidence and courage. She moved a little away from the wall, and agleam of triumph lightened over her face, as she reiterated her lastanswer of her own accord. "Yes! the wretch who ruined the good name ofthe family was dead--dead, and buried far off, in some grave byherself--not there, in the churchyard with her father and mother--no,thank God, not there!"

He looked up at her instantly, when she saidthose words, There was some warning influence in his eye, as it restedon her, which sent her cowering back again to her former place againstthe wall. Mentioning the name for the first time, he asked sternlywhere Mary was buried. The reply--doled out doggedly and slowly, forcedfrom her word by word--was, that Mary was buried among strangers, asshe deserved to be--at a place called Bangbury--far away in the nextcounty, where she died, and where money was sent to bury her.

Hismanner became less roughly imperative; his eyes softened; his voicesaddened in tone, when he spoke again. And yet, the next question thathe put to Joanna Grice seemed to pierce her to the quick, to try her tothe heart, as no questioning had tried her before. The muscles werewrithing on her haggard face, her breath burst from her in quick,fierce pantings, as he asked plainly, whether it was only suspicion, orreally the truth, that Mary was with child when she left her home?

Noanswer was given to him. He repeated the question, and insisted onhaving one. Was it suspicion, or truth? The reply hissed out at him inone whispered word--Truth.

Was the child born alive?

The answercame again in the same harsh whisper--Yes: born alive.

What became ofit?

She never saw it--never asked about it--never knew. While shereplied thus, her whispering accents changed, and rose sullenly tohoarse, distinct tones. But it was not till the questioner spoke to heronce more that the smothered fury flashed out into flaming rage. Then,even as he raised his head and opened his lips, she staggered, withoutstretched arms, up to the table at which she had been reading whenhe came in; and struck her bony hands on the open Bible; and swore bythe Word of Truth in that Book, that she would answer him no more.

Herose calmly; and with something of contempt in his look, approached thetable and spoke. But his voice was drowned by hers, bursting from herin screams of fury. No! no! no! Not a word more! How dare he comethere, with his shameless face and his threatening eyes, and make herspeak of what should never have passed her lips again--never till shewent up to render her account at the Judgment Seat! Relations! let himnot speak to her of relations. The only kindred she ever cared to own,lay heart-broken under the great stone in the churchyard. Relations! ifthey all came to life again this very minute, what could she have to dowith them, whose only relation was Death? Yes; Death, that was father,mother, brother, sister to her now! Death, that was waiting to take herin God's good time. What! would he stay on in spite of her? stay aftershe had sworn not to answer him another word?

Yes; he was resolved tostay--and resolved to know more. Had Mary left nothing behind her, onthe day when she fled from her home?

Some suddenly-conceivedresolution seemed to calm the first fury of Joanna Grice's passion,while he said those words. She stretched out her hand quickly, andgriped him by the arm, and looked up in his face with a wickedexultation in her wild eyes.

He was bent on knowing what that ruinedwretch left behind her? Well! he should see for himself!

Between theleaves of Joanna Grice's Bible there was a key, which seemed to be usedas a marker. She took it out, and led the way, with toilsome step, andhands outstretched for support to the wall on one side and thebanisters on the other, up the one flight of stairs which communicatedwith the bed-room story of the cottage.

He followed close behind her:and was standing by her side, when she opened a door, and pointed intoa room, telling him to take what he found there, and then go--she carednot whither, so long as he went from her.

She descended the stairsagain, as he entered the room. There was a close, faint, airless smellin it. Cobwebs, pendulous and brown with dirt, hung from the ceiling.The grimy window-panes saddened all the light that poured through themfaintly. He looked round him, and saw no furniture anywhere; no signthat the room had ever been lived in, ever entered even, for years andyears past. He looked again, more carefully: and detected, in one dimcorner, something covered with dust and dirt, which looked like a smallbox.

He pulled it out towards the window. Dust flew from it inclouds. Loathsome, crawling creatures crept from under it and from offit. He stirred it with his foot still nearer to the faint light, andsaw that it was a common deal-box, corded. He looked closer, andthrough cobwebs, and dead insects, and foul stains of all kinds, speltout a name that was painted on it: MARY GRICE.

At the sight of thatname, and of the pollution which covered it, he paused, silent andthoughtful; and, at the same moment, heard the parlor door below,locked. He stooped hastily, took up the box by the cord round it, andleft the room. His hand touched a substance, as he grasped the cord,which did not feel like wood. Examining the box by the clearer lightfalling on the landing from a window in the roof, he discovered aletter nailed to the cover. There was something written on it; but thepaper was dusty, the ink was faded by time, and the characters werehard to decipher. By dint of perseverance, however, he made out fromthem this inscription: "Justification of my conduct towards my niece:to be read after my death. Joanna Grice."

As he passed the parlordoor, he heard her voice, reading. He stopped and listened. The wordsthat reached his ears seemed familiar to them; and yet he knew not, atfirst, what book they came from. He listened a little longer; hisrecollections of his boyhood and of home helped him; and he knew thatthe book from which Joanna Grice was reading aloud to herself was theBible.

His face darkened, and he went out quickly into the garden;but stopped before he reached the paling, and, turning back to thefront window of the parlor, looked in. He saw her sitting with her backto him, with elbows on the table, and hands working feverishly in hertangled grey hair. Her voice was still audible; but the words itpronounced could no longer be distinguished. He waited at the windowfor a few moments; then left it suddenly, saying to himself: "I wonderthe book don't strike her dead!" Those were his only words of farewell.With that thought in his heart, he turned his back on the cottage, andon Joanna Grice.

He went on through the rain, taking the box withhim, and looking about for some sheltered place in which he could openit. After walking nearly a mile, he saw an old cattle-shed, a littleway off the road--a rotten, deserted place; but it afforded some littleshelter, even yet: so he entered it.

There was one dry corner left;dry enough, at least, to suit his purpose. In that he knelt down, andcut the cord round the box--hesitated before he opened it--and began bytearing away the letter outside, from the nail that fastened it to thecover.

It was a long letter, written in a close, crabbed hand. He ranhis eye over it impatiently, till his attention was accidentally caughtand arrested by two or three lines, more clearly penned than the rest,near the middle of a page. For many years he had been unused to readingany written characters; but he spelt out resolutely the words in thefew lines which first struck his eye, and found that they ran thus:--

"I have now only to add, before proceeding to the miserableconfession of our family dishonor, that I never afterwards saw, andonly once heard of, the man who tempted my niece to commit the deadlysin, which was her ruin in this world, and will be her ruin in thenext."

Beyond those words, he made no effort to readfurther. Thrusting the letter hastily into his pocket, he turned oncemore to the box.

It was sealed up with strips of tape, but notlocked. He forced the lid open, and saw inside a few simple articles ofwoman's wearing apparel; a little work-box; a lace collar, with theneedle and thread still sticking in it; several letters, here tied upin a packet, there scattered carelessly; a gaily-bound album; aquantity of dried ferns and flower leaves that had apparently fallenfrom between the pages: a piece of canvas with a slipper-pattern workedon it; and a black dress waistcoat with some unfinished embroidery onthe collar. It was plain to him, at a first glance, that these thingshad been thrown into the box anyhow, and had been left just as theywere thrown. For a moment or two, he kept his eyes fixed on the sadsignificance of the confusion displayed before him; then turned awayhis head, whispering to himself, mournfully and many times, that nameof "Mary," which he had already pronounced while in the presence ofJoanna Grice. After a little, he mechanically picked out the lettersthat lay scattered about the box; mechanically eyed the broken sealsand the addresses on each; mechanically put them back again unopened,until he came to one which felt as if it had something inside it. Thiscircumstance stimulated him into unfolding the enclosure, and examiningwhat the letter might contain.

Nothing but a piece of paper neatlyfolded. He undid the folds, and found part of a lock of hair inside,which he wrapped up again the moment he saw it, as if anxious toconceal it from view as soon as possible. The letter he examined moredeliberately. It was in a woman's handwriting; was directed to "MissMary Grice, Dibbledean:" and was only dated "Bond Street, London.Wednesday." The post-mark, however, showed that it had been writtenmany years ago. It was not very long; so he set himself to the task ofmaking it all out from beginning to end.

This was what heread:--

"MY DEAREST MARY,

"I have just sent you yourpretty hair bracelet by the coach, nicely sealed and packed up by thejeweler. I have directed it to you by your own name, as I direct this,remembering what you told me about your father making it a point ofhonor never to open your letters and parcels; and forbidding that uglyaunt Joanna of yours, ever to do so either. I hope you will receivethis and the little packet about the same time.

"I will answer foryour thinking the pattern of your bracelet much improved since the newhair has been worked in with the old. How slyly you will run away toyour own room, and blush unseen, like the flower in the poem,when you look at it! You may be rather surprised, perhaps, to see somelittle gold fastenings introduced as additions; but this, the jewelertold me, was a matter of necessity. Your poor dear sister's hair beingthe only material of the bracelet, when you sent it up to me to bealtered, was very different from the hair of that faultless true-loveof yours which you also sent to be worked in with it. It was, in fact,hardly half long enough to plait up properly with poor Susan's, fromend to end; so the jeweler had to join it with little gold clasps, asyou will see. It is very prettily run in along with the old hairthough. No country jeweler could have done it half as nicely, so youdid well to send it to London after all. I consider myself rather ajudge of these things; and I say positively that it is now theprettiest hair bracelet I ever saw.

"Do you see him as often as ever?He ought to be true and faithful to you, when you show how dearly youlove him, by mixing his hair with poor Susan's, whom you were always sofondly attached to. I say he ought; but you are sure tosay he will---and I am quite ready, love, to believe that you are thewiser of the two.

"I would write more, but have no time. It is justthe regular London season now, and we are worked out of our lives. Ienvy you dressmakers in the country; and almost wish I was back againat Dibbledean, to be tyrannized over from morning to night by MissJoanna. I know she is your aunt, my dear; but I can't help saying thatI hate her very name!

"Ever your affectionate friend,

"JANE HOLDSWORTH.

"P. S.--The jeweler sent back thehair he did not want; and I, as in duty bound, return it enclosed toyou, its lawful owner."

Those scars on Mat's face, whichindicated the stir of strong feelings within him more palpably thaneither his expression or his manner, began to burn redly again while hespelt his way through this letter. He crumpled it up hastily round theenclosure, instead of folding it as it had been folded before; and wasabout to cast it back sharply into the box, when the sight of thewearing apparel and half-finished work lying inside seemed to stay hishand, and teach it on a sudden to move tenderly. He smoothed out thepaper with care, and placed it very gently among the rest of theletters--then looked at the box thoughtfully for a moment or two; tookfrom his pocket the letter that he had first examined, and dropped itin among the others--then suddenly and sharply closed the lid of thebox again.

"I can't touch any more of her things," he said tohimself; "I can't so much as look at 'em, somehow, without its makingme--" he stopped to tie up the box; straining at the cords, as if themere physical exertion of pulling hard at something were a relief tohim at that moment. "I'll open it again and look it over in a day ortwo, when I'm away from the old place here," he resumed, jerkingsharply at the last knot--"when I'm away from the old place, and havegot to be my own man again."

He left the shed; regained the road; andstopped, looking up and down, and all round him, indecisively. Whereshould he go next? To the grave, where he had been told that Mary layburied? No: not until he had first read all the letters and carefullyexamined all the objects in the box. Back to London, and to hispromised meeting next morning with Zack? Yes: nothing better was leftto be done--back to London.

Before nightfall he wasjourneying again to the great city, and to his meeting with Zack;journeying (though he little thought it) to the place where the cluelay hid--the clue to the Mystery of Mary Grice.

Aquarter of an hour's rapid walking from his father's door, took Zackwell out of the neighborhood of Baregrove Square, and launched him invagabond independence loose on the world. He had a silk handkerchiefand sevenpence halfpenny in his pockets--his available assets consistedof a handsome gold watch and chain--his only article of baggage was ablackthorn stick--and his anchor of hope was the Pawnbroker.

Hisfirst action, now that he had become his own master, was to go directto the nearest stationer's shop that he could find, and there to writethe penitent letter to his mother over which his heart had failed himin the library at Baregrove Square. It was about as awkward,scrambling, and incoherent an epistolary production as ever wascomposed. But Zack felt easier when he had completed it--easier stillwhen he had actually dropped it into the post-office along with hisother letter to Mr. Valentine Blyth.

The next duty that claimed himwas the first great duty of civilized humanity--the filling of an emptypurse. Most young gentlemen in his station of life would have found theprocess of pawning a watch in the streets of London, and in broaddaylight, rather an embarrassing one. But Zack was born impervious to asense of respectability. He marched into the first pawnbroker's he cameto with as solemn an air of business, and marched out again with asserene an expression of satisfaction, as if he had just been drawing ahandsome salary, or just been delivering a heavy deposit into the handsof his banker.

Once provided with pecuniary resources, Zack felthimself at liberty to indulge forthwith in a holiday of his owngranting. He opened the festival by a good long ride in a cab, with abottle of pale ale and a packet of cigars inside, to keep the miserablestate of the weather from affecting his spirits. He closed the festivalwith a visit to the theater, a supper in mixed company, totalself-oblivion, a bed at a tavern, and a blinding headache the next morning.Thus much, in brief, for the narrative of his holiday. The proceedings,on his part, which followed that festival, claim attention next; andare of sufficient importance, in the results to which they led, to bementioned in detail.

The new morning was the beginning of animportant day in Zack's life. Much depended on the interviews he wasabout to seek with his new friend, Mat, in Kirk Street, and with Mr.Blyth, at the turnpike in the Laburnum Road. As he paid his bill at thetavern, his conscience was not altogether easy, when he recalled acertain passage in his letter to his mother, which had assured her thathe was on the high road to reformation already. "I'll make a cleanbreast of it to Blyth, and do exactly what he tells me, when I meet himat the turnpike." Fortifying himself with this good resolution, Zackarrived at Kirk Street, and knocked at the private door of thetobacconist's shop.

Mat, having seen him from the window, called tohim to come up, as soon as the door was opened. The moment they shookhands, young Thorpe noticed that his new friend looked altered. Hisface seemed to have grown downcast and weary--heavy and vacant, sincethey had last met.

"What's happened to you?" asked Zack. "You havebeen somewhere in the country, haven't you? What news do you bringback, my dear fellow? Good, I hope?"

"Bad as can be," returned Mat,gruffly. "Don't you say another word to me about it. If you do, we partcompany again. Talk of something else. Anything you like; and thesooner the better."

Forbidden to discourse any more concerning hisfriend's affairs, Zack veered about directly, and began to discourseconcerning his own. Candor was one of his few virtues: and he nowconfided to Mat the entire history of his tribulations, without asingle reserved point at any part of the narrative, from beginning toend.

Without putting a question, or giving an answer, withoutdisplaying the smallest astonishment or the slightest sympathy, Matstood gravely listening until Zack had quite done. He then went to thecorner of the room where the round table was; pulled the upturned lidback upon the pedestal; drew from the breast pocket of his coat a rollof beaver-skin; slowly undid it; displayed upon the table a goodlycollection of bank notes; and pointing to them, said to youngThorpe,--"Take what you want."

It was not easy to surprise Zack; butthis proceeding so completely astonished him, that he stared at thebank notes in speechless amazement. Mat took his pipe from a nail inthe wall, filled the bowl with tobacco, and pointing with the stemtowards the table, gruffly repeated,--"Take what you want."

Thistime, Zack found words in which to express himself, and used thempretty freely to praise his new friend's unexampled generosity, and todecline taking a single farthing. Mat deliberately lit his pipe, in thefirst place, and then bluntly answered in these terms:--

"Take myadvice, young 'un, and keep all that talking for somebody else: it'sgibberish to me. Don't bother; and help yourself to what youwant. Money's what you want--though you won't own it. That's money.When it's gone, I can go back to California and get more. While itlasts, make it spin. What is there to stare at? I told you I'd bebrothers with you, because of what you done for me the other night.Well: I'm being brothers with you now. Get your watch out of pawn, andshake a loose leg at the world. Will you take what you want? Andwhen you have, just tie up the rest, and chuck 'em over here." Withthose words the man of the black skull-cap sat down on his bearskins,and sulkily surrounded himself with clouds of tobacco smoke.

Findingit impossible to make Mat understand those delicacies and refinementsof civilized life which induce one gentleman (always excepting aclergyman at Easter time) to decline accepting money from anothergentleman as a gift--perceiving that he was resolved to receive allremonstrances as so many declarations of personal enmity anddistrust--and well knowing, moreover, that a little money to go on withwould be really a very acceptable accommodation under existingcircumstances, Zack consented to take two ten-pound notes as a loan. Atthis reservation Mat chuckled contemptuously; but young Thorpe enforced it,by tearing a leaf out of his pocket-book, and writing an acknowledgmentfor the sum he had borrowed. Mat roughly and resolutely refused toreceive the document; but Zack tied it up along with the bank-notes,and threw the beaver-skin roll back to its owner, as requested.

"Doyou want a bed to sleep in?" asked Mat next. "Say yes or no at once! Iwon't have no more gibberish. I'm not a gentleman, and I can't shake upalong with them as are. It's no use trying it on with me, young 'un.I'm not much better than a cross between a savage and a Christian. I'ma battered, lonesome, scalped old vagabond--that's what I am! But I'mbrothers with you for all that. What's mine is yours; and if you tellme it isn't again, me and you are likely to quarrel. Do you want a bedto sleep in? Yes? or No?"

Yes; Zack certainly wanted a bed; but--

"There's one for you," remarked Mat, pointing through the folding-doorsinto the back room. "I don't want it. I haven't slep' in a bedthese twenty years and more, and I can't do it now. I take dog'ssnoozes in this corner; and I shall take more dog's snoozes out ofdoors in the day-time, when the sun begins to shine. I haven't beenused to much sleep, and I don't want much. Go in and try if the bed'slong enough for you."

Zack tried to expostulate again, but Matinterrupted him more gruffly than ever.

"I suppose you don't care tosleep next door to such as me," he said. "You wouldn't turn your backon a bit of my blanket, though, if we were out in the lonesome placestogether. Never mind! You won't cotton to me all at once, I dare say. Icotton to you in spite of that. Damn the bed! Take or leave it,which you like."

Zack the reckless, who was always ready at fiveminutes' notice to make friends with any living being under the canopyof heaven--Zack the gregarious, who in his days of roaming the country,before he was fettered to an office stool, had "cottoned" to everyspecies of rustic vagabond, from a traveling tinker to a residentpoacher--at once declared that he would sleep in the offered bed thatvery night, by way of showing himself worthy of his host's assistanceand regard, if worthy of nothing else. Greatly relieved by this plaindeclaration, Mat crossed his legs luxuriously on the floor, shook hisgreat shoulders with a heartier chuckle than usual, and made his youngfriend free of the premises in these hospitable words:--

"There! nowthe bother's over at last, I suppose," cried Mat. "Pull in the buffalohide, and bring your legs to an anchor anywhere you like. I'm smoking.Suppose you smoke too.--Hoi! Bring up a clean pipe," cried this roughdiamond, in conclusion, turning up a loose corner of the carpet, androaring through a crack in the floor into the shop below.

The pipewas brought. Zack sat down on the buffalo hide, and began to ask hisqueer friend about the life he had been leading in the wilds of Northand South America. From short replies at first, Mat was graduallybeguiled into really relating some of his adventures. Wild, barbarousfragments of narrative they were; mingling together in one darkly-fantasticrecord, fierce triumphs and deadly dangers; miseries of cold,and hunger, and thirst; glories of hunters' feasts in mighty forests;gold-findings among desolate rocks; gallopings for life from the flamesof the blazing prairie; combats with wild beasts and with men wilderstill; weeks of awful solitude in primeval wastes; days and nights ofperilous orgies among drunken savages; visions of meteors in heaven, ofhurricanes on earth, and of icebergs blinding bright, when the sunshinewas beautiful over the Polar seas.

Young Thorpe listened in a feverof excitement. Here was the desperate, dangerous, roving life of whichhe had dreamed! He longed already to engage in it: he could havelistened to descriptions of it all day long. But Mat was the last manin the world to err, at any time, on the side of diffuseness inrelating the results of his own experience. And he now provokinglystopped, on a sudden, in the middle of an adventure among the wildhorses on the Pampas; declaring that he was tired of feeling his owntongue wag, and had got so sick of talking of himself, that he wasdetermined not to open his mouth again--except to put a rump-steak anda pipe in it--for the rest of the day.

Finding it impossible to makehim alter this resolution, Zack thought of his engagement with Mr.Blyth, and asked what time it was. Mat, having no watch, conveyed thisinquiry into the shop by the same process of roaring through the crackin the ceiling which he had already employed to produce a clean pipe.The answer showed Zack that he had barely time enough left to bepunctual to his appointment in the Laburnum Road.

"I must be off tomy friend at the turnpike," he said, rising and putting on his hat;"but I shall be back again in an hour or two. I say, have you thoughtseriously yet about going back to America?" His eyes sparkled eagerlyas he put this question.

"There ain't no need to think about it,"answered Mat. "I mean to go back; but I haven't settled what day yet.I've got something to do first." His face darkened, and he glancedaside at the box which he had brought from Dibbledean, and which wasnow covered with one of his bearskins. "Never mind what it is; I've gotit to do, and that's enough. Don't you go asking again whether I'vebrought news from the country, or whether I haven't. Don't you ever dothat, and we shall sail along together easy enough. I like you, Zack,when you don't bother me. If you want to go, what are you stopping for?Why don't you clear out at once?"

Young Thorpe departed, laughing. Itwas a fine clear day, and the bright sky showed signs of a return ofthe frost. He was in high spirits as he walked along, thinking of Mat'swild adventures. What was the happiest painter's life, after all,compared to such a life as he had just heard described? Zack was hardlyin the Laburnum Road before he began to doubt whether he had reallymade up his mind to be guided entirely by Mr. Blyth's advice, and todevote all his energies for the future to the cultivation of the finearts.

Near the turnpike stood a tall gentleman, making a sketch in anote-book of some felled timber lying by the road side. This could beno other than Valentine--and Valentine it really was.

Mr. Blythlooked unusually serious, as he shook hands with young Thorpe. "Don'tbegin to justify yourself, Zack," he said; "I'm not going to blame younow. Let's walk on a little. I have some news to tell you fromBaregrove Square."

It appeared from the narrative on which Valentinenow entered, that, immediately on the receipt of Zack's letter, he hadcalled on Mr. Thorpe, with the kindly purpose of endeavoring to makepeace between father and son. His mission had entirely failed. Mr.Thorpe had grown more and more irritable as the interview proceeded;and had accused his visitor of unwarrantable interference, whenValentine suggested the propriety of holding out some prospect offorgiveness to the runaway son.

This outbreak Mr. Blyth had abstainedfrom noticing, out of consideration for the agitated state of thespeaker's feelings. But when the Reverend Mr. Yollop (who had beentalking with Mrs. Thorpe up stairs) came into the room soon afterwards,and joined in the conversation, words had been spoken which had obligedValentine to leave the house. The reiteration of some arguments on theside of mercy which he had already advanced, had caused Mr. Yollop tohint, with extreme politeness and humility, that Mr. Blyth's professionwas not of a nature to render him capable of estimating properly thenature and consequences of moral guilt; while Mr. Thorpe had referredalmost openly to the scandalous reports which had been spread abroad incertain quarters, years ago, on the subject of Madonna's parentage.These insinuations had roused Valentine instantly. He had denouncedthem as false in the strongest terms he could employ; and had left thehouse, resolved never to hold any communication again either with Mr.Yollop or Mr. Thorpe.

About an hour after his return home, a lettermarked "Private" had been brought to him from Mrs. Thorpe. The writerreferred, with many expressions of sorrow, to what had occurred at theinterview of the morning; and earnestly begged Mr. Blyth to take intoconsideration the state of Mr. Thorpe's health, which was such, thatthe family doctor (who had just called) had absolutely forbidden him toexcite himself in the smallest degree by receiving any visitors, or bytaking any active steps towards the recovery of his absent son. Ifthese rules were not strictly complied with for many days to come, thedoctor declared that the attack of palpitation of the heart, from whichMr. Thorpe had suffered on the night of Zack's return, might occuragain, and might be strengthened into a confirmed malady. As it was, ifproper care was taken, nothing of an alarming nature need beapprehended.

Having referred to her husband in these terms, Mrs.Thorpe next reverted to herself. She mentioned the receipt of a letterfrom Zack; but said it had done little towards calming her anxiety andalarm. Feeling certain that Mr. Blyth would be the first friend her sonwould go to, she now begged him to use his influence to keep Zack fromabandoning himself to any desperate courses, or from leaving thecountry, which she greatly feared he might be tempted to do. She askedthis of Mr. Blyth as a favor to herself, and hinted that if he wouldonly enable her, by granting it, to tell her husband, without enteringinto details, that their son was under safe guidance for the present,half the anxiety from which she was now suffering would be alleviated.Here the letter ended abruptly; a request for a speedy answer beingadded in the postscript.

"Now, Zack," said Valentine, after he hadrelated the result of his visit to Baregrove Square, and had faithfullyreported the contents of Mrs. Thorpe's letter, "I shall only add thatwhatever has happened between your father and me, makes no differencein the respect I have always felt for your mother, and in my earnestdesire to do her every service in my power. I tell you fairly--asbetween friends--that I think you have been very much to blame; but Ihave sufficient confidence and faith in you, to leave everything to bedecided by your own sense of honor, and by the affection which I amsure you feel for your mother."

This appeal, and the narrative whichhad preceded it, had their due effect on Zack. His ardor for awandering life of excitement and peril, began to cool in the quiettemperature of the good influences that were now at work within him."It shan't be my fault, Blyth, if I don't deserve your good opinion,"he said warmly. "I know I've behaved badly; and I know, too, that Ihave had some severe provocations. Only tell me what you advise, andI'll do it--I will, upon my honor, for my mother's sake."

"That'sright! that's talking like a man!" cried Valentine, clapping him on theshoulder. "In the first place, it would be no use your going back homeat once--even if you were willing, which I am afraid you are not. Inyour father's present state your return to Baregrove Square would do him a great deal of harm, and do you no good. Employed,however, you must be somehow while you're away from home; and whatyou're fit for--unless it's Art--I'm sure I don't know. You have beentalking a great deal about wanting to be a painter; and now is the timeto test your resolution. If I get you an order to draw in the BritishMuseum, to fill up your mornings; and if I enter you at some privateAcademy, to fill up your evenings (mine at home is not half strictenough for you)--will you stick to it?"

"With all my heart," repliedZack, resolutely dismissing his dreams of life in the wilds to thelimbo of oblivion. "I ask nothing better, Blyth, than to stick to youand your plan for the future."

"Bravo!" cried Valentine, in his oldgay, hearty manner. "The heaviest load of anxiety that has been on myshoulders for some time past is off now. I will write and comfort yourmother this very afternoon--"

"Give her my love," interposedZack.

--"Giving her your love; in the belief, of course, that you aregoing to prove yourself worthy to send such a message," continued Mr.Blyth. "Let us turn, and walk back at once. The sooner I write, theeasier and happier I shall be. By the bye, there's another importantquestion starts up now, which your mother seems to have forgotten inthe hurry and agitation of writing her letter. What are you going to doabout money matters? Have you thought about a place to live in for thepresent? Can I help you in any way?"

These questions admitted of butone candid form of answer, which the natural frankness of Zack'scharacter led him to adopt without hesitation. He immediately relatedthe whole history of his first meeting with Mat, (formally describinghim, on this occasion, as Mr. Mathew Marksman), and of the visit toKirk Street which had followed it that very morning.

Though in no wayremarkable for excess of caution, or for the possession of anyextraordinary fund of worldly wisdom, Mr. Blyth frowned and shook hishead suspiciously, while he listened to the curious narrative nowaddressed to him. As soon as it was concluded, he expressed the mostdecided disapprobation of the careless readiness with which Zack hadallowed a perfect stranger to become intimate with him--reminding himthat he had met his new acquaintance (of whom, by his own confession,he knew next to nothing) in a very disreputable place--and concluded byearnestly recommending him to break off all connection with sodangerous an associate, at the earliest possible opportunity.

Zack,on his side, was not slow in mustering arguments to defend his conduct.He declared that Mr. Marksman had gone into the Snuggery innocently,and had been grossly insulted before he became the originator of theriot there. As to his family affairs and his real name, he might havegood and proper reasons for concealing them; which was the moreprobable, as his account of himself in other respects wasstraightforward and unreserved enough. He might be a little eccentric,and might have led an adventurous life; but it was surely not fair tocondemn him, on that account only, as a bad character. In conclusion,Zack cited the loan he had received, as a proof that the stranger couldnot be a swindler, at any rate; and referred to the evident familiaritywith localities and customs in California, which he had shown inconversation that afternoon, as affording satisfactory proof in supportof his own statement that he had gained his money by gold-digging.

Mr. Blyth, however, still held firmly to his original opinion; and,first offering to advance the money from his own purse, suggested thatyoung Thorpe should relieve himself of the obligation which he hadimprudently contracted, by paying back what he had borrowed, that veryafternoon.

"Get out of his debt," said Valentine, earnestly--"Get outof his debt, at any rate."

"You don't know him as well as I do,"replied Zack. "He wouldn't think twice about knocking me down, if Ishowed I distrusted him in that way--and let me tell you, Blyth, he'sone of the few men alive who could really do it."

"This is nolaughing matter, Zack," said Valentine, shaking his head doubtfully.

"I never was more serious in my life," rejoined Zack. "I won't say Ishould be afraid, but I will say I should be ashamed to pay him hismoney back on the day when I borrowed it. Why, he even refused toaccept my written acknowledgment of the loan! I only succeeded inforcing it on him unawares, by slipping it in among his banknotes; and,if he finds it there, I'll lay you any wager you like, he tears it up,or throws it into the fire."

Mr. Blyth began to look a littlepuzzled. The stranger's behavior about the money was rather staggering,to say the least of it.

"Let me bring him to your picture-show,"pursued Zack. "Judge of him yourself, before you condemn him. Surely Ican't say fairer than that? May I bring him to see the pictures? Orwill you come back at once with me to Kirk Street, where he lives?"

"I must write to your mother, before I do any thing else; and I havework in hand besides for to-day and tomorrow," said Valentine. "Allthings considered, you had better bring your friend as you proposedjust now. But remember the distinction I always make between my publicstudio and my private house. I consider the glorious mission of Art toapply to everybody; so I am proud to open my painting room to anyhonest man who wants to look at my pictures. But the freedom of myother rooms is only for my own friends. I can't have strangers broughtup stairs: remember that."

"Of course! I shouldn't think of it, mydear fellow. Only you look at old Rough and Tough, and hear him talk;and I'll answer for the rest."

"Ah, Zack! Zack! I wish you were notso dreadfully careless about whom you get acquainted with. I have oftenwarned you that you will bring yourself or your friends into troublesome day, when you least expect it. Where are you going now?"

"Backto Kirk Street. This is my nearest way; and I promised Mat--"

"Remember what you promised me, and what I am going to promiseyour mother--"

"I'll remember everything, Blyth. Good bye and thankyou. Only wait till we meet on Saturday, and you see my new friend; andyou will find it all right."

"I hope I shan't find it all wrong,"said Mr. Blyth, forebodingly, as he followed the road to his own house.

The great day of the year in Valentine's house was alwaysthe day on which his pictures for the Royal Academy Exhibition wereshown in their completed state to friends and admiring spectators,congregated in his own painting room. His visitor represented almostevery variety of rank in the social scale; and grew numerous inproportion as they descended from the higher to the lower degrees.Thus, the aristocracy of race was usually impersonated, in his studio,by his one noble patron, the Dowager Countess of Brambledown; thearistocracy of art by two or three Royal Academicians; and thearistocracy of money by eight or ten highly respectable families, whocame quite as much to look at the Dowager Countess as to look at thepictures. With these last, the select portion of the company might besaid to terminate; and, after them, flowed in promiscuously the obscuremajority of the visitors--a heterogeneous congregation of worshippersat the shrine of art, who were some of them of small importance, someof doubtful importance, some of no importance at all; and who includedwithin their numbers, not only a sprinkling of Mr. Blyth's old-established tradesmen, but also his gardener, his wife's old nurse, thebrother of his housemaid, and the father of his cook. Some of hisrespectable friends deplored, on principle, the "leveling tendencies"which induced him thus to admit a mixture of all classes into hispainting-room, on the days when he exhibited his pictures. ButValentine was warmly encouraged in taking this course by no less aperson than Lady Brambledown herself, whose perverse pleasure it was toexhibit herself to society as an uncompromising Radical, a reviler ofthe Peerage, a teller of scandalous Royal anecdotes, and a worshipperof the memory of Oliver Cromwell.

On the eventful Saturday which wasto display his works to an applauding public of private friends, Mr.Blyth's studio, thanks to Madonna's industry and attention, lookedreally in perfect order--as neat and clean as a room could be. Asemicircle of all the available chairs in the house--drawing-room andbed-room chairs intermingled--ranged itself symmetrically in front ofthe pictures. That imaginative classical landscape, "The Golden Age,"reposed grandly on its own easel; while "Columbus in Sight of the NewWorld"--the largest canvas Mr. Blyth had ever worked on, encased in themost gorgeous frame he had ever ordered for one of his own pictures--washung on the wall at an easy distance from the ground, having provedtoo bulky to be safely accommodated by any easel in Valentine'spossession.

Except Mr. Blyth's bureau, all the ordinary furniture andgeneral litter of the room had been cleared out of it, or hidden awaybehind convenient draperies in corners. Backwards and forwards over theopen space thus obtained, Mr. Blyth walked expectant, with the elasticskip peculiar to him; looking ecstatically at his pictures, as hepassed and repassed them--now singing, now whistling; sometimesreferring mysteriously to a small manuscript which he carried in hishand, jauntily tied round with blue ribbon; sometimes following thelines of the composition in "Columbus," by flourishing his right handbefore it in the air, with dreamy artistic grace;--always, turn wherehe would, instinct from top to toe with an excitable activity whichdefied the very idea of rest--and always hospitably ready to rush tothe door and receive the first enthusiastic visitor with open arms, ata moment's notice.

Above stairs, in the invalid room, the scene wasof a different kind. Here also the arrival of the expected visitors wasan event of importance; but it was awaited in perfect tranquillity andsilence. Mrs. Blyth lay in her usual position on the couch-side of thebed, turning over a small portfolio of engravings; and Madonna stood atthe front window, where she could command a full view of the gardengate, and of the approach from it to the house. This was always herplace on the days when the pictures were shown; for, while occupyingthis position, she was able, by signs, to indicate the arrival of thedifferent guests to her adopted mother, who lay too far from the windowto see them. On all other days of the year, it was Mrs. Blyth whodevoted herself to Madonna's service, by interpreting for her advantagethe pleasant conversations that she could not hear. On this day, it wasMadonna who devoted herself to Mrs. Blyth's service, by identifying forher amusement the visitors whose approach up the garden walk she couldnot safely leave her bed to see.

No privilege that the girl enjoyedunder Valentine's roof was more valued by her than this; for by theexercise of it, she was enabled to make some slight return in kind forthe affectionate attention of which she was the constant object. Mrs.Blyth always encouraged her to indicate who the different guests were,as they followed each other, by signs of her own choosing,--these signsbeing almost invariably suggested by some characteristic peculiarity ofthe person represented, which her quick observation had detected at afirst interview, and which she copied with the quaintest exactness ofimitation. The correctness with which her memory preserved these signs,and retained, after long intervals, the recollection of the persons towhom they alluded, was very extraordinary. The name of any mereacquaintance, who came seldom to the house, she constantly forgot,having only perhaps had it interpreted to her once or twice, and nothearing it as others did, whenever it accidentally occurred inconversation. But if the sign by which she herself had once designatedthat acquaintance--no matter how long ago--happened to be repeated bythose about her, it was then always found that the forgotten person wasrecalled to her recollection immediately.

From eleven till three hadbeen notified in the invitation cards as the time during which thepictures would be on view. It was now long past ten. Madonna stillstood patiently by the window, going on with a new purse which she wasknitting for Valentine; and looking out attentively now and thentowards the road. Mrs. Blyth, humming a tune to herself, slowly turnedover the engravings in her portfolio, and became so thoroughly absorbedin looking at them, that she forgot altogether how time was passing,and was quite astonished to hear Madonna suddenly clap her hands at thewindow, as a signal that the first punctual visitor had passed thegarden-gate.

Mrs. Blyth raised her eyes from the prints directly, andsmiled as she saw the girl puckering up her fresh, rosy face into achildish imitation of old age, bending her light figure gravely in asuccession of formal bows, and kissing her hand several times withextreme suavity and deliberation. These signs were meant to indicateMrs. Blyth's father, the poor engraver, whose old-fashioned habit itwas to pay homage to all his friends among the ladies, by saluting themfrom afar off with tremulous bows and gallant kissings of the hand.

"Ah!" thought Mrs. Blyth, nodding, to show that she understood thesigns--"Ah! there's father. I felt sure he would be the first; and Iknow exactly what he will do when he gets in. He will admire thepictures more than anybody, and have a better opinion to give of themthan anybody else has; but before he can mention a word of it toValentine, there will be dozens of people in the painting-room, andthen he will get taken suddenly nervous, and come up here to me."

While Mrs. Blyth was thinking about her father, Madonna signalized theadvent of two more visitors. First, she raised her hand sharply, andbegan pulling at an imaginary whisker on her own smooth cheek--thenstood bolt upright, and folded her arms majestically over her bosom.Mrs. Blyth immediately recognized the originals of these two pantomimeportrait-sketches. The one represented Mr. Hemlock, the small critic ofa small newspaper, who was principally remarkable for never letting hiswhiskers alone for five minutes together. The other portrayed Mr.Bullivant, the aspiring fair-haired sculptor, who wrote poetry, andstudied dignity in his attitudes so unremittingly, that he could noteven stop to look in at a shop-window, without standing before it as ifhe was his own statue.

In a minute or two more, Mrs. Blyth heard aprodigious grating of wheels, and trampling of horses, and banging ofcarriage-steps violently let down. Madonna immediately took a seat onthe nearest chair, rolled the skirt of her dress up into her lap,tucked both her hands inside it, then drew one out, and imitated theaction of snuff-taking--looking up merrily at Mrs. Blyth, as much as tosay, "You can't mistake that, I think?"--Impossible! old LadyBrambledown, with her muff and snuff-box, to the very life.

Close onthe Dowager Countess followed a visitor of low degree. Madonna--lookingas if she was a little afraid of the boldness of her own imitation--beganchewing an imaginary quid of tobacco; then pretended to pull itsuddenly out of his month, and throw it away behind her. It was allover in a moment; but it represented to perfection Mangles, thegardener; who, though an inveterate chewer of tobacco, always threwaway his quid whenever he confronted his betters, as a duty that heowed to his own respectability.

Another carriage. Madonna put on asuppositions pair of spectacles, pretended to pull them off, rub thembright, and put them on again; then, retiring a little from the window,spread out her dress into the widest dimensions that it could be madeto assume. The new arrivals thus portrayed, were the doctor, whosespectacles were never clean enough to please him; and the doctor'swife, an emaciated fine lady, who deceitfully suggested the presence ofvanished charms, by wearing a balloon under her gown--which benevolentrumor pronounced to be only a crinoline petticoat.

Here there was abrief pause in the procession of visitors. Mrs. Blyth beckoned toMadonna, and began talking on her fingers.

"No signs of Zack yet--arethere, love?"

The girl looked anxiously towards the window, and shookher head.

"If he ventures up here, when he does come, we must not beso kind to him as usual. He has been behaving very badly, and we mustsee if we can't make him ashamed of himself."

Madonna's color rosedirectly. She looked amazed, sorry, perplexed, and incredulous byturns. Zack behaving badly?--she would never believe it!

"I mean tomake him ashamed of himself, if he ventures near me!" pursued Mrs.Blyth.

"And I shall try if I can't console him afterwards," thoughtMadonna, turning away her head for fear her face should betray her.

Another ring at the bell! "There he is, perhaps," continued Mrs. Blyth,nodding in the direction of the window, as she signed those words.

Madonna ran to look: then turned round, and with a comic air ofdisappointment, hooked her thumbs in the arm-holes of an imaginarywaistcoat. Only Mr. Gimble, the picture-dealer, who always criticizedworks of art with his hands in that position.

Just then, a soft knocksounded at Mrs. Blyth's door; and her father entered, sniffing with acertain perpetual cold of his which nothing could cure--bowing, kissinghis hand, and frightened up-stairs by the company, just as his daughterhad predicted.

"Oh, Lavvie! the Dowager Countess is downstairs, andher ladyship likes the pictures," exclaimed the old man, snuffling andsmiling infirmly in a flutter of nervous glee.

"Come and sit down byme, father, and see Madonna doing the visitors. It's funnier than anyplay that ever was acted."

"And her ladyship likes the pictures,"repeated the engraver, his poor old watery eyes sparkling with pleasureas he told his little morsel of good news over again, and sat down bythe bedside of his favorite child.

The rings at the bell began tomultiply at compound interest. Madonna was hardly still at the windowfor a moment, so many were the visitors whose approach up the gardenwalk it was now necessary for her to signalize. Down-stairs, all thevacant seats left in the painting room were filling rapidly; and theranks of standers in the back places were getting two-deepalready.

There was Lady Brambledown (whose calls at thestudio always lasted the whole morning), sitting in the center, orplace of honor, taking snuff fiercely, talking liberal sentiments in acracked voice, and apparently feeling extreme pleasure in making therespectable middle classes stare at her in reverent amazement. Also,two Royal Academicians--a saturnine Academician, swaddled in avoluminous cloak; and a benevolent Academician, with a slovenlyumbrella, and a perpetual smile. Also, the doctor and his wife, whoadmired the massive frame of "Columbus," but said not a word about thepicture itself. Also, Mr. Bullivant, the sculptor, and Mr. Hemlock, thejournalist, exchanging solemnly that critical small talk, in which suchwords as "sensuous," "æsthetic," "objective," and "subjective,"occupy prominent places, and out of which no man ever has succeeded, orever will succeed, in extricating an idea. Also, Mr. Gimble, fluentlylaudatory, with the whole alphabet of Art-Jargon at his fingers' ends,and without the slightest comprehension of the subject to embarrass himin his flow of language. Also, certain respectable families who triedvainly to understand the pictures, opposed by other respectablefamilies who never tried at all, but confined themselves exclusively tothe Dowager Countess. Also, the obscure general visitors, who more thanmade up in enthusiasm what they wanted in distinction. And, finally,the absolute democracy, or downright low-life party among thespectators--represented for the time being by Mr. Blyth's gardener, andMr. Blyth's cook's father--who, standing together modestly outside thedoor, agreed, in awe-struck whispers, that the "Golden Age" was a TastyThing, and "Columbus in sight of the New World," a Beautiful Piece.

All Valentine's restlessness before the Visitors arrived was as nothingcompared with his rapturous activity, now that they were fairlyassembled. Not once had he stood still, or ceased talking since thefirst spectator entered the room. And not once, probably, would he havepermitted either his legs or his tongue to take the slightest reposeuntil the last guest had departed from the Studio, but for LadyBrambledown, who accidentally hit on the only available means of fixinghis attention to one thing, and keeping him comparatively quiet in oneplace.

"I say, Blyth," cried her ladyship (she never prefixed theword "Mister" to the names of any of her male friends)--"I say, Blyth,I can't for the life of me understand your picture of Columbus. Youtalked some time ago about explaining it in detail. When are you goingto begin?"

"Directly, my dear madam, directly: I was only waitingtill the room got well filled," answered Valentine, taking up the longwand which he used to steady his hand while he was painting, andproducing the manuscript tied round with blue ribbon. "The fact is--Idon't know whether you mind it?--I have just thrown together a fewthoughts on art, as a sort of introduction to--to Columbus, in short.They are written down on this paper--the thoughts are. Would anybody bekind enough to read them, while I point out what they mean on thepicture? I only ask, because it seems egotistical to be reading myopinions about my own works.--Will anybody be kind enough?"repeated Mr. Blyth, walking all along the semicircle of chairs, andpolitely offering his manuscript to anybody who would take it.

Not ahand was held out. Bashfulness is frequently infectious; and it provedto be so on this particular occasion.

"Nonsense, Blyth!" exclaimedLady Brambledown. "Read it yourself. Egotistical? Stuff! Everybody'segotistical. I hate modest men; they're all rascals. Read it and assertyour own importance. You have a better right to do so than most of yourneighbors, for you belong to the aristocracy of talent--the onlyaristocracy, in my opinion, that is worth a straw." Here her ladyshiptook a pinch of snuff, and looked at the middle-class families, as muchas to say:--"There! what do you think of that from a Member of yourdarling Peerage?"

Thus encouraged, Valentine took his station (wandin hand) beneath "Columbus," and unrolled the manuscript.

"What avery peculiar man Mr. Blyth is!" whispered one of the lady visitors toan acquaintance behind her.

"And what a very unusual mixture ofpeople he seems to have asked!" rejoined the other, looking towards thedoorway, where the democracy loomed diffident in Sunday clothes.

"Thepictures which I have the honor to exhibit," began Valentine from themanuscript, "have been painted on a principle--"

"I beg your pardon,Blyth," interrupted Lady Brambledown, whose sharp ears had caught theremark made on Valentine and his "mixture of people," and whose liberalprinciples were thereby instantly stimulated into publicly assertingthemselves. "I beg your pardon; but where's my old ally, the gardener,who was here last time?--Out at the door is he? What does he mean bynot coming in? Here, gardener! come behind my chair."

The gardenerapproached, internally writhing under the honor of public notice, andcovered with confusion in consequence of the noise his boots made onthe floor.

"How do you do? and how are your family? What did you stopout at the door for? You're one of Mr. Blyth's guests, and have as muchright inside as any of the rest of us. Stand there, and listen, andlook about you, and inform your mind. This is an age of progress,gardener; your class is coming uppermost, and time it did too. Go on,Blyth." And again the Dowager Countess took a pinch of snuff, lookingcontemptuously at the lady who had spoken of the "mixture of people."

"I take the liberty," continued Valentine, resuming the manuscript,"of dividing all art into two great classes, the landscape subjects,and the figure subjects; and I venture to describe these classes, intheir highest development, under the respective titles of Art Pastoraland Art Mystic. The 'Golden Age' is an attempt to exemplify ArtPastoral. 'Columbus in Sight of the New World' is an effort to expressmyself in Art Mystic. In 'The Golden Age' "--(everybody looked atColumbus immediately)--"In the 'Golden Age,'" continued Mr. Blyth,waving his wand persuasively towards the right picture, "you have, inthe foreground-bushes, the middle-distance trees, the horizonmountains, and the superincumbent sky, what I would fain hope is atolerably faithful transcript of mere nature. But in the group ofbuildings to the right" (here the wand touched the architectural city,with its acres of steps and forests of pillars), "in the dancingnymphs, and the musing philosopher" (Mr. Blyth rapped the philosopherfamiliarly on the head with the padded end of his wand), "you have theIdeal--the elevating poetical view of ordinary objects, like cities,happy female peasants, and thoughtful spectators. Thus nature isexalted; and thus Art Pastoral--no!--thus Art Pastoral exalts--no! Ibeg your pardon--thus Art Pastoral and Nature exalt each other, and--Ibeg your pardon again!--in short, exalt each other--"

Here Valentinebroke down at the end of a paragraph; and the gardener made an abortiveeffort to get back to the doorway.

"Capital, Blyth!" cried LadyBrambledown. "Liberal, comprehensive, progressive, profound. Gardener,don't fidget!"

"The true philosophy of art--the true philosophy ofart, my lady," added Mr. Gimble, the picture-dealer.

"Crude?" saidMr. Hemlock, the critic, appealing confidentially to Mr. Bullivant, thesculptor.

"What?" inquired that gentleman.

"Blyth's principles ofcriticism," answered Mr. Hemlock.

"Oh, yes! extremely so," said Mr.Bullivant.

"Having glanced at Art Pastoral, as attempted inthe 'Golden Age,'" pursued Valentine, turning over a leaf, "I will now,with your permission, proceed to Art Mystic and 'Columbus.' Art Mystic,I would briefly endeavor to define, as aiming at the illustration offact on the highest imaginative principles. It takes a scene, forinstance, from history, and represents that scene as exactly andnaturally as possible. And here the ordinary thinker might be apt tosay, Art Mystic has done enough." ("So it has," muttered Mr. Hemlock.)"On the contrary, Art Mystic has only begun. Besides the representationof the scene itself, the spirit of the age"--("Ah! quite right," saidLady Brambledown; "yes, yes, the spirit of the age.")--"the spirit ofthe age which produced that scene, must also be indicated, mystically,by the introduction of those angelic or infernal winged forms--thosecherubs and airy female geniuses--those demons and dragons ofdarkness--which so many illustrious painters have long since taught usto recognize as impersonating to the eye the good and evil influences,Virtue and Vice, Glory and Shame, Success and Failure, Past and Future,Heaven and Earth--all on the same canvas." Here Mr. Blyth stoppedagain: this passage had cost him some trouble, and he was proud ofhaving got smoothly to the end of it.

"Glorious!" cried enthusiasticMr. Gimble.

"Turgid," muttered critical Mr. Hemlock.

"Very,"assented compliant Mr. Bullivant.

"Go on--get to the picture--don'tstop so often," said Lady Brambledown. "Bless my soul, how the man doesfidget!" This was not directed at Valentine (who, however, richlydeserved it), but at the unhappy gardener, who had made a secondattempt to escape to the sheltering obscurity of the doorway, and hadbeen betrayed by his boots.

"To exemplify what has just beenremarked, by the picture at my side," proceeded Mr. Blyth. "The momentsought to be represented is sunrise on the 12th of October, 1492, whenthe great Columbus first saw land clearly at the end of his voyage.Observe, now, in the upper portions of the composition, how the spiritof the age is mystically developed before the spectator. Of the twowinged female figures hovering in the morning clouds, immediately overColumbus and his ship, the first is the Spirit of Discovery, holdingthe orb of the world in her left hand, and pointing with a laurel crown(typical of Columbus's fame) towards the newly-discovered Continent.The other figure symbolizes the Spirit of Royal Patronage, impersonatedby Queen Isabella, Columbus's warm friend and patron, who offered herjewels to pay his expenses, and who, throughout his perilous voyage,was with him in spirit, as here represented. The tawny figure withfeathered head, floating hair, and wildly-extended pinions, soaringupward from the western horizon, represents the Genius of Americaadvancing to meet her great discoverer; while the shadowy countenances,looming dimly through the morning mist behind her, are portrait-typesof Washington and Franklin, who would never have flourished in America,if that continent had not been discovered, and who are here, therefore,associated prophetically with the first voyagers from the Old World tothe New."

Pausing once more, Mr. Blyth used his explanatory wandfreely on the Spirit of Discovery, the Spirit of Royal Patronage, andthe Genius of America--not forgetting an indicative knock a-piece forthe embryo physiognomies of Washington and Franklin. Everybody's eyesfollowed the progress of the wand vacantly; but nobody spoke, exceptMr. Hemlock, who frowned and whispered--"Bosh!" to Mr. Bullivant; whosmiled, and whispered--"Quite so," to Mr. Hemlock.

"Let me now askyour attention," resumed Valentine, "to the same mystic style oftreatment, as carried from the sky into the sea. Writhing defeatedbehind Columbus's ship, in the depths of the transparent Atlantic, youhave shadowy types of the difficulties and enemies that the dauntlessnavigator had to contend with. Crushed headlong into the waters, sinksfirst the Spirit of Superstition, delineated by monastic robes--thecouncil of monks having set itself against Columbus from the veryfirst. Behind the Spirit of Superstition, and impersonated by a filletof purple grapes around her head, descends the Genius of Portugal--thePortuguese having repulsed Columbus, and having treacherously sent outfrigates to stop his discovery, by taking him prisoner. The scaly formsentwined around these two, represent Envy, Hatred, Malice, Ignorance,and Crime generally; and thus the mystic element is, so to speak, ledthrough the sea out of the picture."

(Another pause. Nobody said aword, but everybody was relieved by the final departure of the mysticelement.)

"All that now remains to be noticed," continued Mr. Blyth,"is the central portion of the composition, which is occupied byColumbus and his ships, and which represents the scene as it mayactually be supposed to have occurred. Here we get to Reality, and tothat sort of correctly-imitative art which is simple enough to explainitself. As a proof of this, let me point attention to the rig of theships, the actions of the sailors, and, more than all, to Columbushimself. Weeks of the most laborious consultation of authorities ofwhich the artist is capable, have been expended over the impersonationof that one figure,--expended, I would say, in obtaining that faithfulrepresentation of individual character, which it is my earnest desireto combine with the higher or mystic element. One instance of thisfidelity to Nature I may perhaps be permitted to point out in theperson of Columbus, in conclusion. Pray observe him, standingrapturously on the high stern of his vessel--and oblige me, at the sametime, by minutely inspecting his outstretched arms. First, however, letme remind you that this great man went to sea at the age of fourteen,and cast himself freely into all the hardships of nautical life; next,let me beg you to enter into my train of thought, and consider thesehardships as naturally comprising, among other things, industrioushaulings at ropes and manful tuggings at long oars; and, finally, letme now direct your attention to the manner in which the muscular systemof the famous navigator is developed about the arms in anatomicalharmony with this idea. Follow the wand closely, and observe, bursting,as it were, through his sleeves, the characteristic vigor of Columbus'sBiceps Flexor Cubiti--"

"Mercy on us! what's that?" criedLady Brambledown. "Anything improper?"

"The Biceps Flexor Cubiti, your ladyship," began the Doctor, delighted to pour professionalinformation into the mind of a Dowager Countess, "may be literallyinterpreted as the Two-Headed Bender of the Elbow, and is a musclesituated on, what we term, the Os--"

"Follow the wand, my dear madam,pray follow the wand! This is the Biceps," interruptedValentine, tapping till the canvas quivered again on the upper part ofColumbus's arms, which obtruded their muscular condition through a pairof tight-fitting chamoy leather sleeves. "The Biceps, LadyBrambledown, is a tremendously strong muscle--"

"Which arises in thehuman body, your Ladyship," interposed the Doctor, "by two heads--"

"Which is used," continued Valentine, cutting him short--"I beg yourpardon, Doctor, but this is important--which is used--"

"I begyours," rejoined the Doctor, testily. "The origin of the muscle, orplace where it arises, is the first thing to be described. The usecomes afterwards. It is an axiom of anatomical science--"

"But, mydear sir!" cried Valentine--

"No," said the Doctor, peremptorily,"you must really excuse me. This is a professional point. If I allowerroneous explanations of the muscular system to pass unchecked in mypresence--"

"I don't want to make any!" cried Mr. Blyth,gesticulating violently in the direction of Columbus. "I only wantto--"

"To describe the use of a muscle before you describe the placeof its origin in the human body," persisted the Doctor. "No, my dearsir! I can't sanction it. No, indeed! I really can NOT sanctionit!"

"Will you let me say two words?" asked Valentine.

"Two hundredthousand, my good sir, on any other subject," assented the Doctor, witha sarcastic smile; "but on this subject--"

"On art?" shoutedMr. Blyth, with a tap on Columbus, which struck a sound from the canvaslike a thump on a muffled drum. "On art, Doctor? I only want to saythat, as Columbus's early life must have exercised him considerably inhauling ropes and pulling oars, I have shown the large development ofhis Biceps muscle (which is principally used in those actions)through his sleeves, as a good characteristic point to insist on in hisphysical formation.--That's all! As to the origin--"

"The origin ofthe Biceps Flexor Cubiti, your Ladyship," resumed thepertinacious Doctor; "is by two heads. The first begins, if I may soexpress myself, tendinous, from the glenoid cavity of thescapula--"

"That man is a pedantic jackass," whispered Mr. Hemlock tohis friend.

"And yet he hasn't a bad head for a bust!" rejoined Mr.Bullivant.

"Pray, Mr. Blyth," pleaded the polite and ever-admiringMr. Gimble--"pray let me beg you, in the name of the company to proceedwith your most interesting and suggestive explanations and views onart!"

"Indeed, Mr. Gimble," said Valentine, a little crest-fallenunder the anatomical castigation inflicted on him by the Doctor, "I amvery much delighted and gratified by your approval; but I have nothingmore to read. I thought that point about Columbus a good point to leaveoff with, and considered that I might safely allow the rest of thepicture to explain itself to the intelligent spectator."

Hearingthis, some of the spectators, evidently distrusting their ownintelligence, rose to take leave--new visitors making their appearance,however, to fill the vacant chairs and receive Mr. Blyth's heartywelcome. Meanwhile, through all the bustle of departing and arrivingfriends, and through all the fast-strengthening hum of general talk,the voice of the unyielding doctor still murmured solemnly of "capsularligaments," "adjacent tendons," and "corracoid processes" to LadyBrambledown, who listened to him with satirical curiosity, as a speciesof polite medical buffoon whom it rather amused her to becomeacquainted with.

Among the next applicants for admission at thepainting-room door were two whom Valentine had expected to see at amuch earlier period of the day--Mr. Matthew Marksman and Zack.

"Howlate you are!" he said, as he shook hands with young Thorpe.

"I wishI could have come earlier, my dear fellow," answered Zack, ratherimportantly; "but I had some business to do" (he had been recoveringhis watch from the pawnbroker); "and my friend here had some businessto do also" (Mr. Marksman had been toasting red herrings for an earlydinner); "and so somehow we couldn't get here before. Mat, let meintroduce you. This is my old friend, Mr. Blyth, whom I told you of."

Valentine had barely time to take the hand of the new guest before hisattention was claimed by fresh visitors. Young Thorpe did the honors ofthe painting-room in the artist's absence. "Lots of people, as I toldyou. My friend's a great genius," whispered Zack, wondering, as hespoke, whether the scene of civilized life now displayed before Mr.Marksman would at all tend to upset his barbarian self-possession.

No: not in the least. There stood Mat, just as grave, cool, and quietlyobservant of things about him as ever. Neither the pictures, nor thecompany, nor the staring of many eyes that wondered at his black skull-capand scarred swarthy face, were capable of disturbing the Olympianserenity of this Jupiter of the back-woods.

"There!" cried Zack,pointing triumphantly across the room to "Columbus." "Cudgel yourbrains, old boy, and guess what that is a picture of, without coming tome to help you."

Mat attentively surveyed the figure of Columbus, therig of his ship, and the wings of the typical female spirits, hoveringoverhead in the morning clouds--thought a little--then gravely anddeliberately answered:--

"Peter Wilkins taking a voyage along withhis flying wives."

Zack pulled out his handkerchief, and stifled hislaughter as well as he could, out of consideration for Mat, who,however, took not the smallest notice of him, but added, still staringintently at the picture.

"Peter Wilkins was the only book I had, whenI was a lad aboard ship. I used to read it over and over again, at oddsand ends of spare time, till I pretty nigh got it by heart. That wasmany a year ago; and a good lot of what I knowed then I don't know now.But, mind ye, it's my belief that Peter Wilkins was something of asailor."

"Well?" whispered Zack, humoring him, "suppose he was, whatof that?"

"Do you think a man as was anything of a sailor would everbe fool enough to put to sea in such a craft as that?" asked Mr.Marksman, pointing scornfully to Columbus's ship.

"Hush! old Roughand Tough: the picture hasn't anything to do with Peter Wilkins," saidZack. "Keep quiet, and wait here a minute for me. There are somefriends of mine at the other end of the room that I must go and speakto. And, I say, if Blyth comes up to you and asks you about thepicture, say it's Columbus, and remarkably like him."

Left byhimself, Mat looked about for better standing-room than he thenhappened to occupy; and seeing a vacant space left between the door-postand Mr. Blyth's bureau, retreated to it. Putting his hands in hispockets, he leaned comfortably against the wall, and began to examinethe room and everything in it at his leisure. It was not long, however,before he was disturbed. One of his neighbors, seeing that his back wasagainst a large paper sketch nailed on the wall behind him, told himbluntly that he was doing mischief there, and made him change hisposition. He moved accordingly to the door-post; but even here he wasnot left in repose. A fresh relay of visitors arrived, and obliged himto make way for them to pass into the room--which he did by politelyrolling himself round the door-post into the passage.

As hedisappeared in this way, Mr. Blyth bustled up to the place where Mathad been standing, and received his guests there, with greatcordiality, but also with some appearance of flurry and perplexity ofmind. The fact was, that Lady Brambledown had just remembered that shehad not examined Valentine's works yet, through one of those artistictubes which effectively concentrate the rays of light on a picture,when applied to the eye. Knowing, by former experience, that the studiowas furnished with one of these little instruments, her ladyship nowintimated her ardent desire to use it instantly on "Columbus."Valentine promised to get it, with his usual ready politeness; but hehad not the slightest idea where it actually was, for all that. Amongthe litter of small things that had been cleared out of the way, whenthe painting-room was put in order, there were several which he vaguelyremembered having huddled together for safety in the bottom of hisbureau. The tube might possibly have been among them; so in this placehe determined to look for it--being quite ignorant, if the searchturned out unsuccessful, where he ought to look next.

After beggingthe new visitors to walk in, he opened the bureau, which was large andold-fashioned, with a little bright key hanging by a chain that heunhooked from his watch-guard; and began searching inside amid infiniteconfusion--all his attention concentrated in the effort to discover thelost tube. It was not to be found in the bottom of the bureau. He nextlooked, after a little preliminary hesitation, into a long narrowdrawer opening beneath some pigeon-hole recesses at the back.

Thetube was not there, either; and he shut the drawer to again, carefullyand gently--for inside it was the Hair Bracelet that had belonged toMadonna's mother, lying on the white handkerchief, which had also beentaken from the dead woman's pocket. Just as he closed the drawer, heheard footsteps at his right hand, and turned in that direction rathersuspiciously--locking down the lid of the bureau as he looked round. Itwas only the civil Mr. Gimble, wanting to know what Mr. Blyth wassearching for, and whether he could help him. Valentine mentioned theloss of the tube; and Mr. Gimble immediately volunteered to make one ofpasteboard. "Ten thousand thanks," said Mr. Blyth, hooking the key tohis watch-guard again, as he returned to Lady Brambledown with hisfriend. "Ten thousand thanks; but the worst of it is, I don't knowwhere to find the pasteboard."

If, instead of turning to the righthand to speak to Mr. Gimble, Valentine had turned to the left, he wouldhave seen that, just as he opened the bureau and began to search in it,Mr. Marksman finding the way into the painting-room clear once more,had rolled himself quietly round the door-post again; and had then,just as quietly, bent forward a little, so as to look sideways into thebureau with those observant eyes of his which nothing could escape, andwhich had been trained by his old Indian experience to be alwaysunscrupulously at work, watching something. Little did Mr. Blyth think,as he walked away, talking with Mr. Gimble, and carefully hooking hiskey on to its swivel again, that Zack's strange friend had seen as muchof the inside of the bureau as he had seen of it himself.

"He shut uphis big box uncommon sharp, when that smilin' little chap come nearhim," thought Mat. "And yet there didn't seem nothing in it thatstrangers mightn't see. There wasn't no money there--at least none thatI set eyes on. Well! it's not my business. Let's have anotherlook at the picter."

In the affairs of art, as in other matters,important discoveries are sometimes made, and great events occasionallyaccomplished, by very ignoble agencies. Mat's deplorable ignorance ofPainting in general, and grossly illiterate misunderstanding of thesubject represented by Columbus in particular, seemed to mark him outas the last man in the world who could possibly be associated with ArtMystic in the character of guardian genius. Yet such was the proudposition which he was now selected by Fate to occupy. In plain words,Mr. Blyth's greatest historical work had been for some little time inimminent danger of destruction by falling; and Mat's "look at thepicter," was the all-important look which enabled him to be the firstperson in the room who perceived that it was in peril.

The eye withwhich Mr. Marksman now regarded the picture was certainly the eye of abarbarian; but the eye with which he afterwards examined the supportsby which it was suspended, was the eye of a sailor, and of a goodpractical carpenter to boot. He saw directly, that one of the two ironclamps to which the frame-lines of "Columbus" were attached, had beencarelessly driven into a part of the wall that was not strong enough tohold it against the downward stress of the heavy frame. Little warningdriblets of loosened plaster had been trickling down rapidly behind thecanvas; but nobody heard them fall in the general buzz of talking; andnobody noticed the thin, fine crack above the iron clamp, which was nowlengthening stealthily minute by minute.

"Just let me by, will you?"said Mat quietly to some of his neighbors. "I want to stop those flyingwomen and the man in the crank ship from coming down by the long run."

Dozens of alarmed ladies and gentlemen started up from their chairs.Mat pushed through them unceremoniously; and was indebted to his wantof politeness for being in time to save the picture. With a gratingcrack, and an accompanying descent of a perfect slab of plaster, theloose clamp came clean out of the wall, just as Mat seized theunsupported end and side of the frame in his sturdy hands, and soprevented the picture from taking the fatal swing downwards, whichwould have infallibly torn it from the remaining fastening, andprecipitated it on the chairs beneath.

A prodigious confusion andclamoring of tongues ensued; Mr. Blyth being louder, wilder, and moreutterly useless in the present emergency than any of his neighbors.Mat, cool as ever, kept his hold of the picture; and, taking no noticeof the confused advice and cumbersome help offered to him, called toZack to fetch a ladder, or, failing that, to "get a hoist" on somechairs, and cut the rope from the clamp that remained firm. Woodensteps, as young Thorpe knew, were usually kept in the painting-room.Where had they been removed to now? Mr. Blyth's memory was lostaltogether in his excitement. Zack made a speculative dash at theflowing draperies which concealed the lumber in one corner, and draggedout the steps in triumph.

"All right; take your time, young 'un:there's a knife in my left-hand breeches' pocket," said Mat. "Now then,cut away at that bit of rope's-end, and hold on tight at top, while Ilower away at bottom. Steady! Take it easy, and--there yon are!" Withwhich words, the guardian genius left Art-Mystic resting safely on thefloor, and began to shake his coattails free of the plaster that haddropped on them.

"My dear sir! you have saved the finest picture Iever painted," cried Valentine, warmly seizing him by both hands. "Ican't find words to express my gratitude and admiration--"

"Don'tworry yourself about that," answered Mat; "I don't suppose I shouldunderstand you if you could find 'em. If you want the picter putup again, I'll do it. And if you want the carpenter's muddle headpunched, who put it up before, I shouldn't much mind doing thateither," added Mat, looking at the hole from which the clamp had beentorn with an expression of the profoundest workmanlike disgust.

A newcommotion in the room--near the door this time--prevented Mr. Blythfrom giving an immediate answer to the two friendly propositions justsubmitted to him.

At the first alarm of danger, all the ladies--headedby the Dowager Countess, in whom the instinct of self-preservationwas largely developed--had got as far away as they couldfrom the falling picture, before they ventured to look round at theprocess by which it was at last safely landed on the floor. Just asthis had been accomplished, Lady Brambledown--who stood nearest to thedoorway--caught sight of Madonna in the passage that led to it. Mrs.Blyth had heard the noise and confusion downstairs, and finding thather bell was not answered by the servants, and that it was next toimpossible to overcome her father's nervous horror of confronting thecompany alone, had sent Madonna down-stairs with him, to assist infinding out what had happened in the studio.

While descending thestairs with her companion, the girl had anticipated that they mighteasily discover whether anything was amiss, without going further thanthe passage, by merely peeping through the studio door. But all chanceof escaping the ordeal of the painting-room was lost the moment LadyBrambledown set eyes on her. The Dowager Countess was one of Madonna'swarmest admirers; and now expressed that admiration by pouncing on herwith immense affection and enthusiasm from the painting-room door-way.Other people, to whom the deaf and dumb girl was a much moreinteresting sight than "Columbus," or the "Golden Age," crowded roundher; all trying together, with great amiability and small intelligence,to explain what had happened by signs which no human being couldpossibly understand. Fortunately for Madonna, Zack (who ever since hehad cut the picture down had been assailed by an incessant fire ofquestions about his strange friend, from dozens of inquisitivegentlemen) happened to look towards her, over the ladies' heads, andcame directly to explain the danger from which "Columbus" had escaped.She tried hard to get away, and bear the intelligence to Mrs. Blyth;but Lady Brambledown, feeling amiably unwilling to resign her too soon,pitched on the poor engraver standing tremulous in the passage, asbeing quite clever enough to carry a message up-stairs, and sent himoff to take the latest news from the studio to his daughterimmediately.

Thus it was that when Mr. Blyth left Zack's friend tosee what was going on near the door, he found Madonna in the painting-room,surrounded by sympathizing and admiring ladies. The first wordsof explanation by which Lady Brambledown answered his mute look ofinquiry, reminded him of the anxiety and alarm that his wife must havesuffered; and he ran up-stairs directly, promising to be back again ina minute or two.

Mat carelessly followed Valentine to the group atthe doorway--carelessly looked over some ladies' bonnets--and sawMadonna, offering her slate to the Dowager Countess at that moment.

The sweet feminine gentleness and youthful softness of the girl's face,looked inexpressibly lovely, as she now stood shy and confused underthe eager eyes that were all gazing on her. Her dress, too, had nevermore powerfully aided the natural attractions of her face and figure byits own loveable charms of simplicity and modesty, than now, when theplain grey merino gown, and neat little black silk apron which shealways wore, were contrasted with the fashionable frippery of finecolors shining all around her. Was the rough Mr. Marksman himself luredat first sight into acknowledging her influence? If he was, his faceand manner showed it very strangely.

Almost at the instant when hiseyes fell on her, that clay-cold change which had altered the color ofhis swarthy cheeks in the hosier's shop at Dibbledean, passed over themagain. The first amazed look that he cast on her, slowly darkened,while his eyes rested on her face, into a fixed, heavy, vacant stare ofsuperstitious awe. He never moved, he hardly seemed to breathe, untilthe head of a person before him accidentally intercepted his view. Thenhe stepped back a few paces; looked about him bewildered, as if he hadforgotten where he was; and turned quickly towards the door, as ifresolved to leave the room immediately.

But there was someinexplicable influence at work in his heart that drew him back, inspite of his own will. He retraced his steps to the group roundMadonna--looked at her once more--and, from that moment, never lostsight of her till she went up stairs again. Whichever way her faceturned, he followed the direction, outside the circle, so as to bealways in front of it. When Valentine re-appeared in the studio, andMadonna besought him by a look, to set her free from generaladmiration, and send her back to Mrs. Blyth, Mat was watching her overthe painter's shoulder. And when young Thorpe, who had devoted himselfto helping her in communicating with the visitors, nodded to her as sheleft the room, his friend from the backwoods was close behind him.

Mr.Blyth's visitors, now that their common center of attraction haddisappeared, either dispersed again in the painting-room, or approachedthe door to take their departure. Zack, turning round sharply afterMadonna had left the studio, encountered his queer companion, who hadnot stirred an inch while other people were all moving about him.

"Inthe name of wonder, what has come to you now? Are you ill? Have youhurt yourself with that picture?" asked Zack, startled by theincomprehensible change which he beheld in his friend's face andmanner.

"Come out," said Mat. Young Thorpe looked at him inamazement; even the sound of his voice had altered!

"What's wrong?"asked Zack. No answer. They went quickly along the passage and down tothe garden gate, in silence. As soon as they had got into one of thelonely bye-roads of the new suburb, Mat stopped short; and, turningfull on his companion, said: "Who is she?" The sudden eagerness withwhich he spoke, so strangely at variance with his usual deliberation oftone and manner, made those three common words almost startling tohear.

"She? Who do you mean?" inquired young Thorpe.

"I meanthat young woman they were all staring at."

For a moment, Zackcontemplated the anxiety visible in his friend's face, with anexpression of blank astonishment; then burst into one of his loudest,heartiest, and longest fits of laughter. "Oh, by Jove, I wouldn't havemissed this for fifty pounds. Here's old Rough and Tough smitten withthe tender passion, like all the rest of us! Blush, you brazen oldbeggar, blush! You've fallen in love with Madonna at first sight!"

"Damn your laughing! Tell me who she is."

"Tell you who she is?That's exactly what I can't do."

"Why not? What do you mean? Does shebelong to painter-man?"

"Oh, fie, Mat! You mustn't talk of a younglady belonging to anybody, as if she was a piece of furniture,or money in the Three per Cents, or something of that sort. Confound itman, don't shake me in that way! You'll pull my arm off. Let me have mylaugh, and I'll tell you every thing."

"Tell it then; and be quickabout it."

"Well, first of all, she is not Blyth's daughter--thoughsome scandal-mongering people have said she is--"

"Nor yet his wife?"

"Nor yet his wife. What a question! He adopted her, as they call it,years ago, when she was a child. But who she is, or where he picked herup, or what is her name, Blyth never has told anybody, and neverwill. She's the dearest, kindest, prettiest little soul thatever lived; and that's all I know about her. It's a short story, oldboy; but surprisingly romantic--isn't it?"

Mat did not immediatelyanswer. He paid the most breathless attention to the few words ofinformation which Zack had given him--repeated them over again tohimself--reflected for a moment--then said--

"Why won't the painter-mantell any body who she is?"

"How should I know? It's a whim ofhis. And, I'll tell you what, here's a piece of serious advice foryou:--If you want to go there again, and make her acquaintance, don'tyou ask Blyth who she is, or let him fancy you want to know. He'stouchy on that point--I can't say why; but he is. Every man has a rawplace about him somewhere: that's Blyth's raw place, and if you hit himon it, you won't get inside of his house again in a hurry, I can tellyou."

Still, Mat's attention fastened greedily on every word--still,his eyes fixed eagerly on his informant's face--still, he repeated tohimself what Zack was telling him.

"By the bye, I suppose you saw thepoor dear little soul is deaf and dumb," young Thorpe continued. "She'sbeen so from a child. Some accident; a fall, I believe. But it don'taffect her spirits a bit. She's as happy as the day is long--that's onecomfort."

"Deaf and dumb! So like her, it was a'most as awful asseeing the dead come to life again. She had Mary's turn with her head;Mary's--poor creature! poor creature!" He whispered those words tohimself, under his breath, his face turned aside, his eyes wanderingover the ground at his feet, with a faint, troubled, vacantly anxiousexpression.

"Come! come! don't be getting into the dolefuls already,"cried Zack, administering an exhilarating thump on the back to hisfriend. "Cheer up! We're all in love with her; you're rowing in thesame boat with Bullivant, and Gimble, and me, and lots more; and you'llget used to it in time, like the rest of us. I'll act the generousrival with you, brother Mat! You shall have all the benefit of myadvice gratis; and shall lay siege to our little beauty in regularform. I don't think your own experience among the wild Indians willhelp you much, over here. How do you mean to make love to her? Did youever make love to a Squaw?"

"She isn't his wife; and she isn't hisdaughter; he won't say where he picked her up, or who she is."Repeating these words to himself in a quick, quiet whisper, Mat did notappear to be listening to a single word that young Thorpe said. Hismind was running now on one of the answers that he had wrested fromJoanna Grice, at Dibbledean--the answer which had informed him thatMary's child had been born alive!

"Wake up, Mat! You shall have yourfair chance with the lady, along with the rest of us; and I'llundertake to qualify you on the spot for civilized courtship,"continued Zack, pitilessly carrying on his joke. "In the first place,always remember that you mustn't go beyond admiration at a respectfuldistance, to begin with. At the second interview, you may make amorousfaces at close quarters--what you call looking unutterable things, youknow. At the third, you may get bold, and try her with a littlepresent. Lots of people have done that, before you. Gimble tried it,and Bullivant wanted to; but Blyth wouldn't let him; and I mean to giveher--oh, by the bye, I have another important caution for you." Here heindulged himself in a fresh burst of laughter, excited by theremembrance of his interview with Mrs. Peckover, in Mr. Blyth's hall."Remember that the whole round of presents is open for you to choosefrom, except one; and that one is a Hair Bracelet."

Zack's laughtercame to an abrupt termination. Mat had raised his head suddenly, andwas now staring him full in the face again, with a bright, searchinglook--an expression in which suspicious amazement and doubtingcuriosity were very strangely mingled together.

"You're not angrywith me for cracking a few respectable old jokes?" said Zack. "Have Isaid anything?--Stop! yes, I have, though I didn't mean it. You lookedup at me in that savage manner, when I warned you not to give her aHair Bracelet. Surely you don't think me brute enough to make fun ofyour not having any hair on your own head to give anybody? Surely youhave a better opinion of me than that? I give you my word of honor, Inever thought of you, or your head, or that infernal scalping business,when I said what I did. It was true--it happened to me."

"Howdid it happen?" said. Mat, with eager, angry curiosity.

"Only in thisway. I wanted to give her a Hair Bracelet myself--my hair and Blyth's,and so on. And an addle-headed old woman who seems to know Madonna(that's a name we give her) as well as Blyth himself, and keeps whatshe knows just as close, got me into a corner, and talked nonsenseabout the whole thing, as old women will."

"What did she say?" askedMat, more eager, more angry, and more curious than ever.

"She talkednonsense, I tell you. She said a Hair Bracelet would be unlucky toMadonna; and then told me Madonna had one already; and then wouldn'tlet me ask Blyth whether it was true, because I should get her intodreadful trouble if I said anything to him about it; besides a gooddeal more which you wouldn't care to be bothered with. But I have toldyou enough--haven't I?--to show I was not thinking of you, when I saidthat just now by way of a joke. Come, shake hands, old fellow. You'renot offended with me, now I have explained everything?"

Mat gave hishand, but he put it out like a man groping in the dark. His mind wasfull of that memorable letter about a Hair Bracelet, which he had foundin the box given to him by Joanna Grice.

"A Hair Bracelet?" he said,vacantly.

"Don't be sulky!" cried Zack, clapping him on the shoulder.

"A Hair Bracelet is unlucky to the young woman--and she's got onealready" (he was weighing attentively the lightest word that Zack hadspoken to him). "What's it like?" he asked aloud, turning suddenly toyoung Thorpe.

"What's what like?"

"A Hair Bracelet."

"Stillharping on that, after all my explanations! Like? Why it's hair plaitedup, and made to fasten round the wrist, with gold at each end to claspit by. What are you stopping for again? I'll tell you what, Mat, I canmake every allowance for a man in your love-struck situation; but if Ididn't know how you had been spending the morning, I should say youwere drunk."

They had been walking along quickly, while Mat askedwhat a Hair Bracelet was like. But no sooner had Zack told him than hecame to a dead pause--started and changed color--opened his lips tospeak--then checked himself, and remained silent. The information whichhe had just received had recalled to him a certain object that he hadseen in the drawer of Mr. Blyth's bureau; and the resemblance betweenthe two had at once flashed upon him. The importance which thisdiscovery assumed in his eyes, in connection with what he had alreadyheard, may be easily estimated, when it is remembered that hisbarbarian life had kept him totally ignorant that a Hair Bracelet is inEngland one of the commonest ornaments of woman's wear.

"Are we goingto stop here all day?" asked Zack. "If you're turning from sulky tosentimental again, I shall go back to Blyth's, and pave the way for youwith Madonna, old boy!" He turned gaily in the direction of Valentine'shouse, as he said those words.

Mat did not offer to detain him; didnot say a word at parting. He passed his hand wearily over his eyes asZack left him. "I'm sober," he said vacantly to himself; "I'm notdreaming; I'm not light-headed, though I feel a'most like it. I sawthat young woman as plain as I see them houses in front of me now; andby God, if she had been Mary's ghost, she couldn't have been more likeher!"

He stopped. His hand fell to his side; then fastenedmechanically on the railings of a house near him. His rough, misshapenfingers trembled round the iron. Recollections that had slumbered foryears and years past, were awakening again awfully to life within him.Through the obscurity and oblivion of long absence, through thechangeless darkness of the tomb, there was shining out now, vivid andsolemn on his memory, the image--as she had been in her youth-time--ofthe dead woman whose name was "Mary." And it was only the sight of thatyoung girl, of that poor, shy, gentle, deaf and dumb creature, that hadwrought the miracle!

He tried to shake himself clear of theinfluences which were now at work on him. He moved forward a step ortwo, and looked up. Zack?--where was Zack?

Away, at the other end ofthe solitary suburban street, just visible sauntering along andswinging his stick in his hand.

Without knowing why he did so, Matturned instantly and walked after him, calling to him to come back. Thethird summons reached him: he stopped, hesitated, made comicgesticulations with his stick in the air--then began to retrace hissteps.

The effort of walking and calling after him, had turned Mat'sthoughts in another direction. They now occupied themselves again withthe hints that Zack had dropped of some incomprehensible connectionbetween a Hair Bracelet, and the young girl who was called by thestrange name of "Madonna." With the remembrance of this, there cameback also the recollection of the letter about a bracelet, and itsenclosure of hair, which he had examined in the lonely cattle-shed atDibbledean, and which still lay in the little box bearing on it thename of "Mary Grice."

"Well!" cried Zack, speaking as he came on."Well, Cupid! what do you want with me now?"

Mat did not immediatelyanswer. His thoughts were still traveling back cautiously over theground which they had already explored. Once more, he was pondering onthat little circle of plaited hair, having gold at each end, andlooking just big enough to go round a woman's wrist, which he had seenin the drawer of Mr. Blyth's bureau. And once again, the identitybetween this object and the ornament which young Thorpe had describedas being the thing called a Hair Bracelet, began surely and more surelyto establish itself in his mind.

"Now then, don't keep me waiting,"continued Zack, laughing again as he came nearer; "clap your hand onyour heart, and give me your tender message for the future Mrs.Marksman."

It was on the tip of Mat's tongue to emulate thecommunicativeness of young Thorpe, and to speak unreservedly of what hehad seen in the drawer of the bureau--but he suddenly restrained thewords just as they were dropping from his lips. At the same moment hiseyes began to lose their vacant perturbed look, and to brighten againwith something of craft and cunning, added to their customary watchfulexpression.

"What's the young woman's real name?" he askedcarelessly, just as Zack was beginning to banter him for the thirdtime.

"Is that all you called me back for? Her real name's Mary."

Mat had made his inquiry with the air of a man whose thoughts were faraway from his words, and who only spoke because he felt obliged to saysomething. Zack's reply to his question startled him into instant andanxious attention.

"Mary!" he repeated in a tone of surprise. "Whatelse, besides Mary?"

"How should I know? Didn't I try and beat itinto your muddled old head, half-an-hour ago, that Blyth won't tell hisfriends anything about her?" There was another pause. The secrecy inwhich Mr. Blyth chose to conceal Madonna's history, and the sequesteredplace in the innermost drawer of his bureau where he kept the HairBracelet, began vaguely to connect themselves together in Mat's mind. Acurious smile hovered about his lips, and the cunning look brightenedin his eyes. "The Painter-Man won't tell anything about her, won't he?Perhaps that thing in his drawer will." He muttered the words tohimself, putting his hands in his pockets, and mechanically kickingaway a stone which happened to lie at his feet on the pavement.

"Whatare you grumbling about now?" asked Zack. "Do you think I'm going tostop here all day for the pleasure of hearing you talk to yourself?" Ashe spoke, he vivaciously rapped his friend on the shoulder with hisstick. "Trust me to pave the way for you with Madonna!" he called outmischievously, as he turned back in the direction of Mr. Blyth's house.

"Trust me to have another look at your friend's HairBracelet," said Mat quietly to himself. "I'll handle it this time,before I'm many days older."

He nodded over his shoulder at Zack, andwalked away quickly in the direction of Kirk Street.

The first thing Mat didwhen he got to his lodgings, was to fill and light his pipe. He thensat down on his bear-skins, and dragged the box close to him which hehad brought from Dibbledean.

Although the machinery of Mat's mind wasconstructed of very clumsy and barbaric materials; although book-learning had never oiled it, and wise men's talk had never quickenedit; nevertheless, it always contrived to work on--much as it wasworking now--until it reached, sooner or later, a practical result.Solitude and Peril are stern schoolmasters, but they do their duty forgood or evil, thoroughly with some men; and they had done itthoroughly, amid the rocks and wildernesses of the great Americancontinent, with Mat.

Many a pipe did he empty and fill again, many adark change passed over his heavy features, as he now pondered long andlaboriously over every word of the dialogue that had just been heldbetween himself and Zack. But not so much as five minutes out of allthe time he thus consumed, was, in any true sense of the word, timewasted. He had sat down to his first pipe, resolved that, if any humanmeans could compass it, he would find out how the young girl whom hehad seen in Mr. Blyth's studio, had first come there, and who shereally was. When he rose up at last, and put the pipe away to cool, hehad thought the matter fairly out from beginning to end, had arrived athis conclusions, and had definitely settled his future plans.

Reflection had strengthened him in the resolution to follow his firstimpulse when he parted from Zack in the street, and begin the attemptto penetrate the suspicious secret that hid from him and from every onethe origin of Valentine's adopted child, by getting possession of theHair Bracelet which he had seen laid away in the inner drawer of thebureau. As for any assignable reason for justifying him in associatingthis Hair Bracelet with Madonna, he found it, to his own satisfaction,in young Thorpe's account of the strange words spoken by Mrs. Peckoverin Mr. Blyth's hall--the suspicions resulting from these hints beingalso immensely strengthened, by his recollections of the letter signed"Jane Holdsworth," and containing an enclosure of hair, which he hadexamined in the cattle-shed at Dibbledean.

According to that letter,a Hair Bracelet (easily recognizable if still in existence, bycomparing it with the hair enclosed in Jane Holdsworth's note) had oncebeen the property of Mary Grice. According to what Zack had said, therewas apparently some incomprehensible confusion and mystery inconnection with a Hair Bracelet and the young woman whose extraordinarylikeness to what Mary Grice had been in her girlhood, had firstsuggested to him the purpose he was now pursuing. Lastly, according towhat he himself now knew, there was actually a hair Bracelet lying inthe innermost drawer of Mr. Blyth's bureau--this latter fragment ofevidence assuming in his mind, as has been already remarked, an unduesignificance in relation to the fragments preceding it, from his notknowing that hair bracelets are found in most houses where there arewomen in a position to wear any jewelry ornament at all.

Vague asthey might be, these coincidences were sufficient to startle him atfirst--then to fill him with an eager, devouring curiosity--and then tosuggest to him the uncertain and desperate course which he was nowfirmly resolved to follow. How he was to gain possession of the HairBracelet without Mr. Blyth's knowledge, and without exciting theslightest suspicion in the painter's family, he had not yet determined.But he was resolved to have it, he was perfectly unscrupulous as tomeans, and he felt certain beforehand of attaining his object. Whither,or to what excesses, that object might lead him, he never stopped andnever cared to consider. The awful face of the dead woman (now fixedfor ever in his memory by the living copy of it that his own eyes hadbeheld) seemed to be driving him on swiftly into unknown darkness, tobring him out into unexpected light at the end. The influence which wasthus sternly at work in him was not to be questioned--it was to beobeyed.

His resolution in reference to the Hair Bracelet was not morefirmly settled than his resolution to keep his real sensations onseeing Madonna, and the purpose which had grown out of them, a profoundsecret from young Thorpe, who was too warmly Mr. Blyth's friend to betrusted. Every word that Zack had let slip, had been of vitalimportance, hitherto; every word that might yet escape him, might be ofthe most precious use for future guidance. "If it's his fun and fancy,"mused Mat, "to go on thinking I'm sweet on the girl, let him think it.The more he thinks, the more he'll talk. All I've got to do is to hold in; and then he's sure to let out."

While schoolinghimself thus as to his future conduct towards Zack, he did not forgetanother person who was less close at hand certainly, but who might alsobe turned to good account. Before he fairly decided on his plan ofaction, he debated with himself the propriety of returning toDibbledean, and forcing from the old woman, Joanna Grice, moreinformation than she had been willing to give him at their firstinterview. But, on reflection, he considered that it was better toleave this as a resource to be tried, in case of the failure of hisfirst experiment with the Hair Bracelet. One look at that--one closecomparison of the hair it was made of, with the surplus hair which hadnot been used by the jeweler, in Mary Grice's bracelet, and which hadbeen returned to her in her friend's letter--was all he wanted in thefirst place; for this would be enough to clear up every presentuncertainty and suspicion connected with the ornament in the drawer ofMr. Blyth's bureau.

These were mainly the resolutions towhich his long meditation had now crookedly and clumsily conducted him.His next immediate business was to examine those letters in the box,which he had hitherto not opened; and also to possess himself of theenclosure of hair, in the letter to "Mary Grice," that he might have italways about him ready for any emergency.

Before he opened the box,however, he took a quick, impatient turn or two up and down hismiserable little room. Not once, since he had set forth to return tohis own country, and to the civilization from which, for more thantwenty years, he had been an outcast, had he felt (to use his favoriteexpression) that he was "his own man again," until now. A thrill of theold, breathless, fierce suspense of his days of deadly peril ranthrough him, as he thought on the forbidden secret into which he wasabout to pry, and for the discovery of which he was ready to dare anyhazard and use any means. "It goes through and through me, a'most likedodging for life again among the bloody Indians," muttered Mat tohimself, as he trod restlessly to and fro in his cage of a room,rubbing all the while at the scars on his face, as his way was when anynew excitement got the better of him.

At the very moment when thisthought was rising ominously in his mind, Valentine was expounding anewthe whole scope and object of "Columbus" to a fresh circle of admiringspectators--while his wife was interpreting to Madonna above stairsZack's wildest jokes about his friend's love-stricken condition; andall three were laughing gaily at a caricature, which he was maliciouslydrawing for them, of "poor old Mat" in the character of a scalpedCupid. Even the little minor globe of each man's social sphere has itsantipodes-points; and when it is all bright sunshine in one part of theminiature world, it is all pitch darkness, at the very same moment, inanother.

Mat's face had grown suddenly swarthier than ever, while hewalked across his room, and said those words to himself which have justbeen recorded. It altered again, though, in a minute or two, and turnedonce more to the cold clay-color which had overspread it in thehosier's shop at Dibbledean, as he returned to his bear-skins andopened the box that had belonged to "Mary Grice."

He took out firstthe letter with the enclosure of hair, and placed it carefully in thebreast pocket of his coat. He next searched a moment or two for theletter superscribed and signed by Joanna Grice; and, having found it,placed it on one side of him, on the floor. After this he paused amoment, looking into the box with a curious, scowling sadness on hisface; while his hand vacantly stirred hither and thither the differentobjects that lay about among the papers--the gaily-bound album, thelace-collar, the dried flower-leaves, and the other little womanlypossessions which had once belonged to Mary Grice.

Then he began tocollect together all the letters in the box. Having got them into hishands--some tied up in a packet, some loose--he spread them out beforehim on his lap, first drawing up an end of one of the bear-skins overhis legs for them to lie on conveniently. He began by examining theaddresses. They were all directed to "Mary Grice," in the same clear,careful, sharply-shaped handwriting. Though they were letters in form,they proved to be only notes in substance, when he opened them: thewriting, in some, not extending to more than four or five lines. Atleast fifteen or twenty were expressed, with unimportant variations, inthis form:

"MY DEAREST MARY--Pray try all you can to meet meto-morrow evening at the usual place. I have been waiting and longingfor you in vain to-day. Only think of me, love, as I am now, andalways, thinking of you; and I know you will come. Ever and onlyyours,

"A. C."

All these notes were signed inthe same way, merely with initial letters. They contained nothing inthe shape of a date, except the day of the week on which they had beenwritten; and they had evidently been delivered by some private means,for there did not appear to be a post-mark on any of them. One afteranother Mat opened and glanced at them--then tossed them aside into aheap. He pursued this employment quietly and methodically; but as hewent on with it, a strange look flashed into his eyes from time totime, giving to them a certain sinister brightness which altered veryremarkably the whole natural expression of his face.

Other letters,somewhat longer than the note already quoted, fared no better at hishands. Dry leaves dropped out of some, as he threw them aside; andlittle water-color drawings of rare flowers fluttered out of others.Hard botanical names which he could not spell through, and descriptionsof plants which he could not understand, occurred here and there inpostscripts and detached passages of the longer letters. But still,whether long or short, they bore no signature but the initials "A. C.;"still the dates afforded no information of the year, month, or place inwhich they had been written; and still Mat quietly and quickly tossedthem aside one after the other, without so much as a word or a sighescaping him, but with that sinister brightness flashing into his eyesfrom time to time. Out of the whole number of the letters, there wereonly two that he read more than once through, and then pondered overanxiously, before he threw them from him like the rest.

The first ofthe two was expressed thus:--

"I shall bring the dried fernsand the passion flower for your album with me this evening. You cannotimagine, dearest, how happy and how vain I feel at having made you asenthusiastic a botanist as I am myself. Since you have taken aninterest in my favorite pursuit, it has been more exquisitelydelightful to me than any words can express. I believe that I neverreally knew how to touch tender leaves tenderly until now, when Igather them with the knowledge that they are all to be shown to you, and all to be placed in your dear hand.

"Do you know, my ownlove, I thought I detected an alteration in you yesterday evening? Inever saw you so serious. And then your attention often wandered; and,besides, you looked at me once or twice quite strangely, Mary.--I meanstrangely, because your color seemed to be coming and going constantlywithout any imaginable reason. I really fancied, as I walked home--andI fancy still--that you had something to say, and were afraid to sayit. Surely, love, you can have no secrets from me!--But we shall meetto-night, and then you will tell me everything (will you not?) withoutreserve. Farewell, dearest, till seven o'clock."

Mat slowlyread the second paragraph of this letter twice over, abstractedlytwisting about his great bristly whiskers between his finger and thumb.There was evidently something in the few lines which he was thus poringover, that half saddened, half perplexed him. Whatever the difficultywas, he gave it up, and went on doggedly to the next letter, which wasan exception to the rest of the collection, for it had a postmark onit. He had failed to notice this, on looking at the outside; but hedetected directly on glancing at the inside that it was dateddifferently from those which had gone before it. Under the day of theweek was written the word "London"--noting which, he began to read theletter with some appearance of anxiety. It ran thus:

"Iwrite, my dearest love, in the greatest possible agitation and despair.All the hopes I felt, and expressed to you, that any absence would notlast more than a few days, and that I should not be obliged to journeyfarther from Dibbledean than London, have been entirely frustrated. Iam absolutely compelled to go to Germany, and may be away as long asthree or four months. You see, I tell you the worst at once, Mary,because I know your courage and high spirit, and feel sure that youwill bear up bravely against this unforeseen parting, for both oursakes. How glad I am that I gave you my hair for your Bracelet, when Idid; and that I got yours in return! It will be such a consolation toboth of us to have our keepsakes to look at now.

"If it only restedwith me to go or not, no earthly consideration should induce meto take this journey. But the rights and interests of others areconcerned in my setting forth; and I must, therefore, depart at theexpense of my own wishes, and my own happiness. I go this very day, andcan only steal a few minutes to write to you. My pen hurries over thepaper without stopping an instant--I am so agitated that I hardly knowwhat I am saying to you.

"If anything, dearest Mary, could add to mysense of the misfortune of being obliged to leave you, it would be theapprehension which I now feel, that I may have ignorantly offended you,or that something has happened which you don't like to tell me. Eversince I noticed, ten days ago, that little alteration in your manner, Ihave been afraid you had something on your mind that you were unwillingto confide to me. The very last time we saw each other I thought youhad been crying; and I am sure you looked away uneasily, whenever oureyes met. What is it? Do relieve my anxiety by telling me what it is inyour first letter! The moment I get to the other side of the Channel, Iwill send you word, where to direct to. I will write constantly--mindyou write constantly too. Love me, and remember me always, till Ireturn, never, I hope, to leave you again.--A. C."

Over thisletter, Mat meditated long before he quietly cast it away among therest. When he had at last thrown it from him there remained only threemore to examine. They proved to be notes of no consequence, and hadbeen evidently written at an earlier period than the letters he hadjust read. After hastily looking them over, he searched carefully allthrough the box, but no papers, of any sort remained in it. Thathurried letter, with its abrupt announcement of the writer's departurefrom England, was the latest in date--the last of the series!

Afterhe had made this discovery, he sat for a little while vacantly gazingout of the window. His sense of the useless result to which the searchhe had been prosecuting had led him, thus far, seemed to have robbedhim of half his energy already. He looked once or twice at the lettersuperscribed by Joanna Grice, mechanically reading along the line onthe cover:--"Justification of my conduct towards my niece,"--but notattempting to examine what was written inside. It was only after a longinterval of hesitation and delay that he at last roused himself. "Imust sweep these things out of the way, and read all what I've got toread before Zack comes in," he said to himself, gathering up theletters heaped at his feet, and thrusting them all back again together,with an oath, into the box.

He listened carefully once or twice afterhe had shut down the lid, and while he was tying the cords over it, toascertain whether his wild young friend was opening the street dooryet, or not. How short a time he had passed in Zack's company, yet howthoroughly well he knew him, not as to his failings only, but as to hismerits besides! How wisely he foreboded that his boisterous fellow-lodger would infallibly turn against him as an enemy, and expose himwithout an instant's hesitation, if young Thorpe got any hint of his firstexperimental scheme for discovering poor Mr. Blyth's anxiously-treasuredsecret by underhand and treacherous means! Mat's cunning hadproved an invaluable resource to him on many a critical occasionalready; but he had never been more admirably served by it than now,when it taught him to be cautious of betraying himself to Zack.

Forthe present there seemed to be no danger of interruption. He corded upthe box at his leisure, concealed it in its accustomed place, took hisbrandy-bottle from the cupboard, opened Joanna Grice's letter--andstill there was no sound of any one entering, in the passagedownstairs. Before he began to read, he drank some of the spirit fromthe neck of the bottle. Was there some inexplicable dread stealing overhim at the mere prospect of examining the contents of this one solitaryletter?

It seemed as if there was. His finger trembled so, when hetried to guide himself by it along each successive line of the crampedwriting which he was now attempting to decipher, that he had to take asecond dram to steady it. And when he at length fairly began theletter, he did not pursue his occupation either as quietly or asquickly as he had followed it before. Sometimes he read a line or twoaloud, sometimes he overlooked several sentences, and went on toanother part of the long narrative--now growling out angry comments onwhat he was reading; and now dashing down the paper impatiently on hisknees, with fierce outbursts of oaths, which he had picked up in theterrible swearing-school of the Californian gold mines.

He began,however, with perfect regularity at the proper part of the letter;sitting as near to the window as be could, and slanting the closelywritten page before him, so as to give himself the full benefit of allthe afternoon light which still flowed into the room.

"I intend thisletter to be read after my death, and I purpose calling it plainly aJustification of my conduct towards my Niece. Not because I think myconduct wants any excuse--but because others, ignorant of my truemotives, may think that my actions want justifying, and may wickedlycondemn me unless I make some such statement in my own defense as thepresent. There may still be living one member of my late brother'sfamily, whose voice would, I feel sure, be raised against me for what Ihave done. The relation to whom I refer has been--"

(HereMat, who had read carefully thus far, grew impatient, and growling outsome angry words, guided himself hastily down the letter with hisfinger till he arrived at the second paragraph.)

"--It wasin the April month of 1827 that the villain who was the ruin of myniece, and the dishonor of the once respectable family to which shebelonged, first came to Dibbledean. He took the little four roomcottage called Jay's Cottage, which was then to be let furnished, andwhich stands out of the town about a quarter of a mile down Church-lane.He called himself Mr. Carr, and the few letters that came to himwere directed to 'Arthur Carr, Esq.'

"He was quite a young man,--Ishould say not more than four or five and twenty--very quiet manneredand delicate--or rather effeminate looking, as I thought--for he worehis hair quite long over his shoulders, in the foreign way, and had aclear, soft complexion, almost like a woman's. Though he appeared to bea gentleman, he always kept out of the way of making acquaintancesamong the respectable families about Dibbledean. He had no friends ofhis own to come and see him that I heard of, except an old gentlemanwho might have been his father, and who came once or twice. His ownaccount of himself was, that he came to Jay's Cottage for quiet, andretirement, and study; but he was very reserved, and would let nobodymake up to him until the miserable day when he and my brother Joshua,and then my niece Mary, all got acquainted together.

"Before I go onto anything else, I must say first, that Mr. Carr was what they call abotanist. Whenever it was fine, he was always out of doors, gatheringbits of leaves, which it seems he carried home in a tin case, anddried, and kept by him. He hired a gardener for the bit of ground roundabout Jay's Cottage; and the man told me once, that his master knewmore about flowers and how to grow them than anybody he ever met with.Mr. Carr used to make little pictures, too, of flowers and leaves settogether in patterns. These things were thought very odd amusements fora young man to take up with; but he was as fond of them as others ofhis age might be hunting or shooting. He brought down many books withhim, and read a great deal; but from all that I heard, he spent moretime over his flowers and his botany than anything else.

"We had, atthat time, the two best shops in Dibbledean. Joshua sold hosiery, and Icarried on a good dress-making and general millinery business. Both ourshops were under the same roof, with a partition wall between. One dayMr. Carr came in Joshua's shop, and wanted something which my brotherhad not got as ready to hand as the common things that the townspeoplegenerally bought. Joshua begged him to sit down for a few minutes; butMr. Carr (the parlor door at the bottom of the shop being left open)happened to look into the garden, which he could see very well throughthe window, and said that he would like to wait there, and look at theflowers. Joshua was only too glad to have his garden taken such noticeof, by a gentleman who was a botanist; so he showed his customer inthere, and then went up into the warehouse to look for what was wanted.

"My niece, Mary, worked in my part of the house, along with theother young women. The room they used to be in looked into the garden;and from the window my niece must have seen Mr. Carr, and must haveslipped down stairs (I not being in the way just then) to peep at thestrange gentleman--or, more likely, to make believe she wasaccidentally walking in the garden, and so get noticed by him. All Iknow is, that when I came up into the workroom and found she was notthere, and looked out of the window, I saw her, and Joshua, and Mr.Carr all standing together on the grass plot, the strange gentlemantalking to her quite intimate, with a flower in his hand.

"I calledout to her to come back to her work directly. She looked up at me,smiling in her bold impudent way, and said:--'Father has told me I maystop and learn what this gentleman is so kind as to teach me about mygeraniums.' After that, I could say nothing more before the stranger:and when he was gone, and she came back triumphing, and laughing, andsinging about the room, more like a mad play-actress than a decentyoung woman, I kept quiet and bore with her provocation. But I wentdown to my brother Joshua the same day, and talked to him seriously,and warned him that she ought to be kept stricter, and never let tohave her own way, and offered to keep a strict hand over her myself, ifhe would only support me properly. But he put me off with careless,jesting words, which he learned to repent of bitterly afterwards.

"Joshua was as pious and respectable a man as ever lived: but it washis misfortune to be too easy-tempered, and too proud of his daughter.Having lost his wife, and his eldest boy and girl, he seemed so fond ofMary, that he could deny her nothing. There was, to be sure, anotherone left of his family of children, who--"

(Here, again, Matlost patience. He had been muttering to himself angrily for the lastminute or two, while he read--and now once more he passed over severallines of the letter, and went on at once to a new paragraph.)

"I have said she was vain of her good looks, and bold, and flighty;and I must now add, that she was also hasty and passionate, andreckless. But she had wheedling ways with her, which nobody was sharpenough to see through but me. When I made complaints against her to herfather, and proved that I was right in making them, she always managedto get him to forgive her. She behaved, from the outset, (though Istood in the place of a mother to her,) as perversely towards me asusual, in respect to Mr. Carr. It had flattered her pride to be noticedand bowed to just as if she was a born lady, by a gentleman, and acustomer at the shop. And the very same evening, at tea time, she undidbefore my face the whole effect of the good advice I had been givingher father. What with jumping on his knee, kissing him, tying anduntying his cravat, sticking flowers in his button-hole, and going onaltogether more like a child than a grown-up young woman, she wheedledhim into promising that he would take her next Sunday to see Mr. Carr'sgarden; for it seems the gentleman had invited them to look at hisflowers. I had tried my best, when I heard it, to persuade my brothernot to accept the invitation and let her scrape acquaintance with astranger under her father's own nose; but all that I could say wasuseless now. She had got the better of me, and when I put in my word,she had her bold laugh and her light answer ready to insult me withdirectly. Her father said he wondered I was not amused at her highspirits. I shook my head, but said nothing in return. Poor man! helived to see where her 'high spirits' led her to.

"On the Sunday,after church, they went to Mr. Carr's. Though my advice was set atdefiance in this way, I determined to persevere in keeping a stricterwatch over my niece than ever. I felt that the maintaining the creditand reputation of the family rested with me, and I determined that Iwould try my best to uphold our good name. It is some little comfort tome, after all that has happened, to remember that I did my utmost tocarry out this resolution. The blame of our dishonor lies not at mydoor. I disliked and distrusted Mr. Carr from the very first; and Itried hard to make others as suspicious of him as I was. But all Icould say, and all I could do, availed nothing against the wickedcunning of my niece. Watch and restrain her as I might, she wassure----"

(Once more Mat broke off abruptly in the middle ofa sentence. This time, however, it was to strike a light. The brief dayof winter was fast fading out--the coming darkness was deepening overthe pages of Joanna Grice's narrative. When he had lit his candle, andhad sat down to read again, he lost his place, and, not having patienceto look for it carefully, went on at once with the first lines thathappened to strike his eye.)

"Things were now come, then, tothis pass, that I felt certain she was in the habit of meeting him insecret; and yet I could not prove it to my brother's satisfaction. Ihad no help that I could call in to assist me against the diabolicalcunning that was used to deceive me. To set other people to watch them,when I could not, would only have been spreading through Dibbledean thevery scandal that I was most anxious to avoid. As for Joshua, hisinfatuation made him deaf to all that I could urge. He would seenothing suspicious in the fondness Mary had suddenly taken for Botany,and drawing flowers. He let Mr. Carr lend her paintings to copy from,just as if they had known each other all their lives. Next to his blindtrust in his daughter, because he was so fond of her, was his blindtrust in this stranger, because the gentleman's manners were so quietand kind, and because he sent us presents of expensive flowers to plantin our garden. He would not authorize me to open Mary's letters, or toforbid her ever to walk out alone; and he even told me once that I didnot know how to make proper allowances for young people.

"Allowances!I knew my niece better, and my duty as one of an honest family better,than to make allowances for such conduct as hers. I kept the tightesthand over her that I could. I advised her, argued with her, orderedher, portioned out her time for her, watched her, warned her, told herin the plainest terms, that she should not deceive me--she or hergentleman! I was honest and open, and said I disapproved so strongly ofthe terms she kept up with Mr. Carr, that if ever it lay in my power tocut short their acquaintance together, I would most assuredly do it. Ieven told her plainly that if she once got into mischief, it would thenbe too late to reclaim her; and she answered in her reckless, sluttishway, that if she ever did get into mischief it would be nothing but myaggravation that would drive her to it; and that she believed herfather's kindness would never find it too late to reclaim her again.This is only one specimen of the usual insolence and wickedness of allher replies to me."

(As he finished this paragraph, Matdashed the letter down angrily on his knee, and cursed the writer of itwith some of those gold-digger's imprecations which it had been hismisfortune to hear but too often in the past days of his Californianwanderings. It was evidently only by placing considerable constraintupon himself, that he now refrained from crumpling up the letter andthrowing it from him in disgust. However, he spread it out flat beforehim once more--looked first at one paragraph, then at another, but didnot read them; hesitated--and then irritably turned over the leaf ofpaper before him, and began at a new page.)

"When I toldJoshua generally what I had observed, and particularly what I myselfhad seen and heard on the evening in question, he seemed at last alittle staggered, and sent for my niece, to insist on an explanation.On his repeating to her what I had mentioned to him, she flung her armsround his neck, looked first at me and then at him, burst out sobbingand crying, and so got from bad to worse, till she had a sort of fit. Iwas not at all sure that this might not be one of her tricks; but itfrightened her father so that he forgot himself, and threw all theblame on me, and said my prudery and conspiring had tormented andfrightened the poor girl out of her wits. After being insulted in thisway, of course the only thing I could do was to leave the room, and lether have it all her own way with him.

"It was now the autumn, themiddle of September; and I was at my wit's end to know what I ought tothink and do next--when Mr. Carr left Dibbledean. He had been away onceor twice before, in the summer, but only for a day or two at a time. Onthis occasion, my niece received a letter from him. He had neverwritten to her when he was away in the summer; so I thought this lookedlike a longer absence than usual, and I determined to take advantage ofit to try if I could not break off the intimacy between them, in caseit went the length of any more letter-writing.

"I most solemnlydeclare, and could affirm on oath if necessary, that in spite of all Ihad seen and all I suspected for these many months, I had not the mostdistant idea of the wickedness that had really been committed. I thankGod I was not well enough versed in the ways of sin to be as sharp incoming to the right conclusion as other women might have been in mysituation. I only believed that the course she was taking might befatal to her at some future day; and, acting on that belief, I thoughtmyself justified in using any means in my power to stop her in time. Itherefore resolved with myself that if Mr. Carr wrote again, she shouldget none of his letters; and I knew her passionate and prouddisposition well enough to know that if she could once be brought tothink herself neglected by him, she would break off all intercoursewith him, if ever he came back, immediately.

"I thought myselfperfectly justified, standing towards her as I did in the place of amother, and having only her good at heart, in taking these measures. Onthat head my conscience is still quite easy. I cannot mention what theplan was that I now adopted, without seriously compromising a livingperson. All I can say is, that every letter from Mr. Carr to our house,passed into my hands only, and was by me committed to the flamesunread. These letters were at first all for my niece; but towards theend of the year two came, at different intervals, directed to mybrother. I distrusted the cunning of the writer and the weakness ofJoshua; and I put both those letters into the fire, unread like therest. After that, no more came; and Mr. Carr never returned to Jay'sCottage. In reference to this part of my narrative, therefore, I haveonly now to add, before proceeding to the miserable confession of ourfamily dishonor, that I never afterwards saw, and only once heard ofthe man who tempted my niece to commit the deadly sin which was herruin in this world, and will be her ruin in the next.

"I must returnfirst, however, to what happened from my burning of the letters. Whenmy niece found that week after week passed, and she never heard fromMr. Carr, she fretted about it much more than I had fancied she would.And Joshua unthinkingly made her worse by wondering, in her presence,at the long absence of the gentleman of Jay's Cottage. My brother was aman who could not abide his habits being broken in on. He had been inthe habit of going on certain evenings to Mr. Carr's (and, I grieve tosay, often taking his daughter with him) to fetch the London paper, totake back drawings of flowers, and to let my niece bring away new onesto copy. And now, he fidgeted, and was restless, and discontented (asmuch as so easy-tempered a man could be) at not taking his usual walksto Jay's Cottage. This, as I have said, made his daughter worse. Shefretted and fretted, and cried in secret, as I could tell by her eyes,till she grew to be quite altered. Now and then, the angry fit that Ihad expected to see, came upon her; but it always went away again in amanner not at all natural to one of her passionate disposition. Allthis time, she led me as miserable a life as she could; provoking andthwarting and insulting me at every opportunity. I believe shesuspected me, in the matter of the letters. But I had taken my measuresso as to make discovery impossible; and I determined to wait, and bepatient and persevering, and get the better of her and her wicked fancyfor Mr. Carr, just as I had made up my mind to do.

"At last, as thewinter drew on, she altered so much, and got such a strange look in herface, which never seemed to leave it, that Joshua became alarmed, andsaid he must send for the doctor. She seemed to be frightened out ofher wits at the mere thought of it; and declared, quite passionately,all of a sudden, that she had no want of a doctor, and would see noneand answer the questions of none--no! not even if her father himselfinsisted on it.

"This astonished me as well as Joshua; and when heasked me privately what I thought was the matter with her, I wasobliged of course to tell him the truth, and say I believed that shewas almost out of her mind with love for Mr. Carr. For the first timein his life, my brother flew into a violent rage with me. I suspect hewas furious with his own conscience for reminding him, as it must havedone then, how foolishly overindulgent he had been towards her, and howcarelessly he had allowed her as well as himself, to get acquaintedwith a person out of her own station, whom it was not proper for eitherof them to know. I said nothing of this to him at the time: he was notfit to listen to it--and still less fit, even had I been willing toconfide it to him, to hear what the plan was which I had adopted forworking her cure.

"As the weeks went on, and she still fretted insecret, and still looked unlike herself, I began to doubt whether thisvery plan, from which I had hoped so much, would after all succeed. Iwas sorely distressed in my mind, at times, as to what I ought to donext; and began indeed to feel the difficulty getting too much for me,just when it was drawing on fast to its shocking and shameful end. Wewere then close upon Christmas time. Joshua had got his shop-bills wellforward for sending out, and was gone to London on business, as wascustomary with him at this season of the year. I expected him back, asusual, a day or two before Christmas Day.

"For a little while past, Ihad noticed some change in my niece. Ever since my brother had talkedabout sending for the doctor, she had altered a little, in the way ofgoing on more regularly with her work, and pretending (though she madebut a bad pretense of it) that there was nothing ailed her; her objectbeing, of course, to make her father easier about her in his mind. Thechange, however, to which I now refer, was of another sort, and onlyaffected her manner towards me, and her manner of dressing herself.When we were alone together, now, I found her conduct quite altered.She spoke soft to me, and looked humble, and did what work I set herwithout idleness or murmuring; and once, even made as if she wanted tokiss me. But I was on my guard--suspecting that she wanted to entrapme, with her wheedling ways, into letting out something about Mr.Carr's having written, and my having burned his letters. It was at thistime also, and a little before it, that I noticed the alteration in herdress. She fell into wearing her things in a slovenly way, and sittingat home in her shawl, on account of feeling cold, she said, when Ireprimanded her for such untidyness.

"I don't know how long thingsmight have lasted like this, or what the end might have been, if eventshad gone on in their own way. But the dreadful truth made itself knownat last suddenly, by a sort of accident. She had a quarrel with one ofthe other young women in the dressmaking-room, named Ellen Gough, abouta certain disreputable friend of hers, one Jane Holdsworth, whom I hadonce employed, and had dismissed for impertinence and slatternlyconduct. Ellen Gough having, it seems, been provoked past all bearingby something my niece said to her, came away to me in a passion, and inso many words told me the awful truth, that my brother's only daughterhad disgraced herself and her family for ever. The horror and misery ofthat moment is present to me now, at this distance of time. The shock Ithen received struck me down at once; I never have recovered from it,and I never shall.

"In the first distraction of the moment, I musthave done or said something down stairs, where I was, which must havewarned the wretch in the room above that I had discovered her infamy. Iremember going to her bed-chamber, and finding the door locked, andhearing her refuse to open it. After that, I must have fainted, for Ifound myself, I did not know how, in the work-room, and Ellen Goughgiving me a bottle to smell to. With her help, I got into my own room;and there I fainted away dead again.

"When I came to, I went oncemore to my niece's bed-chamber. The door was now open; and there was abit of paper on the looking-glass directed to my brother Joshua. Shewas gone from the honest house that her sin had defiled--gone from itfor ever. She had written only a few scrawled wild lines to her father,but in them there was full acknowledgment of her crime and a confessionthat it was the villain Carr who had caused her to commit it. She saidshe was gone to take her shame from our doors. She entreated that noattempt might be made to trace her, for she would die rather thanreturn to disgrace her family, and her father in his old age. Afterthis came some lines, which seemed to have been added, on secondthoughts, to what went before. I do not remember the exact words; butthe sense referred, shamelessly enough as I thought, to the child thatwas afterwards born, and to her resolution, if it came into the worldalive, to suffer all things for its sake.

"It was at first somerelief to know that she was gone. The dreadful exposure and degradationthat threatened us, seemed to be delayed at least by her absence. Onquestioning Ellen Gough, I found that the other two young women whoworked under me, and who were most providentially absent on a Christmasvisit to their friends, were not acquainted with my niece's infamoussecret. Ellen had accidentally discovered it; and she had, therefore,been obliged to confess to Ellen, and put trust in her. Everybody elsein the house had been as successfully deceived as I had been myself.When I heard this, I began to have some hope that our family disgracemight remain unknown in the town.

"I wrote to my brother, not tellinghim what had happened, but only begging him to come back instantly. Itwas the bitterest part of all the bitter misery I then suffered, tothink of what I had now to tell Joshua, and of what dreadfulextremities his daughter's ruin might drive him to. I strove hard toprepare myself for the time of coming trial; but what really took placewas worse than my worst forebodings.

"When my brother heard theshocking news I had to tell, and saw the scrawled paper she had leftfor him, he spoke and acted as if he was out of his mind. It was onlycharitable, only fair to his previous character, to believe, as I thenbelieved, that distress had actually driven him, for the time, out ofhis senses. He declared that he would go away instantly and search forher, and set others seeking for her too. He said, he even swore, thathe would bring her back home the moment he found her; that he wouldsuccor her in her misery, and accept her penitence, and shelter herunder his roof the same as ever, without so much as giving a thought tothe scandal and disgrace that her infamous situation would inflict onher family. He even wrested Scripture from its true meaning to supporthim in what he said, and in what he was determined to do. And, worst ofall, the moment he heard how it was that I had discovered hisdaughter's crime, he insisted that Ellen Gough should be turned out ofthe house: he declared, in such awful language as I had never believedit possible he could utter, that she should not sleep under his roofthat night. It was hopeless to attempt to appease him. He put her outat the door with his own hand that very day. She was an excellent and aregular workwoman, but sullen and revengeful when her temper was onceroused. By the next morning our disgrace was known all over Dibbledean.

"There was only one more degradation now to be dreaded; and that itsickened me to think of. I knew Joshua well enough to know that if hefound the lost wretch he was going in search of, he would absolutelyand certainly bring her home again. I had been born in our house atDibbledean; my mother before me had been born there; our family hadlived in the old place, honestly and reputably, without so much as abreath of ill report ever breathing over them, for generations andgenerations back. When I thought of this, and then thought of the barepossibility that an abandoned woman might soon be admitted, and abastard child born, in the house where so many of my relations hadlived virtuously and died righteously, I resolved that the day when she set her foot on our threshold, should be the day when Ileft my home and my birth place for ever.

"While I was in this mind,Joshua came to me--as determined in his way as I secretly was in mine--toask if I had any suspicions about what direction she had taken. Allthe first inquiries after her that he had made in Dibbledean, had, itseems, given him no information whatever. I said I had no positiveknowledge (which was strictly true), but told him I suspected she wasgone to London. He asked why? I answered, because I believed she wasgone to look after Mr. Carr; and said that I remembered his letter toher (the first and only one she received) had a London post-mark uponit. We could not find this letter at the time: the hiding-place she hadfor it, and for all the others she left behind her, was not discoveredtill years after, when the house was repaired for the people who boughtour business. Joshua, however, having nothing better to guide himselfby, and being resolved to begin seeking her at once, said my suspicionwas a likely one; and went away to London by that night's coach, to seewhat he could do, and to get advice from his lawyers about how to traceher.

"This, which I have been just relating, is the only part of myconduct, in the time of our calamity, which I now think of with anuneasy conscience. When I told Joshua I suspected she was gone toLondon I was not telling him the truth. I knew nothing certainly aboutwhere she was gone; but I did assuredly suspect that she had turned hersteps exactly in the contrary direction to London--that is to say, farout Bangbury way. She had been constantly asking all sorts of questionsof Ellen Gough, who told me of it, about roads, and towns, and peoplein that distant part of the country: and this was my only reason forthinking she had taken herself away in that direction. Though it wasbut a matter of bare suspicion at the best, still I deceived my brotheras to my real opinion when he asked it of me: and this was a sin whichI now humbly and truly repent of. But the thought of helping him, by solittle even as a likely guess, to bring our infamy home to our owndoors, by actually bringing his degraded daughter back with him into mypresence, in the face of the whole town--this thought, I say, was toomuch for me. I believed that the day when she crossed our thresholdagain would be the day of my death, as well as the day of my farewellto home; and under that conviction I concealed from Joshua what my realopinion was.

"I deserved to suffer for this; and I did suffer for it.

"Two or three days after the lonely Christmas Day that I passed inutter solitude at our house in Dibbledean, I received a letter fromJoshua's lawyer in London, telling me to come up and see my brotherimmediately, for he was taken dangerously ill. In the course of hisinquiries (which he would pursue himself, although the lawyers, whoknew better what ought to be done, were doing their utmost to helphim), he had been misled by some false information, and had been robbedand ill-used in some place near the river, and then turned out at nightin a storm of snow and sleet. It is useless now to write about what Isuffered from this fresh blow, or to speak of the awful time I passedby his bed-side in London. Let it be enough to say, that he escaped outof the very jaws of death; and that it was the end of February beforehe was well enough to be taken home to Dibbledean.

"He soon gotbetter in his own air--better as to his body, but his mind was in a sadway. Every morning he used to ask if any news of Mary had come? andwhen he heard there was none, he used to sigh, and then hardly sayanother word, or so much as hold up his head, for the rest of the day.At one time, he showed a little anxiety now and then about a letterreaching its destination, and being duly received; peevishly refusingto mention to me even so much as the address on it. But I guessed whoit had been sent to easily enough, when his lawyers told me that he hadwritten it in London, and had mentioned to them that it was going tosome place beyond the seas. He soon seemed to forget this though, andto forget everything, except his regular question about Mary, which hesometimes repeated in his dazed condition, even after I had broken itto him that she was dead.

"The news of her death came in the Marchmonth of the new year, 1828.

"All inquiries in London had failed upto that time in discovering the remotest trace of her. In Dibbledean weknew she could not be; and elsewhere Joshua was now in no state tosearch for her himself; or to have any clear notions of instructingothers in what direction to make inquiries for him. But in this monthof March, I saw in the Bangbury paper (which circulates in our countybesides its own) an advertisement calling on the friends of a youngwoman who had just died and left behind her an infant, to come forwardand identify the body, and take some steps in respect to the child. Thedescription was very full and particular, and did not admit of a doubt,to any one that knew her as well as I did, that the young womanreferred to was my guilty and miserable niece. My brother was in nocondition to be spoken to in this difficulty; so I determined to actfor myself. I sent by a person I could depend upon, money enough tobury her decently in Bangbury churchyard, putting no name or date to myletter. There was no law to oblige me to do more, and more I wasdetermined not to do. As to the child, that was the offspring of hersin; it was the infamous father's business to support and own it, andnot mine.

"When people in the town, who knew of our calamity, and hadseen the advertisement, talked to me of it, I admitted nothing, anddenied nothing--I simply refused to speak with them on the subject ofwhat had happened in our family.

"Having endeavored to provide inthis way for the protection of my brother and myself against themeddling and impertinence of idle people, I believed that I had nowsuffered the last of the many bitter trials which had assailed me asthe consequences of my niece's guilt: I was mistaken: the cup of myaffliction was not yet full. One day, hardly a fortnight after I hadsent the burial money anonymously to Bangbury, our servant came to meand said there was a stranger at the door who wished to see my brother,and was so bent on it that he would take no denial. I went down, andfound waiting on the door-steps a very respectable-looking, middle-agedman, whom I had certainly never set eyes on before in my life.

"Itold him that I was Joshua's sister, and that I managed my brother'saffairs for him in the present state of his health. The stranger onlyanswered, that he was very anxious to see Joshua himself. I did notchoose to expose the helpless condition into which my brother'sintellects had fallen, to a person of whom I knew nothing; so I merelysaid, the interview he wanted was out of the question, but that if hehad any business with Mr. Grice, he might, for the reasons I hadalready given, mention it to me. He hesitated, and smiled, and said hewas very much obliged to me; and then, making as if he was going tostep in, added that I should probably be able to appreciate thefriendly nature of the business on which he came, when he informed methat he was confidentially employed by Mr. Arthur Carr.

"The instanthe spoke it, I felt the name go to my heart like a knife--then myindignation got the better of me. I told him to tell Mr. Carr that themiserable creature whom his villainy had destroyed, had fled away fromher home, had died away from her home, and was buried away from herhome; and, with that, I shut the door in his face. My agitation, and asort of terror that I could not account for, so overpowered me that Iwas obliged to lean against the wall of the passage, and was unable,for some minutes, to stir a step towards going up stairs. As soon as Igot a little better, and began to think about what had taken place, adoubt came across me as to whether I might not have acted wrong. Iremembered that Joshua's lawyers in London had made it a great pointthat this Mr. Carr should be traced; and, though, since then, oursituation had been altered by my niece's death, still I felt uncertainand uneasy--I could hardly tell why--at what I had done. It was as if Ihad taken some responsibility on myself which ought not to have beenmine. In short, I ran back to the door and opened it, and looked up anddown the street. It was too late: the strange man was out of sight, andI never set eyes on him again.

"This was in March, 1828, the samemonth in which the advertisement appeared. I am particular in repeatingthe date because it marks the time of the last information I have togive, in connection with the disgraceful circumstances which I havehere forced myself to relate. Of the child mentioned in theadvertisement, I never heard anything, from that time to this. I do noteven know when it was born. I only know that its guilty mother left herhome in the December of 1827. Whether it lived after the date of theadvertisement, or whether it died, I never discovered, and never wishedto discover. I have kept myself retired since the days of myhumiliation, hiding my sorrow in my own heart, and neither askingquestions nor answering them."

At this place Mat once moresuspended the perusal of the letter. He had now read on for anunusually long time with unflagging attention, and with the same sternsadness always in his face, except when the name of Arthur Carroccurred in the course of the narrative. Almost on every occasion, whenthe finger by which he guided himself along the close lines of theletter, came to those words, it trembled a little, and the dangerouslook grew ever brighter and brighter in his eyes. It was in them now,as he dropped the letter on his knee, and, turning round, took from thewall behind him, against which it leaned, a certain leather bag,already alluded to, as part of the personal property that he broughtwith him on installing himself in Kirk Street. He opened it, took out afeather fan, and an Indian tobacco-pouch of scarlet cloth; and thenbegan to search in the bottom of the bag, from which, at length, hedrew forth a letter. It was torn in several places, the ink of thewriting in it was faded, and the paper was disfigured by stains ofgrease, tobacco, and dirt generally. The direction was in such acondition, that the word "Brazils," at the end, was alone legible.Inside, it was not in a much better state. The date at the top,however, still remained tolerably easy to distinguish: it was "December20th, 1827."

Mat looked first at this, and then at the paragraph hehad just been reading, in Joanna Grice's narrative. After that, hebegan to count on his fingers, clumsily enough--beginning with the year1828 as Number One, and ending with the current year, 1851, as NumberTwenty-three. "Twenty-three," he repeated aloud to himself, "twenty-three years: I shall remember that."

He looked down a littlevacantly, the next moment, at the old torn letter again. Some of thelines, here and there, had escaped stains and dirt sufficiently to bestill easily legible; and it was over these that his eyes now wandered.The first words that caught his attention ran thus:--"I am now,therefore, in this bitter affliction, more than ever desirous that allpast differences between us should be forgotten, and"--here thebeginning of another line was hidden by a stain, beyond which, on thecleaner part of the letter, the writing proceeded:--"In this spirit,then, I counsel you, if you can get continued employment anywhereabroad, to accept it, instead of coming back"--(a rent in the papermade the next words too fragmentary to be easily legible). * * * "anygood news be sure of hearing from me again. In the mean time, I say itonce more, keep away, if you can. Your presence could do no good; andit is better for you, at your age, to be spared the sight of suchsorrow as that we are now suffering." (After this, dirt and the fadingof the ink made several sentences near the end of the page almosttotally illegible--the last three or four lines at the bottom of theletter alone remaining clear enough to be read with any ease.) * * *"the poor, lost, unhappy creature! But I shall find her, I know I shallfind her; and then, let Joanna say or do what she may, I will forgivemy own Mary, for I know she will deserve her pardon. As for him,I feel confident that he may be traced yet; and that I can shame himinto making the atonement of marrying her. If he should refuse, thenthe black-hearted villain shall--"

At this point, Mat abruptlystopped in his reading; and, hastily folding up the letter, put it backin the bag again, along the feather fan and the Indian pouch. "I can'tgo on that part of the story now, but the time may come--" Hepursued the thought which thus expressed itself in him no further, butsat still for a few minutes, with his head on his hand and his heavyeyebrows contracted by an angry frown, staring sullenly at the flame ofthe candle. Joanna Grice's letter still remained to be finished. Hetook it up, and looked back to the paragraph that he had last read.

"As for the child mentioned in the advertisement"--those were the wordsto which he was now referring. "The child?"--There was nomention of its sex. "I should like to know if it was a boy or a girl,"thought Mat.

Though he was now close to the end of the letter, heroused himself with difficulty to attend to the last few sentenceswhich remained to be read. They began thus:--

"Before I say anythingin conclusion, of the sale of our business, of my brother's death, andof the life which I have been leading since that time, I should wish torefer, once for all, and very briefly, to the few things which my nieceleft behind her, when she abandoned her home. Circumstances may, oneday, render this necessary. I desire then to state, that everythingbelonging to her is preserved in one of her boxes (now in mypossession), just as she left it. When the letters signed 'A. C.' werediscovered, as I have mentioned, on the occasion of repairs being madein the house, I threw them into the box with my own hand. They will allbe found, more or less, to prove the justice of those first suspicionsof mine, which my late brother so unhappily disregarded. In referenceto money or valuables, I have only to mention that my niece took allher savings with her in her flight. I knew in what box she kept them,and I saw that box open and empty on her table, when I first discoveredthat she was gone. As for the only three articles of jewelry that shehad, her brooch I myself saw her give to Ellen Gough--her earrings shealways wore--and I can only presume (never having found it anywhere)that she took with her, in her flight, her Hair Bracelet."

"There it is again!" cried Mat, dropping the letter in astonishment,the instant those two significant words, "Hair Bracelet," caught hiseye.

He had hardly uttered the exclamation, before he heard the doorof the house flung open, then shut to again with a bang. Zack had justlet himself in with his latch-key.

"I'm glad he's come," mutteredMat, snatching up the letter from the floor, and crumpling it into hispocket. "There's another thing or two I want to find out, before I goany further--and Zack's the lad to help me."

When Zack entered the room, and sawhis strange friend, with legs crossed and hands in pockets, sittinggravely in the usual corner, on the floor, between a brandy-bottle onone side, and a guttering, unsnuffed candle on the other, he roaredwith laughter, and stamped about in his usual boisterous way, till theflimsy little house seemed to be trembling under him to its veryfoundations. Mat bore all this noise and ridicule, and all the jestingthat followed it about the futility of drowning his passion for Madonnain the brandy-bottle, with the most unruffled and exemplary patience.The self-control which he thus exhibited did not pass without itsreward. Zack got tired of making jokes which were received with theserenest inattention; and, passing at once from the fanciful to thepractical, astonished his fellow-lodger, by suddenly communicating avery unexpected and very important piece of news.

"By-the-bye, Mat,"he said, "we must sweep the place up, and look as respectable as wecan, before to-morrow night. My friend Blyth is coming to spend a quietevening with us. I stayed behind till all the visitors had gone, onpurpose to ask him."

"Do you mean he's coming to have a drop of grogand smoke a pipe along with us two?" asked Mat rather amazedly.

"Imean he's coming here, certainly; but as for grog and pipes, he nevertouches either. He's the best and dearest fellow in the world; but I'mashamed to say he's spooney enough to like lemonade and tea. Smokingwould make him sick directly; and, as for grog, I don't believe a dropever passes his lips from one year's end to another. A weak head--awretchedly weak head for drinking," concluded Zack, tapping hisforehead with an air of bland Bacchanalian superiority.

Mat seemed tohave fallen into one of his thoughtful fits again. He made no answer,but holding the brandy-bottle standing by his side, up before thecandle, looked in to see how much liquor was left in it.

"Don't beginto bother your head about the brandy: you needn't get any more of itfor Blyth," continued Zack, noticing his friend's action. "I say, doyou know that the best thing you ever did in your life was savingValentine's picture in that way? You have regularly won his heart byit. He was suspicious of my making friends with you before; but now hedoesn't seem to think there's a word in the English language that'sgood enough for you. He said he should be only too glad to thank youagain, when I asked him to come and judge of what you were really likein your own lodging. Tell him some of those splendid stories of yours.I've been terrifying him already with one or two of them at secondhand.Oh Lord! how hospitably we'll treat him--won't we? You shall make hishair stand on end, Mat; and I'll drown him in his favorite tea."

"What does he do with them picters of his?" asked Mat. "Sell 'em?"

"Of course!" answered the other, confidently; "and gets enormous sumsof money for them." Whenever Zack found an opportunity of magnifying afriend's importance, he always rose grandly superior to mere matter-of-factrestraints, and seized the golden moment without an instant ofhesitation or a syllable of compromise.

"Get lots of money, does he?"proceeded Mat. "And keeps on hoarding of it up, I daresay, like all therest of you over here?"

"He hoard money!" retorted Zack, "Younever made a worse guess in your life. I don't believe be ever hoardedsix-pence since he was a baby. If Mrs. Blyth didn't look after him, Idon't suppose there would be five pounds in the house from one year'send to another."

There was a moment's silence. (It wasn't because hehad money in it, then, thought Mat, that he shut down the lid of thatbig chest of his so sharp. I wonder whether--)

"He's the mostgenerous fellow in the world," continued Zack, lighting a cigar; "andthe best pay: ask any of his tradespeople."

This remark suspended theconjecture that was just forming in Mat's mind. He gave up pursuing itquite readily, and went on at once with his questions to Zack. Somepart of the additional information that he desired to obtain from youngThorpe, he had got already. He knew now, that when Mr. Blyth, on theday of the picture-show, shut down the bureau so sharply on Mr.Gimble's approaching him, it was not, at any rate, because there wasmoney in it.

"Is he going to bring anybody else in here along withhim, to-morrow night?" asked Mat.

"Anybody else? Who should he bring?Why, you old barbarian, you don't expect him to bring Madonna into ourjolly bachelor den to preside over the grog and pipes--do you?"

"Howold is the young woman?" inquired Mat, contemplatively snuffing thecandle with his fingers, as he put the question.

"Still harping on mydaughter!" shouted Zack, with a burst of laughter. "She's older thanshe looks, I can tell you that. You wouldn't guess her at more thaneighteen or nineteen. But the fact is, she's actually twenty-three;--steadythere! you'll be through the window if you don't sit quieter inyour queer corner than that."

(Twenty-three! The very number he hadstopped at, when he reckoned off the difference on his fingers between1828 and 1851, just before young Thorpe came in.)

"I suppose the nextcool thing you will say, is that she's too old for you," Zack went on;"or, perhaps, you may prefer asking another question or two first. I'lltell you what, old Rough and Tough, the inquisitive part of yourcharacter is beginning to be--"

"Bother all this talking!"interrupted Mat, jumping up suddenly as he spoke, and taking a greasypack of cards from the chimney-piece. "I don't ask no questions, anddon't want no answers. Let's have a drop of grog and a turn-to atBeggar-my-Neighbor. Sixpence a time. Come on!"

They sat down at onceto their cards and their brandy-and-water; playing uninterruptedly foran hour or more. Zack won; and--being additionally enlivened by theinspiring influences of grog--rose to a higher and higher pitch ofexhilaration with every additional sixpence which his good luckextracted from his adversary's pocket. His gaiety seemed at last tocommunicate itself even to the imperturbable Mat, who in an interval ofshuffling the cards, was heard to deliver himself suddenly of one ofthose gruff chuckles, which have been already described as the nearestapproach he was capable of making towards a civilized laugh.

He wasso seldom in the habit of exhibiting any outward symptoms of hilarity,that Zack, who was dealing for the new game, stopped in astonishment,and inquired with great curiosity what it was his friend was "gruntingabout." At first, Mat declined altogether to say;--then, on beingpressed, admitted that his mind was just then running on the "oldwoman" Zack had spoken of; as having "suddenly fallen foul of him inMr. Blyth's house, because he wanted to give the young woman apresent:" which circumstance, Mat added, "so tickled his fancy, that hewould have paid a crown piece out of his pocket only to have seen andheard the whole squabble all through from beginning to end."

Zack,whose fancy was now exactly in the right condition to be "tickled" byanything that "tickled" his friend, seized in high glee the humorousside of the topic suggested to him; and immediately began describingpoor Mrs. Peckover's personal peculiarities in a strain of the mostridiculous exaggeration. Mat listened, as he went on, with suchadmiring attention, and seemed to be so astonishingly amused byeverything he said, that, in the excitement of success, he ran into thenext room, snatched the two pillows off the bed, fastened one in frontand the other behind him, tied the patchwork counterpane over all for apetticoat, and waddled back into his friend's presence, in thecharacter of fat Mrs. Peckover, as she appeared on the memorableevening when she stopped him mysteriously in the passage of Mr. Blyth'shouse.

Zack was really a good mimic; and he now hit off all thepeculiarities of Mrs. Peckover's voice, manner, and gait to the life--Matchuckling all the while, rolling his huge head from side to side,and striking his heavy fist applaudingly on the table. Encouraged bythe extraordinary effect his performances produced, Zack went throughthe whole of his scene with Mrs. Peckover in the passage, frombeginning to end; following that excellent woman through all thevarious mazes of "rhodomontade" in which she then bewildered herself,and imitating her terror when he threatened to run upstairs and ask Mr.Blyth if Madonna really had a hair bracelet, with such amazing accuracyand humor, as made Mat declare that what he had just beheld fornothing, would cure him of ever paying money again to see any regularplay-acting as long as he lived.

By the time young Thorpe had reachedthe climax of his improvised dramatic entertainment, he had sothoroughly exhausted himself that he was glad to throw aside thepillows and the counterpane, and perfectly ready to spend the rest ofthe evening quietly over the newspaper. His friend did not interrupthim by a word, except at the moment when he sat down; and then Matsaid, simply and carelessly enough, that he thought he should detectthe original Mrs. Peckover directly by Zack's imitation, if ever he metwith her in the streets. To which Young Thorpe merely replied that hewas not very likely to do anything of the sort; because Mrs. Peckoverlived at Rubbleford, where her husband had some situation, and whereshe herself kept a little dairy and muffin shop. "She don't come totown above once a-year," concluded Zack as he lit a cigar; "and thenthe old beauty stops in-doors all the time at Blyth's!"

Mat listenedto this answer attentively, but offered no further remark. He went intothe back room, where the water was, and busied himself in washing upall the spare crockery of the bachelor household in honor of Mr.Blyth's expected visit.

In process of time, Zack--on whom literatureof any kind, high or low, always acted more or less as a narcotic--grewdrowsy over his newspaper, let his grog get cold, dropped his cigar outof his mouth, and fell fast asleep in his chair. When he woke up,shivering, his watch had stopped, the candle was burning down in thesocket, the fire was out, and his fellow-lodger was not to be seeneither in the front or the back room. Young Thorpe knew his friend'sstrange fancy for "going out over night (as Mat phrased it) to catchthe morning the first thing in the fields" too well to be at allastonished at now finding himself alone. He moved away sleepily to bed,yawning out these words to himself:--"I shall see the old boy backagain as usual to-morrow morning as soon as I wake."

When the morningcame, this anticipation proved to be fallacious. The first objects thatgreeted Zack's eyes when he lazily awoke about eleven o'clock, were anarm and a letter, introduced cautiously through his partially openedbedroom door. Though by no means contemptible in regard to musculardevelopment, this was not the hairy and herculean arm of Mat. It wasonly the arm of the servant of all work, who held the barbarian lodgerin such salutary awe that she had never been known to venture her wholebody into the forbidden region of his apartments since he had firstinhabited them. Zack jumped out of bed and took the letter. It provedto be from Valentine, and summoned him to repair immediately to thepainter's house to see Mrs. Thorpe, who earnestly desired to speak withhim. His color changed as he read the few lines Mr. Blyth had written,and thought of the prospect of meeting his mother face to face for thefirst time since he had left his home. He hurried on his clothes,however, without a moment's delay, and went out directly--now walkingat the top of his speed, now running, in his anxiety not to appeardilatory or careless in paying obedience to the summons that had justreached him.

On arriving at the painter's house, he was shown intoone of the parlors on the ground floor; and there sat Mrs. Thorpe, withMr. Blyth to keep her company. The meeting between mother and son wascharacteristic on both sides. Without giving Valentine time enough toget from his chair to the door--without waiting an instant to ascertainwhat sentiments towards him were expressed in Mrs. Thorpe's face--withoutpaying the smallest attention to the damage he did to her capand bonnet--Zack saluted his mother with the old shower of heartykisses and the old boisterously affectionate hug of his nursery andschoolboy days. And she, poor woman, on her side, feebly faltered overher first words of reproof--then lost her voice altogether, pressedinto his hand a little paper packet of money that she had brought forhim, and wept on his breast without speaking another word. Thus it hadbeen with them long ago, when she was yet a young woman and he but aboy--thus, even as it was now in the latter and the sadder time!

Mrs.Thorpe was long in regaining the self-possession which she had lost onseeing her son for the first time since his flight from home. Zackexpressed his contrition over and over again, and many times reiteratedhis promise to follow the plan Mr. Blyth had proposed to him when theymet at the turnpike, before his mother became calm enough to speakthree words together without bursting into tears. When she at lastrecovered herself sufficiently to be able to address him with somecomposure, she did not speak, as he had expected, of his pastdelinquencies or of his future prospects, but of the lodging which hethen inhabited, and of the stranger whom he had suffered to become hisfriend. Although Mat's gallant rescue of "Columbus" had warmlypredisposed Valentine in his favor, the painter was too conscientiousto soften facts on that account, when he told Zack's mother where herson was now living, and what sort of companion he had chosen to lodgewith. Mrs. Thorpe was timid, and distrustful as all timid people are;and she now entreated him with nervous eagerness to begin his promisedreform by leaving Kirk Street, and at once dropping his dangerousintimacy with the vagabond stranger who lived there.

Zack defendedhis friend to his mother, exactly as he had already defended him toValentine--but without shaking her opinion, until he bethought himselfof promising that in this matter, as in all others, he would be finallyguided by the opinion of Mr. Blyth. The assurance so given, accompaniedas it was by the announcement that Valentine was about to form his ownjudgment of Mr. Marksman by visiting the house in Kirk Street that verynight, seemed to quiet and satisfy Mrs. Thorpe. Her last hopes for herson's future, now that she was forced to admit the sad necessity ofconniving at his continued absence from home, rested one and all on Mr.Blyth alone.

This first difficulty smoothed over, Zack asked with nolittle apprehension and anxiety, whether his father's anger showed anysymptoms of subsiding as yet. The question was an unfortunate one. Mrs.Thorpe's eyes began to fill with tears again, the moment she heard it.The news she had now to tell her son, in answering his inquiries, wasof a very melancholy and a very hopeless kind.

The attack ofpalpitations in the heart which had seized Mr. Thorpe on the day of hisson's flight from Baregrove Square, had been immediately andsuccessfully relieved by the medical remedies employed; but it had beenfollowed, within the last day or two, by a terrible depression ofspirits, under which the patient seemed to have given way entirely, andfor which the doctor was unable to suggest any speedy process of cure.Few in number at all times, Mr. Thorpe's words had now become fewerthan ever. His usual energy appeared to be gone altogether. He stillwent through all the daily business of the religious Societies to whichhe belonged, in direct opposition to the doctor's advice; but heperformed his duties mechanically, and without any apparent interest inthe persons or events with which he was brought in contact. He had onlyreferred to his son once in the last two days; and then it was not totalk of reclaiming him, not to ask where he had gone, but only todesire briefly and despairingly that his name might not be mentionedagain.

So far as Zack's interests or apprehensions were nowconcerned, there was, consequently no fear of any new collisionoccurring between his father and himself. When Mrs. Thorpe had told herhusband (after receiving Valentine's answer to her letter) that theirrunaway son was "in safe hands," Mr. Thorpe never asked, as she hadfeared he would, "What hands?" And again, when she hinted that it mightbe perhaps advisable to assist the lad to some small extent, as long ashe kept in the right way, and suffered himself to be guided by the"safe hands" already mentioned, still Mr. Thorpe made no objections andno inquiries, but bowed his head, and told her to do as she pleased: atthe same time whispering a few words to himself; which were not utteredloud enough for her to hear. She could only, therefore, repeat the sadtruth that, since his energies had given way, all his former plans andall his customary opinions, in reference to his son, seemed to haveundergone some disastrous and sudden alteration. It was only inconsequence of this alteration, which appeared to render him as unfitto direct her how to act as to act himself; that she had ventured toundertake the responsibility of arranging the present interview withZack, and of bringing him the small pecuniary assistance which Mr.Blyth had considered to be necessary in the present melancholyemergency.

The enumeration of all these particulars--interrupted, asit constantly was, by unavailing lamentations on one side and byuseless self-reproaches on the other--occupied much more time thaneither mother or son had imagined. It was not till the clock in Mr.Blyth's hall struck, that Mrs. Thorpe discovered how much longer herabsence from home had lasted than she had intended it should on leavingBaregrove Square. She rose directly, in great trepidation--took ahurried leave of Valentine, who was loitering about his frontgarden--sent the kindest messages she could think of to the ladiesabove stairs--and departed at once for home. Zack escorted her to theentrance of the square; and, on taking leave, showed the sincerity ofhis contrition in a very unexpected and desperate manner, by actuallyoffering to return home then and there with his mother, if she wishedit! Mrs. Thorpe's heart yearned to take him at his word, but sheremembered the doctor's orders and the critical condition of herhusband's health; and forced herself to confess to Zack that thefavorable time for his return had not yet arrived. After this--withmutual promises to communicate again soon through Valentine--theyparted very sadly, just at the entrance of Baregrove Square: Mrs.Thorpe hurrying nervously to her own door, Zack returning gloomily toMr. Blyth's house.

Meanwhile, how had Mat been occupyinghimself, since he had left his young friend alone in the lodging inKirk Street?

He had really gone out, as Zack had supposed, for one ofthose long night-walks of his, which usually took him well into thecountry before the first grey of daylight had spread far over the sky.On ordinary occasions, he only indulged in these oddly-timed pedestrianexcursions because the restless habits engendered by his vagabond life,made him incapable of conforming to civilized hours by spending theearliest part of the morning, like other people, inactively in bed. Onthis particular occasion, however, he had gone out with something likea special purpose; for he had left Kirk Street, not so much for thesake of taking a walk, as for the sake of thinking clearly and at hisease. Mat's brain was never so fertile in expedients as when he wasmoving his limbs freely in the open air.

Hardly a chance word haddropped from Zack that night which had not either confirmed him in hisresolution to possess himself of Valentine's Hair Bracelet, or helpedto suggest to him the manner in which his determination to obtain itmight be carried out. The first great necessity imposed on him by hispresent design, was to devise the means of secretly opening thepainter's bureau; the second was to hit on some safe method--should nochance opportunity occur--of approaching it unobserved. Mat hadremarked that Mr. Blyth wore the key of the bureau attached to hiswatch chain; and Mat had just heard from young Thorpe that Mr. Blythwas about to pay them a visit in Kirk Street. On the evening of thatvisit, therefore, the first of the two objects--the discovery of ameans of secretly opening the bureau--might, in some way, be attained.How?

This was the problem which Mat set off to solve to his ownperfect satisfaction, in the silence and loneliness of a long night'swalk.

In what precise number of preliminary mental entanglements heinvolved himself; before arriving at the desired solution, it would notbe very easy to say. As usual, his thoughts wandered every now and thenfrom his subject in the most irregular manner; actually straying away,on one occasion as far as the New World itself; and unintelligiblyoccupying themselves with stories he had heard, and conversations hehad held in various portions of that widely-extended sphere, withvagabond chance-comrades from all parts of civilized Europe. How hismind ever got back from these past times and foreign places to presentdifficulties and future considerations connected with the guest who wasexpected in Kirk Street, Mat himself would have been puzzled to tell.But it did eventually get back, nevertheless; and, what was still moreto the purpose, it definitely and thoroughly worked out the intricateproblem that had been set it to solve.

Not a whispered word of theplan he had now hit on dropped from Mat's lips, as, turning it this wayand that in his thoughts, he walked briskly back to town in the firstfresh tranquillity of the winter morning. Discreet as he was, however,either some slight practical hints of his present project must haveoozed out through his actions when he got back to London; or his notionof the sort of hospitable preparation which ought to be made for thereception of Mr. Blyth, was more barbarously and extravagantlyeccentric than all the rest of his notions put together.

Instead ofgoing home at once, when he arrived at Kirk Street, he stopped atcertain shops in the neighborhood to make some purchases whichevidently had reference to the guest of the evening; for the firstthings he bought were two or three lemons and a pound of loaf sugar. Sofar his proceedings were no doubt intelligible enough; but theygradually became more and more incomprehensible when he began to walkup and down two or three streets, looking about him attentively,stopping at every locksmith's and ironmonger's shop that he passed,waiting to observe all the people who might happen to be inside them,and then deliberately walking on again. In this way he approached, incourse of time, a very filthy little row of houses, with some veryill-looking male and female inhabitants visible in detached positions,staring out of windows or lingering about public-house doors.

Occupying the lower story of one of these houses was a small grimyshop, which, judging by the visible stock-in-trade, dealt on a muchlarger scale in iron and steel ware that was old and rusty, than iniron and steel ware that was new and bright. Before the counter nocustomer appeared; behind it there stood alone a squalid, bushy browed,hump-backed man, as dirty as the dirtiest bit of iron about him,sorting old nails. Mat, who had unintelligibly passed the doors ofrespectable ironmongers, now, as unintelligibly, entered this doubtfuland dirty shop; and addressed himself to the unattractive strangerbehind the counter. The conference in which the two immediately engagedwas conducted in low tones, and evidently ended to the satisfaction ofboth; for the squalid shopman began to whistle a tune as he resumed hissorting of the nails, and Mat muttered to himself; "That's all right,"as he came out on the pavement again.

His next proceeding--alwayssupposing that it had reference to the reception of Mr. Blyth--wasstill more mysterious. He went into one of those grocer's shops whichare dignified by the title of "Italian Warehouses," and bought a smalllump of the very best refined wax! After making this extraordinarypurchase, which he put into the pocket of his trousers, he next enteredthe public-house opposite his lodgings; and, in defiance of what Zackhad told him about Valentine's temperate habits, bought and broughtaway with him, not only a fresh bottle of Brandy, but a bottle of oldJamaica Rum besides.

Young Thorpe had not returned from Mr. Blyth'swhen Mat entered the lodgings with these purchases. He put the bottles,the sugar, and the lemons in the cupboard--cast a satisfied look at thethree clean tumblers and spoons already standing on the shelf--relaxedso far from his usual composure of aspect as to smile--lit the fire,and heaped plenty of coal on, to keep it alight--then sat down on hisbearskins--wriggled himself comfortably into the corner, and threw hishandkerchief over his face; chuckling gruffly for the first time sincethe past night, as he put his hand in his pockets, and so accidentallytouched the lump of wax that lay in one of them.

"Now I'm all readyfor the Painter-Man," growled Mat behind the handkerchief, as hequietly settled himself to go to sleep.

Like the vast majority of thosepersons who are favored by Nature with, what is commonly termed, "ahigh flow of animal spirits," Zack was liable, at certain times andseasons, to fall from the heights of exhilaration to the depths ofdespair, without stopping for a moment, by the way, at any intermediatestages of moderate cheerfulness, pensive depression, or tearful gloom.After he had parted from his mother, he presented himself again at Mr.Blyth's house, in such a prostrate condition of mind, and talked of hisdelinquencies and their effect on his father's spirits, with suchvehement bitterness of self-reproach, as quite amazed Valentine, andeven alarmed him a little on the lad's account. The good-naturedpainter was no friend to contrite desperation of any kind, and nobeliever in repentance, which could not look hopefully forward to thefuture, as well as sorrowfully back at the past. So he laid down hisbrush, just as he was about to begin varnishing the "Golden Age;" andset himself to console Zack, by reminding him of all the credit andhonor he might yet win, if he was regular in attending to his newstudies--if he never flinched from work at the British Museum, and theprivate Drawing School to which he was immediately to be introduced--andif he ended as he well might end, in excusing to his father hisdetermination to be an artist, by showing Mr. Thorpe a prize medal, wonby the industry of his son's hand in the Schools of the Royal Academy.

A necessary characteristic of people whose spirits are alwaysrunning into extremes, is that they are generally able to pass from onechange of mood to another with unusual facility. By the time Zack hadexhausted Mr. Blyth's copious stores of consolation, had partaken of anexcellent and plentiful hot lunch, and had passed an hour up stairswith the ladies, he predicted his own reformation just as confidentlyas be had predicted his own ruin about two hours before; and went awayto Kirk Street, to see that his friend Mat was at home to receiveValentine that evening, stepping along as nimbly and swinging his stickas cheerfully, as if he had already vindicated himself to his father bywinning every prize medal that the Royal Academy could bestow.

Seveno'clock had been fixed as the hour at which Mr. Blyth was to presenthimself at the lodgings in Kirk Street. He arrived punctual to theappointed time, dressed jauntily for the occasion in a short blue frockcoat, famous among all his acquaintances for its smartness of cut andits fabulous old age. From what Zack had told him of Mat's lighterpeculiarities of character, he anticipated a somewhat uncivilizedreception from the elder of his two hosts; and when he got to KirkStreet, he certainly found that his expectations were, upon the whole,handsomely realized.

On mounting the dark and narrow wooden staircaseof the tobacconist's shop, his nose was greeted by a composite smell offried liver and bacon, brandy and water, and cigar smoke, pouringhospitably down to meet him through the crevices of the drawing-roomdoor. When he got into the room, the first object that struck his eyesat one end of it, was Zack, with his hat on, vigorously engaged infreshening up the dusty carpet with a damp mop; and Mat, at the other,presiding over the frying-pan, with his coat off, his shirt sleevesrolled up to his shoulders, a glass of steaming hot grog on thechimney-piece above him, and a long pewter toasting-fork in his hand.

"Here's the honored guest of the evening arrived before I've swabbeddown the decks," cried Zack, jogging his friend in the ribs with thelong handle of the mop.

"How are you, to-night?" said Mat, withfamiliar ease, not moving from the frying-pan, but getting his righthand free to offer to Mr. Blyth by taking the pewter toasting-forkbetween his teeth. "Sit down anywhere you like; and just holler throughthe crack in the floor, under the bearskins there, if you want anythingout of the Bocker-shop, below."--("He means Tobacco when he saysBocker," interposed Zack, parenthetically.) "Can you set your teeth ina baked tater or two?" continued Mat, tapping a small Dutch oven beforethe fire with his toasting-fork. "We've got you a lot of fizzin' hotliver and bacon to ease down the taters with what you call a relish.Nice and streaky, ain't it?" Here the host of the evening stuck hisfork into a slice of bacon, and politely passed it over his shoulderfor Mr. Blyth to inspect, as he stood bewildered in the middle of theroom.

"Oh, delicious, delicious!" cried Valentine, smelling asdaintily at the outstretched bacon as if it had been a nosegay."Really, my dear sir--." He said no more; for at that moment he trippedhimself up upon one of some ten or a dozen bottle-corks which lay abouton the carpet where he was standing. There is very little doubt, ifZack had not been by to catch him, that Mr. Blyth would just then haveconcluded his polite remarks on the bacon by measuring his full lengthon the floor.

"Why don't you put him into a chair?" growled Mat,looking round reproachfully from the frying-pan, as Valentine recoveredhis erect position again with young Thorpe's assistance.

"I was justgoing to swab up that part of the carpet when you came in," said Zack,apologetically, as he led Mr. Blyth to a chair.

"Oh don't mentionit," answered Valentine, laughing. "It was all my awkwardness."

Hestopped abruptly again. Zack had placed him with his back to the fire,against a table covered with a large and dirty cloth which flowed tothe floor, and under which, while he was speaking, he had been gentlyendeavoring to insinuate his legs. Amazement bereft him of the power ofspeech when, on succeeding in this effort, he found that his feet camein contact with a perfect hillock of empty bottles, oyster-shells, andbroken crockery, heaped under the table. "Good gracious me! I hope I'mdoing no mischief!" exclaimed Valentine, as a miniature avalanche ofoyster-shells clattered down on his intruding foot, and a plump bottlewith a broken neck rolled lazily out from under the table-cloth, andcourted observation on the open floor.

"Kick about, dear old fellow,kick about as much as you please," cried Zack, seating himself oppositeMr. Blyth, and bringing down a second avalanche of oyster-shells toencourage him. "The fact is, we are rather put to it for space here, sowe keep the cloth always laid for dinner, and make a temporary lumber-roomof the place under the table. Rather a new idea that, I think--nottidy perhaps, but original and ingenious, which is much better."

"Amazingly ingenious!" said Valentine, who was now beginning to beamused as well as surprised by his reception in Kirk Street. "Ratheruntidy, perhaps, as you say, Zack; but new, and not disagreeable Isuppose when you're used to it. What I like about all this," continuedMr. Blyth, rubbing his hands cheerfully, and kicking into view anotherempty bottle, as he settled himself in his chair--"What I like aboutthis is, that it's so thoroughly without ceremony. Do you know I reallyfeel at home already, though I never was here before in my life?--Curious,Zack, isn't it?"

"Look out for the taters!" roared Matsuddenly from the fireplace. Valentine started, first at the unexpectedshout just behind him, next at the sight of a big truculently-knobbedpotato which came flying over his head, and was dexterously caught, andinstantly deposited on the dirty table-cloth by Zack. "Two, three,four, five, six," continued Mat, keeping the frying-pan going with onehand, and tossing the baked potatoes with the other over Mr. Blyth'shead, in quick succession for young Thorpe to catch. "What do you thinkof our way of dishing up potatoes in Kirk Street?" asked Zack in greattriumph. "It's a little sudden when you're not used to it," stammeredValentine, ducking his head as each edible missile flew over him--"butit's free and easy--it's delightfully free and easy." "Ready there withyour plates. The liver's a coming," cried Mat in a voice of martialcommand, suddenly showing his great red-hot perspiring face at thetable, as he wheeled round from the fire, with the hissing frying-panin one hand and the long toasting-fork in the other. "My dear sir, I'mshocked to see you taking all this trouble," exclaimed Mr. Blyth; "dopray let me help you!" "No, I'm damned if I do," returned Mat with themost polite suavity and the most perfect good humor. "Let him have allthe trouble, Blyth," said Zack; "let him help you, and don't pity him.He'll make up for his hard work, I can tell you, when he sets inseriously to his liver and bacon. Watch him when he begins--he boltshis dinner like the lion in the Zoological Gardens."

Mat appeared toreceive this speech of Zack's as a well-merited compliment, for hechuckled at young Thorpe and winked grimly at Valentine, as he sat downbare-armed to his own mess of liver and bacon. It was certainly a rareand even a startling sight to see this singular man eat. Lump by lump,without one intervening morsel of bread, he tossed the meat into hismouth rather than put it there--turned it apparently once round betweenhis teeth--and then voraciously and instantly swallowed it whole. Bythe time a quarter of Mr. Blyth's plateful of liver and bacon, and halfof Zack's had disappeared, Mat had finished his frugal meal; had wipedhis mouth on the back of his hand, and the back of his hand on the legof his trousers; had mixed two glasses of strong hot rum-and-water forhimself and Zack; and had set to work on the composition of a thirdtumbler, into which sugar, brandy, lemon-juice, rum, and hot water allseemed to drop together in such incessant and confusing littledriblets, that it was impossible to tell which ingredient was uppermostin the whole mixture. When the tumbler was full, he set it down on thetable, with an indicative bang, close to Valentine's plate.

"Just trya toothful of that to begin with," said Mat. "If you like it, say Yes;if you don't, say No; and I'll make it better next time."

"You arevery kind, very kind indeed," answered Mr. Blyth, eyeing the tumbler byhis side with some little confusion and hesitation; "but really, thoughI should be shocked to appear ungrateful, I'm afraid I must own--Zack,you ought to have told your friend--"

"So I did," said Zack, sippinghis rum-and-water with infinite relish.

"The fact is, my dear sir,"continued Valentine, "I have the most wretched head in the world forstrong liquor of any kind--"

"Don't call it strong liquor,"interposed Mat, emphatically tapping the rim of his guest's tumblerwith his fore-finger.

"Perhaps," pursued Mr. Blyth, with a politesmile, "I ought to have said grog."

"Don't call it grog," retortedMat, with two disputatious taps on the rim of the glass.

"Dear me!"asked Valentine, amazedly, "what is it then?"

"It's Squaw's Mixture,"answered Mat, with three distinct taps of asseveration.

Mr. Blyth andZack laughed, under the impression that their queer companion wasjoking with them. Mat looked steadily and sternly from one to theother; then repeated with the gruffest gravity--"I tell you, it'sSquaw's Mixture."

"What a very curious name! how is it made?" askedValentine.

"Enough Brandy to spile the Water. Enough Rum to spile theBrandy and Water. Enough Lemon to spile the Rum and Brandy and Water. Enough Sugar to spile everything. That's 'Squaw'sMixture,'" replied Mat with perfect calmness and deliberation.

Zackbegan to laugh uproariously. Mat became more inflexibly grave thanever. Mr. Blyth felt that he was growing interested on the subject ofthe Squaw's Mixture. He stirred it diffidently with his spoon, andasked with great curiosity how his host first learnt to make it.

"When I was out, over there, in the Nor'-West," began Mat, noddingtowards the particular point of the compass that he mentioned.

"Whenhe says Nor'-West, and wags his addled old head like that at thechimney-pots over the way, he means North America," Zack explained.

"When I was out Nor'-West," repeated Mat, heedless of the interruption,"working along with the exploring gang, our stock of liquor fell short,and we had to make the best of it in the cold with a spirt of spiritsand a pinch of sugar, drowned in more hot water than had ever got downthe throat of e'er a man of the lot of us before. We christened thebrew 'Squaw's Mixture,' because it was such weak stuff that even awoman couldn't have got drunk on it if she tried. Squaw means woman inthose parts, you know; and Mixture means--what you've got afore younow. I knowed you couldn't stand regular grog, and that's why I cookedit up for you. Don't keep on stirring of it with a spoon like that, oryou'll stir it away altogether. Try it."

"Let me try it--let'ssee how weak it is," cried Zack, reaching over to Valentine.

"Don'tyou go a-shoving of your oar into another man's rollocks," said Mat,dexterously knocking Zack's spoon out of his hand just as it touchedMr. Blyth's tumbler. "You stick to your grog; I'll stick to my grog; and he'll stick to Squaw's Mixture." With thosewords, Mat leant his bare elbows on the table, and watched Valentine'sfirst experimental sip with great curiosity.

The result was notsuccessful. When Mr. Blyth put down the tumbler, all the watery part ofthe Squaw's Mixture seemed to have got up into his eyes, and all thespirituous part to have stopped short at his lungs. He shook his head,coughed, and faintly exclaimed--"Too strong."

"Too hot you mean?"said Mat.

"No, indeed," pleaded poor Mr. Blyth, "I really meant toostrong."

"Try again," suggested Zack, who was far advanced towardsthe bottom of his own tumbler already. "Try again. Your liquor all wentthe wrong way last time."

"More sugar," said Mat, neatly tossing twolumps into the glass from where he sat. "More lemon (squeezing one ortwo drops of juice, and three or four pips, into the mixture). Morewater (pouring in about a tea-spoonful, with a clumsy flourish of thekettle). Try again."

"Thank you, thank you a thousand times. Really,do you know, it tastes much nicer now," said Mr. Blyth, beginningcautiously with a spoonful of the squaw's mixture at a time.

Mat'sspirits seemed to rise immensely at this announcement. He lit his pipe,and took up his glass of grog; nodded to Valentine and young Thorpe,just as he had nodded to the northwest point of the compass a minute ortwo before; muttered gruffly, "Here's all our good healths;" andfinished half his liquor at a draught.

"All our good healths!"repeated Mr. Blyth, gallantly attacking the squaw's mixture this timewithout any intermediate assistance from the spoon.

"All our goodhealths!" chimed in Zack, draining his glass to the bottom. "Really,Mat, it's quite bewildering to see how your dormant social qualitiesare waking up, now you're plunged into the vortex of society. What doyou say to giving a ball here next? You're just the man to get on withthe ladies, if you could only be prevailed on to wear your coat, andgive up airing your tawny old arms in public."

"Don't, my dear sir! Iparticularly beg you won't," cried Valentine, as Mat, apparentlyawakened to a sense of polite propriety by Zack's last hint, began tounroll one of his tightly-tucked-up shirt-sleeves. "Pray consult yourown comfort, and keep your sleeves as they were--pray do! As an artist,I have been admiring your arms from the professional point of view eversince we first sat down to table. I never remember, in all my longexperience of the living model, having met with such a splendidmuscular development as yours."

Saying those words, Mr. Blyth wavedhis hand several times before his host's arms, regarding them with hiseyes partially closed, and his head very much on one side, just as hewas accustomed to look at his pictures. Mat stared, smoked vehemently,folded the objects of Valentine's admiration over his breast, and,modestly scratching his elbows, looked at young Thorpe with anexpression of utter bewilderment. "Yes! decidedly the most magnificentmuscular development I ever remember studying," reiterated Mr. Blyth,drumming with his fingers on the table, and concentrating the whole ofhis critical acumen in one eye by totally closing the other.

"Hangit, Blyth!" remonstrated Zack, "don't keep on looking at his arms as ifthey were a couple of bits of prize beef! You may talk about hismuscular development as much as you please, but you can't have thesmallest notion of what it's really equal to till you try it. I say,old Rough-and-Tough! jump up, and show him how strong you are. Justlift him on your toe, like you did me. (Here Zack pulled Matunceremoniously out of his chair.) Come along, Blyth! Get opposite tohim--give him hold of your hand--stand on the toe part of his rightfoot--don't wriggle about--stiffen your hand and aim, and--there!--whatdo you say to his muscular development now?" concluded Zack, with anair of supreme triumph, as Mat slowly lifted from the ground the footon which Mr. Blyth was standing, and, steadying himself on his leftleg, raised the astonished painter with his right nearly two feet highin the air.

Any spectator observing the performance of this feat ofstrength, and looking only at Mat, might well have thought itimpossible that any human being could present a more comical aspectthan he now exhibited, with his black skull-cap pushed a little on oneside, and showing an inch or so of his bald head, with his grimly-grinningface empurpled by the violent physical exertion of the moment,and with his thick heavy figure ridiculously perched on one leg. Mr.Blyth, however, was beyond all comparison the more laughable object ofthe two, as he soared nervously into the air on Mat's foot, totteringinfirmly in the strong grasp that supported him, till he seemed to betrembling all over, from the tips of his crisp black hair to the flyingtails of his frock-coat. As for the expression of his round rosy face,with the bright eyes fixed in a startled stare, and the plump cheekscrumpled up by an uneasy smile, it was so exquisitely absurd, as youngThorpe saw it over his fellow-lodger's black skull-cap, that he roaredagain with laughter. "Oh! look up at him!" cried Zack, falling back inhis chair. "Look at his face, for heaven's sake, before you put himdown!"

But Mat was not to be moved by this appeal. All the attentionhis eyes could spare during those few moments, was devoted, not to Mr.Blyth's face but to Mr. Blyth's watch-chain. There hung the brightlittle key of the painter's bureau, dangling jauntily to and fro overhis waistcoat-pocket. As the right foot of the Sampson of Kirk Streethoisted him up slowly, the key swung temptingly backwards and forwardsbetween them. "Come take me! come take me!" it seemed to say, as Mat'seyes fixed greedily on it every time it dangled towards him.

"Wonderful! wonderful!" cried Mr. Blyth, looking excessively relievedwhen he found himself safely set down on the floor again.

"That'snothing to some of the things he can do," said Zack. "Look here! Putyourself stomach downwards on the carpet; and if you think thewaistband of your trousers will stand it, he'll take you up in histeeth."

"Thank you, Zack, I'm perfectly satisfied without risking thewaistband of my trousers," rejoined Valentine, returning in a greathurry to the table.

"The grog's getting cold," grumbled Mat. "Do youfind it slip down easy now?" he continued, handing the squaw's mixturein the friendliest manner to Mr. Blyth.

"Astonishingly easy!"answered Valentine, drinking this time almost with the boldness of Zackhimself. "Now it's cooler, one tastes the sugar. Whenever I've tried todrink regular grog, I have never been able to get people to give it mesweet enough. The delicious part of this is that there's plenty ofsugar in it. And, besides, it has the merit (which real grog has not)of being harmless. It tastes strong to me, to be sure; but then I'm notused to spirits. After what you say, however, of course it must beharmless--perfectly harmless, I have no doubt." Here he sipped again,pretty freely this time, by way of convincing himself of the innocentweakness of the squaw's mixture.

While Mr. Blyth had been speaking,Mat's hands had been gradually stealing down deeper and deeper into thepockets of his trousers, until his finger and thumb, and a certainplastic substance hidden away in the left-hand pocket came gently intocontact, just as Valentine left off speaking. "Let's have anothertoast," cried Mat, quite briskly, the instant the last word was out ofhis guest's mouth. "Come on, one of you and give us another toast," hereiterated, with a roar of barbarous joviality, taking up his glass inhis right hand, and keeping his left still in his pocket.

"Give youanother toast, you noisy old savage!" repeated Zack, "I'll give you five, all at once! Mr. Blyth, Mrs. Blyth, Madonna, Columbus, andThe Golden Age--three excellent people and two glorious pictures; let'slump them all together, in a friendly way, and drink long life andsuccess to them in beakers of fragrant grog!" shouted the younggentleman, making perilously rapid progress through his second glass,as he spoke.

"Do you know, I'm afraid I must change to some otherplace, if you have no objection," said Mr. Blyth, after he had dulyhonored the composite toast just proposed. "The fire here, behind me,is getting rather too hot."

"Change along with me," said Mat. "Idon't mind heat, nor cold neither, for the matter of that."

Valentineaccepted this offer with great gratitude. "By-the-bye, Zack," he said,placing himself comfortably in his host's chair, between the table andthe wall--"I was going to ask a favor of our excellent friend here,when you suggested that wonderful and matchless trial of strength whichwe have just had. You have been of such inestimable assistance to mealready, my dear sir," he continued, turning towards Mat, with all hisnatural cordiality of disposition now fully developed, under thefostering influence of the Squaw's Mixture. "You have laid me undersuch an inexpressible obligation in saving my picture fromdestruction--"

"I wish you could make up your mind to say what youwant in plain words," interrupted Mat. "I'm one of your rough-handed,thick-headed sort, I am. I'm not gentleman enough to understandparlarver. It don't do me no good: it only worrits me into aperspiration." And Mat, shaking down his shirt-sleeve, drew it severaltimes across his forehead, as a proof of the truth of his lastassertion.

"Quite right! quite right!" cried Mr. Blyth, patting himon the shoulder in the most friendly manner imaginable. "In plainwords, then, when I mentioned, just now, how much I admired your armsin an artistic point of view, I was only paving the way for asking youto let me make a drawing of them, in black and white, for a largepicture that I mean to paint later in the year. My classical figurecomposition, you know, Zack--you have seen the sketch--Herculesbringing to Eurystheus the Erymanthian boar--a glorious subject; andour friend's arms, and, indeed, his chest, too, if he would kindlyconsent to sit for it, would make the very studies I most want forHercules."

"What on earth is he driving at?" asked Mat,addressing himself to young Thorpe, after staring at Valentine for amoment or two in a state of speechless amazement.

"He wants to drawyour arms--of course you will be only too happy to let him--you can'tunderstand anything about it now--but you will when you begin to sit--passthe cigars--thank Blyth for meaning to make a Hercules of you-andtell him you'll come to the painting-room whenever he likes," answeredZack, joining his sentences together in his most offhand manner, all ina breath.

"What painting-room? Where is it?" asked Mat, still in adensely stupefied condition.

"My painting-room," replied Valentine."Where you saw the pictures, and saved Columbus, yesterday."

Matconsidered for a moment--then suddenly brightened up, and began to lookquite intelligent again. "I'll come," he said, "as soon as you like--thesooner the better," clapping his fist emphatically on the table,and drinking to Valentine with his heartiest nod.

"That's a worthy,good-natured fellow!" cried Mr. Blyth, drinking to Mat in return, withgrateful enthusiasm. "The sooner the better, as you say. Come to-morrowevening."

"All right. To-morrow evening," assented Mat. His lefthand, as he spoke, began to work stealthily round and round in hispocket, molding into all sorts of strange shapes, that plasticsubstance, which had lain hidden there ever since his shoppingexpedition in the morning.

"I should have asked you to come in theday-time," continued Valentine; "but, as you know, Zack, I have theGolden Age to varnish, and one or two little things to alter in thelower part of Columbus; and then, by the latter end of the week, I mustleave home to do those portraits in the country which I told you of,and which are wanted before I thought they would be. You will come withour friend, of course, Zack? I dare say I shall have the order for youto study at the British Museum, by to-morrow. As for the PrivateDrawing Academy--"

"No offense; but I can't stand seeing you stirringup them grounds in the bottom of your glass any longer," Mat broke inhere; taking away Mr. Blyth's tumbler as he spoke, throwing thesediment of sugar, the lemon pips, and the little liquor left to coverthem, into the grate behind; and then, hospitably devoting himself tothe concoction of a second supply of that palatable and innocuousbeverage, the Squaw's Mixture.

"Half a glass," cried Mr. Blyth."Weak--remember my wretched head for drinking, and pray make it weak."

As he spoke, the clock of the neighboring parish church struck.

"Only nine," exclaimed Zack, referring ostentatiously to the watchwhich he had taken out of pawn the day before. "Pass the rum, Mat, assoon as you've done with it--put the kettle on to boil--and now, mylads, we'll begin spending the evening in earnest!"

If any fourth gentleman had been present to assist in"spending the evening," as Zack chose to phrase it, at the small socialsoirée in Kirk Street; and if that gentleman had desertedthe festive board as the clock struck nine--had walked about thestreets to enjoy himself in the fresh air--and had then, as the clockstruck ten, returned to the society of his convivial companions, hewould most assuredly have been taken by surprise, on beholding thesingular change which the lapse of one hour had been sufficient toproduce in the manners and conversation of Mr. Valentine Blyth.

Itmight have been that the worthy and simple-hearted gentleman had beenunduly stimulated by the reek of hot grog, which in harmoniousassociation with a heavy mist of tobacco smoke, now filled the room; orit might have been that the second brew of the Squaw's Mixture hadexceeded half a glassful in quantity, had not been diluted to therequisite weakness, and had consequently got into his head; but,whatever the exciting cause might be, the alteration that had takenplace since nine o'clock, in his voice, looks, and manners, wasremarkable enough to be of the nature of a moral phenomenon. He nowtalked incessantly about nothing but the fine arts; he differed withboth his companions, and loftily insisted on his own superior sagacity,whenever either of them ventured to speak a word; he was by turns asnoisy as Zack, and as gruff as Mat; his hair was crumpled down over hisforehead, his eyes were dimmed, his shirt collar was turned rakishlyover his cravat: in short, he was not the genuine Valentine Blyth atall,--he was only a tipsy counterfeit of him.

As for young Thorpe,any slight steadiness of brain which he might naturally possess, he hadlong since parted with, as a matter of course, for the rest of theevening. Mat alone remained unchanged. There he sat, reckless of theblazing fire behind him, still with that left hand of his droppingstealthily every now and then into his pocket; smoking, drinking, andstaring at his two companions, just as gruffly self-possessed as ever.

"There's ten," muttered Mat, as the clock struck. "I said we shouldbe getting jolly by ten. So we are."

Zack nodded his head solemnly,and stared hard at one of the empty bottles on the floor, which hadrolled out from the temporary store-room under the table.

"Hold yourtongues, both of you!" cried Mr. Blyth. "I insist on clearing up thatdisputed point about whether artists are not just as hardy and strongas other men. I'm an artist myself, and I say they are. I'll agree withyou in everything else; for you're the two best fellows in the world;but if you say a word against artists, I'm your enemy for life. You maytalk to me, by the hour together about admirals, generals, and primeministers--I mention the glorious names of Michael Angelo and Raphael;and down goes your argument directly. When Michael Angelo's nose wasbroken do you think he minded it? Look in his Life, and see if he did--that'sall! Ha! ha! My painting-room is forty feet long (now this is animportant proof). While I was painting Columbus and the Golden Age, onewas at one end--north; and the other at the other--south. Very good. Iwalked backwards and forwards between those two pictures incessantly;and never sat down all day long. This is a fact--and the proof is, thatI worked on both of them at once. A touch on Columbus--a walk into themiddle of the room to look at the effect--turn round--walk up to TheGolden Age opposite--a touch on The Golden Age--another walk into themiddle of the room to look at the effect-another turn round--and backagain to Columbus. Fifteen miles a-day of in-door exercise, accordingto the calculation of a mathematical friend of mine; and notincluding the number of times I had to go up and down my portablewooden steps to get at the top parts of Columbus. Isn't a man hardy andstrong who can stand that? Ha! ha! Just feel my legs, Zack. Are theyhard and muscular, or are they not?"

Here Mr. Blyth, rapping youngThorpe smartly on the head with his spoon, tried to skip out of hischair as nimbly as usual; but only succeeded in floundering awkwardlyinto an upright position, after he had knocked down his plate with allthe greasy remains of the liver and bacon on it. Zack roused himselffrom muddled meditation with a start; and, under pretense of obeyinghis friend's injunction, pinched Valentine's leg with such vigorousmalice, that the painter fairly screamed again under the infliction.All this time Mat sat immovably serene in his place next to the fire.He just kicked Mr. Blyth's broken plate, with the scraps of liver andbacon, and the knife and fork that had fallen with them, into thetemporary storeroom under the table--and then pushed towards himanother glass of the squaw's mixture, quietly concocted while he hadbeen talking.

The effect on Valentine of this hospitable actionproved to be singularly soothing and beneficial. He had been gettinggradually more and more disputatious for the last ten minutes; but themoment the steaming glass touched his hand, it seemed to change hismood with the most magical celerity. As he looked down at it, and feltthe fragrant rum steaming softy into his nostrils, his face expanded,and while his left hand unsteadily conveyed the tumbler to his lips,his right reached across the table and fraternally extended itself toMat. "My dear friend," said Mr. Blyth affectionately, "how kind youare! Pray how do you make the Squaw's mixture?"

"I say, Mat, leaveoff smoking, and tell us something," interposed Zack. "Bowl away atonce with one of your tremendous stories, or Blyth will be braggingagain about his rickety old legs. Talk, man! Tell us your famous storyof how you lost your scalp."

Mat laid down his pipe, and for a momentlooked very attentively at Mr. Blyth--then, with the mostuncharacteristic readiness and docility, began his story at once,without requiring another word of persuasion. In general, the veryreverse of tedious when he related any experiences of his own, heseemed, on this occasion, perversely bent on letting his narrative oozeout to the most interminable length. Instead of adhering to theabridged account of his terrible adventure, which he had given Zackwhen they first talked together on Blackfriars Bridge, he now dweltdrowsily on the minutest particulars of the murderous chase that had sonearly cost him his life, enumerating them one after the other in thesame heavy droning voice which never changed its tone in the slightestdegree as he went on. After about ten minutes' endurance of thenarrative-infliction which he had himself provoked, young Thorpe wasjust beginning to feel a sensation of utter oblivion stealing over him,when a sound of lusty snoring close at his back startled him intoinstant wakefulness. He looked round. There was Mr. Blyth placidly andprofoundly asleep, with his mouth wide open and his head restingagainst the wall.

"Stop!" whispered Mat, as Zack seized on a half-squeezed lemon and took aim at Valentine's mouth. "Don't wake him yet.What do you say to some oysters?"

"Give us a dish, and I'll showyou," returned young Thorpe. "Sally's in bed by this time--I'll fetchthe oysters myself from over the way. But, I say, I must have afriendly shot with something or other, at dear old Blyth's gapingmouth."

"Try him with an oyster, when you come back," said Mat,producing from the cupboard behind him a large yellow pie-dish. "Go on!I'll see you down stairs, and leave the candle on the landing, and thedoor on the jar, so as you can get in quietly. Steady, young 'un! andmind the dish when you cross the road." With these words Mat dismissedZack from the street-door to the oyster shop; and then returnedimmediately to his guest upstairs.

Valentine was still fast asleepand snoring vehemently. Mat's hand descended again into his pocket,reappearing, however, quickly enough on this occasion, with the pieceof wax which he had purchased that morning. Steadying his arms coollyon the table, he detached the little chain which held the key of Mr.Blyth's bureau, from the watchguard to which it was fastened, took offon his wax a perfect impression of the whole key from the pipe to thehandle, attached it again to the sleeper's watchguard, pared away therough ends of the piece of wax till it fitted into an old tin tobacco-boxwhich he took from the chimney-piece, pocketed this box, and thenquietly resumed his original place at the table.

"Now," said Mat,looking at the unconscious Mr. Blyth, after he had lit his pipe again;"Now, Painter-Man! wake up as soon as you like."

It was not longbefore Zack returned. A violent bang of the street-door announced hisentry into the passage--a confused clattering and stumbling marked hisprogress up stairs--a shrill crash, a heavy thump, and a shout oflaughter indicated his arrival on the landing. Mat ran out directly,and found him prostrate on the floor, with the yellow pie-dish inhalves at the bottom of the stairs, and dozens of oyster.-shellsscattered about him in every direction.

"Hurt?" inquired Mat, pullinghim up by the collar, and dragging him into the room.

"Not a bit ofit," answered Zack. "I've woke Blyth, though (worse luck!) and spoiltour shot with the oyster, havn't I? Oh, Lord! how he stares!"

Valentine certainly did stare. He was standing up, leaning against thewall, and looking about him in a woefully dazed condition. Either hisnap, or the alarming manner in which he had been awakened from it, hadproduced a decided change for the worst in him. As he slowly recoveredwhat little sense he had left to make use of, all his talkativeness andcordiality seemed to desert him. He shook his head mournfully; refusedto eat or drink anything; declared with sullen solemnity, that hisdigestion was "a perfect wreck in consequence of his keeping drunkensociety;" and insisted on going home directly, in spite of everythingthat Zack could say to him. The landlord, who had been brought from hisshop below by the noise, and who thought it very desirable to take thefirst opportunity that offered of breaking up the party before any moregrog was consumed, officiously ran down stairs, and called a cab--theresult of this maneuver proving in the sequel to be what thetobacconist desired. The moment the sound of wheels was heard at thedoor, Mr. Blyth clamored peremptorily for his hat and coat; and, aftersome little demur, was at last helped into the cab in the most friendlyand attentive manner by Mat himself.

"Just see the lights outupstairs, and the young 'un in bed, will ye?" said Mat to his landlord,as they stood together on the door-step. "I'm going to blow some of thesmoke out of me by taking a turn in the fresh air."

He walked awaybriskly, as he said the last words; but when he got to the end of thestreet, instead of proceeding northwards towards the country, and thecool night-breeze that was blowing from it, he perversely turnedsouthwards towards the filthiest little lanes and courts in the wholeneighborhood.

Stepping along at a rapid pace, he directed his coursetowards that particular row of small and vile houses which he hadalready visited early in the day; and stopped, as before, at thesecond-hand iron shop. It was shut up for the night; but a dim light,as of one farthing candle, glimmered through the circular holes in thetops of the shutters; and when Mat knocked at the door with hisknuckles; it was opened immediately by the same hump-backed shopmanwith whom he had conferred in the morning.

"Got it?" asked the hunch-backin a cracked querulous voice the moment the door was ajar.

"Allright," answered Mat in his gruffest bass tones, handing to the littleman the tin tobacco-box.

"We said to-morrow evening, didn't we?"continued the squalid shopman.

"Not later than six," added Mat.

"Not later than six," repeated the other, shutting the door softly ashis customer walked away--northward this time--to seek the fresh air ingood earnest.

"Hit or miss, I'll chance it to-night" Those words were the firstthat issued from Mat's lips on the morning after Mr. Blyth's visit, ashe stood alone amid the festive relics of the past evening, in thefront room at Kirk Street. "To-night," he repeated to himself, as hepulled off his coat and prepared to make his toilette for the day in apail of cold water, with the assistance of a short bar of wholesomeyellow soap.

Though it was still early, his mind had been employedfor some hours past in considering how the second and only difficulty,which now stood between him and the possession of the Hair Bracelet,might best be overcome. Having already procured the first requisite forexecuting his design, how was he next to profit by what he had gained?Knowing that the false key would be placed in his hands that evening,how was he to open Mr. Blyth's bureau without risking discovery by theowner, or by some other person in the house?

To this importantquestion he had as yet found no better answer than was involved in thewords he had just whispered to himself, while preparing for his morningablutions. As for any definite plan, by which to guide himself; he wasdesperately resigned to trust for the discovery of it to the firstlucky chance which might be brought about by the events of the day. "Ishould like though to have one good look by daylight round that placethey call the Painting Room," thought Mat, plunging his face into twohandsful of hissing soap-suds.

He was still vigorously engaged overthe pail of cold water, when a loud yawn, which died away graduallyinto a dreary howl, sounded from the next room, and announced that Zackwas awake. In another minute the young gentleman appeared gloomily, inhis night gown, at the folding doors by which the two roomscommunicated. His eyes looked red-rimmed and blinking, his cheeksmottled and sodden, his hair tangled and dirty. He had one hand to hisforehead, and groaning with the corners of his mouth lamentably drawndown, exhibited a shocking and salutary picture of the consequences ofexcessive conviviality.

"Oh Lord, Mat!" he moaned, "my head's comingin two."

"Souse it in a pail of cold water, and walk off what youcan't get rid of; after that, along with me," suggested his friend.

Zack wisely took this advice. As they left Kirk Street for their walk,Mat managed that they should shape their course so as to passValentine's house on their way to the fields. As he had anticipated,young Thorpe proposed to call in for a minute, to see how Mr. Blyth wasafter the festivities of the past night, and to ascertain if he stillremained in the same mind about making the drawing of Mat's arms thatevening.

"I suspect you didn't brew the Squaw's Mixture half as weakas you told us you did," said Zack slily, when they rang at the bell."It wasn't a bad joke for once in a way. But really, Blyth is such agood kind-hearted fellow, it seems too bad--in short, don't let's do itnext time, that's all!"

Mat gruffly repudiated the slightestintention of deceiving their guest as to the strength of the liquor hehad drunk. They went into the Painting Room, and found Mr. Blyth there,pale and penitent, but manfully preparing to varnish The Golden Age,with a very trembling hand, and a very headachy contraction of theeyebrows.

"Ah, Zack, Zack! I ought to lecture you about last night,"said Valentine; "but I have no right to say a word, for I was much theworst of the two. I'm wretchedly ill this morning, which is just what Ideserve; and heartily ashamed of myself, which is only what I ought tobe. Look at my hand! It's all in a tremble like an old man's. Not athimbleful of spirits shall ever pass my lips again: I'll stick tolemonade and tea for the rest of my life. No more Squaw's Mixture forme! Not, my dear sir," continued Valentine, addressing Mat, who hadbeen quietly stealing a glance at the bureau, while the painter wasspeaking to young Thorpe. "Not, my dear sir, that I think of blamingyou, or doubt for a moment that the drink you kindly mixed for me wouldhave been considered quite weak and harmless by people with strongerheads than mine. It was all my own fault, my own want of properthoughtfulness and caution. If I misconducted myself last night, as Iam afraid I did, pray make allowances--"

"Nonsense!" cried Zack,seeing that Mat was beginning to fidget away from Valentine, instead ofreturning an answer. "Nonsense! you were glorious company. We werethree choice spirits, and you were number One of the social Trio. Awaywith Melancholy! Do you still keep in the same mind about drawing Mat'sarms? He will be delighted to come, and so shall I; and we'll all getvirtuously uproarious this time, on toast-and-water and tea."

"Ofcourse I keep in the same mind," returned Mr. Blyth. "I had my sensesabout me, at any rate, when I invited you and your friend here to-night. Not that I shall be able to do much, I am afraid, in the way ofdrawing--for a letter has come this morning to hurry me into thecountry. Another portrait-job has turned up, and I shall have to startto-morrow. However, I can get in the outline of your friend's armsto-night, and leave the rest to be done when I come back--Shall I takethat sketch down for you, my dear sir, to look at close?" continuedValentine, suddenly raising his voice, and addressing himself to Mat."I venture to think it one of my most contentious studies from actualnature."

While Mr. Blyth and Zack had been whispering together, Mathad walked away from them quietly towards one end of the room, and wasnow standing close to a door, lined inside with sheet iron, havingbolts at top and bottom, and leading down a flight of steps from thestudio into the back garden. Above this door hung a large chalk sketchof an old five-barred gate, being the identical study from nature,which, as Valentine imagined, was at that moment the special object ofinterest to Mat.

"No, no! don't trouble to get the sketch now," saidZack, once more answering for his friend. "We are going out to getfreshened up by a long walk, and can't stop. Now then, Mat; what onearth are you staring at? The garden door, or the sketch of thefive-barred gate?"

"The picter, in course," answered Mat, with unusualquickness and irritability.

"It shall be taken down for you to lookat close to-night," said Mr. Blyth, delighted by the impression whichthe five-barred gate seemed to have produced on the new visitor.

Onleaving Mr. Blyth's, young Thorpe and his companion turned down a lanepartially built over, which led past Valentine's back garden wall. Thiswas their nearest way to the fields and to the high road into thecountry beyond. Before they had taken six steps down the lane, Mat, whohad been incomprehensibly stolid and taciturn inside the house, becamejust as incomprehensibly curious and talkative all on a sudden outsideit.

In the first place, he insisted on mounting some planks lyingunder Valentine's wall (to be used for the new houses that were beingbuilt in the lane), and peeping over to see what sort of garden thepainter had. Zack summarily pulled him down from his elevation by thecoat-tails, but not before his quick eye had traveled over the garden;had ascended the steps leading from it to the studio; and had risenabove them as high as the brass handle of the door by which they wereapproached from the painting-room.

In the second place, when he hadbeen prevailed on to start fairly for the walk, Mat began to askquestions with the same pertinacious inquisitiveness which he hadalready displayed on the day of the picture-show. He set out withwanting to know whether there were to be any strange visitors at Mr.Blyth's that evening; and then, on being reminded that Valentine hadexpressly said at parting, "Nobody but ourselves," asked if they werelikely to see the painter's wife downstairs. After the inquiry had ofnecessity been answered in the negative, he went on to a thirdquestion, and desired to know whether "the young woman" (as hepersisted in calling Madonna) might be expected to stay upstairs withMrs. Blyth, or to show herself occasionally in the painting-room. Zackanswered this inquiry also in the negative--with a runningaccompaniment of bad jokes, as usual. Madonna, except underextraordinary circumstances, never came down into the studio in theevening, when Mr. Blyth had company there.

Satisfied on these points,Mat now wanted to know at what time Mr. Blyth and his family wereaccustomed to go to bed; and explained, when Zack expressedastonishment at the inquiry, that he had only asked this question inorder to find out the hour at which it would be proper to take leave oftheir host that night. On hearing this, young Thorpe answered asreadily and carelessly as usual, that the painter's family were earlypeople, who went to bed before eleven o'clock; adding, that it was, ofcourse, particularly necessary to leave the studio in good time on theoccasion referred to, because Valentine would most probably start forthe country next day, by one of the morning trains.

Mat's nextquestion was preceded by a silence of a few minutes. Possibly he wasthinking in what terms he might best put it. If this were the case, hecertainly decided on using the briefest possible form of expression,for when he spoke again, he asked in so many words, what sort of awoman the painter's wife was.

Zack characteristically answered theinquiry by a torrent of his most superlative eulogies on Mrs. Blyth;and then, passing from the lady herself to the chamber that sheinhabited, wound up with a magnificent and exaggerated description ofthe splendor of her room.

Mat listened to him attentively; then saidhe supposed Mrs. Blyth must be fond of curiosities, and all sorts of"knick-knack things from foreign parts." Young Thorpe not only answeredthe question in the affirmative, but added, as a private expression ofhis own opinion, that he believed these said curiosities and"knick-knacks" had helped, in their way, to keep her alive by keepingher amused. From this, he digressed to a long narrative of poor Mrs.Blyth's first illness; and having exhausted that sad subject at last,ended by calling on his friend to change the conversation to some lessmournful topic.

But just at this point, it seemed that Mat wasperversely determined to let himself lapse into another silent fit. Henot only made no attempt to change the conversation, but entirelyceased asking questions; and, indeed, hardly uttered another word ofany kind, good or bad. Zack, after vainly trying to rally him intotalking, lit a cigar in despair, and the two walked on togethersilently--Mat having his hands in his pockets, keeping his eyes bent onthe ground, and altogether burying himself, as it were, from the outerworld, in the inner-most recesses of a deep brown study.

As theyreturned, and got near Kirk Street, Mat gradually began to talk again,but only on indifferent subjects; asking no more questions about Mr.Blyth, or any one else. They arrived at their lodgings at half-pastfive o'clock. Zack went into the bed-room to wash his hands. While hewas thus engaged, Mat opened that leather bag of his which has beenalready described as lying in the corner with the bear-skins, andtaking out the feather-fan and the Indian tobacco-pouch, wrapped themup separately in paper. Having done this, he called to Zack; and,saying that he was about to step over to the shaving shop to get hisface scraped clean before going to Mr. Blyth's, left the house with histwo packages in his hand.

"If the worst comes to the worst, I'llchance it to-night with the garden-door," said Mat to himself, as hetook the first turning that led towards the second-hand iron shop."This will do to get rid of the painter-man with. And this will sendZack after him," he added, putting first the fan and then the tobacco-pouchinto separate pockets of his coat. A cunning smile hovered abouthis lips for a moment, as he disposed of his two packages in thismanner; but it passed away again almost immediately, and was succeededby a curious contraction and twitching of the upper part of his face.He began muttering once again that name of "Mary," which had been oftenon his lips lately; and quickened his pace mechanically, as it wasalways his habit to do when anything vexed or disturbed him.

When hereached the shop, the hunchback was at the door, with the tin tobacco-boxin his hand. On this occasion, not a single word was exchangedbetween the two. The squalid shopman, as the customer approached,rattled something significantly inside the box, and then handed it toMat; and Mat put his finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket,winked, nodded, and handed some money to the squalid shopman. The briefceremony of giving and taking thus completed, these two originalsturned away from each other without a word of farewell; the hunchbackreturning to the counter, and his customer proceeding to the shavingshop.

Mat opened the box for an instant, on his way to the barber's;and, taking out the false key, (which, though made of baser metal, wasalmost as bright as the original), put it carefully into his waistcoatpocket. He then stopped at an oil and candle shop, and bought a waxtaper and a box of matches. "The garden door's safest: I'll chance itwith the garden-door," thought Mat, as he sat down in the shaving-shopchair, and ordered the barber to operate on his chin.

Punctually atseven o'clock Mr. Blyth's visitors rang at his bell.

When theyentered the studio, they found Valentine all ready for them, with hisdrawing-board at his side, and his cartoon-sketch for the proposed newpicture of Hercules bringing to King Eurystheus the Erymanthian Boar,lying rolled up at feet. He said he had got rid of his headache, andfelt perfectly well now; but Zack observed that he was not in his goodspirits. Mat, on his side, observed nothing but the garden door,towards which he lounged carelessly as soon as the first salutationswere over.

"This way, my dear sir," said Valentine, walking afterhim. "I have taken down the drawing you were so good as to admire thismorning, as I said I would. Here it is on this painting-stand, if youwould like to look at it."

Mat, whose first glance at the garden doorhad assured him that it was bolted and locked for the night, wheeledround immediately: and, to Mr. Blyth's great delight, inspected thesketch of the old five-barred gate with the most extraordinary andflattering attention. "Wants doing up, don't it?" said Mat, referringto the picturesquely-ruinous original of the gate represented. "Yes,indeed," answered Valentine, thinking he spoke of the creased andragged condition of the paper on which the sketch was made; "a morselof paste and a sheet of fresh paper to stretch it on, would make quiteanother thing of it." Mat stared. "Paste and paper for a five-barredgate? A nice carpenter you would make!" he felt inclined to say.Zack, however, spoke at that moment: so he left the sketch, and wiselyheld his tongue.

"Now, then, Mat, strip to your chest, and put yourarms in any position Blyth tells you. Remember, you are going to bedrawn as Hercules; and mind you look as if you were bringing theErymanthian Boar to King Eurystheus, for the rest of the evening," saidyoung Thorpe, composedly warming himself at the fire.

While Matawkwardly, and with many expressions of astonishment at the strangepiece of service required from him by his host, divested himself of hisupper garments, Valentine unrolled on the floor the paper cartoon ofhis classical composition; and, having refreshed his memory from it,put his model forthwith into the position of Hercules, with a chair tohold instead of an Erymanthian Boar, and Zack to look at as the onlyavailable representative of King Eurystheus. This done, Mr. Blythwasted some little time, as usual, before he began to work, in lookingfor his drawing materials. In the course of his search over thelittered studio table, he accidentally laid his hand on two envelopeswith enclosures, which, after examining the addresses, he gaveimmediately to young Thorpe.

"Here, Zack," he said, "these belong toyou. The large envelope contains your permission to draw at the BritishMuseum. The small one has a letter of introduction inside, presentingyou, with my best recommendations, to my friend, Mr. Strather, a verypleasing artist, and the Curator of an excellent private DrawingAcademy. You had better call tomorrow, before eleven. Mr. Strather willgo with you to the Museum, and show you how to begin, and willintroduce you to his drawing academy the same evening. Pray, pray,Zack, be steady and careful. Remember all you have promised your motherand me; and show us that you are now really determined to study the Artin good earnest."

Zack expressed great gratitude for his friend'skindness, and declared, with the utmost fervor of voice and manner,that he would repair all his past faults by unflagging future industryas a student of Art. After a little longer delay Valentine at lastcollected his drawing materials, and fairly began to work; Matdisplaying from the first the most extraordinary and admirablesteadiness as a model. But, while the work of the studio thus proceededwith all the smoothness and expedition that could be desired, theincidental conversation by no means kept pace with it. In spite of allthat young Thorpe could say or do, the talk lagged more and more, andgrew duller and duller. Valentine was evidently out of spirits, and theHercules of the evening had stolidly abandoned himself to the mostinveterate silence. At length Zack gave up all further effort to besociable, and left the painting-room to go up stairs and visit theladies. Mat looked after him as he quitted the studio, and seemed aboutto speak--then glancing aside at the bureau, checked himself suddenly,and did not utter a word.

Mr. Blyth's present depression of spiritswas not entirely attributable to a certain ominous reluctance to leavehome, which he had been vainly trying to shake off since the morning.He had a secret reason for his uneasiness which happened to beintimately connected with the model, whose Herculean chest and arms hewas now busily engaged in drawing.

The plain fact was, that Mr.Blyth's tender conscience smote him sorely, when he remembered thetrust Mrs. Thorpe placed in his promised supervision over her son, andwhen he afterwards reflected that he still knew as little of Zack'sstrange companion, as Zack did himself. His visit to Kirk Street,undertaken for the express purpose of guarding the lad's best interestsby definitely ascertaining who Mr. Mathew Marksman really was, hadended in--what he was now ashamed to dwell over, or even to call tomind. "Dear, dear me!" thought Mr. Blyth, while he worked away silentlyat the outline of his drawing, "I ought to find out whether this veryfriendly, good-natured, and useful man is fit to be trusted with Zack;and now the lad is out of the room, I might very well do it. Might? Iwill!" And, acting immediately on this conscientious resolve,simple-hearted Mr. Blyth actually set himself to ask Mat the importantquestion of who he really was!

Mat was candor itself in answering allinquiries that related to his wanderings over the American Continent.He confessed with the utmost frankness that he had been sent to sea, asa wild boy whom it was impossible to keep steady at home; and he quitereadily admitted that he had not introduced himself to Zack under hisreal name. But at this point his communicativeness stopped. He did notquibble, or prevaricate; he just bluntly and simply declared that hewould tell nothing more than he had told already.

"I said to theyoung 'un," concluded Mat, "when we first come together, 'I haven'theard the sound of my own name for better than twenty year past; and Idon't care if I never hear it again.' That's what I said to him.That's what I say to you. I'm a rough 'un, I know; but I hav'n'tbroke out of prison, or cheated the gallows--"

"My dear sir,"interposed Valentine, eagerly and alarmedly, "pray don't imagine anysuch offensive ideas ever entered my head! I might perhaps have thoughtthat family troubles--"

"That's it," Mat broke in quickly. "Familytroubles. Drop it there; and you'll leave it right."

Before Mr. Blythcould make any attempt to shift the conversation to some less delicatetopic, he was interrupted (to his own great relief) by the return ofyoung Thorpe to the studio.

Zack announced the approaching arrival ofthe supper-tray; and warned "Hercules" to cover up his neck andshoulders immediately, unless he wished to frighten the housemaid outof her wits. At this hint Mr. Blyth laid aside his drawing-board, andMat put on his flannel waistcoat; not listening the while to one wordof the many fervent expressions of gratitude addressed to him by thepainter, but appearing to be in a violent hurry to array himself in hiscoat again. As soon as he had got it on, he put his hand in one of thepockets, and looked hard at Valentine. Just then, however, the servantcame in with the tray; upon which he turned round impatiently, andwalked away once again to the lower end of the room.

When the doorhad closed on the departing housemaid, he returned to Mr. Blyth withthe feather fan in his hand; and saying, in his usual downright way,that he had heard from Zack of Mrs. Blyth's invalid condition and ofher fondness for curiosities, bluntly asked the painter if he thoughthis wife would like such a fan as that now produced.

"I got thisplaything for a woman in the old country, many a long year ago," saidMat, pressing the fan roughly into Mr. Blyth's hands. "When I comeback, and thought for to give it her, she was dead and gone. There'snot another woman in England as cares about me, or knows about me. Ifyou're too proud to let your wife have the thing, throw it into thefire. I hav'n't got nobody to give it to; and I can't keep it by me,and won't keep it by me, no longer."

In the utterance of these wordsthere was a certain rough pathos and bitter reference to past calamity,which touched Valentine in one of his tender places. His generousinstincts overcame his prudent doubts in a moment; and moved him, notmerely to accept the present, but also to predict warmly that Mrs.Blyth would be delighted with it.

"Zack," he said, speaking in anundertone to young Thorpe, who had been listening to Mat's last speech,and observing his production of the fan, in silent curiosity andsurprise. "Zack, I'll run up stairs with the fan to Lavvie at once, soas not to seem careless about your friend's gift. Mind you do thehonors of the supper table with proper hospitality, while I am away."

Speaking these words, Mr. Blyth bustled out of the room as nimbly asusual. A minute or two after his departure, Mat put his hand into hispocket once more; mysteriously approached young Thorpe, and openedbefore him the paper containing the Indian tobacco pouch, which wasmade of scarlet cloth, and was very prettily decorated with coloredbeads.

"Do you think the young woman would fancy this for a kind ofplaything?" he asked.

Zack, with a shout of laughter, snatched thepouch out of his hands, and began to rally his friend more unmercifullythan ever. For the first time, Mat seemed to be irritated by theboisterous merriment of which he was made the object; and cut histormentor short quite fiercely, with a frown and an oath.

"Don't loseyour temper, you amorous old savage!" cried Zack, with incorrigiblelevity. "I'll take your pouch upstairs to the Beloved Object; and, ifBlyth will let her have it, I'll bring her down here to thank you forit herself!" Saying this, young Thorpe ran laughing out of the room,with the scarlet pouch in his hand.

Mat listened intently till thesound of Zack's rapid footsteps died away upstairs--then walked quicklyand softly down the studio to the garden door--gently unlocked it--gentlydrew the bolts back--gently opened it, and ascertained that itcould also be opened from without, merely by turning the handle--then,quietly closing it again, left it, to all appearance, as fast for thenight as before; provided no one went near enough, or had sufficientlysharp eyes, to observe that it was neither bolted nor locked.

"Nowfor the big chest!" thought Mat, taking the false key out of hispocket, and hastening back to the bureau. "If Zack or the Painter Mancome down before I've time to get at the drawer inside, I've made sureof my second chance with the garden door."

He had the key in the lockof the bureau, as this thought passed through his mind. He was justabout to turn it, when the sound of rapidly-descending footsteps uponthe stairs struck on his quick ear.

"Too late!" muttered Mat. "I mustchance it, after all, with the garden door."

Putting the key into hispocket again, as he said this, he walked back to the fireplace. Themoment after he got there, Mr. Blyth entered the studio.

"I am quiteshocked that you should have been so unceremoniously left alone," saidValentine, whose naturally courteous nature prompted him to be just asscrupulously polite in his behavior to his rough guest, as if Mat hadbeen a civilized gentleman of the most refined feeling and the mostexalted rank. "I am so sorry you should have been left, through Zack'scarelessness, without anybody to ask you to take a little supper,"continued Valentine, turning to the table. "Mrs. Blyth, my dear sir (dotake a sandwich!), desires me to express her best thanks for your verypretty present (that is the brandy in the bottle next to you). Sheadmires the design (spongecake? Ah! you don't care about sweets), andthinks the color of the center feathers--"

At this moment the dooropened, and Mr. Blyth, abruptly closing his lips, looked towards itwith an expression of the blankest astonishment; for he beheld Madonnaentering the painting-room in company with Zack.

Valentine had beenpersuaded to let the deaf and dumb girl accept the scarlet pouch by hiswife; but neither she nor Zack had said a word before him upstairsabout taking Madonna into the studio. When the painter was well out ofearshot, young Thorpe had confided to Mrs. Blyth the new freak in whichhe wanted to engage; and, signing unscrupulously to Madonna that shewas wanted in the studio, to be presented to the "generous man who hadgiven her the tobacco-pouch," took her out of the room without stoppingto hear to the end the somewhat faint remonstrance by which hisproposition was met. To confess the truth, Mrs. Blyth--seeing no greatimpropriety in the girl's being introduced to the stranger, whileValentine was present in the room, and having moreover a very strongcuriosity to hear all she could about Zack's odd companion--wassecretly anxious to ascertain what impressions Madonna would bring awayof Mat's personal appearance and manners. And thus it was that Zack, byseizing his opportunity at the right moment, and exerting a little ofthat cool assurance in which he was never very deficient, now actuallyentered the painting-room in a glow of mischievous triumph with Madonnaon his arm.

Valentine gave him a look as he entered which he found itconvenient not to appear to see. The painter felt strongly inclined, atthat moment, to send his adopted child upstairs again directly; but herestrained himself out of a feeling of delicacy towards his guest--forMat had not only seen Madonna, but had hesitatingly advanced a step ortwo to meet her, the instant she came into the room.

Few social testsfor analyzing female human nature can be more safely relied on thanthat which the moral investigator may easily apply, by observing how awoman conducts herself towards a man who shows symptoms of confusion onapproaching her for the first time. If she has nothing at all in her,she awkwardly forgets the advantage of her sex, and grows more confusedthan he is. If she has nothing but brains in her, she cruelly abusesthe advantage, and treats him with quiet contempt. If she has plenty ofheart in her, she instinctively turns the advantage to its right use,and forthwith sets him at his ease by the timely charity of a word orthe mute encouragement of a look.

Now Madonna, perceiving that thestranger showed evident signs, on approaching her, of what appearedlike confusion to her apprehension, quietly drew her arm out of Zack's,and, to his unmeasured astonishment, stepped forward in front of him--lookedup brightly into the grim, scarred face of Mat--dropped herusual curtsey--wrote a line hurriedly on her slate--then offered it tohim with a smile and a nod, to read if he pleased, and to write on inreturn.

"Who would ever have thought it?" cried Zack, giving vent tohis amazement; "she has taken to old Rough and Tough, and made him aprime favorite at first sight!"

Valentine was standing near, but hedid not appear to hear this speech. He was watching the scene beforehim closely and curiously. Accustomed as he was to the innocent candorwith which the deaf and dumb girl always showed her approval or dislikeof strangers at a first interview--as also to her apparent perversityin often displaying a decided liking for the very people whose looksand manners had been previously considered certain to displease her--hewas now almost as much surprised as Zack, when he witnessed herreception of Mat. It was an infallible sign of Madonna's approval, ifshe followed up an introduction by handing her slate of her own accordto a stranger. When she was presented to people whom she disliked, sheinvariably kept it by her side until it was formally asked for.

Eccentric in everything else, Mat was consistently eccentric even inhis confusion. Some men who are bashful in a young lady's presence showit by blushing--Mat's color sank instead of rising. Other men,similarly affected, betray their burdensome modesty by fidgetingincessantly.--Mat was as still as a statue. His eyes wandered heavilyand vacantly over the girl, beginning with her soft brown hair, thenresting for a moment on her face, then descending to the gay pinkribbon on her breast, and to her crisp black silk apron with its smartlace pockets--then dropping at last to her neat little shoes, and tothe thin bright line of white stocking that just separated them fromthe hem of her favorite grey dress. He only looked up again, when shetouched his hand and put her slate pencil into it. At that signal heraised his eyes once more, read the line she had written to thank himfor the scarlet pouch, and tried to write something in return. But hishand shook, and his thoughts seemed to fail him, he gave her back theslate and pencil, looking her full in the eyes as he did so. A curiouschange came over his face at the same time--a change like that whichhad altered him so remarkably in the hosier's shop at Dibbledean.

"Zack might, after all, have made many a worse friend than this man,"thought Mr. Blyth, still attentively observing Mat. "Vagabonds don'tbehave in the presence of young girls as he is behaving now."

Withthis idea in his mind, Valentine advanced to help his guest by showingMat how to communicate with Madonna. The painter was interrupted,however, by young Thorpe, who, the moment he recovered from his firstsensations of surprise began to talk nonsense again, at the top of hisvoice, with the mischievous intention of increasing Mat'sembarrassment.

While Mr. Blyth was attempting to silence Zack byleading him to the supper table, Madonna was trying her best toreassure the great bulky, sunburnt man who seemed to be absolutelyafraid of her! She moved to a stool, which stood near a second table ina corner by the fireplace; and sitting down, produced the scarletpouch, intimating by a gesture that Mat was to look at what she was nowdoing. She then laid the pouch open on her lap, and put into it severallittle work-box toys, a Tonbridge silk-reel, an ivory needle case, asilver thimble with an enameled rim, a tiny pair of scissors, and otherthings of the same kind--which she took first from one pocket of herapron and then from another. While she was engaged in filling thepouch, Zack, standing at the supper-table, drummed on the floor withhis foot to attract her attention, and interrogatively held up adecanter of wine and a glass. She started as the sound struck on herdelicate nerves; and, looking at young Thorpe directly, signed that shedid not wish for any wine. The sudden movement of her body thusoccasioned, shook off her lap a little mother-of-pearl bodkin case,which lay more than half out of one of the pockets of her apron. Thebodkin case rolled under the stool, without her seeing it, for she waslooking towards the supper-table: without being observed by Mat, forhis eyes were following the direction of her's: without being heard byMr. Blyth, for Zack was, as usual, chattering and making a noise.

When she had put two other little toys that remained in her pocketsinto the pouch, she drew the mouth of it tight, passed the loops of theloose thongs that fastened it, over one of her arms, and then, risingto her feet, pointed to it, and looked at Mat with a very significantnod. The action expressed the idea she wished to communicate, plainlyenough:--"See," it seemed to say, "see what a pretty work-bag I canmake of your tobacco-pouch!"

But Mat, to all appearance, was not ableto find out the meaning of one of her gestures, easy as they were tointerpret. His senses seemed to grow more and more perturbed the longerhe looked at her. As she curtseyed to him again, and moved away indespair, he stepped forward a little, and suddenly and awkwardly heldout his hand. "The big man seems to be getting a little less afraid ofme," thought Madonna, turning directly, and meeting his clumsy advancetowards her, with a smile. But the instant he took her hand, her lipsclosed, and she shivered through her whole body as if dead fingers hadtouched her. "Oh!" she thought now, "how cold his hand is! how cold hishand is!"

"If I hadn't felt her warm to touch, I should have beendreaming to-night that I'd seen Mary's ghost." This was the grim fancywhich darkly troubled Mat's mind, at the very same moment when Madonnawas thinking how cold his hand was. He turned away impatiently fromsome wine offered to him just then by Zack; and, looking vacantly intothe fire, drew his coat-cuff several times over his eyes and forehead.

The chill from the strange man's hand still lingered icily aboutMadonna's fingers, and made her anxious, though she hardly knew why, toleave the room. She advanced hastily to Valentine, and made the signwhich indicated Mrs. Blyth, by laying her hand on her heart; she thenpointed up-stairs. Valentine, understanding what she wanted, gave herleave directly to return to his wife's room. Before Zack could makeeven a gesture to detain her, she had slipped out of the studio, afternot having remained in it much longer than five minutes.

"Zack,"whispered Mr. Blyth, as the door closed, "I am anything but pleasedwith you for bringing Madonna down-stairs. You have broken through allrule in doing so; and, besides that, you have confused your friend byintroducing her to him without any warning or preparation."

"Oh, thatdoesn't matter," interrupted young Thorpe. "He's not the sort of man towant warning about anything. I apologize for breaking rules; but as forMat--why, hang it, Blyth, it's plain enough what has been wrong withhim since supper came in! He's fairly knocked up with doing Herculesfor you. You have kept the poor old Guy for near two hours standing inone position, without a rag on his back; and then you wonder--"

"Bless my soul! that never occurred to me. I'm afraid you're right,"exclaimed Valentine. "Do let us make him take something hot andcomfortable! Dear, dear me! how ought one to mix grog?"

Mr. Blyth hadbeen for some little time past trying his best to compound a species offiery and potential Squaw's Mixture for Mat. He had begun the attemptsome minutes before Madonna left the studio; having found it useless tooffer any explanations to his inattentive guest of the meaning of thegirl's signs and gestures with the slate and tobacco-pouch. He hadpersevered in his hospitable endeavor all through the whispereddialogue which had just passed between Zack and himself; and he had nowfilled the glass nearly to the brim, when it suddenly occurred to himthat he had put sherry in at the top of the tumbler, after having begunwith brandy at the bottom; also that he had altogether forgotten someimportant ingredient which he was, just then, perfectly incapable ofcalling to mind.

"Here, Mat!" cried Zack. "Come and mix yourselfsomething hot. Blyth's been trying to do it for you, and can't."

Mat,who had been staring more and more vacantly into the fire all thistime, turned round again at last towards his friends at the suppertable. He started a little when he saw that Madonna was no longer inthe room--then looked aside from the door by which she had departed, tothe bureau. He had been pretty obstinately determined to get possessionof the Hair Bracelet from the first: but he was doubly and treblydetermined now.

"It's no use looking about for the young lady," saidZack; "you behaved so clumsily and queerly, that you frightened her outof the room."

"No! no! nothing of the sort," interposed Valentine,good-naturedly. "Pray take something to warm you. I am quite ashamed ofmy want of consideration in keeping you standing so long, when I oughtto have remembered that you were not used to being a painter's model. Ihope I have not given you cold--"

"Given me cold?" repeated Mat,amazedly. He seemed about to add a sufficiently indignant assertion ofhis superiority to any such civilized bodily weakness, as a liabilityto catch cold--but just as the words were on his lips, he lookedfixedly at Mr. Blyth, and checked himself.

"I am afraid you must betired with the long sitting you have so kindly given me," addedValentine.

"No," answered Mat, after a moment's consideration; "nottired. Only sleepy. I'd best go home. What's o'clock?"

A reference toyoung Thorpe's watch showed that it was ten minutes past ten. Mat heldout his hand directly to take leave; but Valentine positively refusedto let him depart until he had helped himself to something from thesupper-table. Hearing this, he poured out a glass of brandy and drankit off; then held out his hand once more, and said good night.

"Well,I won't press you to stay against your will," said Mr. Blyth, rathermournfully. "I will only thank you most heartily for your kindness insitting to me, and say that I hope to see you again when I return fromthe country. Good bye, Zack. I shall start in the morning by an earlytrain. Pray, my dear boy, be steady, and remember your mother and yourpromises, and call on Mr. Strather in good time to-morrow, and stick toyour work, Zack--for all our sakes, stick to your work!"

As they leftthe studio, Mat cast one parting glance at the garden door. Would theservant, who had most likely bolted and locked it early in the evening,go near it again, before she went to bed? Would Mr. Blyth walk to thebottom of the room to see that the door was safe, after he had rakedthe fire out? Important questions these, which only the events of thenight could answer.

A little way down Kirk Street, at the end bywhich Zack and his friend entered it on returning from Mr. Blyth's,stood the local theater--all ablaze with dazzling gas, and all astirwith loitering blackguards. Young Thorpe stopped, as he and hiscompanion passed under the portico, on the way to their lodgingsfurther up the street.

"It's only half-past ten, now," he said. "Ishall drop in here, and see the last scenes of the pantomime. Won't youcome too?"

"No," said Mat; "I'm too sleepy. I shall go on home."

They separated. While Zack entered the theater, Mat proceeded steadilyin the direction of the tobacco shop. As soon, however, as he was wellout of the glare of gas from the theater door, he crossed the street;and, returning quickly by the opposite side of the way, took the roadthat led him back to Valentine's house.

Mr. Blyth's spirits sank apace, as hebolted and locked the front door, when his guests had left him. Heactually sighed as he now took a turn or two alone, up and down thestudio.

Three times did he approach close to the garden door, as hewalked slowly from end to end of the room. But he never once looked upat it. His thoughts were wandering after Zack, and Zack's friend; andhis attention was keeping them company. "Whoever this mysterious Matmay be," mused Valentine, stopping at the fourth turn, and walking upto the fireplace; "I don't believe there's anything bad about him; andso I shall tell Mrs. Thorpe the next time I see her."

He set himselfto rake out the fire, leaving only a few red embers and tiny morsels ofcoal to flame up fitfully from time to time in the bottom of the grate.Having done this, he stood and warmed himself for a little while, andtried to whistle a favorite tune. The attempt was a total failure. Hebroke down at the third bar, and ended lamentably in another sigh.

"What can be the matter with me? I never felt so miserable about goingaway from home before." Puzzling himself uselessly with suchreflections as these, he went to the supper-table, and drank a glass ofwine, picked a bit of a sandwich, and unnecessarily spoilt theappearance of two sponge cakes, by absently breaking a small piece offeach of them. He was in no better humor for eating or drinking, thanfor whistling; so he wisely determined to light his candle forthwith,and go to bed.

After extinguishing the lights that had been burningon the supper-table, he cast a parting glance all round the room, andwas then about to leave it, when the drawing of the old five-barredgate, which he had taken down for Mat to look at, and had placed on apainting-stand at the lower end of the studio, caught his eye. He advancedtowards it directly--stopped half-way--hesitated--yawned--shivered alittle--thought to himself that it was not worth while to troubleabout hanging the drawing up over the garden door, that night--andso, yawning again, turned on his heel and left the studio.

Mr.Blyth's two servants slept up-stairs. About ten minutes after theirmaster had ascended to his bed-room, they left the kitchen for theirdormitory on the garret floor. Patty, the housemaid, stopped as shepassed the painting room, to look in, and see that the lights were out,and the fire safe for the night. Polly, the cook, went on with thebedroom candle; and, after having ascended the stairs as far as thefirst landing from the hall, discreetly bethought herself of the gardendoor, the general care and superintendence of which was properlyattached to her department in the household.

"I say, did you lock thegarden door?" said Polly to Patty through the banisters.

"Yes; I didit when I took up master's tea," said Patty to Polly, appearing lazilyin the hall, after one sleepy look round the fast-darkening studio.

"Hadn't you better see to it again, to make sure?" suggested thecautious cook.

"Hadn't you? It's your place," retortedthe careless house-maid.

"Hush!" whispered Valentine, suddenlyappearing on the landing above Polly, from his bedroom, arrayed in hisflannel dressing-gown and nightcap. "Don't talk here, or you'll disturbyour mistress. Go up to bed, and talk there. Good night."

"Goodnight, sir," answered together the two faithful female dependents ofthe house of Blyth, obeying their master's order with simperingdocility, and deferring to a future opportunity all furtherconsiderations connected with the garden door.

The fire wasfading out fast in the studio grate. Now and then, at long intervals, athin tongue of flame leapt up faintly against the ever-invading gloom,flickered for an instant over the brighter and more prominent objectsin the room, then dropped back again into darkness. The profoundsilence was only interrupted by those weird house-noises which live inthe death of night and die in the life of day; by that sudden cracklingin the wall, by that mysterious creaking in the furniture, by thosestill small ghostly sounds from inanimate bodies, which we have allbeen startled by, over and over again, while lingering at our bookafter the rest of the family are asleep in bed, while waiting up for afriend who is out late, or while watching alone through the dark hoursin a sick chamber. Excepting such occasional night-noises as these, sofamiliar, yet always so strange, the perfect tranquillity of the studioremained undisturbed for nearly an hour after Mr. Blyth had left it. Noneighbors came home in cabs, no bawling drunken men wandered into theremote country fastnesses of the new suburb. The night-breeze, blowingin from the fields, was too light to be audible. The watch-dog in thenurseryman's garden hard by, was as quiet on this particular night asif he had actually barked himself dumb at last. Outside the house, aswell as inside, the drowsy reign of old primeval Quiet was undisturbedby the innovating vagaries of the rebel, Noise.

Undisturbed, till theclock in the hall pointed to a quarter past eleven. Then there camesoftly and slowly up the iron stairs that led from the back garden tothe studio, a sound of footsteps. When these ceased, the door at thelower end of the room was opened gently from outside, and the blackbulky figure of Mat appeared on the threshold, lowering out gloomilyagainst a back-ground of starry sky.

He stepped into the painting-room, and closed the door quietly behind him; stood listening anxiouslyin the darkness for a moment or two; then pulling from his pocket thewax taper and the matches which he had bought that afternoon,immediately provided himself with a light.

While the wick of thetaper was burning up, he listened again. Except the sound of his ownheavy breathing, all was quiet around him. He advanced at once to thebureau, starting involuntarily as he brushed by Mr. Blyth's lay figurewith the Spanish hat and the Roman toga; and cursing it under hisbreath for standing in his way, as if it had been a living creature.The door leading from the studio into the passage of the house was notquite closed; but he never noticed this as he passed to the bureau,though it stood close to the chink left between the door and the post.He had the false key in his hand; he knew that he should be inpossession of the Hair Bracelet in another moment; and, his impatiencefor once getting the better of his cunning, he pounced on the bureau,without looking aside first either to the right or the left.

He hadunlocked it, had pulled open the inner drawer, had taken out the HairBracelet, and was just examining it closely by the light of his taper(after having locked the bureau again)--when a faint sound on thestaircase of the house caught his ear.

At the same instant, a thinstreak of candle-light flashed on him through the narrow chink betweenthe hardly-closed door and the doorpost. It increased rapidly inintensity, as the sound of softly-advancing footsteps now grew more andmore distinct from the stone passage leading to the interior of thehouse.

He had the presence of mind to extinguish his taper, to thrustthe Hair Bracelet into his pocket, and to move across softly from thebureau (which stood against the lock-side doorpost) to the wall (whichwas by the hinge-side doorpost); so that the door itself might openback upon him, and thus keep him concealed from the view of any personentering the room. He had the presence of mind to take theseprecautions instantly; but he had not self-control enough to suppressthe involuntary exclamation which burst from his lips, at the momentwhen the thin streak of candle-light first flashed into his eyes. Aviolent spasmodic action contracted the muscles of his throat. Heclenched his fist in a fury of suppressed rage against himself, as hefelt that his own voice had turned traitor and betrayed him.

Thelight came close: the door opened--opened gently, till it just touchedhim as he stood with his back against the wall.

For one instant hisheart stopped; the next, it burst into action again with a heave, andthe blood rushed hotly through every vein all over him, as his wrought-upnerves of mind and body relaxed together under a sense of ineffablerelief. He was saved almost by a miracle from the inevitableconsequence of the rash exclamation that had escaped him. It wasMadonna who had opened the door--it was the deaf and dumb girl whom henow saw walking into the studio.

She had been taking her workingmaterials out of the tobacco-pouch in her own room before going to bed,and had then missed her mother-of-pearl bodkin-case. Suspectingimmediately that she must have dropped it in the studio, and fearingthat it might be trodden on and crushed if she left it there until thenext morning, she had now stolen downstairs by herself to look for it.Her hair, not yet put up for the night, was combed back from her face,and hung lightly down in long silky folds over her shoulders. Hercomplexion looked more exquisitely clear and pure than ever, set off asit was by the white dressing-gown which now clothed her. She had apretty little red and blue china candlestick, given to her by Mrs.Blyth, in her hand; and, holding the light above her, advanced slowlyfrom the studio doorway, with her eyes bent on the ground, searchinganxiously for the missing bodkin-case.

Mat's resolution was taken themoment he caught sight of her. He never stirred an inch from his placeof concealment, until she had advanced three or four paces into theroom, and had her back turned full upon him. Then quietly stepping alittle forward from the door, but still keeping well behind her, heblew out her candle, just as she was raising it over her head, andlooking down intently on the floor in front of her.

He hadcalculated, rightly enough, on being able to execute this maneuver withimpunity from discovery, knowing that she was incapable of hearing thesound of his breath when he blew her candle out, and that the darknesswould afterwards not only effectually shield him from detection, butalso oblige her to leave him alone in the room again, while she went toget another light. He had not calculated, however, on the seriouseffect which the success of his stratagem would have upon her nerves,for he knew nothing of the horror which the loss of her sense ofhearing caused her always to feel when she was left in darkness; and hehad not stopped to consider that by depriving her of her light, he wasdepriving her of that all-important guiding sense of sight, the loss ofwhich she could not supply in the dark, as others could, by theexercise of the ear.

The instant he blew her candle out, she droppedthe china candlestick, in a paroxysm of terror. It fell, and broke,with a deadened sound, on one of the many portfolios lying on the floorabout her. He had hardly time to hear this happen, before the dumbmoaning, the inarticulate cry of fear which was all that the poorpanic-stricken girl could utter, rose low, shuddering, and ceaseless,in the darkness--so close at his ear, that he fancied he could feel herbreath palpitating quick and warm on his cheek.

If she should touchhim? If she should be sensible of the motion of his foot on thefloor, as she had been sensible of the motion of Zack's, when youngThorpe offered her the glass of wine at supper-time? It was a risk toremain still--it was a risk to move! He stood as helpless even as thehelpless creature near him. That low, ceaseless, dumb moaning, smote sopainfully on his heart, roused up so fearfully the rude superstitiousfancies lying in wait within him, in connection with the lost and deadMary Grice, that the sweat broke out on his face, the coldness of sharpmental suffering seized on his limbs, the fever of unutterableexpectation parched up his throat, and mouth, and lips; and for thefirst time, perhaps, in his existence, he felt the chillness of mortaldread running through him to his very soul--he, who amid perils of seasand wildernesses, and horrors of hunger and thirst, had playedfamiliarly with his own life for more than twenty years past, as achild plays familiarly with an old toy.

He knew not how long it wasbefore the dumb moaning seemed to grow fainter; to be less fearfullyclose to him; to change into what sounded, at one moment, like ashivering of her whole body; at another, like a rustling of hergarments; at a third, like a slow scraping of her hands over the tableon the other side of her, and of her feet over the floor. She hadsummoned courage enough at last to move, and to grope her way out--heknew it as he listened. He heard her touch the edge of the half-openeddoor; he heard the still sound of her first footfall on the stonepassage outside; then the noise of her hand drawn along the wall; thenthe lessening gasps of her affrighted breathing as she gained thestairs.

When she was gone, and the change and comfort of silence andsolitude stole over him, his power of thinking, his cunning andresolution began to return. Listening yet a little while, and hearingno sound of any disturbance among the sleepers in the house, heventured to light one of his matches; and, by the brief flicker that itafforded, picked his way noiselessly through the lumber in the studio,and gained the garden door. In a minute he was out again in the openair. In a minute more, he had got over the garden wall, and was walkingfreely along the lonely road of the new suburb, with the Hair Braceletsafe in his pocket.

At first, he did not attempt to take it out andexamine it. He had not felt the slightest scruple beforehand; he didnot feel the slightest remorse now, in connection with the Bracelet,and with his manner of obtaining possession of it. Callous, however, ashe was in this direction, he was sensitive in another. There was bothregret and repentance in him, as he thought of the deaf and dumb girl,and of the paroxysm of terror he had caused her. How patiently andprettily she had tried to explain to him her gratitude for his gift,and the use she meant to put it to; and how cruelly he had made hersuffer in return! "I wish I hadn't frighted her so," said Mat tohimself; thinking of this in his own rough way, as he walked rapidlyhomewards. "I wish I hadn't frighted her so."

But his impatience toexamine the Bracelet got the better of his repentance, as it hadalready got the better of every other thought and feeling in him. Hestopped under a gas lamp, and drew his prize out of his pocket. Hecould see that it was made of two kinds of hair, and that something wasengraved on the flat gold of the clasp. But his hand shook, his eyeswere dimmer than usual, the light was too high above him, and try as hemight he could make out nothing clearly.

He put the Bracelet into hispocket again, and, muttering to himself impatiently, made for KirkStreet at his utmost speed. His landlord's wife happened to be in thepassage when he opened the door. Without the ceremony of a singlepreliminary word, he astonished her by taking her candle out of herhand, and instantly disappearing up-stairs with it. Zack had not comefrom the theater--he had the lodgings to himself--he could examine thehair Bracelet in perfect freedom.

His first look was at the clasp. Byholding it close to the flame of the candle, he succeeded in readingthe letters engraved on it.

"M. G. In memory of S. G."

"MaryGrice. In memory of Susan Grice." Mat's hand closed fast on theBracelet--and dropped heavily on his knee, as he uttered those words.

The pantomime which Zack had gone tosee, was so lengthened out by encores of incidental songs and dances,that it was not over till close on midnight. When he left the theater,the physical consequences of breathing a vitiated atmosphere madethemselves felt immediately in the regions of his mouth, throat, andstomach. Those ardent aspirations in the direction of shell-fish andmalt liquor, which it is especially the mission of the English drama tocreate, overcame him as he issued into the fresh air, and took him tothe local oyster shop for refreshment and change of scene.

Having theimmediate prospect of the private Drawing Academy vividly andmenacingly present before his eyes, Zack thought of the future for oncein his life, and astonished the ministering vassals of the oyster shop(with all of whom he was on terms of intimate friendship), by enjoyinghimself with exemplary moderation at the festive board. When he haddone supper, and was on his way to bed at the tobacconist's across theroad, it is actually not too much to say that he was sober and subduedenough to have borne inspection by the President and Council of theRoyal Academy, as a model student of the Fine Arts.

It was rather asurprise to him not to hear his friend snoring when he let himself intothe passage, but his surprise rose to blank astonishment when heentered the front room, and saw the employment on which his fellowlodger was engaged.

Mat was sitting by the table, with his rifle laidacross his knees, and was scouring the barrel bright with a piece ofsand paper. By his side was an unsnuffed candle, an empty bottle, and atumbler with a little raw brandy left in the bottom of it. His face,when he looked up, showed that he had been drinking hard. There was astare in his eyes that was at once fierce and vacant, and a hard,fixed, unnatural smile on his lips which Zack did not at all like tosee.

"Why, Mat, old boy!" he said soothingly, "you look a little outof sorts. What's wrong?"

Mat scoured away at the barrel of the gunharder than ever, and gave no answer.

"What, in the name of wonder,can you be scouring your rifle for to-night?" continued young Thorpe."You have never yet touched it since you brought it into the house.What can you possibly want with it now? We don't shoot birds in Englandwith rifle bullets."

"A rifle bullet will do for my game, if Iput it up," said Mat, suddenly and fiercely fixing his eyes on Zack.

"What game does he mean?" thought young Thorpe. "He's been drinkinghimself pretty nearly drunk. Can anything have happened to him since weparted company at the theater?--I should like to find out; but he'ssuch an old savage when the brandy's in his head, that I don't halflike to question him--"

Here Zack's reflections were interrupted bythe voice of his eccentric friend.

"Did you ever meet with a man ofthe name of Carr?" asked Mat. He looked away from young Thorpe, keepinghis eyes steadily on the rifle, and rubbing hard at the barrel, as heput this question.

"No," said Zack. "Not that I can remember."

Matleft off cleaning the gun, and began to fumble awkwardly in one of hispockets. After some little time, he produced what appeared to Zack tobe an inordinately long letter, written in a cramped hand, andsuperscribed apparently with two long lines of inscription, instead ofan ordinary address. Opening this strange-looking document, Mat guidedhimself a little way down the lines on the first page with a veryunsteady forefinger--stopped, and read somewhat anxiously and withevident difficulty--then put the letter back in his pocket, dropped hiseyes once more on the gun in his lap, and said with a strong emphasison the Christian name:--

"Arthur Carr?"

"No," returned Zack."I never met with a man of that name. Is he a friend of yours?"

Matwent on scouring the rifle barrel.

Young Thorpe said nothing more. Hehad been a little puzzled early in the evening, when his friend hadexhibited the fan and tobacco pouch (neither of which had been producedbefore), and had mentioned to Mr. Blyth that they were once intendedfor "a woman" who was now dead. Zack had thought this conduct ratherodd at the time; but now, when it was followed by these strangelyabrupt references to the name of Carr, by this mysterious scouring ofthe rifle and desperate brandy drinking in solitude, he began to feelperplexed in the last degree about Mat's behavior. "Is this aboutArthur Carr a secret of the old boy's?" Zack asked himself with a sortof bewildered curiosity. "Is he letting out more than he ought, Iwonder, now he's a little in liquor?"

While young Thorpe waspondering thus, Mat was still industriously scouring the barrel of hisrifle. After the silence in the room had lasted some minutes, hesuddenly threw away his morsel of sand-paper, and spoke again.

"Zack," he said, familiarly smacking the stock of his rifle, "me andyou had some talk once about going away to the wild country over thewaters together. I'm ready to sail when you are, if--" He had glancedup at young Thorpe with his vacant bloodshot eyes, as he spoke the lastwords. But he checked himself almost at the same moment, and lookedaway again quickly at the gun.

"If what?" asked Zack.

"If I can laymy hands first on Arthur Carr," answered Mat, with very unusual lownessof tone. "Only let me do that, and I shall be game to tramp it at anhour's notice. He may be dead and buried for anything I know--"

"Thenwhat's the use of looking after him?" interposed Zack.

"The use is,I've got it into my head that he's alive, and that I shall find him,"returned Mat.

"'Well?" said young Thorpe eagerly.

Mat became silentagain. His head drooped slowly forward, and his body followed it tillhe rested his elbows on the gun. Sitting in this crouched-up position,he abstractedly began to amuse himself by snapping the lock of therifle. Zack, suspecting that the brandy he had swallowed was beginningto stupefy him, determined, with characteristic recklessness, to rousehim into talking at any hazard.

"What the devil is all this mysteryabout?" he cried boldly. "Ever since you pulled out that feather-fanand tobacco-pouch at Blyth's--"

"Well, what of them?" interruptedMat, looking up instantly with a fierce, suspicious stare.

"Nothingparticular," pursued Zack, undauntedly, "except that it's odd you neverbrought them out before; and odder still that you should tell Blyth,and never say a word here to me, about getting them for a woman--"

"What of her?" broke out Mat, rising to his feet with flushedface and threatening eyes, and making the room ring again as hegrounded his rifle on the floor.

"Nothing but what a friend ought tosay," replied Zack, feeling that, in Mat's present condition, he hadventured a little too far. "I'm sorry, for your sake, that she neverlived to have the presents you meant for her. There's no offense, Ihope, in saying that much, or in asking (after what you yourself toldBlyth) whether her death happened lately, or--"

"It happened aforeever you was born."

He gave this answer, which amazed Zack, in acuriously smothered, abstracted tone, as if he were talking to himself;laying aside the rifle suddenly as he spoke, sitting down by the tableagain, and resting his head on his hand, Young Thorpe took a chair nearhim, but wisely refrained from saying anything just at that moment.Silence seemed to favor the change that was taking place for the betterin Mat's temper. He looked up, after awhile, and regarded Zack with arough wistfulness and anxiety working in his swarthy face.

"I likeyou, Zack," he said, laying one hand on the lad's arm and mechanicallystroking down the cloth of his sleeve. "I like you. Don't let us twopart company. Let's always pull together as brotherly and pleasant aswe can." He paused. His hand tightened round young Thorpe's arm; andthe hot, dry, tearless look in his eyes began to soften as he added, "Itake it kind in you, Zack, saying you were sorry for her just now. Shedied afore ever you was born." His hand relaxed its grasp: and when hehad repeated those last words, he turned a little away, and said nomore.

Astonishment and curiosity impelled young Thorpe to hazardanother question.

"Was she a sweetheart of yours?" he asked,unconsciously sinking his voice to a whisper, "or a relation, or--"

"Kin to me. Kin to me," said Mat quickly, yet not impatiently; reachingout his hand again to Zack's arm, but without looking up.

"Was sheyour mother?"

"No."

"Sister?"

"Yes."

For a minute or two Zackwas silent after this answer. As soon as he began to speak again, hiscompanion shook his arm--a little impatiently, this time--and stoppedhim.

"Drop it," said Mat peremptorily. "Don't let's talk no more, myhead--"

"Anything wrong with your head?" asked Zack.

Mat rose tohis feet again. A change began to appear in his face. The flash thathad tinged it from the first, deepened palpably, and spread up to thevery rim of his black skull-cap. A confusion and dimness seemed to bestealing over his eyes, a thickness and heaviness to be impeding hisarticulation when he spoke again.

"I've overdone it with the brandy,"he said, "my head's getting hot under the place where they scalped me.Give me holt of my hat, and show me a light, Zack. I can't stop indoorsno longer. Don't talk! Let me out of the house at once."

Young Thorpetook up the candle directly; and leading the way down-stairs, let himout into the street by the private door, not venturing to irritate himby saying anything, but waiting on the door-step, and watching him withgreat curiosity as he started for his walk. He was just getting out ofsight, when Zack heard him stop, and strike his stick on the pavement.In less than a minute he had turned, and was back again at the door ofthe tobacconist's shop.

"Zack," he whispered, "you ask about amongyour friends if any of 'em ever knowed a man with that name I told youof."

"Do you mean the 'Arthur Carr' you were talking aboutjust now?" inquired young Thorpe.

"Yes; Arthur Carr," saidMat, very earnestly. Then, turning away before Zack could ask him anymore questions, he disappeared rapidly this time in the darkness of thestreet.

Mr. Blyth was astir betimes on the morning after Mat andyoung Thorpe had visited him in the studio. Manfully determined not togive way an inch to his own continued reluctance to leave home, hepacked up his brushes and colors, and started on his portrait-paintingtour by the early train which he had originally settled to travel by.

Although he had every chance of spending his time, during his absence,agreeably as well as profitably, his inexplicable sense of uneasinessat being away from home, remained with him even on the railway; defyingall the exhilarating influences of rapid motion and change of scene,and oppressing him as inveterately as it had oppressed him the nightbefore. Bad, however, as his spirits now were, they would have beenmuch worse, if he had known of two remarkable domestic events, which ithad been the policy of his household to keep strictly concealed fromhim on the day of his departure.

When Mr. Blyth's cook descended thefirst thing in the morning to air the studio in the usual way, byopening the garden door, she was not a little amazed and alarmed tofind that, although it was closed, it was neither bolted nor locked.She communicated this circumstance (reproachfully, of course) to thehousemaid, who answered (indignantly, as was only natural) byreiterating her assertion of the past night, that she had secured thedoor properly at six o'clock in the evening. Polly, appealing tocontradictory visible fact, rejoined that the thing was impossible.Patty, holding fast to affirmatory personal knowledge, retorted thatthe thing had been done. Upon this, the two had a violentquarrel--followed by a sulky silence--succeeded by an affectionatereconciliation--terminated by a politic resolution to say nothing moreabout the matter, and especially to abstain from breathing a word inconnection with it to the ruling authorities above stairs. Thus ithappened that neither Valentine nor his wife knew anything of thesuspicious appearance presented that morning by the garden door.

But,though Mrs. Blyth was ignorant on this point, she was well enoughinformed on another of equal, if not greater, domestic importance.While her husband was down-stairs taking his early breakfast, Madonnacame into her room; and communicated confidentially all the particularsof the terrible fright that she had suffered, while looking for herbodkin-case in the studio, on the night before. How her candle couldpossibly have gone out, as it did in an instant, she could not say. Shewas quite sure that nobody was in the room when she entered it; andquite sure that she felt no draught of wind in any direction--in short,she knew nothing of her own experience, but that her candle suddenlywent out; that she remained for a little time, half dead with fright,in the darkness; and that she then managed to grope her way back to herbedroom, in which a night-light was always burning.

Mrs. Blythfollowed the progress of this strange story on Madonna's fingers withgreat interest to the end; and then--after suggesting that the candlemight have gone out through some defect in the make of it, or mightreally have been extinguished by a puff of air which the girl was toomuch occupied in looking for her bodkin-case to attend to--earnestlycharged her not to say a word on the subject of her adventure toValentine, when she went to help him in packing up his paintingmaterials. "He is nervous and uncomfortable enough already, poorfellow, at the idea of leaving home," thought Mrs. Blyth; "and if heheard the story about the candle going out, it would only make him moreuneasy still." To explain this consideration to Madonna was to ensureher discretion. She accordingly kept her adventure in the studio soprofound a secret from Mr. Blyth, that he no more suspected what hadhappened to her, than he suspected what had happened to the HairBracelet, when he hastily assured himself that he was leaving hisbureau properly locked, by trying the lid of it the last thing beforegoing away.

Such were the circumstances under which Valentine lefthome. He was not, however, the only traveler of the reader'sacquaintance, whose departure from London took place on the morningafter the mysterious extinguishing of Madonna's light in the painting-room.By a whimsical coincidence, it so happened that, at the very samehour when Mr. Blyth was journeying in one direction, to paintportraits, Mr. Matthew Marksman (now, perhaps, also recognizable as Mr.Matthew Grice) was journeying in another, to pay a second visit toDibbledean.

Not a visit of pleasure by any means, but a visit ofbusiness--business, which, in every particular, Mat had especiallyintended to keep secret from Zack; but some inkling of which he hadnevertheless allowed to escape him, during his past night'sconversation with the lad in Kirk Street.

When young Thorpe and hemet on the morning after that conversation, he was sufficiently awareof the fact that his overdose of brandy had set him talking in a veryunguarded manner; and desired Zack, as bluntly as usual, to repeat tohim all that he had let out while the liquor was in his head. Afterthis request had been complied with, he volunteered no additionalconfidences. He simply said that what had slipped from his tongue wasno more than the truth; but that he could add nothing to it, andexplain nothing about it, until he had first discovered whether "ArthurCarr" were alive or dead. On being asked how, and when, he intended todiscover this, he answered that he was going into the country to makethe attempt that very morning; and that, if he succeeded, he would, onhis return, tell his fellow-lodger unreservedly all that the lattermight wish to know. Favored with this additional promise, Zack was leftalone in Kirk Street, to quiet his curiosity as well as he could, withthe reflection that he might hear something more about his friend'ssecrets, when Mat returned from his trip to the country.

In order tocollect a little more information on the subject of these secrets thanwas at present possessed by Zack, it will be necessary to return for amoment to the lodgings in Kirk Street, at that particular period of thenight when Mr. Marksman was sitting alone in the front room, and washolding the Hair Bracelet crumpled up tight in one of his hands.

Hisfirst glance at the letters engraved on the clasp not only showed himto whom the Bracelet had once belonged, but set at rest in his mind allfurther doubt as to the identity of the young woman, whose face had sostartled and impressed him in Mr. Blyth's studio. He was neitherlogical enough nor legal enough in his mode of reasoning, to see, that,although he had found his sister's bracelet in Valentine's bureau, itdid not actually follow as a matter of proof--though it might as amatter of suspicion--that he had also found his sister's child inValentine's house. No such objection as this occurred to him. He wasnow perfectly satisfied that Madonna was what he had suspected her tobe from the first--Mary's child.

But to the next questions that heasked himself, concerning the girl's unknown father, the answers werenot so easy to be found:--Who was Arthur Carr? Where was he? Was hestill alive?

His first hasty suspicion that Valentine might haveassumed the name of Arthur Carr, and might therefore be the manhimself, was set at rest immediately by another look at the Bracelet.He knew that the lightest in color, of the two kinds of hair of whichit was made, was Carr's hair, because it exactly resembled the surpluslock sent back by the jeweler, and enclosed in Jane Holdsworth'sletter. He made the comparison and discovered the resemblance at aglance. The evidence of his own eyesight, which was enough for this,was also enough to satisfy him immediately that Arthur Carr's hair was,in color, as nearly as possible the exact opposite of Mr. Blyth's hair.

Still, though the painter was assuredly not the father, might he notknow who the father was, or had been? How could he otherwise have gotpossession of Mary Grice's bracelet and Mary Grice's child?

These twoquestions suggested a third in Mat's mind. Should he discover himselfat once to Mr. Blyth; and compel him, by fair means or foul, to solveall doubts, and disclose what he knew?

No: not at once. That would beplaying, at the outset, a desperate and dangerous move in the game,which had best be reserved to the last. Besides, it was useless tothink of questioning Mr. Blyth just now--except by the uncertain andindiscreet process of following him into the country--for he hadsettled to take his departure from London, early the next morning.

But it was now impossible to rest, after what had been alreadydiscovered, without beginning, in one direction or another, the attemptto find out Arthur Carr. Mat's purpose of doing this sprang from thestrongest of all resolutions--a vindictive resolution. That dangerouspart of the man's nature which his life among the savages and hiswanderings in the wild places of the earth had been stealthilynurturing for many a long year past, was beginning to assert itself,now that he had succeeded in penetrating the mystery of Madonna'sparentage by the mother's side. Placed in his position, the tenderthought of their sister's child would, at this particular crisis, havebeen uppermost in many men's hearts. The one deadly thought of thevillain who had been Mary's ruin was uppermost in Mat's.

He ponderedbut a little while on the course that he should pursue, before the ideaof returning to Dibbledean, and compelling Joanna Grice to tell morethan she had told at their last interview, occurred to him. Hedisbelieved the passage in her narrative which stated that she had seenand heard nothing of Arthur Carr in all the years that had elapsedsince the flight and death of her niece: he had his own conviction, orrather his own presentiment (which he had mentioned to Zack), that theman was still alive somewhere; and he felt confident that he had it inhis power, as a last resource, to awe the old woman into confessingeverything that she knew. To Dibbledean, therefore, in the firstinstance, he resolved to go.

If he failed there in finding any clueto the object of his inquiry, he determined to repair next toRubbleford, and to address himself boldly to Mrs. Peckover. Heremembered that, when Zack had first mentioned her extraordinarybehavior about the Hair Bracelet in Mr. Blyth's hall, he had prefacedhis words by saying, that she knew apparently as much of Madonna'shistory as the painter did himself; and that she kept that knowledgejust as close and secret. This woman, therefore, doubtless possessedinformation which she might be either entrapped or forced intocommunicating. There would be no difficulty about finding out where shelived; for, on the evening when he had mimicked her, young Thorpe hadsaid that she kept a dairy and muffin-shop at Rubbleford. To that town,then, he proposed to journey, in the event of failing in his purpose atDibbledean.

And if, by any evil chance, he should end in ascertainingno more from Mrs. Peckover than from Joanna Grice, what course shouldhe take next? There would be nothing to be done then, but to return toLondon--to try the last great hazard--to discover himself to Mr. Blyth,come what might, with the Hair Bracelet to vouch for him in his hand.

These were his thoughts, as he sat alone in the lodging in KirkStreet. At night, they had ended in the fatal consolation of the brandybottle--in the desperate and solitary excess, which had so cheated himof his self-control, that the lurking taint which his life among thesavages had left in his disposition, and the deadly rancor which hisrecent discovery of his sister's fate had stored up in his heart,escaped from concealment, and betrayed themselves in that half-drunken,half-sober occupation of scouring the rifle-barrel, which it had sogreatly amazed Zack to witness, and which the lad had so suddenly andstrangely suspended by his few chance words of sympathizing referenceto Mary's death.

But, in the morning, Mat's head was clear, and hisdangerous instincts were held once more under cunning control. In themorning, therefore, he declined explaining himself to young Thorpe, andstarted quietly for the country by the first train.

On being set downat the Dibbledean Station, Mat lingered a little and looked about him,just as he had lingered and looked on the occasion of his first visit.He subsequently took the same road to the town which he had then taken;and, on gaining the church, stopped, as he had formerly stopped, at thechurchyard-gate.

This time, however, he seemed to have no intentionof passing the entrance--no intention, indeed, of doing anything,unless standing vacantly by the gate, and mechanically swinging itbackwards and forwards with both his hands, can be considered in thelight of an occupation. As for the churchyard, he hardly looked at itnow. There were two or three people, at a little distance, walkingabout among the graves, who it might have been thought would haveattracted his attention; but he never took the smallest notice of them.He was evidently meditating about something, for he soon began to talkto himself--being, like most men who have passed much of their time insolitude, unconsciously in the habit of thinking aloud.

"I wonder howmany year ago it is, since she and me used to swing back'ards andfor'ards on this," he said, still pushing the gate slowly to and fro."The hinges used to creak then. They go smooth enough now. Oiled, Isuppose." As he said this, he moved his hands from the bar on whichthey rested, and turned away to go on to the town; but stopped, andwalking back to the gate, looked attentively at its hinges--"Ah," hesaid, "not oiled. New."

"New," he repeated, walking slowly towardsthe High Street--"new since my time, like everything else here. I wishI'd never come back--I wish to God I'd never come back!"

On gettinginto the town, he stopped at the same place where he had halted on hisfirst visit to Dibbledean, to look up again, as he had looked then, atthe hosier's shop which had once belonged to Joshua Grice. Here, thosevisible and tangible signs and tokens which he required to stimulatehis sluggish memory, were not very easy to recognize. Though thegeneral form of his father's old house was still preserved, the re-painting and renovating of the whole front had somewhat altered it, inits individual parts, to his eyes. He looked up and down at the gables,and all along from window to window; and shook his head discontentedly.

"New again here," he said. "I can't make out for certain whichwinder it was Mary and me broke between us, when I come away fromschool, the year afore I went to sea. Whether it was Mary that brokethe winder, and me that took the blame," he continued, slowly pursuinghis way--"or whether it was her that took the blame, and me that brokethe winder, I can't rightly call to mind. And no great wonder neither,if I've forgot such a thing as that, when I can't even fix it forcertain, yet, whether she used to wear her Hair Bracelet or not, whileI was at home."

Communing with himself in this way, he reached theturning that led to Joanna Grice's cottage.

His thoughts had thus farbeen straying away idly and uninterruptedly to the past. They were nowrecalled abruptly to present emergencies by certain unexpectedappearances which met his eye, the moment he looked down the lane alongwhich he was walking.

He remembered this place as having struck himby its silence and its loneliness, on the occasion of his first visitto Dibbledean. He now observed with some surprise that it was astirwith human beings, and noisy with the clamor of gossiping tongues. Allthe inhabitants of the cottages on either side of the road were out intheir front gardens. All the townspeople who ought to have been walkingabout the principal streets, seemed to be incomprehensibly congregatedin this one narrow little lane. What were they assembled here to do?What subject was it that men and women--and even children as well--wereall eagerly talking about?

Without waiting to hear, withoutquestioning anybody, without appearing to notice that he was stared at(as indeed all strangers are in rural England), as if he were walkingabout among a breeched and petticoated people in the character of asavage with nothing but war paint on him, Mat steadily and rapidlypursued his way down the lane to Joanna Grice's cottage. "Time enough,"thought he, "to find out what all this means, when I've got quietlyinto the house I'm bound for." As he approached the cottage, he saw,standing at the gate, what looked, to his eyes, like two coaches--one,very strange in form: both very remarkable in color. All about thecoaches stood solemn-looking gentlemen; and all about the solemn-looking gentlemen, circled inquisitively and excitably, the wholevagabond boy-and-girl population of Dibbledean.

Amazed, and evenbewildered (though he hardly knew why) by what he saw, Mat hastened onto the cottage. Just as he arrived at the garden paling, the dooropened, and from the inside of the dwelling there protruded slowly intothe open air a coffin carried on four men's shoulders, and covered witha magnificent black velvet pall.

Mat stopped the moment he saw thecoffin, and struck his hand violently on the paling by his side."Dead!" he exclaimed under his breath.

"A friend of the late MissGrice's?" asked a gently inquisitive voice near him.

He did not hear.All his attention was fixed on the coffin, as it was borne slowly overthe garden path. Behind it walked two gentlemen, mournfully arrayed inblack cloaks and hat-bands. They carried white handkerchiefs in theirhands, and used them to wipe--not their eyes--but their lips, on whichthe balmy dews of recent wine-drinking glistened gently.

"Dix, andNawby--the medical attendant of the deceased, and the solicitor who isher sole executor," said the voice near Mat, in tones which had ceasedto be gently inquisitive, and had become complacently explanatoryinstead. "That's Millbury the undertaker, and the other is Gutteridgeof the White Hart Inn, his brother-in-law, who supplies therefreshments, which in my opinion makes a regular job of it," continuedthe voice, as two red-faced gentlemen followed the doctor and thelawyer. "Something like a funeral, this! Not a halfpenny less thanforty pound, I should say, when it's all paid for. Beautiful, ain'tit?" concluded the voice, becoming gently inquisitive again.

StillMat kept his eyes fixed on the funeral proceedings in front, and tooknot the smallest notice of the pertinacious speaker behind him.

Thecoffin was placed in the hearse. Dr. Dix and Mr. Nawby entered themourning coach provided for them. The smug human vultures who preycommercially on the civilized dead, arranged themselves, with blackwands, in solemn Undertakers' order of procession on either side of thefuneral vehicles. Those clumsy pomps of feathers and velvet, ofstrutting horses and marching mutes, which are still permitted among usto desecrate with grotesquely-shocking fiction the solemn fact ofdeath, fluttered out in their blackest state grandeur and showed theirmost woeful state paces, as the procession started magnificently withits meager offering of one dead body more to the bare and awful grave.

When Mary Grice died, a fugitive and an outcast, the clown's wifeand the Irish girl who rode in the circus wept for her, stranger thoughshe was, as they followed her coffin to the poor corner of thechurchyard. When Joanna Grice died in the place of her birth, among thetownspeople with whom her whole existence had been passed, every eyewas tearless that looked on her funeral procession; the two strangerswho made part of it, gossiped pleasantly as they rode after the hearseabout the news of the morning; and the sole surviving member of herfamily, whom chance had brought to her door on her burial-day, stoodaloof from the hired mourners, and moved not a step to follow her tothe grave.

No: not a step. The hearse rolled on slowly towards thechurchyard, and the sight-seers in the lane followed it; but MatthewGrice stood by the garden paling, at the place where he had halted fromthe first. What was her death to him? Nothing but the loss of his firstchance of tracing Arthur Carr. Tearlessly and pitilessly she had leftit to strangers to bury her brother's daughter; and now, tearlessly andpitilessly, there stood her brother's son, leaving it to strangers tobury her.

"Don't you mean to follow to the churchyard, and seethe last of it?" inquired the same inquisitive voice, which had twicealready endeavored to attract Mat's attention.

He turned round thistime to look at the speaker, and confronted a wizen, flaxen-haired,sharp-faced man, dressed in a jaunty shooting-jacket, carrying ariding-cane in his hand, and having a thorough-bred black-and-tanterrier in attendance at his heels.

"Excuse me asking the question,"said the wizen man; "but I noticed how dumbfoundered you were when yousaw the coffin come out. 'A friend of the deceased,' I thought tomyself directly--"

"Well," interrupted Mat, gruffly, "suppose I am;what then?"

"Will you oblige me by putting this in your pocket?"asked the wizen man, giving Mat a card. "My name's Tatt, and I'verecently started in practice here as a solicitor. I don't want to askany improper questions, but, being a friend of the deceased, you mayperhaps have some claim on the estate; in which case, I should feelproud to take care of your interests. It isn't strictly professional, Iknow, to be touting for the chance of a client in this way; but I'mobliged to do it in self-defense. Dix, Nawby, Millbury, and Gutteridge,all play into one another's hands, and want to monopolize among 'em thewhole Doctoring, Lawyering, Undertaking, and Licensed Victuallingbusiness of Dibbledean. I've made up my mind to break down Nawby'smonopoly, and keep as much business out of his office as I can. That'swhy I take time by the forelock, and give you my card." Here Mr. Tattleft off explaining, and began to play with his terrier.

Mat lookedup thoughtfully at Joanna Grice's cottage. Might she not, in allprobability, have left some important letters behind her? And, if hementioned who he was, could not the wizen man by his side help him toget at them?

"A good deal of mystery about the late Miss Grice,"resumed Mr. Tatt, still playing with the terrier. "Nobody but Dix andNawby can tell exactly when she died, or how she's left her money.Queer family altogether. (Rats, Pincher! where are the rats?) There's ason of old Grice's, who has never, they say, been properly accountedfor. (Hie, boy! there's a cat! hie after her, Pincher!) If he was onlyto turn up now, I believe, between ourselves, it would put such a spokein Nawby's wheel--"

"I may have a question or two to ask you one ofthese days," interposed Mat, turning away from the garden paling atlast. While his new acquaintance had been speaking, he had been makingup his mind that he should best serve his purpose of tracing ArthurCarr, by endeavoring forthwith to get all the information that Mrs.Peckover might be able to afford him. In the event of this resourceproving useless, there would be plenty of time to return to Dibbledean,discover himself to Mr. Tatt, and ascertain whether the law would notgive to Joshua Grice's son the right of examining Joanna Grice'spapers.

"Come to my office," cried Mr. Tatt, enthusiastically. "I cangive you a prime bit of Stilton, and as good a glass of bitter beer asever you drank in your life."

Mat declined this hospitable invitationperemptorily, and set forth at once on his return to the station. AllMr. Tatt's efforts to engage him for an "early day," and an "appointedhour," failed. He would only repeat, doggedly, that at some future timehe might have a question or two to ask about a matter of law, and thathis new acquaintance should then be the man to whom he would apply forinformation.

They wished each other "good morning" at the entrance ofthe lane,--Mr. Tatt lounging slowly up the High Street, with histerrier at his heels; and Mat walking rapidly in the contrarydirection, on his way back to the railway station.

As he passed thechurchyard, the funeral procession had just arrived at its destination,and the bearers were carrying the coffin from the hearse to the churchdoor. He stopped a little by the road-side to see it go in. "She was nogood to anybody about her, all her lifetime," he thought bitterly, asthe last heavy fold of the velvet pall was lost to view in the darknessof the church entrance. "But if she'd only lived a day or two longer,she might have been of some good to me. There's more of what I wantedto know nailed down along with her in that coffin, than ever I'm likelyto find out anywhere else. It's a long hunt of mine, this is--a longhunt on a dull scent; and her death has made it duller." With thisfarewell thought, he turned from the church.

As he pursued his wayback to the railroad, he took Jane Holdsworth's letter out of hispocket, and looked at the hair enclosed in it. It was the fourth orfifth time he had done this during the few hours that had passed sincehe had possessed himself of Mary's Bracelet. From that period there hadgrown within him a vague conviction, that the possession of Carr's hairmight in some way lead to the discovery of Carr himself. He knewperfectly well that there was not the slightest present or practicaluse in examining this hair, and yet, there was something that seemed tostrengthen him afresh in his purpose, to encourage him anew after hisunexpected check at Dibbledean, merely in the act of looking at it. "IfI can't track him no other way," he muttered, replacing the hair in hispocket, "I've got the notion into my head, somehow, that I shall trackhim by this."

Mat found it no very easy business to reach Rubbleford.He had to go back a little way on the Dibbledean line, then to divergeby a branch line, and then to get upon another main line, and travelalong it some distance before he reached his destination. It was darkby the time he reached Rubbleford. However, by inquiring of one or twopeople, he easily found the dairy and muffin-shop when he was once inthe town; and saw, to his great delight, that it was not shut up forthe night. He looked in at the window, under a plaster cast of a cow,and observed by the light of one tallow candle burning inside, achubby, buxom girl sitting at the counter, and either drawing orwriting something on a slate. Entering the shop, after a moment or twoof hesitation, he asked if he could see Mrs. Peckover.

"Mother wentaway, sir, three days ago, to nurse uncle Bob at Bangbury," answeredthe girl.

(Here was a second check--a second obstacle to defer thetracing of Arthur Carr! It seemed like a fatality!)

"When do youexpect her back?" asked Mat.

"Not for a week or ten days, sir,"answered the girl. "Mother said she wouldn't have gone, but for uncleBob being her only brother, and not having wife or child to look afterhim at Bangbury."

(Bangbury!--Where had he heard that namebefore?)

"Father's up at the rectory, sir," continued the girl,observing that the stranger looked both disappointed and puzzled. "Ifit's dairy business you come upon, I can attend to it; but it'sanything about accounts to settle, mother said they were to be sent onto her."

"Maybe I shall have a letter to send your mother," said Mat,after a moment's consideration. "Can you write me down on a bit ofpaper where she is?"

"Oh, yes, sir." And the girl very civilly andreadily wrote in her best round hand, on a slip of bill-paper, thisaddress:--"Martha Peckover, at Rob: Randle, 2 Dawson's Buildings,Bangbury."

Mat absently took the slip of paper from her, and put itinto his pocket; then thanked the girl, and went out. While he wasinside the shop, he had been trying in vain to call to mind where hehad heard the name of Bangbury before: the moment he was in the street,the lost remembrance came back to him. Surely, Bangbury was the placewhere Joanna Grice had told him that Mary was buried!

After walking afew paces, he came to a large linen-draper's shop, with plenty of lightin the window. Stopping here, he hastily drew from his pocket themanuscript containing the old woman's "Justification" of her conduct;for he wished to be certain about the accuracy of his recollection, andhe had an idea that the part of the Narrative which mentioned Mary'sdeath would help to decide him in his present doubt.

Yes! on turningto the last page, there it was written in so many words: "I sent, by aperson I could depend on, money enough to bury her decently in Bangburychurchyard."

"I'll go there to-night," said Mat to himself, thrustingthe letter into his pocket, and taking the way back to the railwaystation immediately.

Matthew Grice was a resolute traveler; but no resolution ispowerful enough to alter the laws of inexorable Time-Tables to suit theconvenience of individual passengers. Although Mat left Rubbleford inless than an hour after he had arrived there, he only succeeded ingetting half way to Bangbury, before he had to stop for the night, andwait at an intermediate station for the first morning train on what wastermed the Trunk Line. By this main railroad he reached his destinationearly in the forenoon, and went at once to Dawson's Buildings.

"Mrs.Peckover has just stepped out, sir--Mr. Randle being a little betterthis morning--for a mouthful of fresh air. She'll be in again inhalf-an-hour," said the maid-of-all-work who opened Mr. Randle's door.

Mat began to suspect that something more than mere accident was concernedin keeping Mrs. Peckover and himself asunder. "I'll come again inhalf-an-hour," he said--then added, just as the servant was about to shutthe door:--"Which is my way to the church?"

Bangbury church was closeat hand, and the directions he received for finding it were easy tofollow. But when he entered the churchyard, and looked about himanxiously to see where he should begin searching for his sister'sgrave, his head grew confused, and his heart began to fail him.Bangbury was a large town, and rows and rows of tombstones seemed tofill the churchyard bewilderingly in every visible direction.

At alittle distance a man was at work opening a grave, and to him Matapplied for help; describing his sister as a stranger who had beenburied somewhere in the churchyard better than twenty years ago. Theman was both stupid and surly, and would give no advice, except that itwas useless to look near where he was digging, for they were allrespectable townspeople buried about there.

Mat walked round to theother side of the church. Here the graves were thicker than ever; forhere the poor were buried. He went on slowly through them, with hiseyes fixed on the ground, towards some trees which marked the limits ofthe churchyard; looking out for a place to begin his search in, wherethe graves might be comparatively few, and where his head might not getconfused at the outset. Such a place he found at last, in a damp cornerunder the trees. About this spot the thin grass languished; the muddistilled into tiny water-pools; and the brambles, briars, and deadleaves lay thickly and foully between a few ragged turf-mounds. Couldthey have laid her here? Could this be the last refuge to which Maryran after she fled from home?

A few of the mounds had stainedmoldering tomb-stones at their heads. He looked at these first; andfinding only strange names on them, turned next to the mounds markedout by cross-boards of wood. At one of the graves the cross-board hadbeen torn, or had rotted away, from its upright supports, and lay onthe ground weather-stained and split, but still faintly showing that ithad once had a few letters cut in it. He examined this board to beginwith, and was trying to make out what the letters were, when the soundof some one approaching disturbed him. He looked up, and saw a womanwalking slowly towards the place where he was standing.

It was Mrs.Peckover herself! She had taken a prescription for her sick brother tothe chemist's--had bought him one or two little things he wanted in theHigh Street--and had now, before resuming her place at his bedside,stolen a few minutes to go and look at the grave of Madonna's mother.It was many, many years since Mrs. Peckover had last paid a visit toBangbury churchyard.

She stopped and hesitated when she first caughtsight of Mat; but, after a moment or two, not being a woman easilybaulked in anything when she had once undertaken to do it, continued toadvance, and never paused for the second time until she had come closeto the grave by which Mat stood, and was looking him steadily in theface, exactly across it.

He was the first to speak. "Do you knowwhose grave this is?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," answered Mrs. Peckover,glancing indignantly at the broken board and the mud and brambles allabout it. "Yes, sir, I do know; and, what's more, I know thatit's a disgrace to the parish. Money has been paid twice over to keepit decent; and look what a state it's left in!"

"I asked you whosegrave it was," repeated Mat, impatiently.

"A poor, unfortunate,forsaken creature's, who's gone to Heaven if ever an afflicted,repenting woman went there yet!" answered Mrs. Peckover, warmly.

"Forsaken? Afflicted? A woman, too?" Mat repeated to himself,thoughtfully.

"Yes, forsaken and afflicted," cried Mrs. Peckover,overhearing him. "Don't you say no ill of her, whoever you are. Sheshan't be spoken unkindly of in my hearing, poor soul!"

Mat looked upsuddenly and eagerly. "What's your name?" he inquired.

"My name'sPeckover, and I'm not ashamed of it," was the prompt reply. "And, now,if I may make so bold, what's yours?"

Mat took from his pocket theHair Bracelet, and, fixing his eyes intently on her face, held it up,across the grave, for her to look at. "Do you know this?" he said.

Mrs. Peckover stooped forward, and closely inspected the Bracelet for aminute or two. "Lord save us!" she exclaimed, recognizing it, andconfronting him with cheeks that had suddenly become colorless, andeyes that stared in terror and astonishment. "Lord save us! how did youcome by that? And who for mercy's sake are you?"

"My name's MatthewGrice," he answered quickly and sternly. "This Bracelet belonged to mysister, Mary Grice. She run away from home, and died, and was buried inBangbury churchyard. If you know her grave, tell me in plain words--isit here?"

Breathless as she was with astonishment, Mrs. Peckovermanaged to stammer a faint answer in the affirmative, and to add thatthe initials, "M. G.," would be found somewhere on the broken boardlying at their feet. She then tried to ask a question or two in herturn; but the words died away in faint exclamations of surprise. "Tothink of me and you meeting together!" was all she could say;--"her ownbrother, too! Oh! to think of that!--only to think of that!"

Matlooked down at the mud, the brambles, and the rotting grass that layover what had once been a living and loving human creature. Thedangerous brightness glittered in his eyes, the cold change spread fastover his cheeks, and the scars of the arrow-wounds began to burn redlyand more redly, as he whispered to himself--"I'll be even yet, Mary,with the man who laid you here!"

"Does Mr. Blyth know who you are,sir?" asked Mrs. Peckover, hesitating and trembling as she put thisquestion. "Did he give you the Bracelet?"

She stopped. Mat was notlistening to her. His eyes were fastened on the grave: he was stilltalking to himself in quick whispering tones.

"Her Bracelet was hidfrom me in another man's chest," he said--"I've found her Bracelet. Herchild was hid from me in another man's house--I've found her child. Hergrave was hid from me in a strange churchyard--I've found her grave.The man who laid her in it is hid from me still--I shall find him!"

"Please do listen to me, sir, for one moment," pleaded Mrs.Peckover, more nervously than before. "Does Mr. Blyth know aboutyou? And little Mary--oh, sir, whatever you do, pray, pray don't takeher away from where she is now! You can't mean to do that, sir, thoughyou are her own mother's brother? You can't, surely?"

He looked up ather so quickly, with such a fierce, steady, serpent-glitter in hislight-grey eyes, that she recoiled a step or two; still pleading,however, with desperate perseverance for an answer to her lastquestion.

"Only tell me, sir, that you don't mean to take little Maryaway, and I won't ask you to say so much as another word! You'll leaveher with Mr. and Mrs. Blyth, won't you, sir? For your sister's sake,you'll leave her with the poor bed-ridden lady that's been like amother to her for so many years past?--for your dear, lost sister'ssake, that I was with when she died--"

"Tell me about her." He saidthose few words with surprising gentleness, as Mrs. Peckover thought,for such a rough-looking man.

"Yes, yes, all you want to know," sheanswered. "But I can't stop here. There's my brother--I've got such aturn with seeing you, it's almost put him out of my head--there's mybrother, that I must go back to, and see if he's asleep still. You justplease to come along with me, and wait in the parlor--it's close by--whileI step upstairs--" (Here she stopped in great confusion. It seemed likerunning some desperate risk to, ask this strange, stern-featuredrelation of Mary Grice's into her brother's house.) "And yet,"thought Mrs. Peckover, "if I can only soften his heart by telling himabout his poor unfortunate sister, it may make him all the readier toleave little Mary--"

At this point her perplexities were cut short byMatthew himself, who said, shortly, that he had been to Dawson'sBuildings already to look after her. On hearing this, she hesitated nolonger. It was too late to question the propriety or impropriety ofadmitting him now.

"Come away, then," she said; "don't let's wait nolonger. And don't fret about the infamous state they've left things inhere," she added, thinking to propitiate him, as she saw his eyes turnonce more at parting, on the broken board and the brambles around thegrave. "I know where to go, and who to speak to--"

"Go nowhere, andspeak to nobody," he broke in sternly, to her great astonishment. "Allwhat's got to be done to it, I mean to do myself."

"You!"

"Yes, me.It was little enough I ever did for her while she was alive; and it'slittle enough now, only to make things look decent about the placewhere she's buried. But I mean to do that much for her; and no otherman shall stir a finger to help me."

Roughly as it was spoken, thisspeech made Mrs. Peckover feel easier about Madonna's prospects. Thehard-featured man was, after all, not so hard-hearted as she hadthought him at first. She even ventured to begin questioning him again,as they walked together towards Dawson's Buildings.

He varied verymuch in his manner of receiving her inquiries, replying to somepromptly enough, and gruffly refusing, in the plainest terms, to give aword of answer to others.

He was quite willing, for example, to admitthat he had procured her temporary address at Bangbury from herdaughter at Rubbleford; but he flatly declined to inform her how he hadfirst found out that she lived at Rubbleford at all. Again, he readilyadmitted that neither Madonna nor Mr. Blyth knew who he really was; buthe refused to say why he had not disclosed himself to them, or when heintended--if he ever intended at all--to inform them that he was thebrother of Mary Grice. As to getting him to confess in what manner hehad become possessed of the Hair Bracelet, Mrs. Peckover's firstquestion about it, although only answered by a look, was received insuch a manner as to show her that any further efforts on her part inthat direction would be perfectly fruitless.

On one side of the door,at Dawson's Buildings, was Mr. Randle's shop; and on the other was Mr.Randle's little dining parlor. In this room Mrs. Peckover left Mat,while she went up stairs to see if her sick brother wanted anything.Finding that he was still quietly sleeping, she only waited to arrangethe bed-clothes comfortably about him, and to put a hand-bell easilywithin his reach in case he should awake, and then went down stairsagain immediately.

She found Mat sitting with his elbows on the onelittle table in the dining-parlor, his head resting on his hands. Uponthe table lying by the side of the Bracelet, was the lock of hair outof Jane Holdsworth's letter, which he had yet once more taken from hispocket to look at. "Why, mercy on me!" cried Mrs. Peckover, glancing atit, "surely it's the same hair that's worked into the Bracelet!Wherever, for goodness sake, did you get that?"

"Never mind where Igot it. Do you know whose hair it is? Look a little closer. The manthis hair belonged to was the man she trusted in--and he laid her inthe churchyard for her pains."

"Oh! who was he? who was he?" askedMrs. Peckover, eagerly

"Who was he?" repeated Matthew, sternly. "Whatdo you mean by asking me that?"

"I only mean that I never heard aword about the villain--I don't so much as know his name."

"Youdon't?" He fastened his eyes suspiciously on her as he said those twowords.

"No; as true as I stand here I don't. Why, I didn't even knowthat your poor dear sister's name was Grice till you told me."

Hislook of suspicion began to change to a look of amazement as he heardthis. He hurriedly gathered up the Bracelet and the lock of hair, andput them into his pocket again.

"Let's hear first how you met withher," he said. "I'll have a word or two about the other matterafterwards."

Mrs. Peckover sat down near him, and began to relate themournful story which she had told to Valentine, and Doctor and Mrs.Joyce, now many years ago, in the Rectory dining-room. But on thisoccasion she was not allowed to go through her narrativeuninterruptedly. While she was speaking the few simple words which toldhow she had sat down by the road-side, and suckled the half-starvedinfant of the forsaken and dying Mary Grice, Mat suddenly reached outhis heavy, trembling hand, and took fast hold of hers. He griped itwith such force that, stout-hearted and hardy as she was, she cried outin alarm and pain, "Oh, don't! you hurt me--you hurt me!"

He droppedher hand directly, and turned his face away from her; his breathquickening painfully, his fingers fastening on the side of his chair,as if some great pang of oppression were trying him to the quick. Sherose and asked anxiously what ailed him; but, even as the words passedher lips, he mastered himself with that iron resolution of his whichfew trials could bend, and none break, and motioned to her to sit downagain.

"Don't mind me," he said; "I'm old and tough-hearted withbeing battered about in the world, and I can't give myself vent nohowwith talking or crying like the rest of you. Never mind; it's all overnow. Go on."

She complied, a little nervously at first; but he didnot interrupt her again. He listened while she proceeded, lookingstraight at her; not speaking or moving--except when he winced once ortwice, as a man winces under unexpected pain, while Mary's death-bedwords were repeated to him. Having reached this stage of her narrative,Mrs. Peckover added little more; only saying, in conclusion: "I tookcare of the poor soul's child, as I said I would; and did my best tobehave like a mother to her, till she got to be ten year old; then Igive her up--because it was for her own good--to Mr. Blyth."

He didnot seem to notice the close of the narrative. The image of theforsaken girl, sitting alone by the roadside, with her child's naturalsustenance dried up within her--travel-worn, friendless, anddesperate--was still uppermost in his mind; and when he next spoke,gratitude for the help that had been given to Mary in her last soredistress was the one predominant emotion, which strove roughly toexpress itself to Mrs. Peck over in these words:

"Is there any livingsoul you care about that a trifle of money would do a little good to?"he asked, with such abrupt eagerness that she was quite startled by it.

"Lord bless me!" she exclaimed, "what do you mean? What has that gotto do with your poor sister, or Mr. Blyth?"

"It's got this to do,"burst out Matthew, starting to his feet, as the struggling gratitudewithin him stirred body and soul both together; "you turned to andhelped Mary when she hadn't nobody else in the world to stand by her.She was always father's darling--but father couldn't help her then; andI was away on the wrong side of the sea, and couldn't be no good to herneither. But I'm on the right side, now; and if there's any friends ofyours, north, south, east, or west, as would be happier for a trifle ofmoney, here's all mine; catch it, and give it 'em." (He tossed hisbeaver-skin roll, with the bank-notes in it, into Mrs. Peckover's lap.)"Here's my two hands, that I dursn't take a holt of yours with, forfear of hurting you again; here's my two hands that can work along withany man's. Only give 'em something to do for you, that's all! Give 'emsomething to make or mend, I don't care what--"

"Hush! hush!"interposed Mrs. Peckover; "don't be so dreadful noisy, there's a goodman! or you'll wake my brother up stairs. And, besides, where's the useto make such a stir about what I done for your sister? Anybody elsewould have took as kindly to her as I did, seeing what distress she wasin, poor soul! Here," she continued, handing him back the beaver-skinroll; "here's your money, and thank you for the offer of it. Put it upsafe in your pocket again. We manage to keep our heads above water,thank God! and don't want to do no better than that. Put it up in yourpocket again, and then I'll make bold to ask you for something else."

"For what?" inquired Mat, looking her eagerly in the face.

"Just forthis: that you'll promise not to take little Mary from Mr. Blyth. Do,pray do promise me you won't."

"I never thought to take her away," heanswered. "Where should I take her to? What can a lonesome oldvagabond, like me, do for her? If she's happy where she is--let herstop where she is."

"Lord bless you for saying that!" ferventlyexclaimed Mrs. Peckover, smiling for the first time, and smoothing outher gown over her knees with an air of inexpressible relief. "I'm ridof my grand fright now, and getting to breathe again freely, which Ihaven't once yet been able to do since I first set eyes onyou. Ah!you're rough to look at; but you've got your feelings like the rest ofus. Talk away now as much as you like. Ask me about anything youplease--"

"What's the good?" he broke in, gloomily. "You don't knowwhat I wanted you to know. I come down here for to find out the man asonce owned this,"--he pulled the lock of hair out of his pocketagain--"and you can't help me. I didn't believe it when you first saidso, but I do now."

"Well, thank you for saying that much; though youmight have put it civiler--"

"His name was Arthur Carr. Did you neverhear tell of anybody with the name of Arthur Carr?"

"No: never--nevertill this very moment."

"The Painter-man will know," continued Mat,talking more to himself than to Mrs. Peckover. "I must go back, andchance it with the Painter-man, after all."

"Painter-man?" repeatedMrs. Peckover. "Painter? Surely you don't mean Mr. Blyth?"

"Yes, Ido."

"Why, what in the name of fortune can you be thinking of! Howshould Mr. Blyth know more than me? He never set eyes on little Marytill she was ten year old; and he knows nothing about her poorunfortunate mother except what I told him."

These words seemed atfirst to stupefy Mat: they burst upon him in the shape of a revelationfor which he was totally unprepared. It had never once occurred to himto doubt that Valentine was secretly informed of all that he mostwished to know. He had looked forward to what the painter might bepersuaded--or, in the last resort, forced--to tell him, as the onecertainty on which he might finally depend; and here was this fanciedsecurity exposed, in a moment, as the wildest delusion that ever mantrusted in! What resource was left? To return to Dibbledean, and, bythe legal help of Mr. Tatt, to possess himself of any fragments ofevidence which Joanna Grice might have left behind her in writing? Thisseemed but a broken reed to depend on; and yet nothing else nowremained.

"I shall find him! I don't care where he's hid away fromme, I shall find him yet," thought Mat, still holding with dogged anddesperate obstinacy to his first superstition, in spite of every freshsign that appeared to confute it.

"Why worrit yourself about findingArthur Carr at all?" pursued Mrs. Peckover, noticing his perplexed andmortified expression. "The wretch is dead, most likely, by this time--"

"I'm not dead!" retorted Mat, fiercely; "and you're not dead; andyou and me are as old as him. Don't tell me he's dead again! I say he'salive; and, by God, I'll be even with him!"

"Oh, don't talk so,don't! It's shocking to hear you and see you," said Mrs. Peckover,recoiling from the expression of his eye at that moment, just as shehad recoiled from it already over Mary's grave. "Suppose he is alive,why should you go taking vengeance into your own hands after all theseyears? Your poor sister's happy in heaven; and her child's took care ofby the kindest people, I do believe, that ever drew breath in thisworld. Why should you want to be even with him now? If he hasn't beenpunished already, I'll answer for it he will be--in the next world, ifnot in this. Don't talk about it, or think about it any more, that's agood man! Let's be friendly and pleasant together again--like we werejust now--for Mary's sake. Tell me where you've been to all theseyears. How is it you've never turned up before? Come! tell me, do."

She ended by speaking to him in much the same tone which she would havemade use of to soothe a fractious child. But her instinct as a womanguided her truly: in venturing on that little reference to "Mary," shehad not ventured in vain. It quieted him, and turned aside the currentof his thoughts into the better and smoother direction. "Didn't shenever talk to you about having a brother as was away aboard ship?" heasked, anxiously.

"No. She wouldn't say a word about any of herfriends, and she didn't say a word about you. But how did you come tobe so long away?--that's what I want to know," said Mrs. Peckover,pertinaciously repeating her question, partly out of curiosity, partlyout of the desire to keep him from returning to the dangerous subjectof Arthur Carr.

"I was alway a bitter bad 'un, I was," saidMatthew, meditatively. "There was no keeping of me straight, try itanyhow you like. I bolted from home, I bolted from school, I boltedfrom aboard ship----"

"Why? What for?"

"Partly because I was abitter bad 'un, and partly because of a letter I picked up in port, atthe Brazils, at the end of a long cruise. Here's the letter--but it'sno good showing it to you: the paper's so grimed and tore about, youcan't read it."

"Who wrote it? Mary?"

"No: father--saying what hadhappened to Mary, and telling me not to come back home till things waspulled straight again. Here--here's what he said--under the big grease-spot.'If you can get continued employment anywhere abroad, accept itinstead of coming back. Better for you, at your age, to be spared thesight of such sorrow as we are now suffering.' Do you see that?"

"Yes, yes, I see. Ah! poor man! he couldn't give no kinder betteradvice; and you--"

"Deserted from my ship. The devil was in me to beoff on the tramp, and father's letter did the rest. I got wild anddesperate with the thought of what had happened to Mary, and withknowing they were ashamed to see me back again at home. So the nightafore the ship sailed for England I slipped into a shore-boat, andturned my back on salt-junk and the boatswain's mate for the rest of mylife."

"You don't mean to say you've done nothing but wander about inforeign parts from that time to this?"

"I do, though! I'd a notion Ishould be shot for a deserter if I turned up too soon in my owncountry. That kep' me away for ever so long, to begin with. Thentramps' fever got into my head; and there was an end of it."

"Tramps'fever! Mercy on me! what do you mean?"

"I mean this: when a man turnsgypsy on his own account, as I did, and tramps about through cold andhot, and winter and summer, not caring where he goes or what becomes ofhim, that sort of life ends by getting into his head, just like liquordoes--except that it don't get out again. It got into my head. It's init new. Tramps' fever kep' me away in the wild country. Tramps' feverwill take me back there afore long. Tramps' fever will lay me down,some day, in the lonesome places, with my hand on my rifle and my faceto the sky; and I shan't get up again till the crows and vultures comeand carry me off piecemeal."

"Lord bless us! how can you talk aboutyourself in that way?" cried Mrs. Peckover, shuddering at the grimimage which Mat's last words suggested. "You're trying to make yourselfout worse than you are. Surely you must have thought of your father andsister sometimes--didn't you?"

"Think of them? Of course I did! But,mind ye, there come a time when I as good as forgot them altogether.They seemed to get smeared out of my head--like we used to smear oldsums off our slates at school."

"More shame for you! Whatever elseyou forgot, you oughtn't to have forgotten--"

"Wait a bit. Father'sletter told me--I'd show you the place, only I know you couldn't readit--that he was a going to look after Mary, and bring her back home,and forgive her. He'd done that twice for me, when I runaway; so I didn't doubt but what he'd do it just the same for her. She'll pull through her scrape with father just as I used to pullthrough mine--was what I thought. And so she would, if her own kinhadn't turned against her; if father's own sister hadn't--" Hestopped; the frown gathered on his brow, and the oath burst from hislips, as he thought of Joanna Grice's share in preventing Mary'srestoration to her home.

"There! there!" interposed Mrs. Peckover,soothingly. "Talk about something pleasanter. Let's hear how you comeback to England."

"I can't rightly fix it when Mary first begun todrop out of my head like," Mat continued, abstractedly pursuing hisprevious train of recollections. "I used to think of her often enough,when I started for my run in the wild country. That was the time, mindye, when I had clear notions about coming back home. I got her ascarlet ponch and another feather plaything then, knowing she was fondof knick-knacks, and making it out in my own mind that we two was sureto meet together again. It must have been a longish while after that,afore I got ashamed to go home. But I did get ashamed. Thinks I, 'Ihaven't a rap in my pocket to show father, after being away all thistime. I'm getting summut of a savage to look at already; and Mary wouldbe more frighted than pleased to see me as I am now. I'll wait a bit,'says I, 'and see if I can't keep from tramping about, and try and get alittle money, by doing some decent sort of work, afore I go home.' Iwas nigh about a good ten days' march then from any seaport wherehonest work could be got for such as me; but I'd fixed to try, and Idid try, and got work in a ship-builder's yard. It wasn't no good.Tramps' fever was in my head; and in two days more I was off again tothe wild country, with my gun over my shoulder, just as damned avagabond as ever."

Mrs. Peckover held up her hands in mute amazement.Matthew, without taking notice of the action, went on, speaking partlyto her and partly to himself.

"It must have been about that time whenMary and father, and all what had to do with them, begun to drop out ofmy head. But I kep' them two knick-knacks, which was once meant forpresents for her--long after I'd lost all clear notion of ever goingback home again, I kep' 'em--from first to last I kep' 'em--I can'thardly say why; unless it was that I'd got so used to keeping of themthat I hadn't the heart to let 'em go. Not, mind ye, but what theymightn't now and then have set me thinking of father and Mary at home--attimes, you know, when I changed 'em from one bag to another, or tookand blew the dust off of 'em, for to keep 'em as nice as I could. Butthe older I got, the worse I got at calling anything to mind in a clearway about Mary and the old country. There seemed to be a sort of fogrolling up betwixt us now. I couldn't see her face clear, in my ownmind, no longer. It come upon me once or twice in dreams, when I noddedalone over my fire after a tough day's march--it come upon me at suchtimes so clear, that it startled me up, all in a cold sweat, wild andpuzzled with not knowing at first whether the stars was shimmering downat me in father's paddock at Dibbledean, or in the lonesome places overthe sea, hundreds of miles away from any living soul. But that was onlydreams, you know. Waking, I was all astray now, whenever I fell a-thinking about father or her. The longer I tramped it over the lonesomeplaces, the thicker that fog got which seemed to have rose up in mymind between me and them I'd left at home. At last, it come to darkenin altogether, and never lifted no more, that I can remember, till Icrossed the seas again and got back to my own country."

"But how didyou ever think of coming back, after all those years?" asked Mrs.Peckover.

"Well, I got a good heap of money, for once in a way, withdigging for gold in California," he answered; "and my mate that Iworked with, he says to me one day:--'I don't see my way to how we areto spend our money, now we've got it, if we stop here. What can wetreat ourselves to in this place, excepting bad brandy and cards? Let'sgo over to the old country, where there ain't nothing we want that wecan't get for our money; and, when it's all gone, let's turn tailagain, and work for more.' He wrought upon me, like that, till I wentback with him. We quarreled aboard ship; and when we got into port, hewent his way and I went mine. Not, mind ye, that I started off at oncefor the old place as soon as I was ashore. That fog in my mind, I toldyou of, seemed to lift a little when I heard my own language, and sawmy own country-people's faces about me again. And then there come asort of fear over me--a fear of going back home at all, after the timeI'd been away. I got over it, though, and went in a day or two. When Ifirst laid my hand on the churchyard gate that Mary and me used toswing on, and when I looked up at the old house, with the gable endsjust what they used to be (though the front was new painted, andstrange names was over the shop-door)--then all my time in the wildcountry seem to shrivel up somehow, and better than twenty year agobegun to be a'most like yesterday. I'd seen father's name in thechurchyard--which was no more than I looked for; but when they told meMary had never been brought back, when they said she'd died many a yearago among strange people, they cut me to the quick."

"Ah! no wonder,no wonder!"

"It was a wonder to me, though. I should havelaughed at any man, if he'd told me I should be took so at hearing whatI heard about her, after all the time I'd been away. I couldn't make itout then, and I can't now. I didn't feel like my own man, when I firstset eyes on the old place. And then to hear she was dead--it cut me, asI told you. It cut me deeper still, when I come to tumble over thethings she'd left behind her in her box. Twenty years ago got nigherand nigher to yesterday, with every fresh thing belonging to her that Ilaid a hand on. There was a arbor in father's garden she used to befond of working in of evenings. I'd lost all thought of that place formore years than I can reckon up. I called it to mind again--and calledher to mind again, too, sitting and working and singing in thearbor--only with laying holt of a bit of patchwork stuff in the bottomof her box, with her needle and thread left sticking in it."

"Ah,dear, dear!" sighed Mrs. Peckover, "I wish I'd seen her then! She wasas happy, I dare say, as the bird on the tree. But there's one thing Ican't exactly make out yet," she added--"how did you first come to knowall about Mary's child?"

"All? There wasn't no all in it, tillI see the child herself. Except knowing that the poor creeter's babyhad been born alive, I knowed nothing when I first come away from theold place in the country. Child! I hadn't nothing of the sort in mymind, when I got back to London. It was how to track the man as wasMary's death, that I puzzled and worrited about in my head, at thattime--"

"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Peckover, interposing to keep him awayfrom the dangerous subject, as she heard his voice change, and saw hiseyes begin to brighten again. "Yes, yes--but how did you come to seethe child? Tell me that."

"Zack took me into the Painter-man's bigroom--"

"Zack! Why, good gracious Heavens! do you mean Master ZacharyThorpe?"

"I see a young woman standing among a lot of people as wasall a staring at her," continued Mat, without noticing theinterruption. "I see her just as close to, and as plain, as I see you.I see her look up, all of a sudden, front face to front face with me. Acreeping and a crawling went through me; and I says to myself, 'Mary'schild has lived to grow up, and that's her.'"

"But, do pray tell me,how ever you come to know Master Zack?"

"I says to myself 'That'sher,'" repeated Mat, his rough voice sinking lower and lower, hisattention wandering farther and farther away from Mrs. Peckover'sinterruptions. "Twenty year ago had got to be like yesterday, when Iwas down at the old place; and things I hadn't called to mind for longtimes past, I called to mind when I come to the churchyard-gate, andsee father's house. But there was looks Mary had with her eyes, turnsMary had with her head, bits of twitches Mary had with her eyebrowswhen she looked up at you, that I'd clean forgot. They all come back tome together, as soon as ever I see that young woman's face."

"And doyou really never mean to let your sister's child know who you are? Youmay tell me that, surely--though you won't speak a word about MasterZack."

"Let her know who I am? Mayhap I'll let her know that much,before long. When I'm going back to the wild country, I may say to her:'Rough as I am to look at, I'm your mother's brother, and you're theonly bit of my own flesh and blood I've got left to cotton to in allthe world. Give us a shake of your hand, and a kiss for mother's sake;and I won't trouble you no more.' I may say that, afore I goback, and lose sight of her for good and all."

"Oh, but you won't goback. Only you tell Mr. Blyth you don't want to take her away, and thensay to him, 'I'm Mr. Grice, and--'"

"Stop! Don't you get a-talkingabout Mr. Grice."

"Why not? It's your lawful name, isn't it?"

"Lawful enough, I dare say. But I don't like the sound of it, though itis mine. Father as good as said he was ashamed to own it, when he wroteme that letter: and I was afraid to own it, when I deserted from myship. Bad luck has followed the name from first to last. I ended withit years ago, and I won't take up with it again now. Call me 'Mat.'Take it as easy with me as if I was kin to you."

"Well, then--Mat,"said Mrs. Peckover with a smile. "I've got such a many things to askyou still--"

"I wish you could make it out to ask them to-morrow,"rejoined Matthew. "I've overdone myself already, with more talking thanI'm used to. I want to be quiet with my tongue, and get to work with myhands for the rest of the day. You don't happen to have a foot-rule inthe house, do you?"

On being asked to explain what motive couldinduce him to make this extraordinary demand for a foot-rule, Matanswered that he was anxious to proceed at once to the renewal of thecross-board at the head of his sister's grave. He wanted the rule tomeasure the dimensions of the old board: he desired to be directed to atimber-merchant's, where he could buy a new piece of wood; and, afterthat, he would worry Mrs. Peckover about nothing more. Extraordinary ashis present caprice appeared to her, the good woman saw that it hadtaken complete possession of him, and wisely and willingly set herselfto humor it. She procured for him the rule, and the address of atimber-merchant; and then they parted, Mat promising to call again inthe evening at Dawson's Buildings.

When he presented himself at thetimber-merchant's, after having carefully measured the old board in thechurchyard, he came in no humor to be easily satisfied. Never was anyfine lady more difficult to decide about the texture, pattern, andcolor to be chosen for a new dress, than Mat, was when he arrived atthe timber-merchant's, about the grain, thickness, and kind of wood tobe chosen for the cross-board at the head of Mary's grave. At last, heselected a piece of walnut-wood; and, having paid the price demandedfor it, without any haggling, inquired next for a carpenter, of whom hemight hire a set of tools. A man who has money to spare, has all thingsat his command. Before evening, Mat had a complete set of tools, a dryshed to use them in, and a comfortable living-room at a public-housenear, all at his own sole disposal.

Being skillful enough at allcarpenter's work of an ordinary kind, he would, under mostcircumstances, have completed in a day or two such an employment as hehad now undertaken. But a strange fastidiousness, a mostuncharacteristic anxiety about the smallest matters, delayed himthrough every stage of his present undertaking. Mrs. Peckover, who cameevery morning to see how he was getting on, was amazed at the slownessof his progress. He was, from the first, morbidly scrupulous in keepingthe board smooth and clean. After he had shaped it, and fitted it toits upright supports; after he had cut in it (by Mrs. Peckover'sadvice) the same inscription which had been placed on the old board--thesimple initials "M. G.," with the year of Mary's death, "1828"--afterhe had done these things, he was seized with an unreasonable,obstinate fancy for decorating the board at the sides. In spite of allthat Mrs. Peckover could say to prevent him, he carved an anchor at oneside, and a tomahawk at the other--these being the objects with whichhe was most familiar, and therefore the objects which he chose torepresent. But even when the carving of his extraordinary ornaments hadbeen completed, he could not be prevailed on to set the new cross-boardup in its proper place. Fondly as artists or authors linger over theirlast loving touches to the picture or the book, did Mat now linger, dayafter day, over the poor monument to his sister's memory, which his ownrough hands had made. He smoothed it carefully with bits of sand-paper,he rubbed it industriously with leather, he polished it anxiously withoil, until, at last, Mrs. Peckover lost all patience; and, trusting inthe influence she had already gained over him, fairly insisted on hisbringing his work to a close. Even while obeying her, he was still trueto his first resolution. He had said that no man's hand should help inthe labor he had now undertaken; and he was as good as his word, for hecarried the cross-board himself to the churchyard.

All this time, henever once looked at that lock of hair which had been accustomed totake so frequently from his pocket but a few days back. Perhaps therewas nothing in common between the thought of tracing Arthur Carr, andthe thoughts of Mary that came to him while he was at work on thewalnut-wood plank.

But when the cross-board had been set up; when hehad cleared away the mud and brambles about the mound, and had made asmooth little path round it; when he had looked at his work from allpoints of view, and had satisfied himself that he could do nothing moreto perfect it, the active, restless, and violent elements in his natureseemed to awake, as it were, on a sudden. His fingers began to searchagain in his pocket for the fatal lock of hair; and when he and Mrs.Peckover next met, the first words he addressed to her announced hisimmediate departure for Dibbledean.

She had strengthened her hold onhis gratitude by getting him permission, through the Rector ofBangbury, to occupy himself, without molestation, in the work ofrepairing his sister's grave. She had persuaded him to confide to hermany of the particulars concerning himself which he had refused tocommunicate at their first interview. But when she tried, at parting,to fathom what his ultimate intentions really were, now that he wasleaving Bangbury with the avowed purpose of discovering Arthur Carr,she failed to extract from him a single sentence of explanation, oreven so much as a word of reply. When he took his farewell, he chargedher not to communicate their meeting to Mr. Blyth, till she heard fromhim or saw him again; and he tried once more to thank her in as fitwords as he could command, for the pity and kindness she had shewntowards Mary Grice; but, to the very last, he closed his lipsresolutely on the ominous subject of Arthur Carr.

He had been afortnight absent from London, when he set forth once more forDibbledean, to try that last chance of tracing out the hidden man,which might be afforded him by a search among the papers of JoannaGrice.

The astonishment and delight of Mr. Tatt when Matthew,appearing in the character of a client at the desolate office door,actually announced himself as the sole surviving son of old JoshuaGrice, flowed out in such a torrent of congratulatory words, that Matwas at first literally overwhelmed by them. He soon recovered himself,however; and while Mr. Tatt was still haranguing fluently about provinghis client's identity, and securing his client's right of inheritance,silenced the solicitor, by declaring as bluntly as usual, that he hadnot come to Dibbledean to be helped to get hold of money, but to behelped to get hold of Joanna Grice's papers. This extraordinaryannouncement produced a long explanation and a still longer discussion,in the middle of which Mat lost his patience, and declared that hewould set aside all legal obstacles and delays forthwith, by going toMr. Nawby's office, and demanding of that gentleman, as the officialguardian of the late Miss Grice's papers, permission to look over thedifferent documents which the old woman might have left behind her.

It was to no earthly purpose that Mr. Tatt represented this course ofproceeding as unprofessional, injudicious, against etiquette, andutterly ruinous, looked at from any point of view. While he was stillexpostulating, Matthew was stepping out at the door; and Mr. Tatt, whocould not afford to lose even this most outrageous and unmanageable ofclients, had no other alternative but to make the best of it, and runafter him.

Mr. Nawby was a remarkably lofty, solemn, and ceremoniousgentleman, feeling as bitter a hatred and scorn for Mr. Tatt as it iswell possible for one legal human being to entertain toward another.There is no doubt that he would have received the irregular visit ofwhich he was now the object with the most chilling contempt, if he hadonly been allowed time to assert his own dignity. But before he couldutter a single word, Matthew, in defiance of all that Mr. Tatt couldsay to silence him, first announced himself in his proper character;and then, after premising that he came to worry nobody about moneymatters, coolly added that he wanted to look over the late JoannaGrice's letters and papers directly, for a purpose which was not of thesmallest consequence to anyone but himself.

Under ordinarycircumstances, Mr. Nawby would have simply declined to hold anycommunication with Mat, until his identity had been legally proved. Butthe prosperous solicitor of Dibbledean had a grudge against theaudacious adventurer who had set up in practice against him; and hetherefore resolved to depart a little on this occasion from thestrictly professional course, for the express purpose of depriving Mr.Tatt of as many prospective six-and-eight-pences as possible. Wavinghis hand solemnly, when Mat had done speaking, he said: "Wait a moment,sir," then rang a bell and ordered in his head clerk.

"Now, Mr.Scutt," said Mr. Nawby, loftily addressing the clerk, "have thegoodness to be a witness in the first place, that I protest againstthis visit on Mr. Tatt's part, as being indecorous, unprofessional, andunbusiness-like. In the second place, be a witness, also, that I do notadmit the identity of this party," (pointing to Mat), "and that what Iam now about to say to him, I say under protest, and denying proformâ that he is the party he represents himself to be. Youthoroughly understand, Mr. Scutt?"

Mr. Scutt bowed reverently. Mr.Nawby went on.

"If your business connection, sir, with that party,"he said, addressing Matthew, and indicating Mr. Tatt, "was only enteredinto to forward the purpose you have just mentioned to me, I beg toinform you (denying, you will understand, at the same time, your rightto ask for such information) that you may wind up matters with yoursolicitor whenever you please. The late Miss Grice has left neitherletters nor papers. I destroyed them all, by her own wish, in her ownpresence, and under her own written authority, during her last illness.My head clerk here, who was present to assist me, will corroborate thestatement, if you wish it."

Mat listened attentively to these words,but listened to nothing more. A sturdy legal altercation immediatelyensued between the two solicitors--but it hardly reached his ears. Mr.Tatt took his arm, and led him out, talking more fluently than ever;but he had not the poorest trifle of attention to bestow on Mr. Tatt.All his faculties together seemed to be absorbed by this one momentousconsideration: Had he really and truly lost the last chance of tracingArthur Carr?

When they got into the High Street, his mind somewhatrecovered its freedom of action, and he began to feel the necessity ofdeciding at once on his future movements. Now that his final resourcehad failed him, what should he do next? It was useless to go back toBangbury, useless to remain at Dibbledean. Yet the fit was on him to bemoving again somewhere--better even to return to Kirk Street than toremain irresolute and inactive on the scene of his defeat.

He stoppedsuddenly; and saying--"It's no good waiting here now; I shall go backto London;" impatiently shook himself free of Mr. Tatt's arm in amoment. He found it by no means so easy, however, to shake himself freeof Mr. Tatt's legal services. "Depend on my zeal," cried this energeticsolicitor, following Matthew pertinaciously on his way to the station."If there's law in England, your identity shall be proved and yourrights respected. I intend to throw myself into this case, heart andsoul. Money, Justice, Law, Morality, are all concerned--One moment, mydear sir! If you must really go back to London, oblige me at any rate,with your address, and just state in a cursory way, whether you werechristened or not at Dibbledean church. I want nothing more to beginwith--absolutely nothing more, on my word of honor as a professionalman."

Willing in his present mood to say or do anything to get rid ofhis volunteer solicitor, Mat mentioned his address in Kirk Street, andthe name by which he was known there, impatiently said "Yes," to theinquiry as to whether he had been christened at Dibbledean church--andthen abruptly turning away, left Mr. Tatt standing in the middle of thehigh road, excitably making a note of the evidence just collected, in anew legal memorandum-book.

As soon as Mat was alone, the ominousquestion suggested itself to him again: Had he lost the last chance oftracing Arthur Carr? Although inexorable facts seemed now to prove pastcontradiction that he had--even yet he held to his old superstitionmore doggedly and desperately than ever. Once more, on his way to thestation, he pulled out the lock of hair, and obstinately pondered overit. Once more, while he journeyed to London, that strange convictionupheld him, which had already supported him under previous checks. "Ishall find him," thought Mat, whirling along in the train. "I don'tcare where he's hid away from me, I shall find him yet!"

WhileMatthew Grice was traveling backwards and forwards between town andtown in the midland counties, the life led by his young friend andcomrade in the metropolis, was by no means devoid of incident andchange. Zack had met with his adventures as well as Mat; one of them,in particular, being of such a nature, or, rather, leading to suchresults, as materially altered the domestic aspect of the lodgings inKirk Street.

True to his promise to Valentine, Zack, on the morningof his friend's departure for the country, presented himself at Mr.Strather's house, with his letter of introduction, punctually at eleveno'clock; and was fairly started in life by that gentleman, before noonon the same day, as a student of the Classic beau-ideal in the statue-halls of the British Museum. He worked away resolutely enough till therooms were closed; and then returned to Kirk Street, not by any meansenthusiastically devoted to his new occupation; but determined topersevere in it, because he was determined to keep to his word.

Hisnew profession wore, however, a much more encouraging aspect when Mr.Strather introduced him, in the evening, to the private Academy. Here,live people were the models to study from. Here he was free to use thepalette, and to mix up the pinkest possible flesh tints with bran-newbrushes. Here were high-spirited students of the fine arts, easy inmanners and picturesque in personal appearance, with whom he contrivedto become intimate directly. And here, to crown all, was a Model,sitting for the chest and arms, who had been a great prize-fighter, andwith whom Zack joyfully cemented the bonds of an eternal (pugilistic)friendship, on the first night of his admission to Mr. Strather'sAcademy.

All through the second day of his probation as a student, helabored at his drawing with immense resolution and infinitesimalprogress. All through the evening he daubed away industriously underMr. Strather's supervision, until the Academy sitting was suspended. Itwould have been well for him if he had gone home as soon as he laiddown his brushes. But in an evil hour be lingered after the studies ofthe evening were over, to have a gossip with the prize-fighting Model;and in an indiscreet moment he consented to officiate as one of thepatrons at an exhibition of sparring, to be held that night in aneighboring tavern, for the ex-pugilist's benefit.

After beingconducted in an orderly manner enough for some little time, thepugilistic proceedings of the evening were suddenly interrupted by oneof the Patrons present (who was also a student at the Drawing Academy),declaring that his pocket had been picked, and insisting that the roomdoor should be closed and the police summoned immediately. Greatconfusion and disturbance ensued, amid which Zack supported the demandof his fellow-student--perhaps a little too warmly. At any rate, agentleman sitting opposite to him, with a patch over one eye, and anose broken in three places, swore that young Thorpe had personallyinsulted him by implying that he was the thief; and vindicated hismoral character by throwing a cheese-plate at Zack's head. The missilestruck the mark (at the side, however, instead of in front), andbreaking when it struck, inflicted what appeared to everyunprofessional eye that looked at the injury like a very extensive anddangerous wound.

The chemist to whom Zack was taken in the firstinstance to be bandaged, thought little of the hurt; but the localdoctor who was called in, after the lad's removal to Kirk Street, didnot take so reassuring a view of the patient's case. The wound wascertainly not situated in a very dangerous part of the head; but it hadbeen inflicted at a time when Zack's naturally full-bloodedconstitution was in a very unhealthy condition, from the effects ofmuch more ardent spirit-drinking than was at all good for him. Badfever symptoms set in immediately, and appearances became visible inthe neighborhood of the wound, at which the medical head shookominously. In short, Zack was now confined to his bed, with the worstillness he had ever had in his life, and with no friend to look afterhim except the landlady of the house.

Fortunately for him, his doctorwas a man of skill and energy, who knew how to make the most of all theadvantages which the patient's youth and strength could offer to assistthe medical treatment. In ten days' time, young Thorpe was out ofdanger of any of the serious inflammatory results which had beenapprehended from the injury to his head.

Wretchedly weak andreduced--unwilling to alarm his mother by informing her of hisillness--without Valentine to console him, or Mat to amuse him, Zack'sspirits now sank to a far lower ebb than they had ever fallen tobefore. In his present state of depression, feebleness, and solitude,there were moments when he doubted of his own recovery, in spite of allthat the doctor could tell him. While in this frame of mind, theremembrance of the last sad report he had heard of his father's health,affected him very painfully, and he bitterly condemned himself fornever having written so much as a line to ask Mr. Thorpe's pardon sincehe had left home. He was too weak to use the pen himself; but thetobacconist's wife--a slovenly, showy, kind-hearted woman--was alwaysready to do anything to serve him; and he determined to make his mind alittle easier by asking her to write a few penitent lines for him, andby having the letter despatched immediately to his father's address inBaregrove Square. His landlady had long since been made the confidantof all his domestic tribulations (for he freely communicated them toeverybody with whom he was brought much in contact); and she showed,therefore, no surprise, but on the contrary expressed greatsatisfaction, when his request was preferred to her. This was theletter which Zack, with tearful eyes and faltering voice, dictated tothe tobacconist's wife:--

"MY DEAR FATHER,--I am truly sorryfor never having written to ask you to forgive me before. I write now,and beg your pardon with all my heart, for I am indeed very penitent,and ashamed of myself. If you will only let me have another trial, andwill not be too hard upon me at first, I will do my best never to giveyou any more trouble. Therefore, pray write to me at 14, Kirk Street,Wendover Market, where I am now living with a friend who has been verykind to me. Please give my dear love to mother, and believe me yourtruly penitent son,

"Z. THORPE, jun."

Havinggot through this letter pretty easily, and finding that thetobacconist's wife was quite ready to write another for him if hepleased, Zack resolved to send a line to Mr. Blyth, who, as well as hecould calculate, might now be expected to return from the country everyday. On the evening when he had been brought home with the wound in hishead, he had entreated that his accident might be kept a secret fromMrs. Blyth (who knew his address), in case she should send after him.This preliminary word of caution was not uselessly spoken. Only threedays later a note was brought from Mrs. Blyth, upbraiding him for neverhaving been near the house during Valentine's absence, and asking himto come and drink tea that evening. The messenger, who waited for ananswer, was sent back with the most artful verbal excuse which thelandlady could provide for the emergency, and no more notes had beendelivered since. Mrs. Blyth was doubtless not overwell satisfied withthe cool manner in which her invitation had been received.

In hispresent condition of spirits, Zack's conscience upbraided him soundlyfor having thought of deceiving Valentine by keeping him in ignoranceof what had happened. Now that Mat seemed, by his long absence, to havedeserted Kirk Street for ever, there was a double attraction and hopefor the weary and heart-sick Zack in the prospect of seeing thepainter's genial face by his bedside. To this oldest, kindest, and mostmerciful of friends, therefore, he determined to confess, what he darenot so much as hint to his own father.

The note which, by theassistance of the tobacconist's wife, he now addressed to Valentine,was as characteristically boyish, and even childish in tone, as thenote which he had sent to his father. It ran thus:

"MY DEARBLYTH,--I begin to wish I had never been born; for I have got intoanother scrape--having been knocked on the head by a prize-fighter witha cheese-plate. It was wrong in me to go where I did, I know. But Iwent to Mr. Strather, just as you told me, and stuck to my drawing--Idid indeed! Pray do come, as soon as ever you get back--I send thisletter to make sure of getting you at once. I am so miserable andlonely, and too weak still to get out of bed.

"My landlady is verygood and kind to me; but, as for that old vagabond, Mat, he has beenaway in the country, I don't know how long, and has never written tome. Please, please do come! and don't blow me up much if you can helpit, for I am so weak I can hardly keep from crying when I think of whathas happened. Ever yours,

"Z. THORPE, jun.

"P. S. Ifyou have got any of my money left by you, I should be very glad if youwould bring it. I haven't a farthing, and there are several littlethings I ought to pay for."

This letter, and the letter toMr. Thorpe, after being duly sealed and directed, were confided fordelivery to a private messenger. They were written on the same daywhich had been occupied by Matthew Grice in visiting Mr. Tatt and Mr.Nawby, at Dibbledean. And the coincidences of time so ordered it, thatwhile Zack's letters were proceeding to their destinations, in the handof the messenger, Zack's fellow-lodger was also proceeding to hisdestination in Kirk Street, by the fast London train.

BaregroveSquare was nearer to the messenger than Valentine's house, so the firstletter that he delivered was that all-important petition for thepaternal pardon, on the favorable reception of which depended Zack'slast chance of reconciliation with home.

Mr. Thorpe satalone in his dining-parlor--the same dining-parlor in which, so manyweary years ago, he had argued with old Mr. Goodworth, about his son'seducation. Mrs. Thorpe, being confined to her room by a severe cold,was unable to keep him company--the doctor had just taken leave ofhim--friends in general were forbidden, on medical authority, to excitehim by visits--he was left lonely, and he had the prospect of remaininglonely for the rest of the day. That total prostration of the nervoussystem, from which the doctor had declared him to be now suffering,showed itself painfully, from time to time, in his actions as well ashis looks--in his sudden startings when an unexpected noise occurred inthe house, in the trembling of his wan yellowish-white hand whenever helifted it from the table, in the transparent paleness of his cheeks, inthe anxious uncertainty of his ever-wandering eves.

His attention wasjust now directed on an open letter lying near him--a letter fitted toencourage and console him, if any earthly hopes could still speak ofhappiness to his heart, or any earthly solace still administer reposeto his mind.

But a few days back, his wife's entreaties and thedoctor's advice had at length prevailed on him to increase his chancesof recovery, by resigning the post of secretary to one of the ReligiousSocieties to which he belonged. The letter he was now looking at, hadbeen written officially to inform him that the members of the Societyaccepted his resignation with the deepest regret; and to prepare himfor a visit on the morrow from a deputation charged to present him withan address and testimonial--both of which had been unanimously voted bythe Society "in grateful and affectionate recognition of his highcharacter and eminent services, while acting as their secretary." Hehad not been able to resist the temptation of showing this letter tothe doctor; and he could not refrain from reading it once again now,before he put it back in his desk. It was, in his eyes, the greatreward and the great distinction of his life.

He was still lingeringthoughtfully over the last sentence, when Zack's letter was brought into him. It was only for a moment that he had dared to taste again thesweetness of a well-won triumph--but even in that moment, there mingledwith it the poisoning bitter of every past association that could painhim most!--With a heavy sigh, he put away the letter from the friendswho honored him, and prepared to answer the letter from the son who haddeserted him.

There was grief, but no anger in his face, as he readit over for the second time. He sat thinking for a little while--then drewtowards him his inkstand and paper--hesitated--wrote a few lines--andpaused again, putting down the pen this time, and covering his eyeswith his thin trembling hand. After sitting thus for some minutes, heseemed to despair of being able to collect his thoughts immediately,and to resolve on giving his mind full time to compose itself. He shutup his son's letter and his own unfinished reply together in the paper-case. But there was some re-assuring promise for Zack's futureprospects contained even in the little that he had already written; andthe letter suggested forgiveness at the very outset; for it began with,"My dear Zachary."

On delivering Zack's second note atValentine's house, the messenger was informed that Mr. Blyth wasexpected back on the next day, or on the day after that, at the latest.Having a discretionary power to deal as she pleased with her husband'scorrespondence, when he was away from home, Mrs. Blyth opened theletter as soon as it was taken up to her. Madonna was in the room atthe time, with her bonnet and shawl on, just ready to go out for herusual daily walk, with Patty the housemaid for a companion, inValentine's absence.

"Oh, that wretched, wretched Zack!" exclaimedMrs. Blyth, looking seriously distressed and alarmed, the moment hereyes fell on the first lines of the letter. "He must be ill indeed,"she added, looking closely at the handwriting; "for he has evidentlynot written this himself."

Madonna could not hear these words, butshe could see the expression which accompanied their utterance, andcould indicate by a sign her anxiety to know what had happened. Mrs.Blyth ran her eye quickly over the letter, and ascertaining that therewas nothing in it which Madonna might not be allowed to read, beckonedto the girl to look over her shoulder, as the easiest and shortest wayof explaining what was the matter.

"How distressed Valentine will beto hear of this!" thought Mrs. Blyth, summoning Patty up-stairs by apull at her bell-rope, while Madonna was eagerly reading the letter.The housemaid appeared immediately, and was charged by her mistress togo to Kirk Street at once; and after inquiring of the landlady aboutZack's health, to get a written list of any comforts he might want, andbring it back as soon as possible. "And mind you leave a message,"pursued Mrs. Blyth, in conclusion, "to say that he need not troublehimself about money matters, for your master will come back from thecountry, either to-morrow or next day."

Here her attention wassuddenly arrested by Madonna, who was eagerly and even impatientlysigning on her fingers: "What are you saying to Patty? Oh! do let meknow what you are saying to Patty?"

Mrs. Blyth repeated, by means ofthe deaf-and-dumb alphabet, the instructions which she had just givento the servant; and added--observing the paleness and agitation ofMadonna's face--"Let us not frighten ourselves unnecessarily, my dear,about Zack; he may turn out to be much better than we think him fromreading his letter."

"May I go with Patty?" rejoined Madonna, hereyes sparkling with anxiety, her fingers trembling as they rapidlyformed these words. "Let me take my walk with Patty, just as if nothinghad happened. Let me go! pray, let me go!"

"She can't be of any use,poor child," thought Mrs. Blyth; "but if I keep her here, she will onlybe fretting herself into one of her violent headaches. Besides, she mayas well have her walk now, for I shan't be able to spare Patty later inthe day." Influenced by these considerations, Mrs. Blyth, by a nod,intimated to her adopted child that she might accompany the housemaidto Kirk Street. Madonna, the moment this permission was granted, ledthe way out of the room; but stopped as soon as she and Patty werealone on the staircase, and, making a sign that she would be backdirectly, ran up to her own bed-chamber.

When she entered the room,she unlocked a little dressing-case that Valentine had given to her;and, emptying out of one of the trays four sovereigns and some silver,all her savings from her own pocket-money, wrapped them up hastily in apiece of paper, and ran down stairs again to Patty. Zack was ill, andlonely, and miserable; longing for a friend to sit by his bedside andcomfort him--and she could not be that friend! But Zack was also poor;she had read it in his letter; there were many little things he wantedto pay for; he needed money--and in that need she might secretly be afriend to him, for she had money of her own to give away.

"My fourgolden sovereigns shall be the first he has," thought Madonna,nervously taking the housemaid's offered arm at the house-door. "I willput them in some place where he is sure to find them, and never to knowwho they come from. And Zack shall be rich again--rich with all themoney I have got to give him." Four sovereigns represented quite alittle fortune in Madonna's eyes. It had taken her a long, long time tosave them out of her small allowance of pocket-money.

When theyknocked at the private door of the tobacco-shop, it was opened by thelandlady, who, after hearing what their errand was from Patty, andanswering some preliminary inquiries after Zack, politely invited themto walk into her back parlor. But Madonna seemed--quiteincomprehensibly to the servant--to be bent on remaining in the passagetill she had finished writing some lines which she had just then begunto trace on her slate. When they were completed, she showed them toPatty, who read with considerable astonishment these words: "Ask wherehis sitting-room is, and if I can go into it. I want to leave somethingfor him there with my own hands, if the room is empty."

After lookingat her young mistress's eager face in great amazement for a moment ortwo, Patty asked the required questions; prefacing them with some wordsof explanation which drew from the tobacconist's wife many volubleexpressions of sympathy and admiration for Madonna. At last, there cameto an end; and the desired answers to the questions on the slate werereadily given enough, and duly, though rather slowly, written down byPatty, for her young lady's benefit. The sitting-room belonging to Mr.Thorpe and the other gentleman, was the front room on the first floor.Nobody was in it now. Would the lady like to be shown--

Here Madonnaarrested the servant's further progress with the slate pencil--noddedto indicate that she understood what had been written--and then, withher little packet of money ready in her hand, lightly ran up the firstflight of stairs; ascending them so quickly that she was on the landingbefore Patty and the landlady had settled which of the two ought tohave officially preceded her.

The front room was indeed empty whenshe entered it, but one of the folding doors leading into the back roomhad been left ajar; and when she looked towards the opening thus made,she also looked, from the particular point of view she then occupied,towards the head of the bed on which Zack lay, and saw his face turnedtowards her, hushed in deep, still, breathless sleep.

She startedviolently--trembled a little--then stood motionless, looking towardshim through the door; the tears standing thick in her eyes, the colorgone from her cheeks, the yearning pulses of grief and pity beatingfaster and faster in her heart. Ah! how pale and wan and piteouslystill he lay there, with the ghastly white bandages round his head, andone helpless, languid hand hanging over the bedside! How changed fromthat glorious creature, all youth, health, strength, and exultingactivity, whom it had so long been her innocent idolatry to worship insecret! How fearfully like what might be the image of him in death, wasthe present image of him as he lay in his hushed and awful sleep! Sheshuddered as the thought crossed her mind, and drying the tears thatobscured her sight, turned a little away from him, and looked round theroom. Her quick feminine eyes detected at a glance all its squaliddisorder, all its deplorable defects of comfort, all its repulsiveunfitness as a habitation for the suffering and the sick. Surely alittle money might help Zack to a better place to recover in! Surely her money might be made to minister in this way to his comfort,his happiness, and even his restoration to health!

Full of this idea,she advanced a step or two, and sought for a proper place on the onetable in the room, in which she might put her packet of money.

Whileshe was thus engaged, an old newspaper, with some hair lying in it,caught her eye. The hair was Zack's and was left to be thrown away;having been cut off that very morning by the doctor, who thought thatenough had not been removed from the neighborhood of the wound by thebarber originally employed to clear the hair from the injured side ofthe patient's head. Madonna had hardly looked at the newspaper beforeshe recognized the hair in it as Zack's by its light-brown color, andby the faint golden tinge running through it. One little curly lock,lying rather apart from the rest, especially allured her eyes; shelonged to take it as a keepsake--a keepsake which Zack would never knowthat she possessed! For a moment she hesitated, and in that moment thelonging became an irresistible temptation. After glancing over hershoulder to assure herself that no one had followed her upstairs, shetook the lock of hair, and quickly hid it away in her bosom.

Her eyeshad assured her that there was no one in the room; but, if she had notbeen deprived of the sense of hearing, she would have known thatpersons were approaching it, by the sound of voices on the stairs--aman's voice being among them. Necessarily ignorant, however, of this,she advanced unconcernedly, after taking the lock of hair, from thetable to the chimney-piece, which it struck her might be the safestplace to leave the money on. She had just put it down there, when shefelt the slight concussion caused by the opening and closing of thedoor behind her; and turning round instantly, confronted Patty, thelandlady, and the strange swarthy-faced friend of Zack's, who had madeher a present of the scarlet tobacco-pouch.

Terror and confusionalmost overpowered her, as she saw him advance to the chimney-piece andtake up the packet she had just placed there. He had evidently openedthe room-door in time to see her put it down; and he was nowdeliberately unfolding the paper and examining the money inside.

While he was thus occupied, Patty came close up to her, and, withrather a confused and agitated face, began writing on her slate, muchfaster and much less correctly than usual. She gathered, however, fromthe few crooked lines scrawled by the servant, that Patty had been verymuch startled by the sudden entrance of the landlady's rough lodger,who had let himself in from the street, just as she was about to followher young mistress up to the sitting-room, and had uncivilly stood inher way on the stairs, while he listened to what the good woman of thehouse had to tell him about young Mr. Thorpe's illness. Confused as thewriting was on the slate, Madonna contrived to interpret it thus far,and would have gone on interpreting more, if she had not felt a heavyhand laid on her arm, and had not, on looking round, seen Zack's friendmaking signs to her, with her money loose in his hand.

She feltconfused, but not frightened now; for his eyes, as she looked intothem, expressed neither suspicion nor anger. They rested on her facekindly and sadly, while he first pointed to the money in his hand, andthen to her. She felt that her color was rising, and that it was a hardmatter to acknowledge the gold and silver as being her own property;but she did so acknowledge it. He then pointed to himself; and when sheshook her head, pointed through the folding doors into Zack's room. Hercheeks began to burn, and she grew suddenly afraid to look at him; butit was no harder trial to confess the truth than shamelessly to deny itby making a false sign. So she looked up at him again, and bravelynodded her head.

His eyes seemed to grow clearer and softer as theystill rested kindly on her; but he made her take back the moneyimmediately, and, holding her hand as he did so, detained it for amoment with a curious awkward gentleness. Then, after first pointingagain to Zack's room, he began to search in the breast-pocket of hiscoat, took from it at one rough grasp some letters tied togetherloosely, and a clumsy-looking rolled-up strip of fur, put the lettersaside on the table behind him, and, unrolling the fur, showed her thatthere were bank-notes in it. She understood him directly--he had moneyof his own for Zack's service, and wanted none from her.

After he hadreplaced the strip of fur in his pocket, he took up the letters fromthe table to be put back also. As he reached them towards him, a lockof hair, which seemed to have accidentally got between them, fell outon the floor just at her feet. She stooped to pick it up for him; andwas surprised, as she did so, to see that it exactly resembled in colorthe lock of Zack's hair which she had taken from the old newspaper, andhad hidden in her bosom.

She was surprised at this; and she was morethan surprised, when he angrily and abruptly snatched up the lock ofhair, just as she touched it. Did he think that she wanted to take itaway from him? If he did, it was easy to show him that a lock of Zack'shair was just now no such rarity that people need quarrel about thepossession of it. She reached her hand to the table behind, and, takingsome of the hair from the old newspaper, held it up to him with asmile, just as he was on the point of putting his own lock of hair backin his pocket.

For a moment he did not seem to comprehend what heraction meant; then the resemblance between the hair in her hand and thehair in his own, struck him suddenly.

The whole expression of hisface changed in an instant--changed so darkly that she recoiled fromhim in terror, and put back the hair into the newspaper. He pounced onit directly; and, crunching it up in his hand, turned his grimthreatening face and fiercely-questioning eyes on the landlady. Whileshe was answering his inquiry, Madonna saw him look towards Zack's bed;and, as he looked, another change passed over his face--the darknessfaded from it, and the red scars on his cheek deepened in color. He movedback slowly to the further corner of the room from the folding-doors;his restless eyes fixed in a vacant stare, one of his handsclutched round the old newspaper, the other motioning clumsily andimpatiently to the astonished and alarmed women to leave him.

Madonnahad felt Patty's hand pulling at her arm more than once during the lastminute or two. She was now quite as anxious as her companion to quitthe house. They went out quickly, not venturing to look at Mat again;and the landlady followed them. She and Patty had a long talk togetherat the street door--evidently, judging by the expression of theirfaces, about the conduct of the rough lodger up-stairs. But Madonnafelt no desire to be informed particularly of what they were saying toeach other. Much as Matthew's strange behavior had surprised andstartled her, he was not the uppermost subject in her mind just then.It was the discovery of her secret, the failure of her little plan forhelping Zack with her own money, that she was now thinking of withequal confusion and dismay. She had not been in the front room at KirkStreet much more than five minutes altogether--yet what a succession ofuntoward events had passed in that short space of time!

Fora long while after the women had left him, Mat stood motionless in thefurthest corner of the room from the folding-doors, looking vacantlytowards Zack's bedchamber. His first surprise on finding a strangertalking in the passage, when he let himself in from the street; hisfirst vexation on hearing of Zack's accident from the landlady; hismomentary impulse to discover himself to Mary's child, when he sawMadonna standing in his room, and again when he knew that she had comethere with her little offering, for the one kind purpose of helping thesick lad in his distress--all these sensations were now gone from hismemory as well as from his heart; absorbed in the one predominantemotion with which the discovery of the resemblance between Zack's hairand the hair from Jane Holdworth's letter now filled him. No ordinaryshocks could strike Mat's mind hard enough to make it lose itsbalance--this shock prostrated it in an instant.

In proportionas he gradually recovered his self-possession so did the desirestrengthen in him to ascertain the resemblance between the two kinds ofhair once more--but in such a manner as it had not been ascertainedyet. He stole gently to the folding-doors and looked into youngThorpe's room. Zack was still asleep.

After pausing for a moment, andshaking his head sorrowfully, as he noticed how pale and wasted thelad's face looked, he approached the pillow, and laid the lock ofArthur Carr's hair upon it, close to the uninjured side of Zack's head.It was then late in the afternoon, but not dusk yet. No blind hung overthe bedroom window, and all the light in the sky streamed full on tothe pillow as Mat's eyes fastened on it.

The similarity between thesleeper's hair and the hair of Arthur Carr was perfect! Both were ofthe same light brown color, and both had running through that color thesame delicate golden tinge, brightly visible in the light, hardly to bedetected at all in the shade.

Why had this extraordinary resemblancenever struck him before? Perhaps because he had never examined ArthurCarr's hair with attention until he had possessed himself of Mary'sbracelet, and had gone away to the country. Perhaps also because he hadnever yet taken notice enough of Zack's hair to care to look close atit. And now the resemblance was traced, to what conclusion did itpoint? Plainly, from Zack's youth, to none in connection with him. But what elder relatives had he? and which of them was he mostlike?

Did he take after his father?

Mat was looking down at thesleeper, just then; something in the lad's face troubled him, and kepthis mind from pursuing that last thought. He took the lock of hair fromthe pillow, and went into the front room. There was anxiety and almostdread in his face, as he thought of the fatally decisive question inrelation to the momentous discovery he had just made, which must beaddressed to Zack when he awoke. He had never really known how fond hewas of his fellow lodger until now, when he was conscious of a dull,numbing sensation of dismay at the prospect of addressing that questionto the friend who had lived as a brother with him, since the day whenthey first met.

As the evening closed in, Zack woke. It was a reliefto Mat, as he went to the bedside, to know that his face could not nowbe clearly seen. The burden of that terrible question pressed heavilyon his heart, while he held his comrade's feeble hand; while heanswered as considerately, yet as briefly as he could, the manyinquiries addressed to him; and while he listened patiently andsilently to the sufferer's long, wandering, faintly-uttered narrativeof the accident that had befallen him. Towards the close of thatnarrative, Zack himself unconsciously led the way to the fatal questionwhich Mat longed, yet dreaded to ask him.

"Well, old fellow," hesaid, turning feebly on his pillow, so as to face Matthew, "somethinglike what you call the 'horrors' has been taking hold of me. And thismorning, in particular, I was so wretched and lonely, that I asked thelandlady to write for me to my father, begging his pardon, and allthat. I haven't behaved as well as I ought; and, somehow, when afellow's ill and lonely he gets homesick--"

His voice began to growfaint, and he left the sentence unfinished.

"Zack," said Mat, turninghis face away from the bed while he spoke, though it was now quitedark. "Zack, what sort of a man is your father?"

"What sort of a man!How do you mean?"

"To look at. Are you like him in the face?"

"Lordhelp you, Mat! as little like as possible. My father's face is allwrinkled and marked."

"Aye, aye, like other old men's faces. His hair'sgrey, I suppose?"

"Quite white. By-the-by--talking of that--thereis one point I'm like him in--at least, like what he was, when he was a young man."

"What's that?"

"What we've beenspeaking of--his hair. I've heard my mother say, when she first marriedhim--just shake up my pillow a bit, will you, Mat?"

"Yes, yes. Andwhat did you hear your mother say?"

"Oh, nothing particular. Onlythat when he was a young man, his hair was exactly like what mine isnow."

As those momentous words were spoken, the landladyknocked at the door, and announced that she was waiting outside withcandles, and a nice cup of tea for the invalid. Mat let her into thebedchamber--then immediately walked out of it into the front room, andclosed the folding-doors behind him. Brave as he was, he was afraid, atthat moment, to let Zack see his face.

He walked to the fireplace,and rested his head and arm on the chimney-piece--reflected for alittle while--then stood upright again--and searching in his pocket,drew from it once more that fatal lock of hair, which he had examinedso anxiously and so often during his past fortnight in the country.

"Your work's done," he said, looking at it for a moment, as itlay in his hand--then throwing it into the dull red fire which was nowburning low in the grate. "Your work's done; and mine won't belong a-doing." He rested his head and arm again wearily on the chimney-piece,and added:

"I'm brothers with Zack--there's the hard part ofit!--I'm brothers with Zack."

On the forenoon of the day that followedMat's return to Kirk Street, the ordinarily dull aspect of BaregroveSquare was enlivened by a procession of three handsome privatecarriages which stopped at Mr. Thorpe's door.

From each carriagethere descended gentlemen of highly respectable appearance, clothed inshining black garments, and wearing, for the most part, white cravats.One of these gentlemen carried in his hands a handsome silver inkstand,and another gentleman who followed him, bore a roll of glossy paper,tied round with a broad ribbon of sober purple hue. The roll containedan Address to Mr. Thorpe, eulogizing his character in very affectionateterms; the inkstand was a Testimonial to be presented after theAddress; and the gentlemen who occupied the three private carriageswere all eminent members of the religious society which Mr. Thorpe hadserved in the capacity of Secretary, and from which he was now obligedto secede in consequence of the precarious state of his health.

Asmall and orderly assembly of idle people had collected on the pavementto see the gentlemen alight, to watch them go into the house, to stareat the inkstand, to wonder at the Address, to observe that Mr. Thorpe'spage wore his best livery, and that Mr. Thorpe's housemaid had on newcap-ribbons and her Sunday gown. After the street door had been closed,and these various objects for popular admiration had disappeared, therestill remained an attraction outside in the square, which addresseditself to the general ear. One of the footmen in attendance on thecarriages, had collected many interesting particulars about theDeputation and the Testimonial, and while he related them in regularorder to another footman anxious for information, the small and orderlypublic of idlers stood round about, and eagerly caught up any straywords explanatory of the ceremonies then in progress inside the house,which fell in their way.

One of the most attentive of these listenerswas a swarthy-complexioned man with bristling whiskers and a scarredface, who had made one of the assembly on the pavement from the momentof its first congregating. He had been almost as much stared at by thepeople about him as the Deputation itself; and had been set down amongthem generally as a foreigner of the most outlandish kind: but, inplain truth, he was English to the back-bone, being no other thanMatthew Grice.

Mat's look, as he stood listening among his neighbors,was now just as quietly vigilant, his manner just as gruffly self-possessed, as usual. But it had cost him a hard struggle that morning,in the solitude of one of his longest and loneliest walks, to composehimself--or, in his favorite phrase, to "get to be his own man again."

From the moment when he had thrown the lock of hair into the fire,to the moment when he was now loitering at Mr. Thorpe's door, hehad never doubted, whatever others might have done, that the man whohad been the ruin of his sister, and the man who was the nearest bloodrelation of the comrade who shared his roof, and lay sick at thatmoment in his bed, were one and the same. Though he stood now, amid thecasual street spectators, apparently as indolently curious as the mostcareless among them--looking at what they looked at, listening to whatthey listened to, and leaving the square when they left it--he wasresolved all the time to watch his first opportunity of entering Mr.Thorpe's house that very day; resolved to investigate through all itsramifications the secret which he had first discovered when thefragments of Zack's hair were playfully held up for him to look at inthe deaf and dumb girl's hand.

The dispersion of the idlers on thepavement was accelerated, and the footman's imaginary description ofthe proceedings then in progress at Mr. Thorpe's was cut short, by thefalling of a heavy shower. The frost, after breaking up, had beensucceeded that year by prematurely mild spring weather--April seemed tohave come a month before its time.

Regardless of the rain, Mat walkedslowly up and down the streets round Baregrove Square, peering everynow and then, from afar off, through the misty shower, to see if thecarriages were still drawn up at Mr. Thorpe's door. The ceremony ofpresenting the Testimonial was evidently a protracted one; for thevehicles were long kept waiting for their owners. The rain had passedaway--the sun had reappeared--fresh clouds had gathered, and it wasthreatening a second shower, before the Deputation from the greatReligious Society re-entered their vehicles and drove out of thesquare.

When they had quitted it, Mat advanced and knocked at Mr.Thorpe's door. The clouds rolled up darkly over the sun, and the firstwarning drops of the new shower began to fall, as the door opened.

The servant hesitated about admitting him. He had anticipated that thissort of obstacle would be thrown in his way at the outset, and hadprovided against it in his own mind beforehand. "Tell your master," hesaid, "that his son is ill, and I've come to speak to him about it."

This message was delivered, and had the desired effect. Mat wasadmitted into the drawing-room immediately.

The chairs occupied bythe members of the Deputation had not been moved away--the handsomesilver inkstand was on the table--the Address, beautifully written onthe fairest white paper, lay by it. Mr. Thorpe stood before thefireplace, and bending over towards the table, mechanically examined,for the second time, the signatures attached to the Address, while hisstrange visitor was being ushered up stairs.

Mat's arrival hadinterrupted him just at the moment when he was going to Mrs. Thorpe'sroom, to describe to her the Presentation ceremony which she had notbeen well enough to attend. He had stopped immediately, and the faintsmile that was on his face had vanished from it, when the news of hisson's illness reached him through the servant. But the hectic flush oftriumph and pleasure which his interview with the Deputation had calledinto his cheeks, still colored them as brightly as ever, when MatthewGrice entered the room.

"You have come, sir," Mr. Thorpe began, "totell me--"

He hesitated, stammered out another word or two, thenstopped. Something in the expression of the dark and strange face thathe saw lowering at him under the black velvet skull-cap, suspended thewords on his lips. In his present nervous, enfeebled state, any suddenemotions of doubt or surprise, no matter how slight and temporary intheir nature, always proved too powerful for his self-control, andbetrayed themselves in his speech and manner painfully.

Mat said nota word to break the ominous silence. Was he at that moment, in verytruth, standing face to face with Arthur Carr? Could this man--so frailand meager, with the narrow chest, the drooping figure, the effeminatepink tinge on his wan wrinkled cheeks--be indeed the man who had drivenMary to that last refuge, where the brambles and weeds grew thick, andthe foul mud-pools stagnated in the forgotten corner of the churchyard?

"You have come, sir," resumed Mr. Thorpe, controlling himself by aneffort which deepened the flush on his face, "to tell me news of myson, which I am not entirely unprepared for. I heard from himyesterday; and, though it did not strike me at first, I noticed onreferring to his letter afterwards, that it was not in his ownhandwriting. My nerves are not very strong, and they have beentried--pleasurably, most pleasurably tried--already this morning, by suchtestimonies of kindness and sympathy as it does not fall to the lot ofmany men to earn. May I beg you, if your news should be of an alarmingnature (which God forbid!) to communicate it as gently--"

"My news isthis," Mat broke in: "Your son's been hurt in the head, but he's gotover the worst of it now. He lives with me; I like him; and I mean totake care of him till he gets on his legs again. That's my news aboutyour son. But that's not all I've got to say. I bring you news ofsomebody else."

"Will you take a seat, and be good enough to explainyourself?"

They sat down at opposite sides of the table, with theTestimonial and the Address lying between them. The shower outside wasbeginning to fall at its heaviest. The splashing noise of the rain andthe sound of running footsteps, as the few foot passengers in thesquare made for shelter at the top of their speed, penetrated into theroom during the pause of silence which ensued after they had takentheir seats. Mr. Thorpe spoke first.

"May I inquire your name?" hesaid, in his lowest and calmest tones.

Mat did not seem to hear thequestion. He took up the Address from the table, looked at the list ofsignatures, and turned to Mr. Thorpe.

"I've been hearing about this,"he said. "Are all them names there, the names of friends of yours?"

Mr. Thorpe looked a little astonished; but he answered after a moment'shesitation:

"Certainly; the most valued friends I have in the world."

"Friends," pursued Mat, reading to himself the introductory sentencein the address, "who have put the most affectionate trust in you."

Mr. Thorpe began to look rather offended as well as ratherastonished. "Will you excuse me," he said coldly, "if I beg you toproceed to the business that has brought you here."

Mat placed theAddress on the table again, immediately in front of him; and took apencil from a tray with writing materials in it, which stood near athand. "Friends 'who have put the most affectionate trust in you,'" he repeated. "The name of one of them friends isn't here. It oughtto be; and I mean to put it down."

As the point of his pencil touchedthe paper of the Address, Mr. Thorpe started from his chair.

"What amI to understand, sir, by this conduct?" he began haughtily, stretchingout his hand to possess himself of the Address.

Mat looked up withthe serpent-glitter in his eyes, and the angry red tinge glowing in thescars on his cheek. "Sit down," he said, "I'm not quick at writing. Sitdown, and wait till I'm done."

Mr. Thorpe's face began to look alittle agitated. He took a step towards the fireplace, intending toring the bell.

"Sit down, and wait," Mat reiterated, in quick,fierce, quietly uttered tones of command, rising from his own chair,and pointing peremptorily to the seat just vacated by the master of thehouse.

A sudden doubt crossed Mr. Thorpe's mind, and made him pausebefore he touched the bell. Could this man be in his right senses? Hisactions were entirely unaccountable--his words and his way of utteringthem were alike strange--his scarred, scowling face looked hardly humanat that moment. Would it be well to summon help? No, worse thanuseless. Except the page, who was a mere boy, there were none but womenservants in the house. When he remembered this, he sat down again, andat the same moment Mat began, clumsily and slowly, to write on theblank space beneath the last signature attached to the Address.

Thesky was still darkening apace, the rain was falling heavily and moreheavily, as he traced the final letter, and then handed the paper toMr. Thorpe, bearing inscribed on it the name of MARY GRICE.

"Readthat name," said Mat.

Mr. Thorpe looked at the characters traced bythe pencil. His face changed instantly--he sank down into the chair--onefaint cry burst from his lips--then he was silent.

Low, stifled,momentary as it was, that cry proclaimed him to be the man. He wasself-denounced by it even before he cowered down, shuddering in thechair, with both his hands pressed convulsively over his face.

Matrose to his feet and spoke; eyeing him pitilessly from head to foot.

"Not a friend of all of 'em," he said, pointing down at the Address,"put such affectionate trust in you, as she did. When first I see hergrave in the strange churchyard, I said I'd be even with the man wholaid her in it. I'm here to-day to be even with you. Carr orThorpe, whichever you call yourself; I know how you used her from firstto last! Her father was my father; her name is my name: you were her worst enemy three-and-twenty year ago;you are my worst enemy now. I'm her brother, Matthew Grice!"

The hands of the shuddering figure beneath him suddenly dropped--theghastly uncovered face looked up at him, with such a panic stare in theeyes, such a fearful quivering and distortion of all the features, thatit tried even his firmness of nerve to look at it steadily. In spite ofhimself; he went back to his chair, and sat down doggedly by the table,and was silent.

A low murmuring and moaning, amid which a fewdisconnected words made themselves faintly distinguishable, caused himto look round again. He saw that the ghastly face was once more hidden.He heard the disconnected words reiterated, always in the same stifledwailing tones. Now and then, a half finished phrase was audible frombehind the withered hands, still clasped over the face, He heard suchfragments of sentences as these:--"Have pity on my wife"--"accept theremorse of many years"--"spare me the disgrace--"

After those fourlast words, he listened for no more. The merciless spirit was roused inhim again the moment he heard them.

"Spare you the disgrace?" herepeated, starting to his feet. "Did you spare her?--Not you!"

Once more the hands dropped; once more the ghastly face slowly andhorribly confronted him. But this time he never recoiled from it. Therewas no mercy in him--none in his looks, none in his tones--as he wenton.

"What! it would disgrace you, would it? Then disgraced you shallbe! You've kep' it a secret, have you? You shall tell that secret toevery soul that comes about the house! You shall own Mary's disgrace,Mary's death, and Mary's child before every man who's put his name downon that bit of paper!--You shall, as soon as to-morrow if I like! Youshall, if I have to bring your child with me to make you; if I have tostand up, hand in hand along with her, here on your own hearthstone."

He stopped. The cowering figure was struggling upward from the chair:one of the withered hands, slowly raised, was stretching itself outtowards him; the panic-stricken eyes were growing less vacant, and werestaring straight into his with a fearful meaning in their look; thepale lips were muttering rapidly--at first he could not tell what; thenhe succeeded in catching the two words, "Mary's child?" quickly,faintly, incessantly reiterated, until he spoke again,

"Yes," hesaid, pitiless as ever. "Yes: Mary's child. Your child. Haven't youseen her? Is it that you're staring and trembling about? Go andlook at her: she lives within gunshot of you. Ask Zack's friend, thePainter-Man, to show you the deaf and dumb girl he picked up among thehorse-riders. Look here--look at this bracelet! Do you remember yourown hair in it? The hands that brought up Mary's child, took thatbracelet from Mary's pocket. Look at it again! Look at it as close asyou like--"

Once more he stopped. The frail figure which had beenfeebly rising out of the chair, while he held up the Hair Bracelet,suddenly and heavily sank back in it--he saw the eyelids half close,and a great stillness pass over the face--he heard one deep-drawnbreath: but no cry now, no moaning, no murmuring--no sound whatever,except the steady splash of the fast-falling rain on the pavementoutside.

Dead?

A thought of Zack welled up intohis heart, and troubled it.

He hesitated for a moment, then bent overthe chair, and put his hand on the bosom of the deathly figurereclining in it. A faint fluttering was still to be felt; and thepulse, when he tried that next, was beating feebly. It was not death helooked on now, but the swoon that is near neighbor to it.

For aminute or two, he stood with his eyes fixed on the white calm facebeneath him, thinking. "If me and Zack," he whispered to himself;"hadn't been brothers together--" He left the sentence unfinished, tookhis hat quickly, and quitted the room.

In the passage down-stairs, hemet one of the female servants, who opened the street-door for him.

"Your master wants you," he said, with an effort. He spoke those words,passed by her, and left the house.

Neither looking to the right northe left, neither knowing nor caring whither he went, Matthew Gricetook the first turning he came to, which led him out of BaregroveSquare. It happened to be the street communicating with the longsuburban road, at the remote extremity of which Mr. Blyth lived. Matfollowed this road mechanically, not casting a glance at the painter'sabode when he passed it, and taking no notice of a cab, with luggage onthe roof; which drew up, as he walked by, at the garden gate. If he hadonly looked round at the vehicle for a moment, he must have seenValentine sitting inside it, and counting out the money for his fare.

But he still went on--straight on, looking aside at nothing. Hefronted the wind and the clearing quarter of the sky as he walked. Theshower was now fast subsiding; and the first rays of returningsunlight, as they streamed through mist and cloud, fell tenderly andwarmly on his face.

Though he did not show it outwardly, there wasstrife and trouble within him. The name of Zack was often on his lips,and he varied constantly in his rate of walking; now quickening, nowslackening his pace at irregular intervals. It was evening before heturned back towards home--night, before he sat down again in the chairby young Thorpe's bedside.

"I'm a deal better to-night,Mat," said Zack, answering his first inquiries. "That good fellow,Blyth, has come back: he's been sitting here with me a couple of hoursor more. Where have you been to all day, you restless old Rough andTough?" he continued, with something of his natural lighthearted mannerreturning already. "There's a letter come for you, by-the-by. Thelandlady said she would put it on the table in the front room."

Matthew found and opened the letter, which proved to contain twoenclosures. One was addressed to Mr. Blyth; the other had no direction.The handwriting in the letter being strange to him, Mat looked firstfor the name at the end, and found that it was Thorpe. "Wait abit," he said, as Zack spoke again just then, "I want to read myletter. We'll talk after."

This is what he read:--

"Some hours havepassed since you left my house. I have had time to collect a littlestrength and composure, and have received such assistance and advice ashave enabled me to profit by that time. Now I know that I can writecalmly, I send you this letter.

"My object is not to ask how you becamepossessed of the guilty secret which I had kept from every one--evenfrom my wife--but to offer you such explanation and confession asyou have a right to demand from me. I do not cavil about that right--Iadmit that you possess it, without desiring further proof than youractions, your merciless words, and the Bracelet in your possession,have afforded me.

"It is fit you should first be told that theassumed name by which I was known at Dibbledean, merely originated in afoolish jest--in a wager that certain companions of my own age, whowere accustomed to ridicule my fondness for botanical pursuits, andoften to follow and disturb me when I went in search of botanicalspecimens, would not be able to trace and discover me in my countryretreat. I went to Dibbledean, because the neighborhood was famous forspecimens of rare Ferns, which I desired to possess; and I took myassumed name before I went, to help in keeping me from being traced anddisturbed by my companions. My father alone was in the secret, and cameto see me once or twice in my retirement. I have no excuse to offer forcontinuing to preserve my false name, at a time when I was bound to becandid about myself and my station in life. My conduct was asunpardonably criminal in this, as it was in greater things.

"My stayat the cottage I had taken, lasted much longer than my father wouldhave remitted, if I had not deceived him, and if he had not been muchharassed at that time by unforeseen difficulties in his business as aforeign merchant. These difficulties arrived at last at a climax, andhis health broke down under them. His presence, or the presence of aproperly qualified person to represent him, was absolutely required inGermany, where one of his business houses, conducted by an agent, wasestablished. I was his only son; he had taken me as a partner into hisLondon house; and had allowed me, on the plea of delicate health, toabsent myself from my duties for months and months together, and tofollow my favorite botanical pursuits just as I pleased. When,therefore, he wrote me word that great part of his property, and greatpart, consequently, of my sisters' fortunes, depended on my going toGermany (his own health not permitting him to take the journey), I hadno choice but to place myself at his disposal immediately.

"I wentaway, being assured beforehand that my absence would not last more thanthree or four months at the most.

"While I was abroad, I wrote toyour sister constantly. I had treated her dishonorably and wickedly,but no thought of abandoning her had ever entered my heart: my dearesthope, at that time, was the hope of seeing her again. Not one of myletters was answered. I was detained in Germany beyond the time duringwhich I had consented to remain there; and in the excess of my anxiety,I even ventured to write twice to your father. Those letters alsoremained unanswered. When I at last got back to England, I immediatelysent a person on whom I could rely to Dibbledean, to make the inquirieswhich I dreaded to make myself. My messenger was turned from yourdoors, with the fearful news of your sister's flight from home and ofher death.

"It was then I first suspected that my letters had beentampered with. It was then, too, when the violence of my grief anddespair had a little abated, that the news of your sister's flightinspired me, for the first time, with a suspicion of the consequencewhich had followed the commission of my sin. You may think it strangethat this suspicion should not have occurred to me before. It wouldseem so no longer, perhaps, if I detailed to you the peculiar system ofhome education, by which my father, strictly and conscientiously,endeavored to preserve me--as other young men are not usuallypreserved--from the moral contaminations of the world. But it would beuseless to dwell on this now. No explanations can alter the events ofthe guilty and miserable past.

"Anxiously--though privately, and infear and trembling--I caused such inquiries to be made as I hoped mightdecide the question whether the child existed or not. They were longpersevered in, but they were useless--useless, perhaps, as I now thinkwith bitter sorrow, because I trusted them to others, and had not thecourage to make them openly myself.

"Two years after that time Imarried, under circumstances not of an ordinary kind--whatcircumstances you have no claim to know. That part of my life ismy secret and my wife's, and belongs to us alone.

"I have now dweltlong enough for your information on my own guilty share in the eventsof the Past. As to the Present and the Future, I have still a word ortwo left to say.

"You have declared that I shall expiate, by theexposure of my shameful secret before all my friends, the wrong yoursister suffered at my hands. My life has been one long expiation forthat wrong. My broken health, my altered character, my weary secretsorrows, unpartaken and unconsoled, have punished me for many yearspast more heavily than you think. Do you desire to see me visited bymore poignant sufferings than these? If it be so, you may enjoy thevindictive triumph of having already inflicted them. Your threats willforce me, in a few hours, from the friends I have lived with, at thevery time when the affection shown to me, and the honor conferred on meby those friends, have made their society most precious to my heart.You force me from this, and from more--for you force me from my home,at the moment when my son has affectionately entreated me to take himback to my fireside.

"These trials, heavy as they are, I am ready toendure, if, by accepting them humbly, I may be deemed to have made someatonement for my sin. But more I have not the fortitude to meet. Icannot face the exposure with which you are resolved to overwhelm me.The anxiety--perhaps, I ought to say, the weakness--of my life, hasbeen to win and keep the respect of others. You are about, bydisclosing the crime which dishonored my youth, to deprive me of mygood fame. I can let it go without a struggle, as part of thepunishment that I have deserved; but I have not the courage to wait andsee you take it from me. My own sensations tell me that I have not longto live; my own convictions assure me that I cannot fitly preparemyself for death, until I am far removed from worldly interests andworldly terrors--in a word, from the horror of an exposure, which Ihave deserved, but which, at the end of my weary life, is more than Ican endure. We have seen the last of each other in this world. To-nightI shall be beyond the reach of your retaliation; for to-night I shallbe journeying to the retreat in which the short remainder of my lifewill be hidden from you and from all men.

"It now only remains for meto advert to the two enclosures contained in this letter.

"The firstis addressed to Mr. Blyth. I leave it to reach his hands through you;because I am ashamed to communicate with him directly, as from myself.If what you said about my child be the truth--and I cannot dispute it--then,in my ignorance of her identity, in my estrangement from thehouse of her protector since she first entered it, I have unconsciouslycommitted such an offense against Mr. Blyth as no contrition can everadequately atone for. Now indeed I feel how presumptuously merciless mybitter conviction of the turpitude of my own sin, has made me towardswhat I deemed like sins in others. Now also I know, that, unless youhave spoken falsely, I have been guilty of casting the shame of my owndeserted child in the teeth of the very man who had nobly and tenderlygiven her an asylum in his own home. The unutterable anguish which onlythe bare suspicion of this has inflicted on me might well have been mydeath. I marvel even now at my own recovery from it.

"You are free tolook at the letter to Mr. Blyth which I now entrust to you. Besides theexpression of my shame, my sorrow, and my sincere repentance, itcontains some questions, to which Mr. Blyth, in his Christian kindness,will, I doubt not, readily write answers. The questions only refer tothe matter of the child's identity; and the address I have written downat the end, is that of the house of business of my lawyer and agent inLondon. He will forward the document to me, and will then arrange withMr. Blyth the manner in which a fit provision from my property may bebest secured to his adopted child. He has deserved her love, and to himI gratefully and humbly leave her. For myself, I am not worthy even tolook upon her face.

"The second enclosure is meant for my son; and isto be delivered in the event of your having already disclosed to himthe secret of his father's guilt. But, if you have not done this--ifany mercy towards me has entered into your heart, and pleads with itfor pardon and for silence--then destroy the letter, and tell him thathe will find a communication waiting for him at the house of my agent.He wrote to ask my pardon--he has it freely. Freely, in my turn, I hopeto have his forgiveness for severities exercised towards him, whichwere honestly meant to preserve him betimes from ever falling as hisfather fell, but which I now fear were persevered in too hardly and toolong. I have suffered for this error, as for others, heavily--moreheavily, when he abandoned his home, than I should ever wish him toknow. You said he lived with you and that you were fond of him. Begentle with him, now that he is ill, for his mother's sake.

"My handgrows weaker and weaker: I can write no more. Let me close this letterby entreating your pardon. If you ever grant it me, then I also askyour prayers."

With this the letter ended.

Matthew satholding it open in his hand for a little while. He looked round once ortwice at the enclosed letter from Mr. Thorpe to his son, which layclose by on the table--but did not destroy it; did not so much as touchit even.

Zack spoke to him before long from the inner room.

"I'msure you must have done reading your letter by this time, Mat. I'vebeen thinking, old fellow, of the talk we used to have, about goingback to America together, and trying a little buffalo hunting androaming about in the wilds. If my father takes me into favor again, andcan be got to say Yes, I should so like to go with you, Mat. Not fortoo long, you know, because of my mother, and my friends over here. Buta sea voyage, and a little scouring about in what you call the lonesomeplaces, would do me such good! I don't feel as if I should ever settleproperly to anything, till I've had my fling. I wonder whether myfather would let me go?"

"I know he would, Zack."

"You! How?"

"I'll tell you how another time. You shall have your run, Zack,--youshall have your heart's content along with me." As he said this, helooked again at Mr. Thorpe's letter to his son, and took it up in hishand this time.

"Oh! how I wish I was strong enough to start! Come inhere, Mat, and let's talk about it."

"Wait a bit, and I will."Pronouncing those words, he rose from his chair. "For your sake, Zack,"he said, and dropped the letter into the fire.

"What can you be aboutall this time?" asked young Thorpe.

"Do you call to mind," said Mat,going into the bedroom, and sitting down by the lad's pillow--"Do youcall to mind me saying, that I'd be brothers with you, when first ustwo come together? Well, Zack, I've only been trying to be as good asmy word."

"Trying? What do you mean? I don't understand, old fellow."

"Never mind: you'll make it out better some day. Let's talk aboutgetting aboard ship, and going a buffalo-hunting now."

They discussedthe projected expedition, until Zack grew sleepy. As he fell off into apleasant doze, Mat went back into the front-room; and, taking from thetable Mr. Thorpe's letter to Mr. Blyth, left Kirk Street immediatelyfor the painter's house.

It had occurred to Valentine tounlock his bureau twice since his return from the country, but onneither occasion had he found it necessary to open that long narrowdrawer at the back, in which he had secreted the Hair Bracelet yearsago. He was consequently still totally ignorant that it had been takenaway from him, when Matthew Grice entered the painting-room, andquietly put it into his hand.

Consternation and amazement sothoroughly overpowered him, that he suffered his visitor to lock thedoor against all intruders, and then to lead him peremptorily to achair, without uttering a single word of inquiry or expostulation. Allthough the narrative, on which Mat now entered, he sat totallyspeechless, until Mr. Thorpe's letter was placed in his hands, and hewas informed that Madonna was still to be left entirely under his owncare. Then, for the first time, his cheeks showed symptoms of returningto their natural color, and he exclaimed fervently, "Thank God! Ishan't lose her after all! I only wish you had begun by telling me ofthat, the moment you came into the room!"

Saying this, he began toread Mr. Thorpe's letter. When he had finished it, and looked up atMat, the tears were in his eyes.

"I can't help it," said the simple-hearted painter. "It would even affect you, Mr. Grice, to beaddressed in such terms of humiliation as these. How can he doubt myforgiving him, when he has a right to my everlasting gratitude for notasking me to part with our darling child? They never met--he has never,never, seen her face," continued Valentine, in lower and fainter tones."She always wore her veil down, by my wish, when we went out; and ourwalks were generally into the country, instead of town way. I only onceremember seeing him coming towards us; and then I crossed the road withher, knowing we were not on terms. There's something shocking in fatherand daughter living so near each other, yet being--if one may say so--sofar, so very far apart. It is dreadful to think of that. It is farmore dreadful to think of its having been her hand which held upthe hair for you to look at, and her little innocent actionwhich led to the discovery of who her father really was!"

"Do youever mean to let her know as much about it as we do?" asked Matthew.

The look of dismay began to appear again in Valentine's face. "Have youtold Zack, yet?" he inquired, nervously and eagerly.

"No," said Mat;"and don't you! When Zack's on his legs again, he's going totake a voyage, and get a season's hunting along with me in the wildcountry over the water. I'm as fond of the lad as if he was a bit of myown flesh and blood. I cottoned to him when he hit out so hearty for meat the singing-shop--and we've been brothers together ever since. Youmightn't think it, to look at me; but I've spared Zack's father forZack's sake; and I don't ask no more reward for it than to take the lada hunting for a season or two along with me. When he comes back homeagain, and we say Good-bye, I'll tell him all what's happened; but Iwon't risk bringing so much as a cross look into his eyes now, bydropping a word to him of what's passed betwixt his father and me."

Although this speech excited no little surprise and interest inValentine's mind, it did not succeed in suspending the anxieties whichhad been awakened in him by Matthew's preceding question, and which henow began to feel the necessity of confiding to Mrs. Blyth--his grandcounselor in all difficulties, and unfailing comforter in all troubles.

"Do you mind waiting here," he said, "while I go upstairs, and breakthe news to my wife? Without her advice I don't know what to do aboutcommunicating our discovery to the poor dear child. Do you mindwaiting?"

No: Matthew would willingly wait. Hearing this, Mr. Blythleft the room directly.

He remained away a long time. When he cameback, his face did not seem to have gained in composure during hisabsence.

"My wife has told me of another discovery," he said, "whichher motherly love for our adopted daughter enabled her to make sometime since. I have been sadly surprised and distressed at hearing ofit. But I need say no more on the subject to you, than that Mrs. Blythhas at once decided me to confide nothing to Madonna--to Mary, I oughtto say--until Zack has got well again and has left England. When Iheard just now, from you, of his projected voyage, I must confess I sawmany objections to it. They have all been removed by what my wife hastold me. I heartily agree with her that the best thing Zack can do isto make the trip he proposes. You are willing to take care of him; andI honestly believe that we may safely trust him with you."

A seriousdifficulty being thus disposed of, Valentine found leisure to pay someattention to minor things. Among other questions which he now asked,was one relating to the Hair Bracelet, and to the manner in whichMatthew had become possessed of it. He was answered by the frankestconfession, a confession which tried even his kindly andforbearing disposition to the utmost, as he listened to it; and whichdrew from him, when it was ended, some of the strongest terms ofreproach that had ever passed his lips.

Mat listened till he haddone; then, taking his hat to go, muttered a few words of roughapology, which Valentine's good-nature induced him to accept, almost assoon as they were spoken. "We must let bygones be bygones," said thepainter. "You have been candid with me, at last, at any-rate; and, inrecognition of that candor, I say 'Good-night, Mr. Grice,' as a friendof yours still."

When Mat returned to Kirk Street, the landlady cameout of her little parlor to tell him of a visitor who had been to thelodgings in his absence. An elderly lady, looking very pale and ill,had asked to see young Mr. Thorpe, and had prefaced the request bysaying that she was his mother. Zack was then asleep, but the lady hadbeen taken up stairs to see him in bed--had stooped over him, andkissed him--and had then gone away again, hastily, and in tears.Matthew's face grew grave as he listened, but he said nothing when thelandlady had done, except a word or two charging her not to mention toZack what had happened when he woke. It was plain that Mrs. Thorpe hadbeen told her husband's secret, and that she had lovingly devotedherself to him, as comforter and companion to the last.

When thedoctor paid his regular visit to the invalid, the next morning, he wascalled on immediately for an answer to the important question of whenZack would be fit to travel. After due consideration and carefulinspection of the injured side of the patient's head, he replied thatin a month's time the lad might safely go on board ship; and that thesea-voyage proposed would do more towards restoring him to perfecthealth and strength, than all the tonic medicines that all the doctorsin England could prescribe.

Matthew might have found the month'sinaction to which he was now obliged to submit for Zack's sake, rathertedious, but for the opportune arrival in Kirk Street of a professionalvisitor from Dibbledean.

Though his client had ungratefully andentirely forgotten him, Mr. Tatt had not by any means forgotten hisclient, but had, on the contrary, attended to his interests withunremitting resolution and assiduity. He had discovered that Mat wasentitled, under his father's will, to no less a sum than two thousandpounds, if his identity could be properly established. To effect thisresult was now, therefore, the grand object of Mr. Tatt's ambition. Hehad the prospect, not only of making a little money, but ofestablishing a reputation in Dibbledean, if he succeeded--and, by dintof perseverance, he ultimately did succeed. He carried Mat about to allsorts of places, insisted on his signing all sorts of papers and makingall sorts of declarations, and ended by accumulating such a mass ofevidence before the month was out, that Mr. Nawby, as executor to "thelate Joshua Grice," declared himself convinced of the claimant'sidentity.

On being informed of this result, Mat ordered the lawyer,after first deducting the amount of his bill from the forthcominglegacy, to draw him out such a legal form as might enable him to settlehis property forthwith on another person. When Mr. Tatt asked to befurnished with the name of this person, he was told to write "MarthaPeckover."

"Mary's child has got you to look after her, and moneyenough from her father to keep her," said Mat, as he put the signedinstrument into Valentine's hands. "When Martha Peckover's old and pasther work, she may want a bank-note or two to fall back on. Give herthis, when I'm gone--and say she earned it from Mary's brother, the dayshe stopped and suckled Mary's child by the road-side."

The day ofdeparture drew near. Zack rallied so rapidly, that he was able, a weekbefore it arrived, to go himself and fetch the letter from his fatherwhich was waiting for him at the Agent's office. It assured him,briefly, but very kindly, of the forgiveness which he had written toask--referred him to the man of business for particulars of theallowance granted to him, while he pursued his studies in the Art, orotherwise occupied himself--urged him always to look on Mr. Blyth asthe best friend and counselor that he could ever have--and ended byengaging him to write often about himself and his employments, to hismother; sending his letters to be forwarded through the Agent. WhenZack, hearing from this gentleman that his father had left the house inBaregrove Square, desired to know what had occasioned the change ofresidence, he was only informed that the state of Mr. Thorpe's healthhad obliged him to seek perfect retirement and repose: and that therewere reasons at present for not mentioning the place of his retreat toany one, which it was not deemed expedient for his son to becomeacquainted with.

The day of departure arrived.

In the morning, byValentine's advice, Zack wrote to his mother; only telling her, inreference to his proposed trip, that he was about to travel to improveand amuse himself, in the company of a friend, of whom Mr. Blythapproved. While he was thus engaged, the painter had a privateinterview with Matthew Grice, and very earnestly charged him toremember his responsibilities towards his young companion. Mat answeredbriefly and characteristically: "I told you I was as fond of him as ifhe was a bit of my own flesh and blood. If you don't believe I shalltake care of him, after that--I can't say nothing to make you."

Boththe travelers were taken up into Mrs. Blyth's room to say Farewell. Itwas a sad parting. Zack's spirits had not been so good as usual, sincethe day of his visit to the Agent's--and the other persons assembledwere all more or less affected in an unusual degree by the approachingseparation. Madonna had looked ill and anxious--though she would notown to having anything the matter with her--for some days past. Butnow, when she saw the parting looks exchanged around her, the poorgirl's agitation got beyond her control, and became so painfullyevident, that Zack wisely and considerately hurried over the farewellscene. He went out first. Matthew followed him to the landing--thenstopped--and suddenly retraced his steps.

He entered the room again,and took his sister's child by the hand once more; bent over her as shestood pale and in tears before him, and kissed her on the cheek. "Tellher some day that me and her mother was playmates together," he said toMrs. Blyth, as he turned away to join Zack on the stairs.

Valentineaccompanied them to the ship. When they shook hands together, he saidto Matthew; "Zack has engaged to come back in a year's time. Shall wesee you again with him?"

Mat took the painter aside, withoutdirectly answering him.

"If ever you go to Bangbury," he whispered,"look into the churchyard, in the dark corner amongst the trees.There's a bit of walnut-wood planking put up now at the place whereshe's buried; and it would be a comfort to me to know that it was kep'clean and neat. I should take it kind of you if you'd give it a brushor two with your hand when you're near it--for I never hope to see theplace myself; no more."

Sadly andthoughtfully, Valentine returned alone to his own house. He went up atonce to his wife's room.

As he opened the door, he started, andstopped on the threshold. Madonna was sitting on the couch by heradopted mother, with her face hidden on Mrs. Blyth's bosom, and herarms clasped tight round Mrs. Blyth's neck.

"Have you ventured totell her all, Lavvie?" he asked.

Mrs. Blyth was not able to speak inanswer--she looked at him with tearful eyes, and bowed her head.

Valentine lingered at the door for a moment-then softly closed it, andleft them together.

It is sunset after a fine day in August,and Mr. Blyth is enjoying the evening breeze in the invalid room.

Besides the painter and his wife, and Madonna, two visitors arepresent, who occupy both the spare beds in the house. One is Mrs.Thorpe, the other Mrs. Peckover; and they have been asked to becomeValentine's guests, to assist at the joyful ceremony of welcoming Zackto England on his return from the wilds of America. He has outstayedhis year's leave of absence by nearly six months; and his appearance atMr. Blyth's has become an event of daily, or more properly, of hourlyexpectation.

There is a sad and significant change in Mrs. Thorpe'sdress. She wears the widow's cap and weeds. It is nearly seven monthssince her husband died, in the remote Welsh village to which he retiredon leaving London. With him, as with many other confirmed invalids,Nature drooped to her final decay gradually and wearily; but his deathwas painless, and his mental powers remained unimpaired to the end. Oneof the last names that lingered lovingly on his lips--after he had badehis wife farewell--was the name of his absent son.

Mrs. Thorpe sitsclose to Mrs. Blyth, and talks to her in low, gentle tones. The kindblack eyes of the painter's wife are brighter than they have been formany a long year past, and the clear tones of her voice--cheerfulalways--have a joyous sound in them now. Ever since the first days ofthe Spring season, she has been gaining so greatly in health andstrength, that the "favorable turn" has taken place in her malady,which was spoken of as "possible" by the doctors long ago, at the timeof her first sufferings. She has several times, for the last fortnight,been moved from her couch for a few hours to a comfortable seat nearthe window; and if the fine weather still continues, she is to be takenout, in a day or two, for an airing in an invalid chair.

The prospectof this happy event, and the pleasant expectation of Zack's return,have made Valentine more gaily talkative and more nimbly restless thanever. As he skips discursively about the room at this moment, talkingof all sorts of subjects, and managing to mix Art up with every one ofthem; dressed in the old jaunty frock-coat with the short tails, helooks, if possible, younger, plumper, rosier, and brisker than when hewas first introduced to the reader. It is wonderful when people arereally youthful at heart, to see how easily the Girdle of Venus fitsthem, and how long they contrive to keep it on, without ever wearing itout.

Mrs. Peckover, arrived in festively-flaring cap-ribbons, sitsclose to the window to get all the air she can, and tries to make moreof it by fanning herself with the invariable red cotton pocket-handkerchief to which she has been all her life attached. In bodilycircumference she has not lost an inch of rotundity; suffers, inconsequence, considerably, from the heat; and talks to Mr. Blyth withparenthetical pantings, which reflect little credit on the coolinginfluence of the breeze, or the ventilating properties of thepocket-handkerchief fan.

Madonna sits opposite to her at the window--ascool and pretty a contrast as can be imagined, in her white muslin dress,and light rose-coloured ribbons. She is looking at Mrs. Peckover, andsmiling every now and then at the comically languishing faces made bythat excellent woman, to express to "little Mary" the extremity of hersufferings from the heat. The whole length of the window-sill isoccupied by an Æolian harp--one of the many presents whichValentine's portrait painting expeditions have enabled him to offer tohis wife. Madonna's hand is resting lightly on the box of the harp; forby touching it in this way, she becomes sensible to the influence ofits louder and higher notes when the rising breeze draws them out. Thisis the only pleasure she can derive from music; and it is always,during the summer and autumn evenings, one of the amusements that sheenjoys in Mrs. Blyth's room.

Mrs. Thorpe, in the course of herconversation with Mrs. Blyth, has been reminded of a letter to one ofher sisters, which she has not yet completed, and goes to her own roomto finish it--Valentine running to open the door for her, with thenimblest juvenile gallantry, then returning to the window andaddressing Mrs. Peckover.

"Hot as ever, eh? Shall I get you one ofLavvie's fans?" says Mr. Blyth.

"No, thank'ee, sir; I ain't quitemelted yet," answers Mrs. Peckover. "But I'll tell you what I wish youwould do for me. I wish you would read me Master Zack's last letter.You promised, you know, sir."

"And I would have performed my promisebefore, Mrs. Peckover, if Mrs. Thorpe had not been in the room. Thereare passages in the letter, which it might revive very painfulremembrances in her to hear. Now she has left us, I have not the leastobjection to read, if you are ready to listen."

Saying this,Valentine takes a letter from his pocket. Madonna recognizing it, asksby a sign if she may look over his shoulder and read it for the secondtime. The request is granted immediately. Mr. Blyth makes her sit onhis knee, puts his arm round her waist, and begins to read aloud asfollows:

"MY DEAR VALENTINE,--Although I am writing to youto announce my return, I cannot say that I take up my pen in goodspirits. It is not so long since I picked up my last letters fromEngland that told me of my father's death. But besides that, I have hada heavy trial to bear, in hearing the dreadful secret, which you allkept from me when it was discovered; and afterwards in parting fromMatthew Grice.

"What I felt when I knew the secret, and heard why Matand all of you had kept it from me, I may be able to tell you--but Icannot and dare not write about it. You may be interested to hear howmy parting with Matthew happened; and I will relate it to you, as wellas I can.

"You know, from my other letters, all the glorious huntingand riding we have had, and the thousands of miles of country we havebeen over, and the wonderful places we have seen. Well, Bahia (theplace I now write from) has been the end of our travels. It was here Itold Mat of my father's death; and he directly agreed with me that itwas my duty to go home, and comfort my poor dear mother, by the firstship that sailed for England. After we had settled that, he said he hadsomething serious to tell me, and asked me to go with him, northward,half a day's march along the seacoast; saying we could talk togetherquietly as we went along. I saw that he had got his rifle over hisshoulder, and his baggage at his back; and thought it odd--but hestopped me from asking any questions, by telling me from beginning toend, all that you and he knew about my father, before we left England.I was at first so shocked and amazed by what I heard, and then had somuch to say to him about it, that our half day's march, by the time wehad got to the end of it, seemed to me to have hardly lasted as long asan hour.

"He stopped, though, at the place he had fixed on; and heldout his hand to me, and said these words: 'I've done my duty by you,Zack, as brother should by brother. The time's come at last for us twoto say Good-bye. You're going back over the sea to your friends, andI'm going inland by myself on the tramp.' I had heard him talk of ourparting in this way before, but had never thought it would really takeplace; and I tried hard, as you may imagine, to make him change hismind, and sail for England with me. But it was useless.

"'No, Zack,'he said, 'I doubt if I'm fit for the life you're going back to lead.I've given it a trial, and a hard and bitter one it's been to me. Ibegan life on the tramp; and on the tramp I shall end it. Good-bye,Zack. I shall think of you, when I light my fire and cook my bit ofvictuals without you, in the lonesome places to-night.'

"I tried tocontrol myself, Valentine; but my eyes got dim, and I caught fast holdof him by the arm. 'Mat,' I said, 'I can't part with you in thisdreary, hopeless way. Don't shut the future up from both of us forever. We have been eighteen months together, let another year and-a-halfpass if you like; and then give yourself; and give me, anotherchance. Say you'll meet me, when that time is past, in New York; or sayat least, you'll let me hear where you are?' His face worked andquivered, and he only shook his head. 'Come, Mat,' I said, ascheerfully as I could, 'if I am ready to cross the sea again, for yoursake, you can't refuse to do what I ask you, for mine?' 'Will it makethe parting easier to you, my lad?' he asked kindly. 'Yes, indeed itwill,' I answered. 'Well, then, Zack,' he said, 'you shall have yourway. Don't let's say no more, now. Come, let's cut it as short as wecan, or we shan't part as men should. God bless you, lad, and all ofthem you're going back to see.' Those were his last words.

"After hehad walked a few yards inland, he turned round and waved his hand--thenwent on, and never turned again. I sat down on the sand-hillock wherewe had said Good-bye, and burst out crying. What with the dreadfulsecret he had been telling me as we came along, and then the partingwhen I didn't expect it, all I had of the man about me gave way somehowin a moment. And I sat alone, crying and sobbing on the sand-hillock,with the surf roaring miles out at sea behind me, and the great plainbefore, with Matthew walking over it alone on his way to the mountainsbeyond.

"When I had had time to get ashamed of myself for crying, andhad got my eyesight clear again, he was already far away from me. I ranto the top of the highest hillock, and watched him over the plain--adesert, without a shrub to break the miles and miles of flat groundspreading away to the mountains. I watched him, as he got smaller andsmaller--I watched till he got a mere black speck--till I was doubtfulwhether I still saw him or not--till I was certain at last, that thegreat vacancy of the plain had swallowed him up from sight.

"My heartwas very heavy, Valentine, as I went back to the town by myself. It issometimes heavy still; for though I think much of my mother, and of mysister--whom you have been so kind a father to, and whose affection itis such a new happiness to me to have the prospect of soon returning--Ithink occasionally of dear old Mat, too, and have my melancholy momentswhen I remember that he and I are not going back together.

"I hopeyou will think me improved by my long trip--I mean in behavior, as wellas health. I have seen much, and learnt much, and thought much--and Ihope I have really profited and altered for the better during myabsence. It is such a pleasure to think I am really goinghome--"

Here Mr. Blyth stops abruptly and closes the letter,for Mrs. Thorpe re-enters the room. "The rest is only about when heexpects to be back," whispers Valentine to Mrs. Peckover. "By mycalculations," he continues, raising his voice and turning towards Mrs.Thorpe; "by my calculations (which, not having a mathematical head, Idon't boast of, mind, as being infallibly correct), Zack is likely, Ishould say, to be here in about--"

"Hush! hush! hush!" cries Mrs.Peckover, jumping up with incredible agility at the window, andclapping her hands in a violent state of excitement. "Don't talk aboutwhen he will be here--here he is! He's come in a cab--he's gotout into the garden--he sees me. Welcome back, Master Zack, welcomeback! Hooray! hooray!" Here Mrs. Peckover forgets her company-manners,and waves the red cotton handkerchief out of the window in anirrepressible burst of triumph.

Zack's hearty laugh is heardoutside--then his quick step on the stairs--then the door opens, and hecomes in with his beaming sunburnt face healthier and heartier thanever. His first embrace is for his mother, his second for Madonna; and,after he has greeted every one else cordially, he goes back to thosetwo, and Mr. Blyth is glad to see that he sits down between them andtakes their hands gently and affectionately in his.

Matthew Grice isin all their memories, when the first greetings are over. Valentine andMadonna look at each other--and the girl's fingers sign hesitatinglythe letters of Matthew's name.

"She is thinking of the comrade youhave lost," says the painter, addressing himself, a little sadly, toZack.

"The only living soul that's kin to her now by her mother'sside," adds Mrs. Peckover. "It's like her pretty ways to be thinking ofhim kindly, for her mother's sake."

"Are you really determined, Zack,to take that second voyage?" asks Valentine. "Are you determined to goback to America, on the one faint chance of seeing Mat once more?"

"If I am a living man, eighteen months hence," Zack answers resolutely,"nothing shall prevent my taking the voyage. Matthew Grice loved melike a brother. And, like a brother, I will yet bring him back--if helives to keep his promise and meet me, when the timecomes."

The time came; and on either side,the two comrades of former days--in years so far apart, in sympathiesso close together--lived to look each other in the face again. Thesolitude which had once hardened Matthew Grice, had wrought on him, inhis riper age, to better and higher ends. In all his later roamings,the tie which had bound him to those sacred human interests in which welive and move and have our being--the tie which he himself believedthat he had broken--held fast to him still. His grim, scarred facesoftened, his heavy hand trembled in the friendly grasp that held it,as Zack pleaded with him once more; and, this time, pleaded not invain.

"I've never been my own man again" said Mat, "since you and mewished each other good-bye on the sandhills. The lonesome places havegot strange to me--and my rifle's heavier in hand than ever I knew itbefore. There's some part of myself that seems left behind like,between Mary's grave and Mary's child. Must I cross the seas again tofind it? Give us hold of your hand, Zack--and take the leavings of meback, along with you."

So the noble nature of the man unconsciouslyasserted itself in his simple words. So the two returned to the oldland together. The first kiss with which his dead sister's childwelcomed him back, cooled the Tramp's Fever for ever; and the Man ofmany Wanderings rested at last among the friends who loved him, towander no more.

I DOnot know that any attempt has yet been made in English fiction to drawthe character of a "Deaf Mute," simply and exactly after nature--or, inother words, to exhibit the peculiar effects produced by the loss ofthe senses of hearing and speaking on the disposition of the person soafflicted. The famous Fenella, in Scott's "Peveril of the Peak," onlyassumes deafness and dumbness; and the whole family of dumb people onthe stage have the remarkable faculty--so far as my experience goes--ofalways being able to hear what is said to them. When the idea firstoccurred to me of representing the character of a "Deaf Mute" asliterally as possible according to nature, I found the difficulty ofgetting at tangible and reliable materials to work from, much greaterthan I had anticipated; so much greater, indeed, that I believe mydesign must have been abandoned, if a lucky chance had not thrown in myway Dr. Kitto's delightful little book, "The Lost Senses." In the firstdivision of that work, which contains the author's interesting andtouching narrative of his own sensations under the total loss of thesense of hearing, and its consequent effect on the faculties of speech,will be found my authority for most of those traits in Madonna'scharacter which are especially and immediately connected with thedeprivation from which she is represented as suffering. The moralpurpose to be answered by the introduction of such a personage as this,and of the kindred character of the Painter's Wife, lies, I would fainhope, so plainly on the surface, that it can be hardly necessary for meto indicate it even to the most careless reader. I know of nothingwhich more firmly supports our faith in the better parts of humannature, than to see--as we all may--with what patience and cheerfulnessthe heavier bodily afflictions of humanity are borne, for the mostpart, by those afflicted; and also to note what elements of kindnessand gentleness the spectacle of these afflictions constantly developsin the persons of the little circle by which the sufferer issurrounded. Here is the ever bright side, the ever noble and consolingaspect of all human calamity and the object of presenting this to theview of others, as truly and as tenderly as in him lies, seems to me tobe a fit object for any writer who desires to address himself to thebest sympathies of his readers.

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