"I will try to be a comfort to you, darling mother!" I said, kissing her penitently. She looked a little surprised at this exclamation, following almost immediately the expression of my wish that we were away from Horsingham. But to-morrow, and the next day, and the day after that my hands will be full, and no Donald to help me. By the end of the week I will come to Water-Eardley. I suppose George won't refuse to shake hands with me. I write this partly to let you know that I am not un-She had not followed the sequence of my ideas. mindful of you all, and partly-because I am selfish, like the rest of the world-to ease my own heart a little. Always your loving father, "ABEL HEWSON. "Send to me, or say to me, or write to me the truth about Anne and that-Lacer. If she is not engaged to him the news will be the best cordial you could give me. It is bad for a woman not to marry the right man; but to marry the wrong one- If, on the other hand, it must be, and there is no help for it, put this in the fire, and say nothing about it to the child. A woman never forgives sinister auguries about her future husband-especially if they come true. And Anne may want me some day. I would have no barrier between us that might make it difficult to her proud spirit to come to me for such counsel and help as I can give her. A. H." That was the letter; one very characteristic of my grandfather in every way. We who knew him understood the weight and value of each word in it very accurately. And we were sure that Donald's departure had been a heavy blow to him. Whither Donald had gone was not stated. Perhaps my grandfather did not know it himself. But in all likelihood he would have gone to London, we said. There had been a talk of his doing so, in order to complete the studies necessary for his profession, months ago. But that would have been very different from his present abrupt departure. That would have been a temporary absence, duly prepared for and foreseen, and with the prospect of ultimately returning to Horsingham at no distant date. "I think it was very wrong of Donald to leave grandfather in that way," said I. But as I said the words with cold severity I had hard work to keep down my tears, and there was that painful "lump" in my throat, which I suppose most people have experienced. "We can, at all events, give dear grandfather the cordial he speaks of," answered my mother, not looking at me, but at her coffee-cup -we were at breakfast. "It will comfort him to know that-that report is untrue." Father had not yet left his bed. I have mentioned how he had gradually come to be a confirmed sluggard, and what a trouble this had been to my mother, until heavier griefs had made that seem insignificant by contrast. But now we said to each other that it would be necessary for father to return to his old active habits, if any good were to be done either in the way of seeking employment or in keeping it when obtained. "I did not like to rouse him this morning," said mother, "for it was broad daylight before he fell asleep. He was so restless and miserable.' "I thought," said I, "that my father had gone to bed in a calmer frame of mind than I had seen him in for some time." "Yes; at first it seemed so. But I think it was only seeming. He put on a more hopeful manner to please me.. But that letter from Scotland hurt him more than you can fancy. What was the use of trying to get trusted? he said. No one would trust a man who had been false to his own family, and had ruined himself and them. And to be watched and suspected, and to have his fault thrown in his teeth by strangers, was more than he could bear." "I don't think father is well. All that is morbid and unlike himself. I think we ought to get grandfather to see him." "No; he is not well. But when I told him I thought so he shook his head, and said that Dr. Hewson could do him no good. There was only one medicine that could cure him." "What did he mean by that ?" "He meant that he should not be better until his mind was more at peace. And who can wonder at that? I had fallen asleep, and woke up in the middle of the night, to find your father wandering about the room. The moon was setting, and I could just dimly see him near the oaken press that stands in the recess in our bedroom. I called to him, and he bade me go to sleep again. He had been too restless to lie in bed, so had been walking about to try and tire himself out. This morning, when it was quite daylight, he began to sleep, as I told you, and I had not the heart to disturb him when I got up." Mother and I sat quietly in her little sitting "I wish from the bottom of my heart that we were away from the place and the people in it!" I exclaimed, bitterly. I had chosen to blame Donald for going away, but I myself felt a long-room. ing to fly from all the surroundings and associations which had become odious to me. Mother's little half-suppressed sigh involuntarily reproached me for the selfishness of my speech, "I wish that we were away!" Were we not going away from the place that had been her happy home for many bright yearsfrom the place that held little Harold's grave? Poor, patient, uncomplaining mother! I was sewing, and she was making out a list-a very short list-of things that she should wish to keep when Water-Eardley and its contents were sold. We had as yet learned no particulars as to the disposal of the settlement money that had been given up. We had heard enough, however, to be sure that Mr. Whiffles's claim would not swallow it all. There were, doubtless, other debts-so called, of honorwhich mother could not reckon up. Debts in the town there were. But these, we thought, could not possibly amount to more than the sale of the lease and stock and furniture would amply cover. he first discovered that my father was, to a certain extent, in old Green's power. The sums that father had borrowed-first of the old man, and afterward of his grandson, Matthew-did "Father owes Matthew Kitchen money," not, when all usurious advantage was taken, said I, hesitatingly. "Yes; but that can not be much. We have not been buying carriages, at least!" said mother, with a. faint smile. "Matthew's grandfather-old Mr. Greenwas, I have heard, a money-lender. You remember that Mr. Cudberry told you so once, mother. Perhaps father was in Mr. Green's debt when the old man died. And if so-as Matthew was the sole heir-" Mother looked up at me uneasily. "Do you know any thing, Anne ?" she asked. I told her, for the first time, of the conversation I had been a witness to between my father and Matthew Kitchen. She mused a little, and then said: "Matthew is a hard, grasping man. I don't expect much mercy from him. But he can not claim more than his due, and his due can not-can not, surely!—be so large but that we shall manage to clear all scores with him. There's the portrait of George's mother; that he would like to keep, I know. And I wonder if I might have the work-box he gave me before we were married! Though it is fitted with silver, it is old-fashioned now, and I should not think it could fetch much." And mother went on with her list. "Oh, ma'am, will you step into the kitchen? Now directly, please! There's two men wants master, and I told 'em he was abed, and they said they couldn't help that!" Sarah, the house-maid, uttered all this with breathless rapidity, and her pale face added to the impression her agitated speech made upon us. amount to more than half the real value of the property at Water-Eardley. Nevertheless, when Matthew Kitchen had not only declined to make further advances, but had pressed for the payment of the existing debts on the ground that he held no sufficient security for his money, and could not afford to run the risk of losing it, father had desperately given the bill of sale; and, still more desperately, had trusted to Matthew's promise that he would not put it into execution unless no other hope remained of indemnifying himself. The news of father's disastrous racing speculation had spread through Horsingham. It was known that my mother's marriage-settlement had been given up for the payment of her husband's gambling debts. Moreover, the rumor had spread throughout the town that Furness of Water-Eardley was about to sell his furniture and property for the benefit of his creditors. The trades-people to whom my father owed money were well satisfied enough with this prospect. Not so Mr. Matthew Kitchen. There would doubtless be enough to pay.all claims if the property were sold-as must be reckoned on-even much under its value. But his bare due did not satisfy Matthew. He held the bill of sale, and resolved to enforce his power while there was yet time. The men who had come on the dismal errand of informing my father that no stick or straw in Water-Eardley manor-house, or on Water-Eardley farm, belonged to him any longer, were civil enough. I fancy such men mostly are so. For gratuitous incivility some sort of emotion is Mother rose up from her chair like a figure necessary-malice, anger, resentment, sullenmoved by a spring. ness, some feeling or other. These men in the "Who are the men? What do they want?" present case had none. The whole matter was she said, in a trembling voice. "Oh, ma'am, I don't know; but-I thinkleastways, I'm a'most certain, as one on 'em is a sheriff's officer. I know him by sight. Joe Scott his name is. And-and-please, ma'am," added Sarah, beginning to cry, partly from sympathy, partly from excitement, "they say they're in possession." CHAPTER XXXIX. I MUST state as briefly and clearly as I can the facts which we only learned piecemeal, and with dismay and confusion of mind indescribable. Indeed, it was long before we became acquainted with much that I shall here set down. My father had given a bill of sale over all his property at Water-Eardley to Matthew Kitchen. The latter had worked and schemed to this end for a long time past. Most likely had had some such plan in his mind from the time when to them one of absolute indifference. The man whom Sarah had called Joe Scott spoke to my mother with uncovered head and bated breath. It was a show of respect due to misfortune. His business lay, with misfortune, as a funeral undertaker's business lies with death and mourning. How could he be specially sorry for us? But he understood that a grave and regretful demeanor was decent under the circumstances, and he did his best to assume one. Mother looked about her confusedly, like a person who has been suddenly and roughly roused from sleep. "I do not understand it," she said. "Could I not speak with Mr. Kitchen? It is impossible that my husband can owe him the worth of all the property here! Every thing? Oh, it must be a mistake! It is impossible!" "No mistake, ma'am. Mr. Kitchen holds a bill of sale, you know. You can say whatever you have a mind to, to him, ma'am. We've nothing to do with that. Only we must carry out our instructions, you know. Ladies mostly don't understand these things. You'd better let | the sound, the sunshine as the shade, the very Mr. Furness know as soon as possible, ma'am." perfume of the flowers. "Yes, dear mother," whispered I in her ear, "father ought to be roused without delay." "Quite so, miss. In fact, he-he must be told, sooner or later, you know," said Joe Scott. I looked round the kitchen. The two women servants stood helplessly whimpering and biting their fingers. At the open door appeared two or three heads, eagerly looking in. They darted out of sight on my directing my gaze toward them. I had recognized them as belonging to some of the farm laborers. "Is there any one here," said I, "who will go to Dr. Hewson's house, Mortlands, and carry a note for me as quickly as possible?" Two voices answered, "Me, miss!" and the peeping heads reappeared. The messenger I chose was a cow-boy, a lad of fourteen, swift of foot, as I knew, and acquainted with my grandfather's house. I scrawled a couple of lines, imploring grandfather to come to us at once, and watched the lad set off with my note at the full speed of his long, uncouth legs. Mother had followed me into the sitting-room, whither I had run to write, and stood there now, with her hands pressed to her forehead. Writing the note and sending it off had taken little more than a couple of minutes. "Darling mother," said I, "father must be awakened! Shall I do it? Shall I go to him for you?" She took her hands from her head quickly, and then passed them once or twice over her brows, pressing down her closed eyelids. "No, Anne," she said, speaking hurriedly, like one who can not brook an instant's delay, and yet not moving from the spot where she stood. "No, no, my child! I must do it. must tell him. He will bear it better from me." I waited an instant or two, expecting to see her go. Finding she still did not move, I again offered to go in her stead. To a sick palate no savor is delicious; and my soul was sick. All my senses seemed turned into instruments of pain, instead of pleasure. I could not cry; I could do nothing but stand as if I had lost all power to move, miserably waiting for mother to return, and feeling sore in every nerve. Presently she did return, after an absence which really had been brief, although in passing the minutes had seemed to me almost unbearably lengthened out. "What does he say? How did he-how did he bear it, dear?" "He said only a word or two; kissed me, and bade me go down to the men and tell them he would be ready directly." "Then he was calmer than you had feared?" "He was calm; but oh! there was an awful look in his face. A look almost like-like 'one insane,” added mother, after a long pause, and in a horrified whisper. And a strong shudder shook her from head to foot. I clasped her tightly in my arms. I could not speak. She had suddenly touched on a secret fear which I had tried to hide even from myself. Without another word she left me, and went to the kitchen to give the men my father's message; and I remained still standing at the window as before. "What's that?" I found myself uttering the words aloud, in a half whisper, while my heart throbbed with a rapidity that was agonizing. I had been startled by a sound that seemed to make every fibre in my body quiver-the report of a pistol. Something rushed along the passage, and passed the open door. I saw a fluttering garIment, and the vision of a white, set face, with wide, staring eyes. It was my mother's face. She flew up the stairs with a swiftness that was awful-superhuman. Others followed her quickly; but she outstripped them as a winged creature might. There was a second's pause, and then-oh, my God! the agony of that sound! Shriek upon shriek pierced the ear, like stab I upon stab of a sharp, cruel sword. I mounted the stairs in a sort of frenzy, unconscious of my footsteps, as if a great wind had taken me and whirled me upward. She made two or three quick steps toward the door, and then suddenly stopped, and burst out into silent, bitter weeping. "Dearest, darling mother! let me go! am stronger than you. I will tell father." "No, no!" she said, trying to restrain her tears, that streamed down her cheeks. "It is not that. I will tell him. But-oh, Anne, this will break his heart!" There was a crowd of people in the room already-the servants, some of the farm laborers, Then she went quickly out of the room, and and the two who had come on Matthew KitchI heard her step ascending the staircase. I stood at the window and looked out on the garden beds that my eyes had rested on so many thousand times. It was a beautiful autumn day. The distant woods had a thin veil of silver vapor softening their variegated tints. But overhead the sky was clear, and the sun shone brightly. All was peace and silence. Only the low of cattle came up from the riverside meadows now and then, with a tone by distance made not unmusical. en's errand. I could not see my mother, but those dreadful shrieks continued. Two or three women had gathered about her; the others surrounded the bed. When they became aware that I was among them some of the men cried out to me to go away, that was no place for me. The man named Scott even took me by the arm to lead me from the room, but I struggled and resisted. "Mother! mother! Let me go to mother!" I remember crying out those words over and But to me all was loathsome-the silence as over again. I was trembling so convulsively that my teeth chattered in my head; but I still "I wouldn't bother ye for the world, honey, struggled to reach my mother. In the move-if it wasn't that I've the greatest bargain on ment thus caused among them the herd of peo-hand, and if I wait till the night I'm sore afraid ple round the bed parted, and I saw— No; even now I can not write it; I can not think of it. My hand is cold; my fingers quiver. All the anguish comes back again; all the old scars throb and ache. I see my mother's form flung, with wild hair, across the bed-the women struggling to raise her, to drag her back -her clinched hands clutching at the coverlet. I see an awful stain slowly spreading, creeping, winding horribly along the floor. I see a ghastly heap upon the bed; then all is red before my eyes; my ears are full of a roaring sound like the surging of the sea; the ground rocks and heaves and sinks from under me, and I plange down, down into a black gulf of unconsciousness! Not a sound within. "Ma'am!" said Bridget, a little louder. No answer. A flaming color slowly ascended from the nape of Bridget's neck to her forehead, and a few emphatic monosyllables escaped from her lips. By an immense effort the descendant of the O'Haras governed her temper. Stooping she picked up from the hall a jagged hair-pin. Inserting this in the key-hole she drew it to and fro with a low, rasping sound. Once in a while she varied the monotony of this ear-torture by scraping on the panels of the door with her nails. | In about five minutes there was heard a groan. "Be gorra," said Bridget, "I thought I'd fetch her;" and kept on with her music. A louder, more agonizing groan, a rustle of drapery, and a decided step across the floor. "Imbecile wretch!" said the voice of a woman, "what is it you desire ?" "Can't ye open the door?" said Bridget. "Not the seventieth part of an inch," replied the voice. "How dare you come jabbering to me at this hour of the day? Get away as quickly as you can." "If you'd only open the door on a crack, ma'am, it'd be all I'd ask. It's mighty inconvanient talkin' through a dale boord; it takes the heart out o' me, ma'am, it does indade; and I'm just bate out intirely. Come, honey, open the door-there's a jewel!" I'll lose it. Sure, Miss Polly, I'm druv to death! There's nothin' left o' me but skin an' bone, and here roun' the corner there's a jewel、 to be had for the askin'. Oh, Miss Polly, if ye could only know how the j'ints o' me knees and the very toes o' me ache wid the scrubbin' and delvin' from mornin' till night; an' for three and sixpence a day-just think of it-there's help to be had! Splendid help! A full-grown craythur, able to fetch and to carry, from mornin' till night. Thank God I ain't partikler about his hide so long as he'll work chape!" "A negro?" said the voice. "I wouldn't care the toss of a pin if it was the divil himself, so long as he'd come for three and sixpence a day!" The door opened an inch further, the voice softened a little. "I'm afraid he'll be a nuisance, Bridget. We can't have any Peeping Toms about, babbling the affairs of the household. Suppose he should talk to the neighbors!" "Talk, is it! cheek, I tell ye. He's a haythen, a savage! That's the beauty of him! Do ye think, now, if he could talk he'd come for three and sixpence a day?" He hasn't got a word in his "But how can he be of service then, Biddy?" "Niver ye mind about that, honey. Only say I can have him, an' be gorra if he ain't of sarvice it won't be your fault, nor mine naythur. He can scrub and wash as like a human craythur as ye'd care to see. An' if we don't get him we'll lose a jewel, Miss Polly." The door closed an inch. "Do as you like, Bridget; only let me alone. But, remember, watch him well." "Divil a fear, ma'am; he's as innocent as a baby. Then I may take him at three and sixpence a day?" The door closed, the key turned again in the key-hole. "At three and sixpence a day ?" whispered Bridget, hoarsely. No answer. Bridget muttered another emphatic monosyllable under her breath, and went down the kitchen stairs. The next day Chang became one of the household at 219. On that very morning Solomon Savage started in the early stage for the city. His nephew The key creaked in the key-hole; the door and heir had caused him a deal of anxiety lateopened an inch. ly. He had purchased his place in the country "Speak, then; speak quickly," said the voice, to suit Fred's romantic taste. He had given "and begone!" up his comfortable quarters up-town, his early newspaper, his social chat at the club, his peep | white eyebrows of the old gentleman drew close at the new pictures, his opening nights at the comedies; had been content to settle down for the rest of his days among these lakes and mountains, just to please Fred. Because, besides being his nephew and heir, Fred was the only child of his dead sister, and his uncle's idol. And now Fred wouldn't be content in the country for a week at a time; he was always coining excuses to go to the city, and the house was like a tomb without him. He was dreamy and abstracted. Something was the matter with the lad, and this something was connected with these altogether uncalled-for raids upon the city. Mr. Savage wrote to his lawyer to find out the mystery, and got this reply: "Solomon Savage, Esq.: "DEAR SIR,-Your nephew spends the most of his time at No. 219 Blank Street. Can't tell much about the house or its inmates. Should suppose they were a queer set "Yours respectfully, JOSEPH FERRET." "Queer!" What could the man mean by "queer?" Mr. Savage, becoming thoroughly alarmed, determined upon solving the mystery himself. All the way down in the stage and jolting along in the cars Mr. Savage repeated to himself the word "queer." together; his florid face reddened impatiently; he pulled the bell roughly; a loud peal resounded sepulchrally through the lower regions of the house. Presently a shuffling step approached the door, a heavy bolt shot back, there was heard the clanking of a chain. The door opened an inch and a half; a broad, flat nose, the tip of a frowzy head, appeared; a capacious mouth opened. "What is it ye want?" it said. The old gentleman looked disapprovingly at this apparition, and extended a card from the silver card-case. The card was sniffed at curiously. "Give that card to your master, and tell-" "I wouldn't for a hundred pound go near the masther; it 'd be as much as my life was worth!" "Give that card to your mistress, and tell—” "Bother the card! Tell me your business, and I'll see to it." "My dear woman," said the old gentleman, benignly, "my business is not with the servants of the household." At the same time Mr. Savage extended a gold piece, as a sop to this obdurate Cerberus. "Then git along to the divil wid your cards and your money, an' don't be takin' up people's The door closed heavily within an inch of the old gentleman's nose. He remained, thunder-struck, upon the sill. He looked about him appealingly; then he slowly descended the steps. His face lost its look of mild benignity, a gleam of anger darted from his blue eyes, the crow's-feet took a fierce expression. Loudly resounded his gold-headed cane upon the pavement. Plainly the old gentleman felt himself insulted. At about the hour of two P.M. an old gentle-time wid yer chat!" man might have been seen walking down Blank Street. He wore a shining suit of broadcloth, a broad-brimmed white hat, linen of the finest material elaborately ruffled, unexceptionable boots and gloves, tortoise-shell eyeglasses, and carried a gold-headed cane. His face wore an expression of mild benignity. Good-nature beamed from his blue eyes, good health from his smooth, florid skin; good family from the arch in his nose and his foot, and good spirits from the merry crow's-feet about every comfort- It was hard. His appearance was certain. able wrinkle. Altogether he was about as win-ly calculated to win respect; but the noble ning-looking an old gentleman as one would blood of the O'Haras was at that time hot with care to see. He walked slowly, scrutinizing as rage. She had been cheated six ounces in the he went the street and the passers-by. meat. If St. Patrick himself had appeared at the door he would have met with a grim reception. At last he came to 219-one of those old mansions on the east side of town that wear so ponderous, so substantial, so spacious a look, and yet from which all glory has departed. 219 had the appearance of possessing at one time a romantic history, but that time had long gone by. Now it might be an infirmary, a boardinghouse, or a private asylum. Still the street was broad, houses and shops seemed commonplace enough, nothing "queer" that he could see. The old gentleman walked slowly up the steps; his color rose a little, but his face wore a look of determination, such as a soldier wears entering action. He took from his pocket a heavy silver card-case, and pulled gently the bellhandle. No answer. Five minutes passed, and this time a little less gently. Five minutes more passed, he pulled again; "Be careful of the door," she said, five minutes after, to her Chinese confrere, "an' don't for your life let a soul near the house! I'm goin' to that baste of a butcher's, an' I'll be back in a jiffy." Chang looked up mildly from his work. He was mopping the kitchen-mopping it in a way that delighted the breast of Bridget O'Hara. "Go on wid yer work, man," she said, "and don't stir from the kitchen whilst I'm gone!" Chang smiled vacantly. "The divil take the haythen! he don't hear a word I say," said Bridget; "but he's safe to lave here for a minit or two. There niver was such savin' in soap and slop before in the house. What a jewel he is, to be sure, at three and sixpence a day! Be gorra, if he was a Christian I couldn't be fonder of him! Other folks |