there, there, do not let us talk about it any more. It is not worth the waste of words we have given to it, Angelo." "" If you remember, it is not my fault that we have dwelt upon it so long." said Angelo. "Is it not?" she answered absently. "Ah! well-perhaps I was curious a little. And now, you will promise me never to speak of this again-to take my answer as final to accept my thanks once more for the honour you have done me-and to remain my friend for the little while longer I am on English ground." $6 Are you thinking of leaving England, then?" he faltered forth. 66 Yes, I shall go back to America very :soon." "You have not said anything of this before to me," he said, half reproachfully. "I have not had much time," answered Mabel with a smile; "but there are many friends over there who can help me-and will help me." "I fancied you had no very intimate friends there. I—I thought you said it was your grandfather's wish you should remain here in England," remarked Angelo. "He thought I should be a rich woman. In England there is not much sympathy for a poor one." "Oh! Miss Westbrook!" "I did not think you could speak so bitterly as that." Mabel laughed. "You see, I am not perfection," she said, "but a cross-grained female whom a little puts out. You will find me my own self to-morrow if you care to call." "If I care!" exclaimed Angelo; "of course I care-although I am awfully distracted in mind, and dare hardly see you yet." His voice shook a little with its old feebleness, and Mabel looked critically at him. "No; upon second thoughts, don't come, Angelo, to-morrow." "Very well-if you wish me not." "Take a holiday. Go to your chambers in London-or to the sea-side, where a change will do you good. I am sure of it," added Mabel. "I am not." "You have taken Mr. Halfday's advice now, do me a favour and try mine." "And go away from you?" "Yes-for awhile." "It might be for ever. You will disappear, and never tell me where you are again." "No, I will not. Although it would be as well, perhaps," she answered. "I will go," he said, rising; "I am sorry I have troubled you so much this evening, but I felt I should like to explain the true state of my feelings, and I have done sowith a vengeance," he added in so dismal a tone, and with so odd a look, that Mabel Westbrook might have laughed pleasantly under different circumstances. She was in no laughing mood that evening, however; Angelo had said much to disturb her, and there remained food for thought in his confession. She was sorry now that he had come wooing to her. Only a little while ago it had seemed better for him and her that they should clearly understand each other, but she was scarcely certain now of the wisdom of the step he had undertaken. It had been done in a hurry, and there was confusion in consequence. She was glad when he had shaken hands with her, and quitted the house; there was a sense of relief in his absence-in the loneliness that seemed to come to her by way of comfort after he had gone. She did not move from the seat where he had left her, but drifted at once into thoughts born of the interview and of her stay in England, and both strangely intermixed. Life had been a whirl of events with her since she had acted for herself in it, and there had ensued much responsibility, some mystery, and more mistakes. All her girlish thoughts, her girlish happiness even, seemed to have vanished in these latter days, and to have left her a cold, hard, matter-of-fact woman. She had looked for peace and rest in England, but they had not come to her; she had dreamed of friends here, and she was only surrounded by people whom it was impossible to comprehend. The world had been full of sudden changes, and it was natural that she should change with it; but she was not growing more content. A soft pressure of two folded hands upon her shoulder aroused her from thought at last, and to the consciousness of the night's being an hour older since her guest had withdrawn. "You are very sad, my mistress," said the "No--no, Dorcas." "I am glad of that. I have heard so much of money in my life-there have been such struggles for it in my family-I see the value and the power of it myself so clearly, that it was natural to think you should grieve for its loss." Mabel shook her head and smiled faintly. "When it loses me my friends, it will be time to grieve," said Mabel. "I am to be one of your friends-do you think you will lose me?" inquired Dorcas. "I hope not; and yet you may not like to go to America!" said Mabel. "To America! You have not spoken of that journey before?" "No-I have just made up my mind." "To America!" repeated Dorcas; "that is a long way, and—and Brian may not like me to go." "We will not discuss the question tonight," said Mabel, wearily; "I am tired of discussion." "I thought you had come to England to live," continued Dorcas, despite this protest; "I thought you had told me so, or Brian had said so-but oh! don't go yet awhile, please, Miss Mabel. Don't leave me yetdon't take away the better thoughts which have come to me since I have known how good you are!" Mabel was astonished at this outburst, and replied "Why, Dorcas, you are as upset to-night as I am, and both without much reason for it." "But when shall you go to America?" said Dorcas. "I am in no hurry," was the reply; "I have learned my lesson in life, never to act in too great haste again." "Will that man go with you?". "That Mr. Salmon-as your husband." Why, Dorcas !-is it likely ?" "He is a man very fond of you. And he is rich-independent of his hateful fatherand you don't care for anybody else." "No!" "And he spoke outright all that was in his heart, as a man should who cares for a woman, and——” "Dorcas, you have been listening!" "I did not think you could have acted so meanly as that," said Mabel with a severity of tone that surprised and depressed her companion. "I was afraid he was going to separate us-that you were going to accept himand—and I did not listen long," said Dorcas by way of extenuation; "I Dorcas paused, for there was a sudden crash of glass in the window of the room, and both women were taken off their guard, and not too heroic to scream. A window had been broken from without, and before Dorcas and Mabel had crossed the room, and torn aside the curtains to look into the front garden and the high road, a second window followed the first to destruction. "What is it?—who is it?" exclaimed the inmates. "Let me in," said a feeble voice from without; "I am ill-I have news for you— and there's no time to lose." Mabel opened the window and looked down from it some three feet to the grass lawn, whereon was a human figure that had been endeavouring to attract attention by demolishing the window-glass with the handle of a heavy walking-stick. "Who are you?" inquired Mabel. "Peter Scone, of St. Lazarus," was the reply. to himself, and was now sipping some spirit and water, and glaring over the glass at the fair Samaritans who had befriended him. His natural colour had not returned to his face, which was greenish-grey, instead of yellow parchment-otherwise, at first sight, there did not seem to be any marked difference in his personal appearance. "Now, will you tell us, Mr. Scone, what has happened to bring you here in so much haste and excitement?” asked Mabel. "You wanted me to call to-night." "I answered your letter, which was full of mystery," was the reply; "I expected you earlier in the evening, but I was certainly unprepared for the way in which you announced your presence. You have given me and Dorcas a great fright." "If you had had such a fright as I have, I doubt if you would have survived it," said Peter; "just feel the left side of my head, ma'am." Mabel did so, and found a lump as large as a walnut very speedily. "You have had a fall." "I have had a blow. I believe it has been done by a small crowbar, but it will not be easy to prove that." "Who has done it ?" "That girl's father-William Halfday." "William Halfday!" "But I'll have the law of him-I'll have my revenge of him-I'll let him know what it is to attack an honest man whose age should have brought him reverence, not violence. If I had my way," he hissed between his closed gums, "I'd hang that devil. He deserves it he meant to kill me he meant to leave me in the Close for dead he tried to kill me--he did, he did-I'll swear it!" Peter's excitement was great now; he hammered his stick upon the floor, he stamped his feet, his eyes blazed in their sockets, and his whole face was convulsed with rage. "To think I should be served like this at my time of life," he cried, when he had recovered a sufficient amount of breath to speak again; "to think I might have been murdered and nobody the wiser. The man who picked me up in the Close would not believe me, and told me I was drunk. Drunk -I, Peter Scone !-think of that now!" "What can we do?" asked Mabel; "you do not explain to us—you do not give are a rich lady." "I make no terms with you-but you won't forget me," he entreated; "I always liked you very much, Dorcas--I persuaded your grandfather to do this for you-but all I want is to foil that wretch, and see him, before I die, begging for bread in Penton streets." "He is raving mad," said Dorcas, "or, yes-he is drunk!" "I'm as sane and sober as you are, you young cat-you unkind child, I mean! cried Peter Scone; "but you will not listen to me. There's a will; I tell you there's a will-drawn up by your grandfather, and leaving all his money to you-and that means the twenty thousand pounds which this lady paid away." "Where is the will?" asked Mabel. "Go on, Peter, go on. Oh! great Heaven, if this man should die before he tells us where it is," exclaimed Dorcas, as excited as the old man now. "Ah! I thought I should interest you presently," said Peter Scone. "Go on," cried Dorcas, "you don't know you can't imagine-what all this means to me. Go on, Peter-I will make you rich, too, if you will tell me where to find the will.' "Patience, Dorcas, patience," said Mabel. Madame, I have no patience," answered Dorcas peevishly. "Your father wanted to bribe me," but I wouldn't have it," said the mendacious Peter. "I was for justice to the orphan. When he found I was not to be talked over, he offered me two thousand pounds, as true as I'm sitting here—and he knocked me down with an iron crowbar when I wouldn't take it." "Had you the will with you?" "No-but in my pocket-book, which he stole along with my key-I'll get him two years for that too!-there is a memorandum where the will is," said Peter. "I don't know for an absolute certainty, of course, but I fancy the will's there. He was fond of hiding things away from Dorcas." "In the old church? behind the panel and under the oaken seat where he used to sit," cried Dorcas; "I know-I know; I could find it in the dark." "Yes-that's the place-and William Halfday is hunting for it now, or I'm no judge of what a blackguard he is." "He cannot tell where my grandfather used to sit at church." "It is all explained in the pocket-book," said Peter; "I thought if I died suddenly it ought to be found-and "Tell her the rest," interrupted Dorcas; "think what is best to be done till I come back-don't follow me, for I am safe enough. I cannot stop another moment." "Where are you going?" "I can wake Hodsman, the porter." "That's no use. Dorcas will have failed or succeeded long before you are at the Cardinal's Tower, young lady." "But that dreadful man, her father?" "A dreadful rascal,-don't call him a man," said Peter, with supreme disgust. "They will meet perhaps in the church," said Mabel; "he may have found the document before she reaches there, and what may follow then? I cannot wait till she returns." "There's no use in going, I keep telling you, but you're very obstinate," he muttered. "To St. Lazarus-by the cross cut over the meads," she cried; "don't stop medon't ask me any questions-my whole life's" happiness is at stake." Dorcas dashed out of the room, and the instant afterwards the front door was heard to slam noisily behind her. Mabel ran to the window and called to her stop, to wait for her, but Dorcas only looked back and shook her head and hands, and went on bareheaded like a wild thing. The night was warm but dark, and the stars had disappeared as she turned in the direction of St. Lazarus, and ran, with extraordinary swiftness for a woman, along the dusty high-road. "I can't rest here," said Mabel. "What is to become of me?" he asked; is anybody going to take care of me, or am I to be sent away now there's nothing more to be got out of me, and with this lump on my head, too? By Gosh," he added, as he passed his hand carefully over it, "it's growing like a wursel." "Would you like to see a doctor?" "No, I should not," he replied; “ I have done all my life without one, and I am not going to begin now." "I will ask the landlady to prepare a bed for you." "I shall sit up till Dorcas comes back from St. Lazarus." "You are tired—you have gone through much excitement to-day," said Mabel. "I would have gone through fire and water to do Dorcas Halfday a service." "You are very kind," said Mabel. "She was a girl I always liked——” "You have said so before." "Though we had our little quarrels at the Hospital, for a more aggravating girl I don't know. Where are you going now?' "To get my hat and cloak. I must follow her." Mabel hastened from the room, and the old man crossed his hands upon his stick, and thought of all his wrongs, and all his chances of reward for this last noble action of his life. He was dozing before Mabel Westbrook returned, but his small eyes glittered from beneath his shaggy brows as she came into the room. "You are wasting your time-you don't know where to find her-you will put William Halfday on his guard, if he is prowling, about the church," said Peter Scone. "I shall die of suspense if I stay here." 194 "It's a pity women can't take things quietly," he said, "but must always rattle on in a flare-away fashion. Dorcas is quite safe-she is used to this kind of game, but you are not." "Used to this! Many and many a row about meeting her lover in the fields beyond the cottages has she had with old Adam-' "Her lover!" repeated Mabel; "she has a lover then ?" "To be sure; she was as agile as a cat after him too; she would cross the river with one spring-there was no keeping that madcap on the premises when she wanted to get off them. She—” "Tell me all this another time," said Mabel, restlessly; "I must go to St. Lazarus to-night." "You will never find her," said Peter; "she will return as she came, by the fieldpath, which you do not know." "So that she has met with no harm, I shall not care for that," replied Mabel; "I shall not be long away-anything that you require, ring that bell for." "I shall want some supper, and some beer," mumbled the old man, "and there's an awful draught in this room somewhere, which will give me my death of cold if it's not stopped." "The air comes through the windows which you broke." "Oh-I forgot the windows. They can be stuffed up with something, I suppose." "Yes-yes-tell the landlady. I am going now." "It's very foolish of you, I must say again," said Peter; but Mabel took no heed of his renewed protest against her wilfulness, but went at once from the house. She paused at the gate before commencing her journey-some one was rapidly approaching along the high road, and the sharp, quick steps seemed not wholly unfamiliar to her. The traveller was advancing from the sleeping city towards the country suburbs, and instinctively she waited for him, standing back in the shadow of the trees which grew within the garden. It was as well that travellers on the road should pass her, if untrustworthy and bound in her direction. The footsteps came nearer; from her point of observation Mabel could perceive now the figure of a man walking in the middle of the road, and at a fair swinging pace. As it approached and passed her, she called out, "Mr. Halfday.' he Brian, for it was he, stopped at once, and Mabel came from her hiding-place to meet him. Westbrook!" "Miss exclaimed, "something has happened, then!" "Yes-something has happened." "What can you be doing here-where are you going?" he asked, almost sharply. "I will tell you as we proceed, and if you will accompany me to St. Lazarus." "I am going to St. Lazarus-but you?" "Your sister is there," exclaimed Mabel; "she has heard news from Peter Scone-" "Of a will-yes," he said, interrupting her with his customary quickness. "How did you know?" asked Mabel. "I will tell you presently. Have you seen this Scone?" "He is in my house," said Mabel, pointing to the cottage she had recently quitted. "You are lodging there?" "Yes." "I will see that old scamp before we proceed any further," said Brian, stepping towards the house, when Mabel put her hands upon his arm. "We are losing time," she said; "Dorcas may be in danger-your father may be already at St. Lazarus.' "You are right, Miss Westbrook," he said; "I can learn all the news from you," He turned, and together they proceeded along the country road. “I am selfish in allowing you to accompany me," he said, stopping again; "I can act in this matter, if Dorcas is really in danger, so much better without you. You must go back." I could not do it. Please let me come with you," she entreated, "I am unhappy in that house already." He wavered and relented, but not too graciously. "I hate to keep changing my mind-like a girl," he said, "but-but you wish it," he added suddenly. He offered her his arm, and she placed her hand confidingly upon it. "I am glad I have met you," Mabel said frankly, "I feel safe with you." "It is something to have gained your confidence," Brian replied, "and yet I hardly know now why distrust has changed to faith. I don't deserve it.” |