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A 
 
I 
 
 
 xV,.N ( ) ! 'EN QUESTION. 
 
 A KQYMXu 
 
 BY 
 
 JAME8 ])K MILLE, 
 
 ViV TirE ICE," "THE AMEBICAN «,UiON," ETC., ETO. 
 
 r.lUfiTnArTO:::: irJLLniJfn IliSDKKiVM'i 
 
 J> 
 
 t:TON AKD GO MP ANT, 
 
 18'..3. 
 
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 Al 
 
 ^%- 
 
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 ^^«.-l 
 
AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 1 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 ,fc 
 
 JAMES DE MILLE, 
 
 AUTlIOn OF 
 
 "THE LADY OF THE ICE," "THE AMEEICAN BAEON," ETC., ETC. 
 
 WITH ILLnSTItATTOKS BY ALFItED FUEDEUICKS. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 D. APPLE TON AND COMPANY, 
 
 649 & 65 1 BROADWAY. 
 1873. 
 
^^mmmmmmmn 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in tUo year 18T2, by 
 
 D. APPLETON & CO., 
 
 In the Office of tlie Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 £^^ D 7 
 
OONTENTS. 
 
 CIIAl*TEn PAOK 
 
 i. — the manuscuiit op thb monk 
 
 aloysius .... 1 
 
 ii. — the catacombs ... 5 
 iii. — the hidden treascr.e 0? the 
 
 cj:sar3 .... 9 
 
 iv. — a stroke for fortcne . . 13 
 
 V. VILLENE0TE . . . .17 
 
 VI. — IS IT DELIRIUM ? . . .22 
 
 VII. THE GOLD CRUCIFIX . . 27 
 
 VIII. — THE EDO.VY CASKET, AND ITS 
 
 STRANGE COSTE.NTS . , 32 
 
 IX. — A CURIOUS FANCV ... 38 
 
 X. THE FATAL DRAUGHT . . 40 
 
 XI. — DEAD OR ALIVE ? . . .44 
 
 XII. — DR. BLAKE'S strange STORY . 49 
 XIII. — MAKING INQUIRIES ... 55 
 XIV. — MRS. KLEIN . . . ,59 
 
 XV. — INEZ RECEIVES A LETTER . . 63 
 
 XVI. — FATHER MAGRATH ... 67 
 XVII. — FAMILY MATTERS ... 72 
 
 XVIII, MORDAUNI MANOR . . 76 
 
 XIX. — THE LOST ONE FuUND . . 80 
 
 XX. — AT HOME ... 84 
 
 XXI. — BAFFLED FANCIES ... 88 
 XXII. — THE RETURN OF ANOTHER MES- 
 SENGER . , . .92 
 XXIII. — BLAKE TAKES LEAVE OF HIS 
 
 FRIENDS .... 96 
 i»33V. — DESCENSUS AVERNI ! . . 100 
 
 XXV.— THE CITY OP THE DEAD . , 104 
 
 ClIArTER 
 
 XXVI. — BETRAYED 
 XXVII. — FILIAL AFFECTION . 
 XXVIII. — SELF-SACRIFICE 
 
 XXIX. A STRANGE MEETING 
 
 XXX. — THE STORY OF INEZ 
 XXXI. — IN PRISON 
 XXXII. — LIGHT ON THE SITUATION 
 
 XXXIII. A FLIGHT FOR LIFE . 
 
 XXXIV. — A FRESH INVESTIGATION 
 XXXV. — THE TWO BROTHERS 
 XXXVI. — RUTHVEN 
 XXXVII. — HUSBAND AND WIFE 
 XXXVIII.— REVIVING OLD ASSOCIATIONS 
 XXXIX. — ^THE TEMPTER 
 
 XL. — RENEWING HIS YOUTH 
 XLI. — REPENTANCE . 
 XLH. — THE TWO FRIENDS . 
 XLIII. — A REVELATION 
 XLIV. — ALL THE PAST EXPLAINED 
 XLV. — THE TENDERNESS OF BESSIE 
 XLVI. — BEFORE HIS JUDGE . 
 XLVII. — DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVI . 
 XLVI II. — BACK TO LIFE 
 XLIX. MRS. WYVERNE 
 
 L. — A mother's plot 
 
 LI. — A DISCOVERY . 
 LII. — CLARA MORDAUNT . 
 LIII. — GOING TO PRAY AT CLARA'i 
 
 GRAVE 
 LIV. — CONCLUSION , 
 
 108 
 112 
 116 
 120 
 124 
 128 
 131 
 136 
 139 
 144 
 148 
 152 
 150 
 160 
 164 
 169 
 173 
 177 
 182 
 186 
 190 
 194 
 198 
 202 
 206 
 210 
 214 
 
 219 
 226 
 
mimmt 
 
 wfmmammmm 
 
 ■MHIBBIB^^ 
 
AN OPEN" QUESTIOISr. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE MANUSCRIPT OF THE MONK ALOYSIUS. 
 
 DR. BAPTL BLAKE liad plain but com- 
 fortiible .ipai'traents in Paris, on the 
 third story, ovcrlooiiing the busy Rue St. 
 Honoro. A balcony ran in front of his win- 
 d' s, upon which he couhl step out, wlicn- 
 cvtT ho felt inclined, to watch the crowds in 
 the street below. On the present occasion, 
 however, the balcony was deserted, the win- 
 dows were closed, and Dr. Blake was seated 
 in an arm-chair, with a friend opposite in 
 another. It was now midnight, but, late as 
 it was, this fi'iend had only come in a few 
 minutes before ; and, by the attitude, the ac- 
 tions, and the words of both, it was evident 
 that they were intending to make a night of 
 it. Bottles, docanter.s, glasses, cigars, pipes, 
 and tobacco, lay or stood upon the table; and 
 Dr. Blake was even now offering a glass of 
 Burgundy to his visitor. 
 
 Dr. Basil Blake was a young man, with a 
 frank ftice, clear eyes, open ai.d pleasing ex- 
 pression. His friend was a fellow-physician 
 — Dr. Phclim O'Rourkc— with whom Blake 
 had become acquainted in the course of his 
 studies in Paris, and who, in every respect, 
 presented a totally different a-pect from his 
 own. lie was much older, being apparently 
 between forty and fifty years of age. Ills 
 frame showed groat muscular strength and 
 powers of endurance. His hair was curling 
 and sprinkled with ^ra}'. His nose was 
 straight and thin. Ho wore a heavy beard 
 and mustache, which was not so gray as his 
 hair, but dark, shaggy, and somewhat nog- 
 1 
 
 lected. His eyes were small, dark, keen, and 
 penetrating. 
 
 "I wouldn't have bothered yecs at this 
 onsaisonable hour," saidO'Rourke, who spoko 
 with u slight Irish accent, " but the disclos- 
 ures that I have to make require perfect 
 freedom from interruption, ami ye see yc're 
 all the time with yer frind Ilellmuth through 
 the day, and so I have to contint mysilf with 
 the night, ayvin if I were not busy mysilf all 
 through the day. But the fact is, the mat- 
 tlicr is one of the most imrainsc importance, 
 and so ye'U see yersilf as soon as ye're in- 
 farrumed of what I have to tell. Ye know 
 I've alriddy mintioncd, in a casual way, that 
 my secret concerruns money. Yis, money 1 
 gold ! trisure ! — and trisure, too, beyond all 
 calculation. Basil Blake, me boy ! d'ye want 
 to be as rich as an iraperor ? Do ye want to 
 have a rivinue shuparior to Rothschild's ? 
 Have ye ivir a wish to sittle yersilf for life? 
 Answer me that, will ye ? " 
 
 Saying this, O'Rourke slapped the palm 
 of his hand emphatically upon the table, and 
 fixed his small, piercing black eyes intently 
 upon Blake. 
 
 " Oh, by Jove ! " said Blake, with a laiigh, 
 "you're going too for, you know. DoVt ex- 
 aggerate, old fellow — it isn't necessary, I as- 
 sure you. Money, by Jove ! I'd like to seo 
 the fellow that needs it more than I do. I'm 
 hard up. You know that, don't you ? Don't 
 I owe you five pounds — which, by-the-way, 
 old chap, I shall be able to — " 
 
 "Tare an ages!" interrupted O'Rourke, 
 " don't be afther talking about such a paltry 
 matther as five pounds. By the powers, but I 
 ixpictjif I can only injuce ye to give me a lift in 
 
AN' OrKX QUESTION. 
 
 my intcrprisp, that before long yo'll look upon 
 five pounds as no more tlian five pinco, 80 yo 
 will, ami there ye Imve it." 
 
 " Go ahead, tlinn, old fellow ; for, by Jove ! 
 do you know, you niiike nie wild with curios- 
 ity by all this mixture of illi:nitable treasure 
 ftnd impenctriiljle mystery." 
 
 " Mind, mo boy," said O'llourke, " I ask 
 nothing of ye — only yer hilp." 
 
 " And that I'll give, you may be sure. As 
 for any thing else, I'm afraid you can't got it 
 —not money, at any rate ; blood out of a 
 Btone, you know — that's about it with 
 me." 
 
 O'Rourko bent his head forward, and once 
 more fixed his keen gaze upon the frank, hon- 
 est eyes of Uhiko. 
 
 " It's in Rome — that it is," said he, 
 
 " Home ? " said Ulake. 
 
 " Yis — the trisnre — " 
 
 "Rome? ah I Well — it'a very convcnicut. 
 I was afraid it would involve a voyage to Cali- 
 fornia. Rome — well, that's a good beginning 
 at any rate." 
 
 " It is — it's mighty convanicnt," paid 
 O'Rourke. "Well, yo know, I've been in 
 .Rome over and over, and know it like me na- 
 tive town. I've been there sometimes on pro- 
 fissional juties, sometimes on archayological 
 interprises, and sometimes on occasion of any 
 shuperiminint ayelisiastieal ayvint. I may 
 mintion also tliat I've got a rilativo living 
 there — he's dead now — but that's nothing; 
 he was second cousin to mo first wife, and, 
 of course, in a forryn country, such a near 
 relationship as that brought us very close to- 
 gither, and I nttindid him profissionally, free 
 of charge, on his dying-bed. It was from this 
 rilative — Malachi McFee, by name — that I ob- 
 tained the inforrumation that I'm going to 
 convey to you. The poor divvle was a monk 
 in the monastery of Han Antonio. I saw a 
 good deul of him, off and on ; and one day he 
 had a fall in the vaults of the monaster)- — he 
 had a very bad conchusion ; mortification set 
 in, gangrane, and so forruth — so he died, poor 
 divvle. It wa.s on the death-bed of poor Mal- 
 achi that I heard that eame ; and ye'll under- 
 stand from that what credibility there is in 
 the story, for a man on his death-bed wouldn't 
 be afther speakin' any thing but the truth, un- 
 less he coidd get some real future binifit of 
 some sort out of it, pecuniarily, afther he was 
 dead, or before, but that's neither here nor 
 there." 
 
 O'Rourke paused htio, and looked sharply 
 at niake. 
 
 " D'ye care to hoar it now? " said he. 
 
 " Care to hear it ? of course. Don't you 
 see that I'm all oars V " 
 
 " Very well," said O'Rourke, " so here 
 goes.'' 
 
 As ho spoke, the deep toll of a neighbor- 
 ing bell Sounded out as it began to strike the 
 hour of midnight. O'Rourke paiised again, 
 and listened silently to the solemn sound, as 
 one after the other the twelve strokes rang 
 deeply out upon the still night air, and, even 
 after the full number had sounded, ho sat 
 as though listening for more. At length ho 
 drew a long breath, which sounded like a 
 deep sigh. 
 
 " I don't know how it is," said he, " but 
 there's nothing in all the wide wurruld that 
 affocts mo like the toll of a bell at midnight. 
 I moind me, it was in such a night as this, 
 and the bell was tolling just this way, when 
 poor .'rtalachi died. 'Well — well — he's dead 
 and gone. licqukscal in pace — 
 
 '' That same Malachi," continued O'Rourke, 
 " was, as I said, a monk in the monastery of 
 San Antonio, at Rome. Ilavo ye Ivor been in 
 Rome ? No ? Thin there's no use for mo to 
 tell you the situation of the monastery, rs yo 
 wouldn't understand. It's enough to say that 
 Malachi was a monk there. Now, yo must 
 know that San Antonio, like many other mon- 
 asteries, has a divvle of a lot of old manu- 
 scripts in the library — some copies of classics, 
 some thaological, and some original — the work 
 of the monks. This Malachi was one of the 
 most erudite and profound scholars that I 
 Ivor saw. lie had all thini old manuscripts 
 at his fingers' ends — ivory one of thim. Now, 
 what I have to tell you refers to one of these 
 manuscripts, that was liaulcd forth by poor 
 Malachi out of a forgotten chist, and studied 
 by him till ho began to think there was in it 
 the rivilatiou of some schoopindous secret. 
 It was written in Latin, of course. Yo know 
 Latin, I suppose — a little. Yis — yis. I know 
 what the ordinary iducation amounts to, but 
 could ye read a manuscript written in Latin, 
 in a crabbed hand, full of contractions and 
 corrections ? I don't think it. 1 have that 
 manuscript, and I've read it ; and I know that 
 the number of min who could take up that 
 and read it as it stands is not Lagion by any 
 means. I haven't the manuscript here. It's 
 home, with my valuables. It isn't a thing 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
TUE MANUSCRIPT OF THE MOKK AL0YSIU8. 
 
 I'd carry about, but I've got the substuiico of 
 it in UK! mind. It's a modern manuscript, 
 bound up lii<c a booli, not mucli larger than 
 wiiat wo tail juodocinio hIzc, of about a hun- 
 dred jiages of the writing I've mintioned. 
 Now, tlio manuscript purported to have been 
 written in tlio year sixteen liundred nnd tin, 
 and by all appearances had uivor been touched 
 liy any l)and since it lift the a\itlior's, till poor 
 Malachi drew it out of the chist, but lay there 
 among piles of others, neglietid and unknown. 
 ]t purported to bo an account of certain ad- 
 vintures and discoveries of one Aloysius, a 
 monk of San Antonio, some twinty years be- 
 fore, whicli he had committed to writing, and 
 deposited in tlie ''l"" i of the monastery, so 
 AS to transmit to the luturc some miniorial of 
 things *' t ho did not wish to have nltogithcr 
 forgotten. Mc cousin Malachi studied it all 
 over and over, and he gave mo the book on 
 his death-bed, and told me the wliole contints 
 juring my attindincc there before I had iver 
 read a line mcself. Now I'll just tell you tho 
 story of llie moidi Aloysius, fust of all, as it 
 was told me by me cousin Malachi, and as I 
 read it meself, and then ye'll begin to coraprc- 
 hind what I'm driving at. 
 
 " Well, now, this Aloysius was a monk of 
 San Antonio, as I said, lie was a quiet, so- 
 ber, religious, contintid soul, according to his 
 own showing ; a good, average Christian 
 monk, with all his wants confined to bis own 
 t'loisthers, and no desires bcyant. Now un- 
 derneath tho monastery there were thin, and 
 there are still at tliis day, vast and ixtinsive 
 vaults, stritching uu<lerneath the whole idifice, 
 and, in some places, Ihey are two stories deep. 
 Here, in these places, they seem cut out of 
 some rocky substratum — the rock is soft 
 sandstone, and must have been worked easy 
 enough — and, moreover, it was tho opinion 
 of me cousin Malachi, who was, poor fellow, 
 as I alriddy said, a divvlc of an archayologist, 
 that these double-storied excavations were tlie 
 work of the ancient Komans. Now it is with 
 the mintion of these vaults that the manu- 
 script of Aloysius begins. 
 
 "It seems that he was siut down to tho 
 lowermost vaults one day, in company with 
 another monk — Onofrio by name — to remove 
 Bomc wine-casks, or overhaul thim, or some- 
 thing, whin, juring the course of their labors, 
 t!cy reached tho roi'k forming the extreme 
 west end of the vaults ; and here, to the sur- 
 prise of both, they sa'v an archway, which had 
 
 been walled uj) so as to prcvint any passiiifj 
 tlirough. Tho sight excited both of thim im- 
 minsely, and they stopped short in their work, 
 and engaged in some i>rolonged argmnintation 
 as to the probable use of such a passage-way. 
 They dillerred in their opinions: Aloysius 
 holding that it once was a subterranean pas- 
 sage-way to the outside of tho city, made in 
 former ages, to bo used in casu oi need ; whilo 
 Onofrio eontinded that it ■,.«' Tintliing more 
 than a recess, closed up bet v ■ it was no 
 longer needed ; or because, perlsips, some ono 
 may have formerly been bii.icd there. This 
 discussion excited thir' 1 th to ci.ijh u dcgvco 
 that at lingth nothing would sat'f;fy a't' or of 
 thim but an examination. Onofrii' v.aa at first 
 oppo id to this, from the bf ' of ii'iil some ono 
 had lieen buried there, and ho shrank from 
 tho discovery of some possible horror com- 
 mitted in the course of those maydiayval ages, 
 when min were burnt alive, or buried alive, to 
 any ixtint, and all ai' inojoran Dei gloriam. 
 It was the way of tho worruld in those ages, 
 and a way that Onofrio did not wish to be re- 
 minded of. 
 
 " Well, at length they decided to cximino 
 it at once. Aloysius was the one who did the 
 business. They had a bit of a crowbar with 
 thim, which they liad brought down to move tho 
 bar'ls, and with this ho wint at the wall. Tho 
 stones were small, and were mixed with brick ; 
 tlio mortar had become rotten and disinte- 
 grated with the damp of cinterries ; and so it 
 was aisy enough work for a brisk young lad, 
 like Aloysius seems to have been thin. They 
 had a couple of good-sized lamps with thcui 
 all the time, to give light for their work in 
 the vaults, ye know ; and so, as there was 
 plinty of oil in thim, they had plinty of leisure 
 for their work. AVell, Aloysius says that he 
 worked away, and it last had a hole made big 
 enough to see through. The wall had not 
 been more than six inches thick, and crum- 
 bling at t! 1* ; and, whin this hole was made, 
 the rest followed quick enough, I'll be bound. 
 Well, the ind of it all '"os, that tho wall at 
 lingth lay there, a heap of rubbish, at their 
 feet ; and there was the open archway full be- 
 fore thim, inviting thim to inter." 
 
 O'Rourke now poured out a glass of wine 
 for himself, and looked inquiringly at Blake, 
 to see how he felt. One look was enough to 
 show him that Blake was deeply interested, 
 and was waiting very anxiously for tho re- 
 mainder of the story. O'Rourke smacked hi» 
 
mm 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 lips approvingly, set down the empty glass 
 upon the table, and continued : 
 
 " Onofrio shrank back. Aloysius sprang 
 through. Thin Onofrio followed, somewhat 
 timidly. Both of thim held their lights before 
 thira, to see the size of the interior. It w.is a 
 passage-way about four feet wide and six feet 
 high, but the length of it they were unable to 
 see. Walking forward a few paces, they still 
 found no ind visible as yet. Suddenly Aloy- 
 sius saw something which excited his attin- 
 tion. It was a slab of marble about six feet 
 long and a foot in width, fastened in the side 
 of the passage-way. There were letters on it. 
 ^oyond this he saw others, and, as he stared 
 around in amazement, he saw that these slabs 
 were arranged on both sides, reaching from 
 the floor to the top of the passage, one above 
 another, three deep, and in some places four. 
 Upon this ho turned to his companion, and 
 said: 'You're right, Onofrio. This is some 
 nncient bnrial-plaee of the monks of San An- 
 tonio.' Onofrio said D^thing, but, holding liis 
 lamp eagerly forward, tried to make out an 
 inscription that was cit on the marl)le slab. 
 The slab was much dJ«!colored, but the letter- 
 ing was quite visible. These letters, however, 
 were apparently a mixture of different clmrac- 
 ters ; for, though he could make out here and 
 there one, yet others occurred in the midst of 
 them with which ho was not familiar. The 
 Latin word IN could be made out, and, on 
 another slab, he nxade out IX PACE. On all 
 the slabs there was a peculiar monogram 
 ■which was uniutilUaible to them. 
 
 " ' These were all good Christians,' said 
 Onofrio; 'for no others would have "id 
 pace " over their graves.' 
 
 '"They must have lived long ago,' said 
 Aloysius. ' And they had a fashion of writ- 
 ing that is different from ours.' 
 
 " They walked on some distance farther. 
 The graves continued. They were very much 
 amazed, and, in fact, quite schupefied at the 
 imminse number which they passed, all cut 
 in the walls of this vault, all covered over 
 with marble slabs. At length, Aloysiiis, who 
 was going first, uttered a cry ; and Onofrio, 
 who had paused to try and make out an in- 
 scription, hurried up. lie found Aloysius r.t 
 a place where their passage-way v.as crossed 
 by another passr.ge-way, which was like it in 
 every respict — the same niches on the walls, 
 the fame marble slabs, the same kind of in- 
 scriptions. In addition to this they saw that 
 
 their own passage-way still ran on, and was 
 lost in the darkness. They both saw that it 
 was far more ixtinsivo than they had ima- 
 gined. 
 
 " ' You were right,' said Onofrio, ' such a 
 long passage as this must be more than a 
 burial-place.' 
 
 " ' Be the powers, thin,' cries Aloysius, 
 'we're both right, for it is a burial-place, 
 and if it don't go all the way out of the city, 
 then I'm a haythen.' 
 
 " Well, they walked on some distance far- 
 ther, and thin they came to three passage- 
 ways — in all respicts the same — no one could 
 have told any differince — and it was this that 
 made thim stop in this fust ixpidition. 
 
 " ' Sure to glorj',' says Onofrio, ' it's lost 
 we'll be, if we go any farther, for sorra the 
 bit of differ I see betune this passage we're 
 in, and the rest of thim ; so don't let us go 
 any farther, but get back as quick as wo 
 can, while we know our way.' 
 
 " At this Aloysius tried to laugh away his 
 fears, but without success. Onofrio was 
 afraid of being lost — moreover, Onofrio was 
 superstitious — and had got it into his head 
 that the place was no other than the general 
 burying-ground of pagan Rome. He didn't 
 know but that the pagans buried their dead 
 like Christians; he wasn't enough of an 
 archayologist to decipher the inscriptions 
 around him ; and he was terrified at the spec- 
 taclo of so many pagan graves. Besides, in 
 addition to what they had seen, the passages 
 leading away seemed to give ividinee, or, at 
 least, indications, of an ixtint that was sim- 
 ply schupindous ! So, Onofrio was bint on 
 going back, and there was no hilp for it but for 
 Aloysius to follow. But he swore to himsilf 
 all the same, that he'd go again if he had to 
 do it alone. 
 
 " So back they wint, and Onofrio wouldn't 
 hear of stopping till they had go* back behind 
 the fust crossing, and then he felt out of dan- 
 ger. So hero the two of thim, tiaving nothing 
 ilsc to do, rayzhumcd their ifforts to decipher 
 the inscriptions. At length Onofrio called to 
 Aloysius. Aloysius went to where he was 
 standing. He saw there a slab cut in letters 
 which were all Uoman, without any mixture 
 of those strange characters — (!rock, no 
 doubt — that had puzzled thim before — yo 
 know the monks in those days often knew a 
 little Latin — Latin being the language of the 
 Church, and widely used for colloquial pur- 
 
 Ij 
 
THE CATACOMBS. 
 
 1, and was 
 
 aw that it 
 
 had ima- 
 
 0, ' such a 
 ro tliau a 
 
 Aloysius, 
 rial -place, 
 )f the city, 
 
 istance far- 
 e passagc- 
 D one could 
 IS this that 
 tion. 
 
 1, ' it's lost 
 r sorra the 
 ssnge we're 
 't let us go 
 lick as wo 
 
 r^h away liia 
 )nofrio was 
 )nofrio was 
 to his head 
 the general 
 
 lie didn't 
 1 their dead 
 ugh of an 
 inscriptions 
 at the spec- 
 
 Besides, in 
 he passages 
 dince, or, at 
 at was sim- 
 was bint on 
 for it but for 
 •e to himsilf 
 f he had to 
 
 Frio wouldn't 
 buck behind 
 t, out of dan- 
 ving nothing 
 ? to decipher 
 frio called to 
 icre he was 
 cut in letters 
 
 any mixluro 
 — (ireek, no 
 
 before — yo 
 )ftcn knew a 
 iguage of tho 
 jUoquial pur- 
 
 poses even outside of the Church, at leasv 'n 
 Howe, by foreigners and pilgrims — and so ye 
 see the two of thim put their heads togither, 
 and made it out. I remimber the whole of it. 
 It wasn't long — it was simple enough — and it 
 told its own story. Let mo see." 
 
 O'Rourke bent his head, and seemed to be 
 recalling the words of which he spoke. 
 
 " Fust, there was a monogram which nai- 
 ther of thim understood. It's this — ye know 
 it well enough." 
 
 Stooping forward, O'Rourke dipped his 
 finger in his wineglass, and traced ou the 
 mahogany table this monogram ; 
 
 " Yo know that," said he; "it stands for 
 Christus, being the two Greek initial letters 
 'Ch' and ' II.' It was marked by tho early 
 Christians on their tombs. Ye sec, also, it 
 makes the sign of the cross. As for the in- 
 scription, it ran this way somehow, as near as 
 I can remimber : 
 
 '■'■'■ In Chrkto. Pax. Anlonino Tinperatore, 
 Mariits miles sanguinem effudit pro Chrkto, 
 Dormit in pace.' 
 
 " So ye see by that," continued O'Rourke, 
 after a pause, during which he looked with 
 his usual searching glance at Blake, "that 
 the place was full of Christian tombs. Ye've 
 heard of tho Roman Catacombs. Well, 
 that's the pkice where these two were, and 
 didn't knovr it, for the reason that they niver 
 heard of such a place. 
 
 " ' Sure to glory ! ' cried Onofrio. ' It's no 
 pagan burying-ground at all, at all. It's 
 Christian, and we're surrounded by tho blis- 
 Bcd rilics of martyrs ;»nd saints. Oh, but 
 won't tho abbot be the proud man this day 
 whin wo tell him this 1 ' 
 
 " ' Tare an ages, mm ! ' cried Aloysius, 
 'ye won't be afther tellin' him yit; wait till 
 we find out more. Let's come again ; we'll 
 bring a bit of a string with us, and unrowl it 
 as we go on, so as not to lose our way.' 
 
 " Well, with this agreement tBey left the 
 Catacombt got back into tho vaults of San 
 Antonio, and, as it was vesper-time, they 
 rowled the bar'ls against tho opening so as to 
 hide it, and wint away to rezhumo their ex- 
 plorations on the following day." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE CATACOMBS. 
 
 "So ye sec," continued Dr. O'Rourke, 
 " what sort of a place it was they had stum- 
 bled upon. It was tho most sacred spot on 
 earth. It was the burial-place of the saints 
 and martyrs that had suffered at tho hands 
 of the bloody pagans — a holy place — a place 
 of pilgrimage ! " 
 
 At this, he crossed himself devoutly, and 
 took a glass of wine. 
 
 " Well, the next day the two of thim wint 
 once more, and this time Onofrio was as eager 
 as Aloysius. The manuscript doesn't say 
 what aither of them wished or ixpected to 
 find ; it simply states that they were eager, 
 and that they took with thim several balls 
 of string, to unwind so as to keep their 
 course. Well, this time they wint on and 
 came to the place which they had reached on 
 the previous day. They unwound tho string 
 as they wint; and, thus letting it out, they 
 passed boldly and confidintly beyant the place 
 where they had turruned back before. Going 
 on, they came to passage afther passage, and 
 there was not a pin's diflference between any 
 one of thim and any other. Well, at last 
 they came to a place where there was a cross- 
 pasEoge, and Here an excavation had been 
 made, circular in shape, and about twelve 
 feet in diameter. This place had a more 
 cheerful aspict than any thing that they had 
 yet seen, if any thing can be called cheerful 
 in such a place. The walls had been covered 
 with stucco, which still remained; though 
 down about a foot from the floor it had crum- 
 bled otf. Over the walls they saw pictures 
 which had been made ages before, and still 
 kept their colors. These were all pictures of 
 things as familiar to thim as tho streets of 
 Rome. There was Adam and Evo plucking 
 tho forbidden fruit ; Noah and his ark ; 
 Abraham offenuf; up Isaac; Jonah and his 
 whale ; and iver so many more of a similar 
 chyaractcr. Of course, all this only showed 
 still more clearly that the place was a Chris- 
 tian cinotaph, and it was with something like 
 riveriuce that they gazed upon these pict- 
 ures, made by tho hands of saints. Well, 
 then they started to go on, whin they sudden- 
 ly discovered, yawning before them, a wide 
 opening in the flure, or pavcmint. It was 
 fowcr feet wide, and six long. Beneath all 
 
6 
 
 AX OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 ■was darkness. Aloyslus tuk his string and 
 lowered his lamp. About twelve or fifteen feet 
 helow he saw a Sure like the one where he 
 •was standing, and a passage-way like those 
 around him. Ho also saw slabs with in- 
 scriptions. By this he knew that there were 
 ranges of passage-ways fille'l with tombs im- 
 mejitly beneath, no doubt as Jxtinsive as these 
 upper ones. The sight filled him with schu- 
 pefaction. This was the limit of their second 
 attimpt. The other passages leading away 
 from what he calls the 'painted chamber,' 
 were narrow and uninvitin' ; the lower pas- 
 sage-way, however, was broad and high, and 
 gave promise of leading to a place of shupa- 
 rior importince. By this time Onofrio was as 
 full of eagerness as Aloysius, and it didn't 
 need any persuasin to injuice him to make a 
 further tower through these vaults on anoth- 
 er day. This time they brought with thim, 
 in addition to their lamps and string, a couple 
 of bits of ladders that Aloysius had knocked 
 up for the occasion. 
 
 " Well, now came the time of tlieir thii-d 
 exploration. Tiiey tuk their ladders, and de- 
 scinded into the lower passage-waj'. Down 
 here they found ivery thing just as it had 
 been up above. In one or two places they 
 saw, in side-papsagea, other openings in the 
 flure, which gave ividence of anotlier story 
 beneath this again, containing, no doubt, the 
 same tombs ranged in the same way. Such 
 an appariently indloss ixtint almost over- 
 whelmed them. Well, at last, whiu they had 
 spun out nearly all their string, they saw be- 
 fore them an opening, wide and dark, into 
 which their passage-way ran. They intered 
 this place. 
 
 " Now listen," said O'Rourke, impressive- 
 ly. " This place is described in the manu- 
 script of Aloysius in the most minute man- 
 ner, just as if he was writing it down for the 
 hinifit of posterUy. It was a vaulted cham- 
 ber, liko the one which they had found be- 
 fore. The walls were stuccoed and covered 
 Avith painted pictures — tlie dove wilh tlie 
 olive-branch ; the mystic fish, the ' Ichtlius,' 
 the letters of whose name are so mysterious- 
 ly symbolical ; and the portrayal of sacred 
 scenes drawn from Holy Writ ; all tliese were 
 on the walls. Now, this chamber was fowor 
 times bigger than the other one. 
 
 " You remirabcp that thus far they had 
 found nothing loose or movable. Wliat may 
 have been in the tombs, of course they could 
 
 not see. But here all was different. The 
 very first glance they threw around showed 
 them a great heap of things, piled up high in 
 the far eorroner. Onofrio hesitated — for he 
 was always superstitious — but Aloysius 
 bounded forward, and at once began to ex- 
 amine the things. 
 
 " Now, Blake, me boy, by the powers but 
 it's me that don't know how to begin to tell 
 3'ou tliis that they found ! AVliin I read about 
 this in the manuscript — when I saw it there 
 in black and white — tare an ages! — but I 
 fairly lost mo breath. What d'ye think it 
 was, man? Wliat? Wliy, a trisnre incal- 
 culable, piled up tin feet high from flnre to 
 vaulted ceiling; there was gold, and silver, 
 and giras, and golden urruns, and goblits, and 
 perrils, and rubies, and imeralds ; there was 
 jools beyond all price, and tripods, and cen- 
 sers, and statuettes; and oh, sure to glory! 
 but it's meself that'll fairly break down in 
 the attimpt to give you the faintest concip- 
 tion of a trisnre so schupindous ; candelabras, 
 and snuffer-trays, and lamps, and lavcrs, and 
 braziers, and crowns, and coronits, and brace- 
 lets, and chains — all of them put down in 
 that manuscript, in black and white, as I 
 said — coolly enumerated by that owld gan- 
 dher of an Aloysius, who missed his chance 
 thin, as I'll tell you. But there they were, as 
 I'm tolling ye, and I'd jist requist ye to let 
 yer fancy play around this description; call 
 up befrre yer mind's eye the trisure there — 
 the trisure that the worruld has niver seen 
 the like of before nor since, saving only once, 
 whin the gowld of Peru Avas piled up for 
 Pizarro's greedy eyes by the unfortunate 
 Atahualpa ; but no wonder, for what he saw 
 there was no less a thing than the trisure of 
 the Ccrsars t " 
 
 At this, O'Rourke stopped and looked at 
 his companion, Blake by this time showed 
 evidence of the most intense and breathless 
 excitement. 
 
 " By the Lord ! " he exclaimed, " O'Rourke, 
 what do you moan by all this ? It is incredi- 
 ble. It sounds like some madman's dream ! " 
 
 O'Rourke smiled. 
 
 " Wait," said he — " wait till ye hear the 
 whole of the story, and then we'll be able to 
 discuss the probabilities. I'm not done just 
 yit — I'll hurry on. I can't stand the thought 
 of the glories of that unparalleled scone. 
 
 " Well, Aloysius was already taking up the 
 tilings one by one in amazement, whin Onofrio 
 
THE CATACOMBS. 
 
 came up. Onofrio gave a cry of wonder, and 
 caught up several small statuettes, but, afthcr 
 a brief examination, lie threw them back with 
 a gesture and a cry of abhorrence. 
 
 " ' Come away ! ' says he — ' come away ! ' 
 
 " ' What do you mean ? ' says Aloysius, 
 grabbing up a heap of perrils and diamoud 
 jools. 
 
 " ' They're the divvlc's own work, sure 
 enough,' says Onofrio, all of a trimble. ' Sure 
 he's put it all here as a bait for our 
 sowls.' 
 
 " ' Whist then, Onofrio darlint,' says Aloy- 
 sius. ' AVhat's the harrum of whipping off a 
 bit of a diamond or imerald for San Anto- 
 nio ? ' 
 
 " ' Oh, sure to glory ! ' cries Onofrio, ' but 
 we'll be lost and kilt intirely, and we'll niver 
 get home again. Down with thim ! ' says he. 
 ' Fling them back, Aloysius jool,' says he. 
 ' They're the work, and the trap, and the de- 
 vice of Satan,' says he, ' an' nothin' '11 iver 
 come of it but blue roon to both of us.' 
 
 " ' Sure, an' how could Satan get in here 
 wid the saint3 and martyrs, yeould spalpeen ? ' 
 says Aloysius. 
 
 " At this Onofrio declared that this cham- 
 ber had no' tombs, and was thus ungyarded, 
 so that thereby the powers of Darkness were 
 able to inter and lay their snares — 
 
 " ' But,' says Aloysius — and oh, but it's the 
 clear head that same hud on his shoulders — 
 ' how,' says he, ' would Satan,' says he, ' be 
 afther laying his snares down here where no 
 mortal iver comes ? ' 
 
 " ' Sure, and that's just it,' says Onofrio ; 
 ' didn't he see us comin' — didn't he just throw 
 these things in here for us to grab at thim ? 
 Oh, come back, Aloysius darlint ! — drop ivery 
 thing — back to the protiction of the saints 
 and martyrs, and out of this ! ' 
 
 " Weil, just at this moment .'lever.*'' of the 
 gowhlcn braziers and tripods, which had been 
 loosened on the pile by Aloysius pulling away 
 some of the gowlden eandolabra and diamond 
 bracelets from under thim, gave a slide, and 
 fell with a great clatter to the flure. At this 
 Onofrio gave a yell, dropped his lamp, and 
 ran, Aloysius was for the moment frightened 
 almost as much, and followed Onofrio, both 
 of thim with not the least doubt in life but 
 that the Owld Boy was after thim. So they 
 ran, an' they didn't stop till they reached the 
 ladder, when they scrambled xip, and pulled 
 the ladder up after n. They now felt safe, 
 
 and waited here awhile to take breath. Now, 
 mind you, Aloysius had been frightened, but 
 there was an imirald bracelet that he'd slipped 
 on his arrum, and a diamond ring that he'd 
 stuck on his finger, and these two remained 
 on as he ran, and when he felt himself safe 
 he didn't feel inclined to throw thim away. 
 But he could not keep thim concealed from 
 Onofrio, who detected thim by the flash of the 
 gims that outshone the lamp and dazzled him. 
 Upon this he set up a great outcry that they 
 were lost, and would niver see the wurruld 
 again, and implored Aloysius to tear the Sa- 
 tanic traps off, and throw them behind him. 
 But Aloysius refused. 
 
 " ' Whist,' says he, ' do ye know where ye 
 a. e ? ' says he. ' Arn't these the sainta and 
 niartjTS ? Would they allow any blackgyard 
 imp to show as much as the tip of his tail ? 
 Not they. Niver.' But Onofrio wouldn't be 
 consoled at all, at all, and all the way back 
 wint on lamenting that one or the other would 
 have to pay dear for stealing Satan's jools. 
 So at last they got back safe into the vaults 
 of the monastery, and thin — partly to console 
 Onofrio, and partly out of a ginirous filial siu- 
 limint and loyal regyard to San Antonio and 
 his monastery — Aloysius towld Onofrio that it 
 would be best to let the abbot know ; and 
 this consoled Onofrio, for he saw that he 
 could get the abbot's help against Satan. 
 And so the two of thim, without any more de- 
 lay, walked off and towld the abbot the whole 
 story. 
 
 " Anil oh, but wasn't the abbot the happy 
 man that day ! lie quistoned thim over and 
 over. He bound thim by a solemn promise 
 niver to breathe a word of it to another sowL 
 He thin infarrumed thim that he would visit 
 the place himsilf, and told thim that they both 
 would have to go with him. Well, Aloysius 
 was glad enough, and poor Onofrio was badly 
 scared ; but the abbot, the dear man, had his 
 own projicts, and wasn't going to lose the 
 chance of such a trisuro as this, ispicially 
 whin, as ye may say, it might be called San 
 Antonio's own gold and jools. 
 
 " ' Sure ♦" glory ! ' cried the holy abbot in 
 rapture ; ' don't I know all about it ? There's 
 been a tradition here for ages. It's the tria- 
 ure of the Cicsars. Whin Alaric came before 
 Rome, the sinit and people of Rome tried to 
 save something, so they imptied the imperial 
 palace — the Aiirea Domua Nerotiia — me boys, 
 of all its trisures — its gold, its giras, its jools, 
 
8 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 1 
 4 
 
 its kyarbunclcs, its imiralds, and pricvous 
 Btonea — and where in the wide wurruld they 
 put thim nobody ivcr knew till this day. Ala- 
 ric was fairly heart-broke with disappointment. 
 They were niver tuk up, for Rome was no 
 longer safe. Genserio came ravagin', and 
 missed thim. They escaped the grasp of Odo- 
 acer, of Theodoric, of Vidges, of Totila, and 
 of Bclisarius ; of the Normans, of the robber 
 barons, of Rienzi, and of the Constable Bour- 
 bon ; and have been kept till this day, through 
 the ispicial protiction and gyardianship of 
 holy Anthony — may glory be with him ! — and 
 now he's handin' it over to us, for the honor 
 and glory of his ii.jonastery. Look at this,' 
 Bays he, whippin' on his own arrum the brace- 
 let that Aloysius had found, and putting the 
 diamond ring on his own finger, and howlding 
 arrum and hand up to the light. ' Tare an 
 ages ! boys, but did ye iver see any gims like 
 thim ? ' 
 
 " So the holy abbot wint off, iscorted by 
 the two monks ; and ye may be sure they kept 
 that same ixpedition a saycret from all the 
 rest of the monks. It was night whin they 
 ■wint down — as the manuscript says. The 
 prisince of the blissid abbot gave the two 
 boys a since of protiction, and even Onofrio 
 seemed to have lost his fears. lie grew bold- 
 er, and peered curiously into those darker 
 side-passages which crossed the main path- 
 way. The clew lay along the flure all the 
 way, 80 that there was no trouble. Well, 
 they wint on an' reached the painted cham- 
 ber, and found the ladders lying where they 
 had left thim. They wint down. Each one 
 had his own lamp. They walked on for about 
 fifty paces ; alriddy Aloysius was reaching for- 
 ward his hand to show the holy abbot how 
 near the trisure-room was, whin suddenly 
 there was a noise — ' a noise,' says the manu- 
 script, ' like rushing footstips.' 
 
 "At that moment Onofrio gave a terrible 
 cry. Again, as before, the lamp fell from his 
 hands, and was dashed to pieces. With j-ell 
 afther yell, and shriek afthcr shriek, he darted 
 back, and bounded along the passage-ways. 
 The abbot and Aloysius heard the noise, too ; 
 but of itself, says the manuscript, that noise 
 might not have driven tlieu. .>.vay, for the 
 holy abbot was riddy with no ind of exorcisms 
 and spells to lay the biggest imp that might 
 appear. But the yells, and the sudden flight 
 of Onofrio, filled thim with uncontrollable 
 horror. The abbot, in an instant, lost all his 
 
 prisince of mind. He turned and ran back at 
 the top of his speed. Aloysius followed, and 
 could scarcely keep up with him. Aloysius 
 declares that, as ho ran, ho still heard the 
 sound of rushing footsteps behind him, and 
 was filled with the darkest fear. '■Ingens ter- 
 ror,^ he says, ' implehat nos; membra rigchant ; 
 corsiupebat; horror ineffahilis undiqw circitm- 
 stabat ; et a tergo vidcbantur quas' ealervae hor- 
 ribilcs ex abi/smo, surgeutes, scquentes afque fit- 
 gantcs. Noa ita inter morluos, semimortut ; 
 inter fugantes fugientes erepii simiua nescio quo- 
 modo ex illo abysmo ; et ad cryptnm monasteri 
 vix semianimi tandem aduenimna.* 
 
 "Well," continued O'Rourke, after paus- 
 ing, perhaps to take breath after the Latin 
 which he had quoted from the old manuscript, 
 " whin they got to the vaults of the monastery, 
 they recovered from their terror, but only to 
 ixperience a new alarrum. For there, on 
 looking around, they could see nothing of 
 Onofrio. They searched all through the 
 vaults. He was not there. They had locked 
 the monastery door, which led into the vaults, 
 on the inside, and it had not been opened. 
 If he was not in the vaults, he must yit be in 
 that horrible place from which they had fled. 
 But they had seen nothing of him since his 
 first flight. They had not overtaken him. 
 The abbot had a vague reinimbrance of a fig- 
 ure before him vanishing in the gloom of the 
 passage-way, but no more. 
 
 " They waited for a long time, but Onofrio 
 did not make his appearance. Thin they 
 shouted at the top of their voices, but the 
 sounds died away down the long, vaulted pas- 
 sago without bringing any risponse ixcipt 
 what the manuscript vaguely and mysterious- 
 ly calls a ' concentu^ quidam stiaurrorum levi- 
 urn, vt vidcbatur, aonorumque obscurorum, qua: 
 commixta reverbcrationibua trialibua ac segni- 
 bus, volvebanl qnaai auapiria de prof undia.\ . . 
 
 "At last their anxiety about their com- 
 panion proved stronger thin the horrors of 
 shuperstition, and they vintured back, grow- 
 ing bowlder as they wint, and they wint as far 
 as the fust passage-way. Thin they called 
 and lialloed. But no risponse came. Thin 
 they wint as far as the painted chamber, the 
 holy abbot howlding before him the sacred 
 symbol of the cross, and muttering prayers, 
 while Aloysius did the shouting. And the 
 manuscript says that they remained there for 
 hours. The opening into the regions below 
 lay within sight, but thoy didn't dare so much 
 
 « 
 
TUB TREASURE OF TUE C.ESAR.S. 
 
 9 
 
 Q back at 
 
 wed, and 
 
 Aloysiua 
 
 leard the 
 
 him, and 
 
 nffens ter- 
 
 rigehant ; 
 
 He ciracm- 
 
 rvae hor- 
 
 alque fu- 
 
 nimortui ; 
 
 niKio quo- 
 
 monasteri 
 
 as to tliiuk of going down tliere again. They 
 saw the prqjiction of the ladder above the 
 opening, but dared not go nearer. At last it 
 beeame Ividint that there was no further hope 
 just thin. They wint up and found it daylight 
 above-ground. The abbot was wild with anx- 
 iety, lie gathered all the monks, got sthrings, 
 and crosses, and torches, and down again he 
 wint with thim. This time, embowldined by 
 the prisinco of numbers, he dcscinded the 
 ladder and stud at the fut. He didn't dare, 
 though, to vinturc any further. lie didn't tell 
 the monks any thing except that Brother 
 Onofrio was lost. Nothing was said about 
 tlie triaure. The most awful warrunings were 
 held out to the monks against wandering off. 
 Small need was there for warruning thim, 
 however, for thoy were all half dead with fear. 
 There they stud and sang chants. They did 
 this three days running. The monk Aloysius 
 distinctly affirrums that nothing kipt away 
 the minacing demons but the sacred chants 
 and the prayers of the holy abbot. 
 
 " Well, nothing was ever heard of Onofrio. 
 After three days thoy gave up. The abbot 
 had the opening walled up, and thin, over- 
 whillumed by grief, he tuk to his bed. The 
 damp of the vaults had also affected his lungs, 
 lie died iu about sivin weeks. He left direc- 
 tions for perpetual masses to be said for the 
 repose of the sowl of Brother Onofrio. As for 
 A.loysius, his grief and rcmorrus were deep 
 and permanint. He nivcr ceased to reproach 
 hirasilf with being the cause of the terrible 
 fate of poor Onofrio. He niver attimpted to 
 get the trisure wliich he now and '■■••cr after- 
 worrac it ferrumly believed to be all that 
 Onofrio hud said. Still there was the secret 
 on his sowl, and so he wrote this story of his, 
 and put his manupcript in the library of the 
 monastery. And tliere ye have it." 
 
 With these words Dr. O'Rourko concluded 
 his story, and, turning toward the table, re- 
 freshed himself with another glass of wine. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE TREASURE OF THE CiESARS. 
 
 Dr. O'Rourke swallowed a glass of wine, 
 and then proceeded to light a cigar with the 
 air of one who felt that he had done enough, 
 and was desirous of resting from his labors, 
 and of leaving to his companion the task of 
 making further remarks. So ho lighted liis 
 
 cigar, leaned back in his chair, and turned 
 his eyes toward the ceiling. 
 
 Basil Blake, for his part, had been a lis- 
 tener of the most attentive kind, and O'Rourko 
 could not have wished for any more absorbed, 
 or earnest, or thougiitful hearer. Now that 
 the story was ended, he remained in tho 
 same position, and, like our first parents with 
 the affable archangel, " still stood attentive, 
 still stood fixed to hear." 
 
 At length he roused himself from his ab- 
 straction, and, drawing a long breath, looked 
 fixedly at O'Rourke. 
 
 "Well, old chap," said he, "all that I 
 can say is that, for a story, this is the most 
 extraordinary that 1 have ever actually lis- 
 tened to, and, in order to find a parallel, I 
 have to refer to the story-books of my boy- 
 hood — the ' Arabian Nights,' ' Tales from the 
 German,' and ' Fairy Lore.' I see you are ex- 
 pecting mo to give au opinion about this, but 
 it is difficult to do so ; for, in the first place, 
 I don't know whether I'm to regard it as 
 mere fiction or actual fact." 
 
 O'Rourke laid down his cigar upon tho 
 table. 
 
 " That's the very remark I expected you 
 to make, so it is," said he, " and so, sure 
 enough, there rises before us at the outsit tho 
 great question of the authenticity of the manu- 
 script and the credibility of the narrative. 
 You see, thin, that this questio.. is twofold, 
 and should be considered as such." 
 
 Blake nodded. 
 
 " Now, first," said O'Rourke, " as to the 
 authenticity of the manuscript — there can bo 
 no doubt about that whalivor. Me own 
 cousin, poor Malachi, a dying man, gave it to 
 me witii his dying hands. He was a monk in 
 tho monastery of San Antonio, and in the li- 
 brary of that same he found the manuscript, 
 written, as the date inforrums us, cinturies 
 ago. So, you see, the ginealogy is straight 
 and certain. Howandiver, this is only ixter- 
 nal ividince. What about the internal ivi- 
 dince ? The handwriting of itself is suffi- 
 cient proof that it was written whin it says, 
 together with the faded ink, the peculiar vel- 
 lum, and theginiral aspiut. Internal ividince 
 of a still stronger kind may be found in the 
 sintimints, the exprissions, and the jaynius 
 of the writer : but these all inter into the dis- 
 cussion under the second head — namely, tho 
 honesty, the cridibility, the veracity, of tho 
 author. 
 
.11 
 
 ! 
 
 i ! 
 
 10 
 
 AN OPExV QUESTION. 
 
 "Now, with rifirince to this, I will make 
 a few observations : 
 
 " First, the writer could have had no mo- 
 tive whativir in writing down any thing but 
 what he believed to be true. Bemimbcr, he 
 epeaks as an eye-witness — nay, more, an 
 actor in the ivints which he narrates. To a 
 man in his position and calling, a work of 
 fiction would have been impossible. He was 
 not a sinsation novelist. He was a man of 
 the sixteenth and seventeenth cinturies — a 
 monk, a recluse, a man near his ind. He had 
 no aujience; no reading public; he wrote his 
 worruk, and consigned it to the oblivion of 
 the library. Under such circumstances, no 
 man could write any thing but what he be- 
 lieved true. 
 
 " But, secondly, there are other things 
 which tiud to sustain his intire cridibility. 
 These are the circumstances raintioncd in the 
 book, the feelings, the words, and the deeds 
 of the actors. First among these things de- 
 scribed is the place itself, now famous as the 
 Roman Catacombs. The mintion of this 
 place is enough for me. In the time when 
 Aloysius lived, the Catacombs were unknown. 
 They had been forgotten for ages. Their very 
 ixistince was not suspicted. The labors 
 and explorations of Bosio, Arringhi, and oth- 
 ers, had not yet taken place. Aloysius thus 
 stands alone among his contimporaries in this 
 knowledge of the ixistince and the appear- 
 ance of the Catacombs. Ho saw them as 
 they appeared to Bosio, with the slabs un- 
 touched, the pictures fresh-colored, the ipi- 
 taphs undeciphered, and, I may add, the 
 graves unrifled. 
 
 " Xow, you must not only appreciate the 
 full force of this most significant fact, but 
 you must also boar in mind thut all the de- 
 scriptions of Aloysius are as vivU and as ac- 
 curate as possible. I have been in those 
 Catacombs which are now open to visitors, 
 and can answer for the truth of the manu- 
 script. There arc the passages, the tiers of 
 graves, the chambers, tiio wiiUs covered with 
 Btucco, with pictures of Scripture scenes, the 
 schupindous multichude of Cliristian deau. 
 The arrangement of the ixcavations in dilfer- 
 cnt stories, shuperior, and mcjium, and in- 
 ferior ; the openings in tiie paths, the peep 
 down into the abyss of darkness beneath — 
 all these are wonderfully accurate, and are the 
 description of an cye-witniss. 
 
 " Again, there are those vivid descriptions 
 
 of human life and i motion; of exultation^ 
 curiosity, triumph, sudden fright, deep hor- 
 ror, succeeded by grief and despair. Recall 
 the horror of Onofrio, the anguish of the ab« 
 bot. I wish ye could only read that crabbed 
 manuscript for ycrself, so as to see with what 
 vivid simplicity these terrible things are told. 
 
 " There's not the least doubt in life, thin, 
 that at the beginning of the seventeenth cin- 
 tury, or the ind of the sixteenth, the man that 
 wrote this was down in the Catacombs, and 
 that his companion perished there, as he nar- 
 rates. There's not the least doubt in life that 
 those multichudinous minute details are all 
 corrict, and actually happened as set forth. 
 
 " Still one fact remains, and this is, after 
 all, the prayiminint fact for us now. It is 
 the assertion of the discovery of a Great 
 Trisure. With regyard to this, we ask our- 
 selves two questions : 
 
 " First — Is it possible ? > 
 
 " Secondly — Is it probable ? 
 
 " Now, the question of its possibility is 
 easily disposed of. Of course, it's possible, 
 and more unlikely things than that have 
 taken place. So the other question remains 
 — is it probable ? 
 
 " Now let us turrun our attintion to this 
 for a few momints:' 
 
 " When you think of it, you must sec that 
 nothing is more probable than that, in the 
 courso of ages, in the history of a great city 
 like ancient Rome, trisure has been concealed 
 to a vast ixtint. Think of the numerous 
 sieges and sacks that have taken place since 
 the days of Alaric the Gotii. Tlie sacks of 
 Rome began with Alaric. The spell of Ro- 
 man security was broken whin the Goths min- 
 aced the .\ytrrrnn:il City. In the short space 
 that was lel'l between his arrival and the cap- 
 ture of the city an initninsc amount must 
 have been hastily concealed. At that time 
 the ixistince of the Catacombs was known. 
 It had, at what miglit be terrumcd a com- 
 paratively recent period, been a hiding-place 
 for persecuted Christians. It was thin a sa- 
 cred place, aa St. Jerome says, and was be- 
 lieved to bo hallowed by the bones of the 
 martyrs. 'Deed, St. Jerome himself vint 
 down to inspict their graves, and tells his 
 emotions. 
 
 " There is no doubt, thin, I may rezhume, 
 that an incalculable amount of trisure must 
 have been hid away in Rome juring cinturicfl 
 of warfare and chunmlt ; and it is equally ivl- 
 
THE TREASURE OF THE CvESARS. 
 
 11 
 
 :lil.S 
 
 ixultation, 
 
 deep hor- 
 
 Recall 
 
 of the ab- 
 
 t crabbed 
 
 with what 
 
 3 are told. 
 
 life, thin, 
 
 tcenth cin- 
 
 e man that 
 
 onibs", and 
 
 as he nar- 
 
 in life that 
 
 are all 
 
 t forth. 
 
 s is, after 
 
 now. It is 
 
 )f a Great 
 
 e ask our- 
 
 jssibility is 
 
 'a possible, 
 
 that have 
 
 ion remains 
 
 tion to this 
 
 lust sec that 
 that, in the 
 
 a great city 
 ni concealed 
 e numerous 
 
 place since 
 :ie sacks of 
 ipell of Ro- 
 ! Goths min- 
 
 short space 
 ind the cap. 
 nount must 
 >t that time 
 ivas known, 
 ned a com- 
 liidinfr-placo 
 IS tliin a srt- 
 [ind was be- 
 ones of the 
 imsclf flint 
 nd tells his 
 
 ay rezhume, 
 
 -risurc must 
 
 ng cinturica 
 
 equally ivi- 
 
 dint that at certain times the Catacombs must 
 have been foremost in the thoughts of those 
 who wished to ' ido money — as prayiminint- 
 ly, if not exclusively, the best place for such 
 concealment. The quistion, therefore, that 
 now comes forth is, which, out of all the ein- 
 turies in the life of the Ayterrunal City, is the 
 most likely one in which a great tri.sure might 
 be hid in the Catacombs ? 
 
 " In order to answer this, let us cast our 
 eyes over tlic sackings of Rome. The great 
 sack by the Constable Bourbon was ividintly 
 not the time that'll slioot our purposes, for 
 the reason that the ixistince of the Catacombs 
 was not even suspicted. The same thing may 
 be said of the variouti sieges or sackings that 
 occurred juring the middle ages — undher the 
 Uohenstaiifcn imperors, whither Rome was 
 minaced by a GhibcUine arruniy, or captured 
 and plundered by the Xorramar.s. So, ye see, 
 we've got to go back still furtiier till we come 
 to the days of Belisarius, and the warrafare 
 of that imifiint gineral against the Goth^. One 
 answer meets us here, and that is, that in his 
 days there was scarcely enough trisurc in 
 Rome to be worth concealmint. We know 
 that fact by the state o^ Rome at the accission 
 of Grigoiy the Great, at the ind of that same 
 cintury. Whin that pope ascindcd the chair 
 of Saint Peter — glory to his name ! — he found 
 Rome a city of paupers. If it hadn't been for 
 him, Rome would not h.ave been in ixistince 
 now. lie was a second Romulus — he saved 
 Rome — ho created it anew. But, by tliis 
 simple fact, we sec that in ids days there was 
 no trisure to conceal. 
 
 " It is ividint, therefore, that we are pushed 
 further back. 
 
 " Now, the conditions that we have seen 
 both ixist side by side in the greatest degree 
 at the time of the first sack of Rome by Ala- 
 rie. What do we find then ? AVilth incalcu- 
 lablc ; the accumulated trisures of the ages ; 
 the stored-up plunder of cinturies — all piled 
 up in Rome I Xot yet had any hand of vio- 
 lince been laid upon the iraparial possissions. 
 True it is that the Impcror Constantino liad 
 taken away some trisures of art — some rilics, 
 perhaps, and coined money, togitlier with 
 what things ho could conveniently appropri- 
 ate ; but such saquistratious ,as tliese were 
 but a flea-bite, and made no perceptible dimi- 
 nution in the hoarded wilth of the cinturicL, 
 of domination and shupriraaey. It excited no 
 nlarrum. Rome stood untroubled. Time 
 
 rowled on. The gowld, and the giras, and 
 tlio jools, and the trisures of the ancient pa- 
 gan timples were perhaps transferred to Chris- 
 tian idiflces ; but they still remained in Rome. 
 No one thought as yit of concealmint — at 
 least, not on any grand scale. In those days 
 the House of Nero was \it the Golden — the 
 Palatine stood up one of the wondhers of the 
 wurruld. 
 
 " Now at this time — imagine the approach 
 of Alaric — what would be the fust act of the 
 Romans ? those let us say who were gyarding 
 the mighty trisures of the imparial palace ? 
 Most ividintly their fust impulse would be to 
 hurry away every movable thing of value into 
 a place of concealmint. And into what place 
 of concealmint ? In tliat age there would be 
 nicissarily but one place thought of — the Cat- 
 acombs. There their Christian fathers had 
 hid from a mightier than Alaric, in the days 
 whin a Roman imperer was at the shuprame 
 zayniti) of his power; there, in that same 
 place, it would be easy to hide min or trisure 
 from the grasp of a barbaric raid. 
 
 "Now I contind," continued O'Rourke in 
 a cahner tone — " I contind tliat all this is imi- 
 nintly probable, and, more than this, I con- 
 tind that it is also probable that it may be 
 there yit ; but we'll sec about that prisintly. 
 I may mintiou one other theory that has sug- 
 gisted it.silf to my mind, and that is, that the 
 pagan priests may have concealed their tiraile 
 trisures from the Christians some time between 
 the reigns of Constantine and Theodosius. 
 7'his I thouglit of for tlie reason that Aloysius 
 says so much about tripods, statuettes, cen- 
 sers, braziers, and so forth. But the answer 
 to this, and the cbjiction, is this, that pagan 
 priests, even allowing that they might have 
 concealed their timple trisures out of dread 
 of aggrissive Christians, would niver have 
 vintured into a place like the Catacombs — a. 
 place in its origin, its use, its associations, 
 prayiiniuintly Christian. To do so would 
 have been to vinture into inivitible discovery 
 and capture. At the same time," continued 
 O'Rourke, elevating his eyebrows and giving 
 a thoughtful glance at his cigar, now utterly 
 extinguished — " at the same time this opins 
 before us an intiresting field of inquiry, and 
 much may be said on both sides. 
 
 " As for AloysiuB," continued O'Rourke, 
 " it is ividint from the tone of his writing that 
 ho considered the trisure as altogithcr pagan, 
 and therefore Satanic. Onofrio seems to have 
 
32 
 
 AX OPKN QUESTIOX. 
 
 I I 
 
 ricoguizcJ tlieir pagan cliaractcrs at a glance, 
 lie flung down with horror the statuette, and 
 looked with equal horror on the jools tluit 
 Aloysius had talicn. Both of those min were 
 shvperstitious ; it was of course the charac- 
 teristic of their age. Even afthcr the lapse 
 of twinty years Aloysius still thinks the noises 
 which ho heard Satanic ; and it nircr seems 
 to have intcrcd the dear man's head tliat tlic 
 rattle among the gowld and silver vessels may 
 have been the result of the action of the or- 
 dinary laws of gravitation ; while ihosu ter- 
 rible sounds — ' as of rushing fooislij)a ' — of 
 which ho speaks, he seems incapable, from 
 his nature and from his ago, of attributing to 
 such humble and commonplace agencies as — 
 rats, or bats, or both. Rats — or bats — those 
 were the imps, the demons of the poor monk's 
 fancy — that drove poor Onofrio to a hijeous 
 death in the interminable passages, the end- 
 less labyrinths, and the impinitrible gloom of 
 the Catacombs. 
 
 " One more thing I may say which has 
 just occurred to me. Ye don't know IJonic, 
 and so ye can't understand the position of the 
 monastery of San Antonio. Well, ye can un- 
 derstand me whin I say that it is situated on 
 a street that begins not far from the Corso, 
 and that the Palatine Hill is not an ixtrava- 
 gant distance off. Now, it is quite within the 
 bounds of possibility that the subterranean 
 passage led in that direction ; and I've made 
 maps according to my own fancy, which shows 
 how those two explorers may have wandered 
 along till they were standing beneath the 
 Palatine. Kow, on that Palatine stood the 
 Golden Ilouse of Nero — the imparial palace — 
 now a heap of ruins. But that palace was 
 distinguished for the vast depth of its founda- 
 tions, and the imminse ixtint of vaults be- 
 neath. There are some archayologists who 
 have suggisted that there were actual open- 
 ings or communications with the Catacombs 
 themselves — 
 
 "If 80, how easy it was for the gyarjians 
 of the imparial trisurcs to carry tliera all 
 down below ! It was merely going down- 
 stairs. This chamber, thin, may have been 
 immcjiately beneath the imparial vaults — the 
 cellars or dungeons of the palace — and thus 
 the chamber upon which Aloysius and Onofrio 
 Btumbled would bo the very chamber where 
 once was concealed the trisure of the C.Tsars. 
 Moreover, if it once was concealed there, it 
 is easy to account for the fact of its remain- 
 
 ing there. The terror of Gothic arrums ; the 
 names of Alaric, Atlila, Genserie ; the chu- 
 nuilchuousassimblages outside and inside the 
 city; the puppit impirors put up and over- 
 throuu by barbarian soldiers — all these things 
 woulil have injuiced the gyarjians of the im- 
 parial trisure to suffer it to be there unre- 
 moved. And thin ginnrations would pass ; 
 and the gyarjians would die out ; and tho 
 secret, transmitted fr^m father to son, would 
 at last be lost. The gyarjians, or their de- 
 scindints, would be driven away from the pal- 
 ace ; their places would be occupied by Gothio 
 servitors ; the palace itself would go to de- 
 cay, the vaults fall in ; the subterranean pas- 
 sages would sink in ruin ; and so, at last, 
 even if tho secret was known, tho path that 
 led to the trisuro-chamber would be uo longer 
 discoverable." 
 
 Dr. O'Rourke had spoken rapidly and 
 vehemently, and in the tone, not merely of 
 one who believed all that be was saying, but 
 of one who was a positive enthusiast in that 
 belief. This enthusiasm, more than even tho 
 arguments themselves, produced a strong ef- 
 fect upon Blake, in spite of tho utter incre- 
 dulity which he had felt at first; and he now 
 found himself at length swept onward, by 
 O'Rourkc's vehemence and enthusiasm, to 
 the conclusion that, after all, the probabilities 
 in favor of the truth of this wild idea were of 
 a highly-respectable character." 
 
 " You have said nothing about your cousin 
 — Malachi." 
 
 " No," said O'Rourke. " I am not quite 
 through yet ; 1 am coming to him. I confess 
 that, without poor Malachi's own story, I 
 vroukl not have the least idea in life that 
 there was any prospect of doing any thing 
 now — in short, I would have regyarded the 
 story of Aloysius as a species of modified 
 fiction. But me cousin Walachi had his own 
 story to tell, which, though not conclusive, is 
 still important enough to make the story of 
 Aloysius seem like a living fact. 
 
 " It seems, thin, tliat poor Malachi, as I 
 said, stumbled upon this miinuscript, and read 
 it through. It projuieed such an iffict upon 
 him that he could not have any rist until ho 
 had tested tho truth of it to some ixtint, 
 howiver slight. So, what did he do but ho 
 determined to make a slight exploration on 
 his own hook ! He was afraid, though, to 
 take any companion, for fear that ho would 
 meet with the fate of poor Onofrio. 
 
A STROKE FOR FORTUNE. 
 
 13 
 
 t your cousin 
 
 •'Well, first of uU, he went down Into the 
 very same vaults wlierc Aloysius and his 
 frind had gone ; and tlierc, suro enough, lie 
 found the very opening niintioned in the 
 manuscript, wliich opening was thin just as 
 it had been walled up alter the search for 
 Onofrio had indcd. So poor llalachi took a 
 crowbar, and did as Aloysius had done bo- 
 fore him. He knocked down the wall with- 
 out difficulty, and there, sure enough, he saw 
 the passage-way an<i the tiers of tombs. 
 
 " He didn't go far that day, but waited 
 for a time. The next time he brought down 
 a ball of twine and some lanterns ; and, ar- 
 ruracd with these, lie wiiit in, and wint along, 
 onrowling the twine for a clew. 
 
 " Well, all was as the manuscript Siiid. 
 He came to the iirst crossing, and wint on 
 beyond this. 
 
 "He says ho niver felt comfortable there. 
 He always felt as if the ghost of poor Onofrio 
 was watching him ; but poor JIalachi was a 
 very risoluto boy, and he kipt at it. He went 
 in several times, and at last vinturc<l as far 
 as the painted chamber. 
 
 " Beyond ihis he saw the opening in the 
 flare. He looked down, and saw all the dark- 
 ness beneath. He never wint any farther. 
 
 " There were two reai^ons for this : First, 
 ho hadn't the nerve to do it; he felt uncom- 
 fortable enough where he was, but down be- 
 low ho didn't dare to go, and scarcely dared 
 to look ; for there, he fully believed, the ghost 
 of Onofrio was wandering, confined to that 
 lower story, and haunting it. You and I may 
 smile at poor Malachi's shuperstition, but a 
 monk leads a ghostly sort of life, and it was 
 no joke to go alone as he wint, right aftlier 
 reading such a manuscript as that of Aloy- 
 sius. 
 
 "The other reason why ho didn't go any 
 farther was, that he had no motive. He was 
 utterly and sublimely destichule of any do- 
 sire for money. AH his wants were supplied; 
 ho was contiiit. 'Why should ho bother his 
 liead ? 
 
 "Still he thought it his juty, for the sake 
 of the monastery, and out of loyiil regyard to 
 San Antonio, to tell the abbot. This he did 
 in the most effective way by reading the manu- 
 script to him. The abbot listened with deep 
 and painful feelings. He was not a strong- 
 minded man, nor was he avaricious, liioic- 
 over, he was shupcrstitious. He would not 
 have gone below in search of that trisurc, ns 
 
 Ills predecessor had done, for all the worruld. 
 In fact, he charged mo cousin Malachi to wait 
 the passage-way up as he had found it, and 
 niver to raintion the subjict to any of the 
 other monks. This me cousin Malachi did. 
 He walled it up again as ho had found it ; 
 and, as he didn't wi.sh the monks to get into 
 any trouble through him, he kept his secret 
 till hia death, and thin confided it to me." 
 
 CIIAl'TIMl IV. 
 
 A STROKE FOR FORTCNE. 
 
 Some further conversation followed upon 
 the story of Aloysius, and Blake asked sun- 
 dry questions of a character which showed 
 that he had not lost a single word. Blake 
 conceded the possibility, nay, even the prob- 
 ability, of a treasure having once been eon- 
 coaled in the catacombs ; but was inclined to 
 think that, in the course of ages, it must have 
 been discovered. O'Rourke, on the other 
 hand, reminded hira of the nature of the 
 Catacombs, the utter ignorance about them 
 which existed through many centuries ; their 
 comparatively recent rediscovery, and the 
 small extent that had been explored in com- 
 parison with what yet remained to be iuves- 
 tigated. He insisted that there were portions 
 or districts of these vast subterranean realms 
 which must have been for ages untrodden by 
 the foot of man ; and that any thing once 
 placed there, no matter how long ago, had 
 most probably been unseen and untouched 
 ever since. He laid great stress upon the fact 
 mentioned by Aloy.sius — that all the slabs 
 were on their tombs; that no gr.ave was 
 open — a circumstance which, in O'Rourke's 
 view, proved beyond a doubt that they had 
 never been profaned by the presence of rob- 
 bers or plunderers. No graves are sacred 
 from the thief, and the undisturbed condition 
 of these graves proved that their existence 
 liad been unknown. 
 
 " And no wonder," said he. " Have you 
 any idea of the ixtlnt of the Roman Cata- 
 combs ? Did ye iver pay any attintion to the 
 subjict, or begin to farrum any conciption 
 about thim ? The Catacombs have an ixtint 
 that I can scarce give any idea of. Thoy ixist 
 beneath all that surface which once forrumed 
 the site of ancient Rome; and not only so, 
 but all that surface which was covered by the 
 
14 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION'. 
 
 il 
 
 suburbs. These suburbs, (is wo know, were 
 vast, auJ perhaps cuutiiiiicd a popuhitiun n.s 
 great as the city itself; ibr, as was said, one 
 could not tell where the city inded, and the 
 country began. More than this, the Cata- 
 combs have been Ibund near Oslia, and pas- 
 sages have been discovered which seem to go 
 under the Tiber, anticeepaliug the Thames 
 Tunnel by eighteen cinturics. The vulgar idea 
 of the Catacombs is, that they were made for 
 the purpose of obtaining Roman ciniint for 
 building-purposes. This is now exploded. 
 The catacombs ar<» excavated in a rock that 
 cannot be used for cimiut of any kind. The 
 latest researches have shown that they were 
 undoubtedly made for burial-purposes ; and 
 the only question is whetlier they were ori- 
 ginally Christian or not. That they were 
 eventually Christian is ividint. For niesclf, I 
 have no doubt as to their Christian origin, 
 
 "Another misconciption about thim is as 
 to their farrum. Tlioro has been a privilent 
 opinion that they ixtindcd unintcrrui)tidly in 
 innumerable passages. It is now known, 
 liowcvcr, that they only exist where there is 
 that peculiar soft sandstone in which they are 
 ixcavated. As tliis only ixists in certain 
 places, so the Catacombs forrum distinct 
 quarters, or districts. These are all ixcavated 
 in stories, one above the other — sometimes as 
 many as four or five are found— but many are 
 disconnected altogithcr with any other dis- 
 trict. Tlie whole of the ground under Rome 
 is not all honeycombed, tlierefore, but only 
 certoin portions over an iraminse ixlint of 
 country. Now, the place which we are con- 
 sldcriug seems to me to be one of these iso- 
 lated districts, the very ixistence of which is 
 unsuspicted. No ixplorers have troubled it 
 thus far. Me cousin Malachi found the tombs 
 undisturbed. We may call thim the Palatine 
 Catacombs — since they certainly seem to run 
 under the Palatine — and, if this is so, I can 
 only say that the Palatine Catacombs are wor- 
 thy of being ixplored — and soon, too — before 
 any of these blackgvard archayologists git 
 wind of their ixistince." 
 
 " But allowing that the treasure was once 
 put there," said IMake, " and even allowing 
 that it may be there yet, do you think that 
 there is any possibility of any one getting at 
 it?" 
 
 " Do I think that ? And, if I didn't think 
 that, what d'ye suppose Pd be talking mcself 
 hoarse for? It's not for idle intertainment 
 
 Pni talking now. It's business 1 mean. Don't 
 ye see tluit y Am I not earnest enough to 
 show ye how risolute I am 'i Hut as to git- 
 ting at it, 1 can answer that. I believe it to 
 be possible, but I haven't yet actually tested 
 it. Still, I haven't the smallest doubt in life. 
 Listen, now • 
 
 "The monastery of San Antonio is in the 
 Via San Antonio, llmt begins near the Corso, 
 and runs toward tlie Palatine and the Forum. 
 It is tliickly built up with houses. These 
 houses are, without exciption, all very old, 
 and strongly built ; they look like houses that 
 have deep vaults beneath. The people living 
 along here belong to the poorer classes. Now 
 what is there to privint any one from rinting 
 one of these houses, or the lower part of one ':' 
 If I were to rint one, I'll tell ye what I'd do. 
 I'd begin an ixcavation on a small scale, so 
 as to try to feel my way toward the passages 
 of the Palatine Catacombs. I feci confidint 
 tiiat a moderate ixcavation would lead mc 
 into some passage. In the Catacombs, or in 
 any of their districts or divisions, the passages 
 are numerous, and lie close togither. I be- 
 lieve, thin, that any one, by digging from the 
 cellar of one of these houses, would reach be- 
 fore long the very passage of Aloysius itsilf. 
 That passage runs in a diriction which ought 
 to make it nearly parallel with the Via di San 
 Antonio ; and the only trouble would be to 
 know how to dig, and in what diriction. This 
 is the only trouble, and it is one that would, 
 of course, be rimidied by time and persever- 
 ance. 
 
 "It's true the vaults of San Antonio must 
 be deeper by at least one story than the cel- 
 lars of the adjoining houses ; but, in that case, 
 the explorer would have to arrange his course 
 with rifirince to that, and aim at a lower livil. 
 One advantage I have is, that I have so accu- 
 rate a discriplion from mc cousin Malachi of 
 the starting-point of the passage of Aloysius, 
 and of its diriction, that I'm confidint I could 
 hit it without any trouble or disippointmint 
 whativcr. llowaudivcr, I'll find out for me- 
 self before long, and know exactly what the 
 probabilities are. Of course, whin once in- 
 side the Catacombs, one can find the passage 
 of Aloysius, which must still be recognizable 
 by the ind being walled up. Once find that, 
 and thin all that there is to do is to follow the 
 course mintioned in the manuscript. Any one 
 can do it, provided he has the requisite knowU 
 edge, and is disticbute of shuperstition, and 
 
 iWl 
 
^ 
 
 A STROKE FOR J'ORTUNE. 
 
 15 
 
 nail. Don't 
 . inoiif^h to 
 lit lid to git- 
 olicvo it to 
 tuully tented 
 luiibl in life. 
 
 1110 is in tbe 
 
 ar tlie Corso, 
 
 J the Fonim. 
 
 liics. Theac 
 
 [ill very old, 
 
 liousi'S that 
 
 podple living 
 
 lasses. Now 
 
 from rinting 
 
 part of one V 
 
 ! what I'll do. 
 
 uall Beale, bo 
 
 the passapca 
 
 feel confldint 
 
 )iild lead mo 
 
 n combs, or in 
 
 , the passages 
 
 either. I be- 
 
 iinp from the 
 
 ould reach bc- 
 
 iloysius itsilf. 
 
 n which onglit 
 
 the Via di San 
 
 5 would be to 
 
 iriclion. This 
 
 ne that would, 
 
 and persever- 
 
 Antonio must 
 
 i' than the ed- 
 it, in that case, 
 ni^e his course 
 It a lower livil, 
 '. have f?o accu- 
 siu Malnchi of 
 ;e of Aloysius, 
 intidint I eould 
 disippointmint 
 d out for me- 
 actly Avhat the 
 whin onee in- 
 ad the passage 
 )e recognizable 
 3nce find that, 
 is to follow the 
 jript. Any one 
 equisite knowl- 
 pcrstition, and 
 
 is not afraid of the ghost of Onofrio, like uie 
 poor Cousin Malachi. 
 
 " Well, liow, nie boy, th9 question is this : 
 do you feel inclined to accoinpiiny me on 
 this ixphmitionV Ye know the whole now. 
 The fact is, one can't do much alone. Things 
 must Ijo tiiken down — ladders and lamps, and 
 pi'ihaps pickaxes and spades. Wo must ex- 
 pict some ravages to bo made by time. The 
 passage may have fallen in, and Liay have to 
 bo cleared away. All this may bo so difBcult 
 for one man to do alone, that the obstacles 
 may utterly defeat ids atlimpt." 
 
 "Oil, i)y Jove!" cried Uhiko, " as for 
 that, if tliere's even a ghost of a chance of 
 success, I'd go — like a shot." 
 
 "Didn't 1 know it? Sure I did," ex- 
 claimed O'ltoiiike, with genuine satisfaction 
 in his tone, lie tlicrcupon poured out another 
 glass of wine, and slowly quailed it. 
 
 " Any thing that may better my circum- 
 stances is woleonie to me," said lihike. " I 
 can't lose any money, for I have none to lose. 
 I can only lose time — and, unfortunately, that 
 is a commodity of very little value to me just 
 now, or to anybody else. It may be a wild- 
 goose chase, but I'm willing to try it." 
 
 " Sure, and ain't that the true spirit of 
 a man, a Christian, and a hayro ? " cried 
 O'Kourko. " Ye're sure to be successful — 
 but it's just as well for ye not to feel sure — 
 if it's only to keep yer head cool, and yer 
 hand stiddy." 
 
 "Oh, I'm not at all sanguine," said Blake, 
 with a laugh. " 1 go in merely fo# a specu- 
 lation.'' 
 
 "The fact is," said O'Uourke, "it's now 
 over two years since me cousin Malachi 
 died, and since thin I've been reading the 
 manuscript over and over, and brooding 
 over it, and an'anging some plan. But I 
 soon found that I couldn't do any thing till I 
 could get the proper associate. I wanted a 
 man of pluck, and honor, and risolution, and 
 nerve, and hardihood. All these qualities it 
 is dillicult to find combined in the same man 
 — and in my case I wanted a man whom I 
 could rely on as a frind — one 'who would 
 stand by me in sickness, and not leave me in 
 the lurch. Now, mo boy, I've only known 
 you for a year, but you como nearer to the 
 standard than any man I know, and this is 
 the reason why I've taken you into my eonfi- 
 dince, and asked you to come with me into 
 this interprise. If it is successful the half is 
 
 yours ; if not — why, thin — sure to glory — 
 tliere's no harrum done — and nothing lost but 
 a fuw niontli.s' time." 
 
 "Well, old fellow," said Blake, in a frank 
 and cordial tone, " I thank you for the com- 
 pliment you pay me, in taking me into your 
 confidence, and, whether we succeed or not, I 
 shall feel just the same sort of — ii — gratitude, 
 you know, and all that sort of thing. As 
 to standing by you, I assure you, my dear 
 fellow, you may count on me to any extent, 
 and under any circumstances. I can do a 
 good day's work — if it comes to that — I'm 
 not superstitious — I don't believe in ghosts 
 of any sort or kind ; and if there's any gold 
 down there, I tell you what it is, that gold will 
 have to show itself to the light of day, for 
 I'll have it up, or else I'll leave my bones in 
 the Catacombs along with those of our mu- 
 tual friend Onofrio 1 " 
 
 O'ltourke smiled blandly. 
 
 " Sure, and if it comes to leaving your 
 bones — or my bones," said he, " we couldn't 
 find a better, a quieter, or a more respictable 
 and altogither unexeiptional place, thau thiiu 
 same Catacombs." 
 
 " W^ell," said Blake, cheerily, " when do 
 you propose to begin? " 
 
 " As soon as possible, if you consint," said 
 O'Kourke. 
 
 " Of course I consent. I have no choice. 
 I'm a hard-up man. In those few words you 
 may read a melancholy story." 
 
 " Sure and the wisest and the best of the 
 human race are in the same fix, as a general 
 thing," responded O'Uourke. " Well — as to 
 our work — I propose, as I said, to begin as 
 soon as possible. Now, my intintion is to 
 set out for Rome to-morrow — since you have 
 decided in favor of this interprise— and thin 
 I intend to indivor to rint one of thim houses 
 along the Via San Antonio, as nigh to the 
 monastery as possible. Sure and there can't 
 be any doubt but I'll bo able to rint some one 
 among them ; and my opinion is that if I of- 
 fer rint high enough I'll be able to git the 
 house that stands next door. If I do so, I 
 can hit the passage of Aloysius in one night's 
 work. But, be that as it may, whativer 
 house I git, I mean to go to work at once, 
 alone, and see what I can do. I think it's 
 better for me to attuid to the preliminaries 
 alone. It's quieter, safer, and less suspicious. 
 I don't want to ind.anger the projict by ixci- 
 ting attintiou of any kind if I can help it." 
 
16 
 
 AX OI'EX QUESTION'. 
 
 J: 
 
 "But you nuri'ly don't intend to do all 
 that dif^ging yourself V " cried Ulako. 
 
 " Sure and I do." 
 
 "Oh, but I ouglit to help you to some ex- 
 tent." 
 
 " So you may." 
 
 "How?" asked RIako. 
 
 " Wiiy, by not .saying ono word about thi.s 
 to any livrng soul." 
 
 "Oil, I'll keep dark." 
 
 " Yis, but you mustn't even hint at it — 
 not to any living poul, male ov female, man 
 or child, friud or rilitiv. No (mo must liiive 
 the least su.spicion. If you do, you'll indan- 
 gorit all. It'3 so strange and unusual a thing, 
 tliat the very mintion of it would sit the mind 
 agog, and it wouhl git sprid abroad." 
 
 " Oh, well, as to that, it's easy enough for 
 ine to keep secret. I've no relative in llio 
 world except my poor dear old raotlicr, and I 
 should not feci inclined to bother and worry 
 her by making her tiio confidante of any such 
 plan as this. She'd be worried out of lier 
 life, poor old lady. And then as to friends, 
 I have only one besides yourself — Ilfllmuth, 
 you know — and he's not a fellow that I should 
 clioosc to talk to about a thing like this. 
 Ilc'd scorn the whole thing — treasure and all. 
 Oh, no, I value Ilellrauth's good opinion too 
 much to say any thing to him about this. So 
 you see the secret is inviolable, from the very 
 nature of the ca.se, and of my circum- 
 stances." 
 
 " Well, it's just as well to have it so," 
 said O'Rourke, pleasantly. "There's no 
 harrum done by keeping this a secret, but if 
 it is not kept secret, it may lead to all the 
 harrum in the worruld." 
 
 " Well," said Blake, " those are the only 
 ones that I should mention any of my afi'airs 
 to ; my other friends are not at all ou an in- 
 timate footing ; they are merely acfiuaint.ances, 
 and, in fact, I sec very little of anybody here 
 iu Paris, except Ilellmuth and yourself." 
 
 " I've niver had the pleasure," said 
 O'Rourke, "of meeting with your frind Ilell- 
 muth." 
 
 " No," said Ulake. " The fact is, you both 
 keep so much by yourselves that it is next to 
 an impossibility that you should ever stray 
 across one another's paths. Still I wonder 
 that you haven't sometimes stumbled upon 
 one another here. lie comes here a good 
 deal — and so do you." 
 
 " Yis," ..aid O'Rourke ; " but I'm so busy 
 
 all day that, whin I do come licrc, it's gincral- 
 ly late—" 
 
 " Well, I hope you'll both meet some day ; 
 and I'm sure you'd like him — lie's a man of 
 no common kind. If you'd known him, you'd 
 not have chosen me — though I don't know, 
 cither — for Ilellmuth has such a scorn of 
 money that I don't believe even the treasure 
 of the Oiesars could induce him to swerve ono 
 hiiir'.s-brca(lth from the lino of life that he 
 has marked out for himscll." 
 
 " Sure, in that case," said O'Rourke, " he'd 
 niver do for me at all, at all. I'm an impt- 
 eunioua man, and I love impecunious min. 
 The man that has no need of money is too 
 prosperous to sliuit me. He in an .ilien to 
 me, and witli such I have no symp:i ." 
 
 " Well," said RIake, " and so intend 
 
 to go at once to Rome ? " 
 
 " Yis." 
 
 " And how long may it be before I may 
 
 hear 
 
 rom you 
 
 " Th.'.t dcpinds upon circumstances of 
 course. I may bo through in a week, and I 
 may be detained longer. On the wliole, it is 
 best to fix tlie outside limit." 
 
 " Well, what is that ? I intend leaving 
 Paris shortly myself— to recruit for a time — 
 and will not come back, if I can help it, for 
 some weeks." 
 
 " Sure, and wliile yer about it ye can give 
 ycr.solf months if ye ehoo.se," said O'Rourke. 
 " The outside limit which I should fix would 
 be at least three months." 
 
 " Three months '! Oh, that will suit me 
 capitally." 
 
 " Y'c see, I have to rint tlie house, and 
 thin work to git to the Catacombs. I'll have 
 to work slowly and cautiously, so as not to 
 be suspictid. Rut in three months, at the 
 very farthest, I ought to do all tliat I can 
 ixpict to do, and if I don't do it in that time, 
 it'll be because I can't do it alone, in which 
 case I'll have to git you to hilp me." 
 
 " Well, you know, I'd help you at the 
 very first if you'd let me.'' 
 
 " Y'is, but I don't want ye — at the first. 
 So we'll say three months." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 " Arc ye going any distance ? " 
 
 " No — I don't intend to go out of France. 
 I'm simply going to recruit, and I liavcn't 
 made up my mind yet where I shall go." 
 
 " Well, that's obout the best way to re- 
 cruit. Wander off. Let yerself drift. Tliat'a 
 
licrc, il'i gincral- 
 
 . moot some dny ; 
 , — Ihj'h h mnu of 
 mown liiiii, you'd 
 rh I don't know, 
 inch ft Hcorn of 
 •vcn tlio treiisuie 
 liin to swerve ono 
 
 of life tlmt he 
 
 1 O'Rouiko, " he'd 
 11. I'm an inipc- 
 iinpccimious min. 
 1 of moni'y is too 
 lie is nn nlicn to 
 o symp:i " 
 
 ind so intend 
 
 t he hof(n-c I may 
 
 circumstances of 
 1 in a werk, and I 
 On tlio wliole, it is 
 t." 
 
 I intend leavin^ 
 ■ccruit for a time — 
 if I ciui liolp it, for 
 
 ihout it YC can give 
 )se," said O'ltouikc. 
 1 I should fix would 
 
 1, that will suit me 
 
 rint the house, and 
 atacombs. I'll have 
 iously, so as not to 
 liree months, at tho 
 
 do all that I can 
 I't do it in that time, 
 lo it alone, in which 
 to hilp me." 
 
 I'd help you nt tho 
 
 J." 
 
 rant ye— at tho first. 
 
 lis." 
 
 Jistancc?" 
 
 1 to go out of France; 
 ccruit, and I haven't 
 fhere I shall go." 
 
 t the best way to re- 
 it yerself drift. That's 
 
to 
 
 tilii 
 
VILLENEUVE. 
 
 17 
 
 
 m 
 
 to 
 
 b 
 
 t! .vay. But yo'll be back here in three 
 months ? " 
 
 " Oli, yes, and probably in three weeks." 
 
 " Very well, thin. I'll know where to 
 find ye — or to write to ye if I can't come me- 
 Bilf— " 
 
 O'Rourke now rose. 
 
 " Well," said he, " mo boy, it's glad I am 
 to git ye for an assiatint, and, still better, a 
 frind. Ye'll allow me to say thougTi, that in 
 this case, as I ferrumly believe, it'll be the 
 very best stroke of work that ye iver turruned 
 yer arrum to. I'll make ivery thing riddy, 
 and, at the shupreme momint I'll call on you 
 to accompany me on a promenade along the 
 passage of Aloysius. Ye may be sanguine or 
 dispondint, whichivcr ye choose, or.Iy mind ye 
 keep the secret — that's all — and thin ye'll 
 find ycrscif— with me — the heir of the (risure 
 of the Ccesars ! " 
 
 " I swear, old fellow," said Blake, sudden- 
 ly, " you could never guess what an odd idea 
 struck my mind just now." 
 
 " An odd idea ? " said O'Rourke ; " such 
 aa what — for instance ? " 
 
 " Why — this. You've read the ' Arabian 
 Nights ? ' " 
 
 " Sure, and I have, but what of thiiu ? " 
 
 " Do you remember the immortal story 
 of Aladdin and the V, onderful Lnn-p? ' " 
 
 " Mesilf does — of course. Br.t w»iat i'lin ? " 
 
 " Nothing — only it was ?ucii an ^"isurd 
 fancy. You looked to me just then exactly 
 like the magician who came to Aladdin, and 
 persuaded him to accompany liim to the cave 
 where the magic lamp was kept, you know." 
 
 Blake said this in a careless end lively 
 tone, with a bright gleam in his clear and 
 pleasant eyes, and a joyous smile on his frank 
 and open face. It w; a a passing remark, 
 thrown off with the utmost nonehalance ; but 
 as O'Rourke heard it there came over his face 
 a sudden change — and a total one. His com- 
 plexion changed to one of a sickly pallor ; his 
 brow was darkened with a frown ; his pier- 
 cing eyes rested gloomily upon the face of 
 his companion ; his hands clutched one an- 
 other behind his back. But this was only 
 for a moment. Blake had not time to notice 
 it. In another moment it had passed away, 
 ..nd O'Rourke's face was as before. 
 
 He laughed boisterously. 
 
 " Well— well," he said, " I hope it may be 
 BO, and for my part I believe— though you 
 don't— that it will bo so — so I do ; for, as I've 
 2 
 
 been saying, I believe that in those Palatine 
 Catacombs there is the trisure of the Ca!a:>.rs, 
 and, if I'm right — why thin, sure — and it'a 
 mesilf that'll be the majician tlat'll put in 
 your hands a wilth in comparison with which 
 even «he fabulous riches of Aladdin would be 
 paltry and contimptible. Well, we won't in- 
 dulge just now in visions like these. We'll 
 defer all this till we find the reality. It's 
 late, and I must be off; and so, Blake, me 
 boy, good-night, and c^ood-by." 
 
 He held out his h tud. Blake took it, and 
 they shook hand^ cordially. O'Rourke then 
 took his depart', re. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 VILLENEUVE. 
 
 The Lake of Geneva is one of the moat 
 attractive places in the world, and to the 
 grace of natural beauty is added the more 
 subtile charm that arises from the closeness 
 with which its scenes have become blended 
 with the great events of history, and the 
 majestic names of men of genius. The mem- 
 ories of Rousseau, Voltaire, Gibbon, Byron, 
 and many more, are inseparably connected with 
 it ; but among all it is to the two Englishmen 
 that its fame owes most, for they surely loved 
 it best. The shade of the great historian 
 seems still to haunt the gardens of Lausanne; 
 while all the surrounding scenes still wear 
 those epithets with which the mighty poet 
 endowed them. There is clear, placid Leman ; 
 the Alps, the pyramids of Nature ; Jura, with 
 her misty shroud ; there too under the sbad< 
 owy mountains rises the Castle of Chillon, 
 sombre and melancholy, once the scene of 
 wrong and cruel oppression, but now a place 
 of pilgrimage : 
 
 .... " For 'twas trod, 
 Until hla very steps have left a trace 
 
 Worn, aa if tlie cold pavement were a sod, 
 By Bonnlvard I — May none tliose marks efface t 
 
 For tliey appeal from tyranny to God." 
 
 It was early morning, and the sun was 
 jii::^ rising, v/hen two young ladies left the 
 hotel at Villeneuve, and walked al -wly along 
 in the direction of the Castle of Chillon. 
 Both of them were young, and each waa 
 beautiful in her way, though they were utter- 
 ly unlike and di'tsimilar in features, expres- 
 sion, manner, and tone. One had clear, calm 
 blue eyes; golden hair, which flowed down 
 

 w 
 
 AN OrEN QUESTION. 
 
 Si ! 
 
 from a cliiguon of very moderate dimensions, 
 in a rippling tide of frizzled glory ; diicplod 
 chocks ; and small mouth, the lines of which 
 were of such a nature that they formed the 
 impress of a perpetual smile, ller companion 
 had a delicate and ethereal face, over which 
 there was an air of quiet thoughtfulness ; her 
 eyes were soft, dark, liquid, and lustrous, 
 with a peculiar expression in them that a 
 superficial glance would regard as savoring 
 of melancholy, but which to a closer observ- 
 er would indicate less of sadness than of 
 earnestness. Her hair also floated behind, 
 after the same fashion as her companion's; 
 but, while the one owed its beauty to the 
 crimping-irons, the dark masses of the other 
 curled lustrously in the graceful negligence 
 of Nature. 
 
 They walked slowly, and noticed the suc- 
 cessive features of the surrounding scenery, 
 which they spoke of with great animation. 
 At length a turn in the road brought them in 
 Bight of the castle. 
 
 "0 Inez!" said the lady Tiith the golden 
 hair, " what a darling old castle ! Look ! — 
 did you ever see any thing like it in all your 
 life ? and isn't it perfectly lovely ? " 
 
 The one called Inez said nothing for some 
 time, but stood looking at the sombre pile in 
 quiet admiration. 
 
 " It must be Chillon," said she, at 
 length. 
 
 " Chil — what, Inez dear ? " asked the 
 Other. 
 
 " Chilton," said Inez. " You've read By- 
 ron's ' Prisoner of Chillon,' you know, haven't 
 you, Bessie ? " 
 
 Bessie shook her head with a doleful ex- 
 pression. 
 
 " Well, Inez dear," said she, " really you 
 know poetry is so stupid, but I dare say, after 
 all, I have read it, only I don't remember one 
 word about it ; I never do, you know, dear. 
 You see I always skim it all over. I skim 
 Shakespeare, and Bacon, and Gibbon, and 
 Sir Isaac Newton, and all the rest of those 
 Stupid writers. They make my head ache al- 
 ways." 
 
 Inez smiled. 
 
 "Well, I'm sure, Bessie," said she, "if 
 you try Newton and Bacon, I don't wonder 
 that ynu find it rather difficult to read them. 
 I should skim them myself." 
 
 "■Oh, you know it's all very well for you, 
 Ines dear, when you've got so much intellect. 
 
 but for poor me 1 At any rate, what is there 
 about this Chip — Chil — how is it?" 
 
 "Chillon," said Inez. 
 
 " Chillon, then. Tell me the story, Inez 
 dear, for you know I'm awfully fond of stories, 
 and you tell them so deliciously. I only wish 
 I was so clever." 
 
 " Nonsense, Bessie ! " said Inez ; and, after 
 this disclaimer of Bessie's too open flattery, 
 she proceeded to give her companion the sub- 
 stance of Byron's poem. 
 
 "Well now, really, Inez dear," said Bes- 
 sie, as her companion finished her story, 
 " what was the use of it all ? Why did that 
 poor, silly creature go to prison at all ? Sure 
 its mad ho was." 
 
 At this, Inez looked at her fiiend with 
 sad, reproiichful eyes, Bessic\s intonation 
 and accent were somewhat peculiar ; for, 
 though she was perfectly well bred and lady- 
 like in her tone, there was, however, in her 
 voice a slight Hibernian flavor, originally 
 caught, perhaps, from some Irish nurse, and 
 never altogether lost. There was an oddity 
 about this which was decidedly attractive, 
 and the"laate taste ia life av the brogue," 
 which was thus noticeable in Bessie, gave to 
 that young person a wonderful witchory, and 
 suggcted infinite possibilities in her of droll- 
 ery or irchness. 
 
 "'eople often have to sufl'er for their 
 Principles, of course," said Inez, gravely. 
 
 " But I don't see why he should bother 
 about his principles," persisted Bessie. " No 
 one thanked him for it, at all at all." 
 
 " He had to. lie believed in them, and 
 of course could not give up his belief." 
 
 "But he needn't have gone so far, you 
 know, Inez denr. Why couldn't he have 
 made it >ip with the count or the juke, or 
 whoever it was? " 
 
 " Why, Bessie, how absurd I A man can't 
 give up his belief so easily. Some things 
 people must sufl'er. You and I are Catholics, 
 and if we were ordered to change our religion 
 we couldn't do it. We should have to sufi'er." 
 
 Bessie shook her pretty little head. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure I really don't see how I 
 could stand being put in a dungeon with rats 
 and things, and so dark too ; and bosides it 
 was difterent with this raiin. It wasn't his 
 religion, but some absurd bother about poli- 
 tics, I'm sure there's no danger of my ever 
 getting into trouble about politics. But, oh, 
 Inez dear, there he is — I know it — look 1 " 
 
 •I 
 I! ; 
 
 ll 
 
 i.(t 
 
VILLENEUVE. 
 
 m 
 
 3, what is there 
 Jit?" 
 
 the Btory, Inez 
 
 fond of stories, 
 
 ly. I only wish 
 
 Inez ; and, after 
 
 10 open flattery, 
 ipaulon tlie sub- 
 dear," said Bas- 
 hed her Btory, 
 
 Why did that 
 on at all ? Sure 
 
 her fiiend with 
 ssic^a intonatioa 
 t peculiar ; for, 
 
 11 bred and lady- 
 I however, in her 
 flavor, originally 
 
 Irish nurse, and 
 re was an oddity 
 idedly attractive, 
 
 av the brogue," 
 in Bessie, gave to 
 •ful witch'-'ry, and 
 es in her of droU- 
 
 I Bufler for their 
 [nez, gravely, 
 he should bother 
 ited Bessie. " No 
 ill at all." 
 :ved in them, and 
 his belief." 
 gone BO far, you 
 couldn't he liave 
 t or the juke, or 
 
 i\rd 1 A man can't 
 ly. Some things 
 nd I are Catholics, 
 hange our religion 
 lid have to suflcr." 
 
 little head, 
 lly don't see how I 
 
 dungeon with rats 
 00 ; and besides it 
 an. It wasn't his 
 bother about poli- 
 d;inger of my ever 
 
 politics. ]{ut, oh, 
 new it — look 1" 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 The sudden change iu Bessie's remarks 
 was caused by some one whom she happened 
 to see coming up the road behind them as she 
 casually looked back. Whoever it was, how- 
 ever, Inez did not choose to look, as Bessie 
 told her. On the contrar)', she seemed to 
 know perfectly well who it was, and to feel 
 some slight embarrassment, for a flush came 
 over her face, and she looked straight before 
 her without saying a word. 
 
 " Now, I think it's a great shame," snid 
 Bessie, after a moment's pause, in a fretful 
 tone. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Wiiy, Dr. Blake, since he's joined us, I 
 never see any thing of you." 
 
 " Why, Bessie, what perfect nonsense 1 
 You are with me all the time." 
 
 " Oh, but I mean I never have you to my- 
 self now at all. It's nothing but Dr. Blake 
 all the time. He is always with you. Your 
 papa aud you are fairly bound up in him. 
 And it's a great shame entirely, bo it is. And 
 he is so awfully devoted — why, he worships 
 the ground you tread on ! " 
 
 At this, the cheeks of Inez blushed like 
 flame. 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't be bo absurd," 
 Bald eh 3. "You arc talking nothing but 
 the most perfect nonsense. I'apa and I, 
 of course, both esteem Dr. Blake, and he is 
 of great use to poor papa in his illness, and 
 I'm sure I don't know what papa would ever 
 have done without him." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure," continued Bessie, in a 
 plaintive voice; "of all stupid people, the 
 very worst iu the world are two devoted 
 lovers." 
 
 " You absurd, silly child ! " exclaimed 
 Inez, turning away. 
 
 " Why, I'm sare I do not know what else 
 to call you. Doesn't he give you flowers all 
 the time ? Doesn't he sit and fasten his eyes 
 on you, and look as though he longed to eat 
 you up? Doesn't he always lo " at me, 
 whenever he condescends to notice poor me 
 at all, as though he thinks I am always in 
 the way ? Don't I have to be.ar the painful 
 consciousness in my unhappy breast that I 
 urn (le trop f " 
 
 " Hush, you silly little goose 1 " cried Inez, 
 hurriedly, as she heard the sourd of foot- 
 steps close behind her, fearful that Bessie's 
 words would be overheard. Bessie, however, 
 stopped short, and demurely moved away 
 
 from Inez, as though she wished to allow the 
 new-comer every chance with his inamorata 
 — a. movement which the other noticed, and 
 tried to baffle by keeping close to her. Bu* 
 this little by-play was now interrupted by 
 clear, manly voice, which sounded close be 
 aide Inez. 
 
 " Good-morning, Miss Wyverne. I nad 
 no idea that you would be out so early after 
 your fatigues of yesterday." 
 
 Inez turned with a smile of pleasure, and 
 the face which met the. new-comer's eyes, still 
 wearing the flush which Bessie had called up, 
 seemed to him to be inexpressibly lovely. lie 
 was a tall young fellow, with a fine, fresh, 
 frank, open face ; short, crisp hair; whiskers 
 of the English cut, and a joyous light in his 
 eyes, that spoke of bounding youth and the 
 bloom of perfect health, and of something 
 more, too, that might have been duo to the 
 present meeting. He stood with his hat off, 
 and hand extended. Inez accepted his greet- 
 ing, and said simply : 
 
 "Good-morning, Dr. Blake." 
 
 " Miss Mordaunt," continued Dr. Blake, 
 addressing Bessie, who was on the other 
 side of Inez, "good morning. What do you 
 think of Villeneuve now? Will you ever 
 dare to abuse it again ? Confess, now, did 
 you ever see such a lovely sight ? For my 
 part, I think it's far and away the prettiest 
 place I ever saw, and for invalids it is per- 
 fect. But, by-the-way. Miss Wyverne, have 
 you seen your father this morning? How 
 is he ? " 
 
 "Oh, thanks, he is much better," said 
 Inez. " lie was up and dressed before I left. 
 He had slept better than usual, he said, 
 though, of course, he never sleeps much now 
 — poor papa 1 " 
 
 "Oh, well, we must be patient," said 
 Blake. " We cannot expect any very rapid 
 improvement, you know. This is the place 
 where he can find just what he needs. It is 
 so quiet, and so mild and beautiful. And 
 there is the castle. I suppose you intend to 
 visit it as soon as possible ? " 
 
 "It is not open so early aa this, is it?" 
 asked Inez. 
 
 " Well, no ; this is a little too early," said 
 Blake. "For tlie present we must content 
 ourselves with an outside view. But the 
 castle itself and its surroundings will be 
 enough for a first visit. Tliere are the bat- 
 tlements from which the sounding-line wafi 
 
1 1 t 
 
 '^*> 
 
 20 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 cast a thousand feet into the waters below ; 
 and there is the 'little isle,' which is men- 
 tioned in the poem : 
 
 '".... a little isle 
 Which In my very face did smile, 
 
 The only one in view — 
 ' A small green isle it cef^med no more 
 Scarce broader than my dnngei.:'-llo- /, 
 Bnt in it there were three tall trees, 
 And o'er it blew the monntain-brcezo. 
 And by it there were waters flowing, 
 And on it there we..'^ young fiower» growing 
 
 Of gentle brea.h and hue.' " 
 
 Blake was full of the enthusiasm of youth, 
 and inspired by the seene around him, and 
 the companionship which ho had. He talked 
 eloquently, and showed so wonderfully inti- 
 mate an acquaintance with the scene before 
 him, that it seemed as though he must have 
 made Lake Leman a specialty, or at least 
 have read up very latel_v. 
 
 They sf untered along thus, and at length 
 Eat down upon a grassy knoll by the road- 
 side, while the whole prospect spread itself 
 magnificently before them. 
 
 Bessie's remarks were justified by the 
 present appearance of things. It was as she 
 said. It was the old, old story of two lovers. 
 The doctor had no words or looks or thoughts 
 for any one but Inez ; and the joy that was 
 in his face, the animation of his manner, the 
 eloquence of his words, were all due to the 
 intoxication of her presence. However all 
 this may have seemed to Inez, it is not to be 
 expected that it would bo altogether pleasant 
 to Bessie ; bat Miss Bessie was not one who 
 would allow herself to be imposed upon, and 
 so she proceeded to solace herself for the 
 neglect which she supposed to bo shown her, 
 by entering upon a deliberate and elaborate 
 system of teasing, which was directed against 
 Inez. After what she had already said, Inez 
 could not allow herself to be absorbed so 
 fully by Blake as she had formerly done ; and 
 there was now in her mind a sense of great 
 uneasiness as to what Bessie might do, which 
 feeling was by no means lessened by her 
 friend's actions. 
 
 Soon after they had seated themselves, 
 BcsEie began to move away from Inez as far 
 as possible, thus ostentatiously showing a 
 desire to leave the lovers by themselves, and 
 kept her face turned away, as though she 
 would on no account be an eye-witness of 
 their proceedings. AH thie embarrassed Inez 
 
 greatly, for the relations between herself and 
 Blake were thus far of a purely friendly char- 
 acter, nor had she as yet thought very much 
 of any thing more. Her delicacy was shocked 
 excessively by Bessie's movements, but sho 
 did not know how to prevent them. She 
 shifted her scat once or twice, so as to keep 
 near to her friend ; but, on every such occa- 
 sion, Bessie would make such a point of re- 
 moving again, that it seemed more unpleasant 
 to follow her than to sit still. At length Inez 
 could endure it no longer, but rose, and, call- 
 ing Bessie, who by that time had taken up 
 her station with her back turned to the lov- 
 ers about a hundred yards away, she waited 
 for her to join her. 
 
 Bessie approached with an air of demurest 
 gravity, which would have made Inez laugh 
 if it had not been so provoking. As she came 
 near she threw at Inez a deprecating glance, 
 and, with an air of childish shyness, walked 
 by her side on a line with the others, but on 
 the other side of the road. Inez gradually 
 drew nearer to her, whereupon Bessie allowed 
 herself to fall behind. 
 
 None of this was noticed by Blake, who 
 was too much absorbed by the joy of the 
 moment to detect any thing so covert as Bes- 
 sie's course of teasing. In fact, he felt quite 
 grateful to her for keeping away, and allow, 
 ing him thus to have Inez all to himself. Thia 
 feeling ho could not help showing, and this 
 only increased the annoyance and embarrass- 
 ment of Inez. The position of a young lady 
 in the presence of an ardent lover is never 
 quite free from embarrassment when specta- 
 tors are by ; but, when the spectator is one 
 who Las shown herself to be a merciless 
 tease, capable of dragging to the light the 
 most hidden secrets of the young lady afore- 
 said, why it stands to reason that the embar- 
 rassment must become intolerable. So it 
 proved with Inez. Her attention was thus 
 distracted between Blake and Bessie ; and, 
 if she noticed any unusual devotion of man- 
 ner or earnestness of tone, it only served to 
 excite her fears that Bessie would see it also, 
 and treasure it up in her memory for future 
 reference. 
 
 AVhen Bessie, therefore, fell behind, Inez 
 slackened her pace also ; upon which the for- 
 mer managed to increase the distance betr.v-en 
 them still farther. 
 
 " Bessie," said Inez, stopping short and 
 waiting for her to come up, " I'm afraid you 
 
^1 
 
 VILLEXEUVE. 
 
 n 
 
 ivecn herself and 
 ly friendly cbar- 
 jiight very much 
 acy was shocked 
 emcnts, but sho 
 ent them. She 
 0, so as to keep 
 every such occa- 
 h a point of re- 
 more unpleasant 
 At length Inez 
 it rose, and, call- 
 □e had taken up 
 rned to the lov- 
 away, she waited 
 
 m air of demurest 
 made Inez laugh 
 ing. As she came 
 'prccating glance, 
 h shyness, walked 
 he others, but on 
 Inez gradually 
 )on Bessie allowed 
 
 ;ed by Blake, who 
 by the joy of the 
 ; so covert as Bes- 
 
 fact, he felt quite 
 g away, and allow- 
 ill to himself. Thia 
 
 showing, and this 
 ICC and embarrass- 
 n of a young lady 
 lent lover is never 
 ment when specta- 
 e spectator is ono 
 to be a mereilesa 
 g to the light the 
 s young lady afore- 
 m that the einbar- 
 titolerable. So it 
 ittention was thus 
 
 and Bessie ; and, 
 1 devotion of man- 
 ;, it only served to 
 Q would see it also, 
 memory for future 
 
 e, fell behind, Inez 
 ipon which the for- 
 ic distance betr.tien 
 
 stopping short and 
 p, " I'm afraid you 
 
 must be fatigued after your journey yester- 
 day." 
 
 " Oh, dear, no, Inez dearest," said Bessie, 
 with a smile. " Not at all. I am watching 
 something that is awfully amusiiig. Go on. 
 I'll join you as soon as — as it is advisable." 
 
 Upon this Inez turned away in despair, 
 and walked thus with Blake back to the ho- 
 tel, while Bessie followed at a little dis- 
 tance. 
 
 The hotel stood facing the water. In 
 front of it was a portico. At this poi lioo 
 stood an elderly gentleman, whose appear- 
 ance had in it much that would arrest the 
 attention of the most casual observer. lie 
 was a man of medium height, and might have 
 been about fifty years of age, yet there was an 
 air of decrepitude about him which must 
 have been caused by some other tiling than 
 his fifty years. He looked as though he 
 might once have been portly, and that too 
 not very long ago ; but now the ample out- 
 line of his frame had receded somewhat, and 
 an air of looseness was thus given to his fig- 
 ure. His hair was quite gray ; his face was 
 Btill full, but every trace of color had gone 
 from it. He stood on the portico, leaning 
 heavily against the base of a pillar, and his 
 face was turned toward the water. 
 
 It was this face, and this alone, that gave 
 this man his striking appearance. It was 
 no common face. It was pale, ghastly pale, 
 in fact, and the flesh which had once rounded 
 its outlines had shrunk away, and now hung 
 loosely in folds. His eyes were fixed upon 
 vacancy, with a far-off, abstracted look. It 
 was not the lake, or the mountains, or any 
 material scens, that he was looking at. The 
 placid water and the towering heights were 
 reflected on his retina, but had no place in 
 his thoughts. There was trouble in that 
 face, deep, perplexed, and bewildered ; and 
 he who had thus come fortli to gaze upon the 
 face of Nature, presented his own face to the 
 gaze of his feilow-man, and showed there 
 sometliing so woe-worn, so tragic in its som- 
 bre gloom, so full of despair, that it seemed 
 as if the traces of crime, or of a ruined life, 
 were marked ujion it. 
 
 Tlie ladies and their companion walked 
 toward the hotel, and saw the old man, 
 though they were not yet near enough to see 
 his face. 
 
 " Papa is down," said Inez. 
 
 " Yes," said Blake. " He seems to be en- 
 
 joying the view. I feel confident that this 
 place will benefit him." 
 
 *' Oh, I am so glad to hear you say so 1 " 
 
 As she said this, a footman came up to the 
 portico. He had come from a house not far 
 away. He had a letter in his hand. Tliia 
 letter he handed to the old man. He took it 
 and opened it hastily. As he looked at it a 
 change came over his face, AV'ith a quick gest- 
 ure he crushed the letter together in his hand, 
 and looked in an abstracted way all around. 
 Blake and the ladies were near enough now 
 foi him to see them, but he did not notice 
 them at all. The look seemed to have been 
 an instinct blindly obeyed. He then turned 
 his back to the street, and, opening the letter, 
 stood there reading it. As he did so, he 
 staggered slightly, and one hand caught at the 
 pillar for support. 
 
 These strange actions, and the singular 
 attitude of the old man, arrested the atten- 
 tion of Inez and Blake. They stopped, and 
 looked, and as they stopped Bessie came up 
 to lliem. 
 
 Suddenly the old man started. He stag- 
 gered forward, and half turned. Thoy were 
 near enough now to see his face plainly. Up- 
 on that face they saw a wild look of terror— 
 a look such as a drowning man may give 
 while seeking for help. 
 
 Bessie caught Inez by the arm. 
 
 " Look ! Oh, do look at your papa, Inez 
 dear ! " she cried. " Something's the mat- 
 ter." 
 
 There was no need to tell Inez this. She 
 had seen it, but so great was her horror, that 
 she had stood rooted to the spot, mute and 
 motionless. But, as Bessie spoke, Blake 
 started off at a run toward the portico. 
 
 If he anticipated what was about to hap- 
 pen, he was too late. Before Blake had gone 
 a half-dozen steps, the old man gave a deep 
 groan, and, suddenly collapsing, sank down 
 senseless. At that moment Blake reached 
 him. The next instant a dozen servants had 
 arrived at the spot. Then Inez came flying 
 up with a pale face, wild with alarm. The 
 sight that met her eyes could not lessen that 
 alarm one whit. That prostrate figure — that 
 head swaying loosely as they raised him up, 
 those nerveless hands, those staring eyes, 
 those venerable hairs soiled with dust — all 
 this only served to intensify her fears. Un- 
 accustomed to scenes like these, she lost all 
 presence of mind, and, clasping her hands 
 
J I 
 
 22 
 
 AX OPEX QUESTIOX. 
 
 in despair, slic watched tlio serrantg with 
 white lipa and«stanng eyes, ns they raised the 
 senseless form and bore it into the house, and 
 ■up the stairs to his chamber. 
 
 Hero Ulake sent oway all the servants ex- 
 cept one. lie tried to urge Inez to go also, 
 but she refused. Thereupon he devoted him- 
 self to the care of his patient, and sought in 
 all possible ways to resuscitate him. An 
 hour passed away, and, at the end of that 
 time, there was little change perceptible. He 
 ■was breathing, however, and he had closed 
 his eyes. Tliose were encouraging signs, but 
 the stupor yet remained, and it did not 
 seem as though he could be roused out of 
 this. 
 
 Several hours more passed, and mid-day 
 came. Bbke now made one more eftbrt to 
 induce Inez to leave. 
 
 " I assure you, Miss Wyverne," said he, 
 fcirnestly, " tliat your father is now doing as 
 ■well as can bo expected under the circum- 
 Btancoa. These sudden shocks are very much 
 to be dreaded, but in this case the worst, I 
 hope, is passed. You see him now — he is 
 Bleeping. It may, perhaps, benefit him in the 
 end. lie has not had mucli sleep of 
 late." 
 
 Blake spoke this as the man, and not as 
 the doctor, because he wished to give Inez 
 some hope, and Inez grasped at this hope 
 which Avas held out. 
 
 " Sleep ? " she siiid. " Yes, it is— it must 
 be sleep — but, oh, if he had only waked once 
 —just to spe,ik one word ! " 
 
 " II» will wiike in time. Rut lot us be 
 patient. Do not let us wnke liini now. Miss 
 \Vyvert>f. And now will you not try to get 
 a little "est for yourself? Let me entreat you 
 as — as — ah — your medical adviser — to — to 
 take caif? of yourself." 
 
 Inez nt length allowed herself to be per- 
 suaded to retire, and sought her own room. 
 Here Dossie came to her, and held a letter in 
 her hand. 
 
 "In^'z, darling," said she, " isn't this aw- 
 ful? You know your poor, dear papa was 
 readinp; a letter when ho fainted. . It was on 
 the portico. Ho let it fall. I saw it and 
 picked it up. This is it. i'ou had better read 
 it, and perhaps you can find out the cause of 
 all this." 
 
 With those words she handed to Inez the 
 letter wliicli the old man had boon reading. 
 
 Inez took it, and read the following : 
 
 " Faius. 
 
 " My dear IIennioau : I am sorry you 
 are not the man you used to be, for you need 
 all your strength now. The event which wo 
 have all along dreaded as barely possible has 
 at last come to pass. 15. M. is alive 1 Worse 
 — he has come back. I have seen him with 
 my own eyes in Rome. He has not seen me. 
 I have learned that, after he has attended to 
 his ecclesiastical business, he intends to visit 
 you. Fortunately, you are out of England. 
 Would it not be well for you to go into hid- 
 ing for a time — in Russia, or the East, or, bet- 
 ter still — America ? 
 
 "I have just arrived here, and leave to- 
 night for London, on important business. I 
 hope soon to see yo>i. You ;., '. better send 
 away those girls at once. Above all, you must 
 get rid of that boy. You were mad to en- 
 courage him. His mind has been poisoned 
 by his mother. Depend upon it, he will ruin 
 you. At all events send him oft' at once, and 
 get Inez out of the way. H. M. will hunt you 
 up, and find you, uidess you lly out of his 
 reach. It seems to me that it would be ad- 
 visable, if possible, to get tip a well-concoct- 
 ed ikath — so as to tiirow him ofl:' your track. 
 Think of this. 
 
 " I hope to see you before a week. 
 "In great haste, 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 "Kevin Maorath." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IS IT D K I. I H 1 U M ? 
 
 To Inrz, this extraordinary letter was ut- 
 terly uninteiligihlo, an<l yet terrible on ac- 
 count of the dark and impenetrnble mystery 
 in which it was shrouiled. She had road it 
 with breathlcis interest, yot not until sho 
 readied the end was she anare of the fact 
 that she was reading that whioli had never 
 been intended for her eyes, or fVir any human 
 eyes except those of Heniii;;ar Wyverne him- 
 self. The deed was one which she felt to bo 
 dishonorable in itself, yet siie could not blame 
 herself. She had read it solely out of a pure 
 and generous impulse — a desire to learn the 
 cause of this sudden blow whicli had fallen 
 upon her fath'-r. She had read it witliout 
 hesitation, because she had never imagined 
 that around that iionored father could cling 
 
 1), 
 
IS IT DELIRIUM? 
 
 23 
 
 I: 
 
 " Psnia, 
 I am sorry you 
 be, for you need 
 
 eveut which wo 
 rely possible has 
 is alive I Worse 
 e seen him with 
 has not seen me. 
 
 has attended to 
 e intends to visit 
 out of England, 
 u to go into hid- 
 thc East, or, bet- 
 
 ore, and leave to- 
 
 tnnt business. I 
 '. better send 
 Lbovc all, you must 
 
 were mad to en- 
 as been poisoned 
 ion it, he will ruin 
 m oft" at once, and 
 U. 31. will hunt you 
 
 ou fly out of his 
 
 t it would bo ad- 
 
 up a well-eoncoct- 
 
 lim off your track. 
 
 ore a week. 
 
 Kevin Magrath.'* 
 
 VI. 
 
 HUM? 
 
 nary letter was ut- 
 •et terrible on nc- 
 pcnetrnblc mystery 
 She liad read it 
 yet not until sho 
 
 aware of tlie fact 
 ; whieh had never 
 , or for any human 
 i;;ar Wyvorne him- 
 hleh sho felt to bo 
 he could not blame 
 olely out of a pure 
 desire to learn tho 
 IT whieh had f«llen 
 111 rend it without 
 111 never imagined 
 
 father could cling 
 
 I 
 
 any secret tliat had to be veiled from her 
 eyes or from any eyes. She had read it, and 
 the deed for good or for evil was done beyond 
 recall, nor could she forget ono single word 
 of all that ill-omened and evil-boding letter. 
 
 As she had read it, Bessie had stood 
 watching her ; and now, as Inez looked up, 
 she saw her friend's eyes fixed on her witli 
 sharp, eager scrutiny. The moment that Bes- 
 sie caught the glance of Inez, she turned her 
 eyes away ; not so soon, however, but that 
 the latter could read the meaning that was 
 in them. By the expression of Bessie's face, 
 and the look that was in her eyes, Inez saw 
 plainly that she, too, must have read the let- 
 ter ; that she, too, had been startled by its 
 mfsterious meaning, and was now waiting to 
 SCO the effect produced npon her. At this 
 discovery an indignant feeling at once arose, 
 which, however, in a few moments, was 
 checked. For, after all, how could she blame 
 her? Sho knew Bessie's thoughtless and 
 wayward nature, her inquisitiveness, and her 
 impulsive ways ; she could easily understand 
 how she, too, could read it with the same 
 thoughtless haste that had characterized her 
 own perusal. So iho checked the sharp 
 words tliat arose to her lips, and merely re- 
 marked : 
 
 " It's some business of poor papa's. I 
 dion't understand it, and I ought not to have 
 read it." 
 
 She then flung herself upon the sofa, and 
 turned her face to the wall. Whereupon Bes- 
 sie softly loft tho room. 
 
 Left thus to herself, Inez, as she lay on 
 the sofa, became a prey to all the thoughts 
 which that letter was calculated to create. 
 The more she thought about it, the less was 
 she able to understand it ; but the secret of 
 tl.e letter, though impenetrable, was some- 
 thing which she could not avoid thinking 
 upon, and, though tho full moaning was be- 
 yond her conjecture, there were a few plain 
 and very ugly facts which stood forth clearly 
 and unmistakably. 
 
 First of all, sho saw that there was some 
 one living of whom her father stood in mor- 
 tal dread, named here as B. M. Tho dread 
 of this mysterious man was evidently no new 
 thing, lie had been absent long, but they 
 had always considered his return possible. 
 They had hoped for his death, but found that 
 he was alive. This B. M. was in Rome. lie 
 was on his way to England, to see her father. 
 
 Secondly, so great was the terror that 
 attended upon the presence of this B. M, 
 that the correspondent's first suggestion to 
 her father was instant and immediate flight, 
 even to the uttermost ends of the earth — 
 Russia, the East, America. 
 
 Thirdly, this correspondent urged him to 
 got rid of the girh. Tho girls ! What girls ? 
 There could be no doubt that she herself and 
 Bessie were meant, and herself more par- 
 ticularly, since greater emphasis was laid on 
 her name. This dark secret affected her 
 then, but how ? 
 
 Fourthly, who was " the boy ? " About 
 this Inez could have no doubt whatever, 
 " Tho boy " must be Dr. Blake, To no other 
 could the term " encouragement " apply. He 
 had certainly been " encouraged." Though 
 an acquaintance of no very long standing, her 
 father had manifested for Dr. Blake a regard 
 which was wonderful, and quite unaccount- 
 able. This must be the "encouragement" 
 of which the letter spoke. But who was the 
 boy's mother, and how had she "poisoned" 
 his mind? How was it that Dr. Blake could 
 ever be tho ruin of her father? Had he 
 any connection with those dark events of 
 the past? Dr. Blake bad always seemed the 
 most open, frank, and transparent nature in 
 the world ; and she could not understand 
 how in his breast there could Inrk the knowl- 
 edge of any secret that could make him able 
 to ruin her father, even if he were capable of 
 wishing it. 
 
 Fifthly, this correspondent hinted that a 
 pretended death might be advisable. Such a 
 hint seemed to Inez the most terrible thing in 
 the whole letter. It revealed an abyss into 
 which she dared not allow her thoughts to 
 venture. What terrors must cling to the 
 past life of her father when there impended 
 over him a danger so great that he coukl only 
 escape it by instant flight or pretended death t 
 Alas I as her father now was, if death was to 
 be thought of, it might be only too real. 
 
 Again, this thing of terror, this mysterious 
 " B. M.," who was he ? What was meant by 
 his " ecclesiastical " business ? Could he be 
 a priest ? It must be so. Who else but a 
 priest could have ecclesiastical business at 
 Rome ? 
 
 And, finally, who was this correspondent 
 himself? He called himself " Kevin Magrath." 
 Could it be a real name? It was evidently 
 an Irish name. Sho had never heard of it 
 
if: 
 
 i li 
 
 24 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 before in all her life. The sound was utterly 
 unfamiliar. Whoever he was, he seemed to 
 lead a roving life, going from Rome to Paris, 
 and from Paris to London, and promising to 
 come here to Villeneuve. Whoever he was, 
 he must be an old friend of her father's, and 
 an associate in this dark mystery. With 
 him, too, her father must have kept up a con- 
 stant correspondence, for how else could this 
 Kevin Magrath know his present address to 
 be such an obscure place as Villeneuve ? 
 
 She thought for a moment of asking Bes- 
 Bie about this man, but the next moment she 
 dismissed the thought. She felt an invincible 
 repugnance to making one like Bessie — or 
 any one, in fact — a confidante of her present 
 feelings. This secret seemed a dislionor to 
 her father ; and Bessie's knowledge of the 
 existence of any such secret was of itself 
 most disagreeable to her. Instead, there- 
 fore, of saying any thing to her friend about 
 it, she saw that it would be far better to hide 
 her feelings from her, and make it appear, if 
 possible, thot she thought nothing of it what- 
 ever. By so doing, she might induce Bessie 
 to suppose that it was of no importance. 
 This she hoped, but tlie recollection of tliat 
 look which she had encountered from Bessie 
 made her suspect that behind all her friend's 
 apparent volatility and frivolity there were 
 other qualities of a graver character — quali- 
 ties, too, which might prove formidable in 
 the future if it should ever happen that Bes- 
 sie's interests should be blended with those 
 of the enemies of her father. 
 
 The impenetrable secret thus baffled Inez 
 completely, and there was nothing left but to 
 wait for the disclosures of the future, and 
 bear the intermediate suspense as best she 
 could. 
 
 This Inez resolved to do, and her resolu- 
 tion was made easy by the situation of Mr. 
 Wyverne. He lay, as he had been pros- 
 trated, without much change, upon tlie 
 last verge of life, motionless, his breathing 
 short and quick, opening his eyes wildly at 
 times, murmuring incessantly to himself, and 
 all the while his heart throbbing fast and 
 furious. He was not senseless now, for he 
 could answer when he was addressed, but he 
 seemed to be the prey of the most agonizing 
 ', elings, the torment of which made him un- 
 observant of things around him. 
 
 Inez now watched over him incessantly, 
 and the doctor also was equally devoted. He 
 
 did not seek to couceal the truth from her. 
 The danger was extreme. Ho know it, and he 
 could not bring himself to deceive her. Slie, 
 on her part, being thus forced so constantly 
 into the society of Blake, and with her secret 
 gnawing at her heart, more than once tliought 
 of asking him about it ; but no sooner }iad 
 the thought came than it was repelled. What- 
 ever might be her feelings toward him, she 
 saw that this was clearly a case in which ho 
 could be of no assistance to her. She could 
 not show that letter to one who, after all, was 
 a stranger in a certain sense. She could not 
 ask his advice in a case where a father's se- 
 cret and a father's honor were involved. 
 
 Day after day passed, and there was no 
 change. One day Inez implored Blake to tell 
 her the worst. 
 
 " I can't bear this suspense," said she. " I 
 expect tlie worst, the very worst, and I try to 
 make up my mind to it ; but I should like to 
 know if there may be any ground for hope." 
 
 " Miss Wyverne," said tlie doctor, sadly, 
 " while there's life, there's hope." 
 
 "I know — I know," said Inez, " that old 
 formula, used to disguise the worst intelli- 
 gence." 
 
 Blake sighed, and looked at her compas- 
 sionately. 
 
 " Oh, how I wish," said he, " that I could 
 spare you this !" 
 
 " You have no hope, then ? " wailed forth 
 Inez, looking at him with awful eyes. 
 
 Blake returned her glance with a mournful 
 look, and in silence. 
 
 Inez had hoped for some faint encourage- 
 ment, and this silence was almost too much. 
 But, by a strong effort, she controlled her- 
 self. 
 
 " Tell me all," she said, in a scarce audible 
 voice. " Let me know all." 
 
 "Agitation," said Blake, solemnly and 
 slowly, "is fatal. If I could see any hope of 
 saving him from this — if I could only gain con- 
 trol over his thoughts ! But there is something 
 on his mind always. He never sleeps. Ho 
 eats nothing. Opiates have no effect. It is 
 his mind. There is trouble, and it overwhelms 
 him. If he should sleep, his dreams would 
 be worse than his waking thoughts. I can- 
 not ' minister to a mind diseased.' " 
 
 At this, Inez went away to her own room 
 and wept. 
 
 So Wyverne lay, struggling with the dark 
 secret that was over his soul, murmuring 
 
IS IT DELIRIUM? 
 
 u 
 
 ruth from her. 
 
 ■ V 
 
 know it, and he 
 
 1 
 
 cive her. She, 
 
 '1 
 
 1 so constantly 
 
 
 with licr secret 
 
 
 an once tliought 
 
 
 no sooner }iad 
 
 
 repelled. What- 
 
 
 oward him, she 
 
 
 .se in which lie 
 
 
 icr. She could 
 
 
 10, after all, was 
 
 
 She could not 
 
 .^ 
 
 ;re a father's se- 
 
 ^v 
 
 e involved. 
 
 
 d there was no 
 
 
 icd Blake to tell 
 
 :■■. 
 
 se," said she. " I 
 
 ■'"- 
 
 orst, and I try to 
 
 
 I should like to 
 
 
 ound for hope." 
 
 ":i 
 
 he doctor, sadly, 
 
 •J 
 
 ope." 
 
 
 Inez, " that old 
 
 
 the worst intelli- 
 
 A 
 
 1 at her compas- 
 
 :m 
 
 lie, " that I could 
 
 
 n ? " wailed forth 
 
 
 ivful eyes. 
 
 
 e with a mournful 
 
 m 
 
 i faint encourage- 
 almost too much, 
 e controlled her- 
 
 n a scarce audible 
 
 ;e, solemnly and 
 d see any hope of 
 )uld only gain con- 
 there is something 
 never sleeps. He 
 3 no effect. It is 
 md it overwhelms 
 liis dreams would 
 thoughts. I can- 
 ;ascd.' " 
 to her own room 
 
 ing with the dark 
 soul, murmuring 
 
 .1 
 
 words that were unintelligible to those beside 
 him, with that in his mind which was a lior- 
 ror by night and by day. Thus a week 
 passed, and during this time he grew worse 
 and worse. Of this tiierc was no doubt. The 
 doctor saw it. Inez knew it. 
 
 At length one day came when ho opened 
 his eyes, and fixed them with a glassy stare 
 upon Inez, who, as usual, was sitting at his 
 bedside. 
 
 " Papa, dear," said she, in a choking 
 voice. 
 
 " Who — are — you ? " were the words that 
 came with a gasp from the sick man on the 
 bed. 
 
 Inez shuddered. 
 
 She took his hand tenderly in hers, and, 
 bending over him, she said : 
 
 "Don't you know me, papa dear — your 
 daughter — your child — your Inez ? " 
 
 Mr. AVyverne frowned, and snatched his 
 hard away. 
 
 " I have no daughter," he ga.^fped. " You 
 ■are not mine. You are his. lie is coming 
 for you — for you and — for — vengeance I Jle 
 is coming. lie is coming. lie is coming — " 
 
 A groan ended this, but the sick man 
 went on murmuring, in a sing-song way, like 
 some horrible chant, the words, " Jle is com- 
 ing ! Jfe is coming 1 Jle is coming ! lie is 
 coming 1 " 
 
 A cold shudder passed through Inez. She 
 drew back and buried her face in her hands. 
 Was this real ? Did he mean it ? What 
 horror was this ? 
 
 Blake had heard all, and had seen her 
 distress. He bent over her and whispered : 
 
 " Don't be distressed at what he says. He 
 don't know you. It's his delirium." 
 
 The whisper seemed to attract the attrn- 
 tion of the sick man. He turned his eyes till 
 they rested upon Blake's face. His own ex- 
 pression changed. There came a gentle smile 
 upon his wan features ; he sighed ; and then 
 he reached forth liis hand faintly. 
 
 Blake saw this, and took his hand won- 
 deringly. 
 
 " Basil ! " said Mr. Wyverne, in a soft, 
 low voice, full of a strange, indescribable 
 tenderness, " Basil — is your — your mother 
 still alive ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Blake, full of amazement — 
 Mr. Wyverne had called hira by his Christian 
 name ! 
 
 The sick man clo.sed his eyes. There 
 
 were tears in them — they trickled slowly 
 down. Inez still sat with her face buried in 
 her hands. Blake wiped those tears away, 
 and waited to hear what might be said, with 
 all his soul full of wonder and awe, and a 
 certain fearful expectation. 
 
 " Basil," said Mr. Wyverne, opening his 
 eyes again, and fastening them with the same 
 look upon Blake, speaking faintly and wea- 
 rily, and with frequent hesitation, " I dare 
 not tell you — ask her to tell you — all — alt- 
 all." 
 
 Once more liis thoughts wandered, but he 
 still clung to Blake's hand, and would not let 
 
 it go- 
 After an •■'iterval, he opened his eyes and 
 looked at Blu.. 
 
 " Kiss me — Basil," he said. 
 
 At this Blake bent down and kisseS the 
 forehead of the sick man — damp and cold as 
 with the chill-dew of death. 
 
 Not one word of all this had been lost on 
 Inez, and at these last words she raised her- 
 self, and saw through her tears what was 
 done. Full of wonder, and deeply wounded 
 also at tiie neglect with which she was 
 treated, she sat there a prey to the deepest 
 grici. Blake saw this, and, as the sick man 
 again closed his eyes, he murmured in hei 
 ear: 
 
 "/<'« his delirium." 
 
 The sick man again opened his eyes ; they 
 rested upon Blake as before, and then wan- 
 dered toward Inez, whose pale face was turned 
 toward him, and whose eyes were fixed en- 
 treatingly upon him, as though seeking for 
 some look of love. 
 
 He looked at her mildly, and then, turning 
 his eyes to Blake, there came over his face a 
 smile of strange sweetness. 
 
 " You— love— her— Basil ? " 
 
 These words came from him faintly. As 
 he said this, the face of Inez flamed up with 
 a sudden and violent flush. Blake said 
 nothing, but pressed his hand. The sick 
 man took Blake's hand in his own left hand, 
 and reached out his right hand feebly, look- 
 ing at Inez. She took his hand in hers, not 
 knowing Avhat ho wished, but still hoping for 
 some word of love. He drew her hand tow- 
 ard hira, and joined it to that of Blake's, 
 pressing the two together between his feeble 
 palms. Then ho looked at them both, with 
 that same strange, sweet smile on his face. 
 
 " Jly children ! my children ! " he mur- 
 
>l ■ 
 
 S6 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 I 
 
 ii 
 
 ■i II! 
 
 Ill 
 
 mured. " My cliilili'rn ! " he continued, after a 
 pause, " you will love one anotber. You will 
 — love licr — Hasil — and — make licr — yours — 
 promise ! " and he looked earnestly at Ulake. 
 
 To Inez all this was exquisitely painl'ul, 
 and niako did not know what to say, 
 
 " Swear," said the sick man. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Jilake, in a low voice. 
 
 Mr. Wyvcrnc gave a sigh of satisfaction, 
 and lay for some time exhausted, but still 
 holding their hands. Once more ho ral- 
 lied. 
 
 "Basil," said he, "I cannot tell you — 
 what is on — my mind — dare not — you shall 
 know all — your mother — ask her — you will 
 forgive me, Basil — my son." 
 
 Son I that word had a strange sound, but 
 it seemed to mean son-in-law, and thus they 
 both understood it. But in the mind of Inez 
 this declaration interwcaved itself with other 
 thoughts which had been called up by that 
 mysterious letter. 
 
 " Your mother," continued the sick man, 
 looking at Blake, "will tell you all — all. 
 Swear that you — forgive me." 
 
 " I swear," said Blake, willing to say any 
 thing which might humor the sick man's fan- 
 cies. 
 
 " And you — you," continued Mr. Wyverne, 
 turning his glassy eyes toward Inez with an 
 agonized look, "you — Ji'is daughter — you will 
 tell all to him — that I repent — and die — of — 
 of — remorse ! " 
 
 At this Inez tore her hand away, and 
 once more flung herself forward in an agony 
 of grief. 
 
 ^' It's his dcUrlnm/" whispered the doctor 
 again. These words restored Inez. It was 
 all fancy, she thought. It was not — no, it 
 could not be the truth. 
 
 But now the sick man seemed utterly ex- 
 hausted. As Inez raised herself up, and 
 looked at him once more, she saw that a 
 change had come over him, and that change 
 frightened her. 
 
 " I'm dying," he gasped, " send a priest — 
 a priest ! " 
 
 At this Blake at once hurried from the 
 room. 
 
 He did not have to go far. 
 
 There was a priest in the hotel. lie had 
 arrived the night before. lie had come from 
 Italy, and was on his way to Paris. The doc- 
 tor had heard of this, and went at once in 
 search of him. The priest had arrived late, 
 
 and had slept late. lie was just dressed, and 
 thus Ulake found hhn. 
 
 lie was a man of medium stature, with 
 dark complexion, browned by exposure to the 
 weather, lie had piercing black eyes and 
 heavy eyebrows. His jaw was square, mas- 
 sive, and resolute ; yet, in spite of all this, 
 the face was one full of mildness and gentle- 
 ness — showing a strong nature, yet a kindly 
 one — a face where dwelt the signs of a power 
 which might achieve any purpose, and the in- 
 dications of a nat'irt which was quick to sym- 
 pathy, and full of human feeling. His framo 
 was erect and vi-orous. His hair was black, 
 and sprinkled with gray, lie could not bo 
 over fifty, and might be much younger. This 
 was the man that Blake found. 
 
 The priest at once prepared to comply 
 with Blake's request, and followed him to the 
 siek man's chamber. As ho entered, Inez 
 shrank out of sight, and retreated to her 
 room, waiting there, with a heart full of de- 
 spair, the result of this last interview. 
 
 Tlic priest took no notice of her. IIiB 
 eyes, as he entered, were fixed upon the bed 
 whore lay the man who had sought his oiTices 
 at this last hour o' life. 
 
 There lay Ilenr igar Wyvemc. 
 
 A great change had passed over him since 
 the morning when he had received that letter. 
 Feeble though he then was, there still might 
 be seen in him some remnant of his former 
 self, something that might show what he once 
 was ; but now not a vestige remained ; the 
 week's illness had altered him so greatly that 
 he had passed beyond the power of recogni- 
 tion ; he was fearfully emaciated ; he waa 
 ghastly pale ; his cheek-bones protruded ; his 
 eyes were deep-sunk ; his lips were drawn 
 apart over his teeth; his white hair was tan- 
 gled about his head, and short, gray biistles 
 covered his once smooth-shaven chin. Ho 
 lay there muttering to himself unintelligible 
 things, and picking aimlessly at the bed- 
 clothes. 
 
 The priest approached. Blake stood by 
 the door. 
 
 The priest bent over the sick man, and 
 roused him. 
 
 Wyvemc opened his glassy eyes and fast- 
 ened them on the priest. As he did so, there 
 came over him an appalling change. 
 
 In those dull, glassy eyes there shone the 
 light of a sudden and awful recognition ; and, 
 with that recognition, there was a look of ter- 
 
just tlrcsBcd, and 
 
 'n 
 
 in stature, with 
 
 exposure to the 
 
 black eyes and 
 
 ivns square, mas- 
 
 pito of all this", 
 
 Inesa and f^entle- 
 
 ure, yet a kindly 
 
 signs of a power 
 
 pose, and the in- 
 
 13 quick to syra- 
 
 cling. Ilia framo 
 
 hair was black, 
 
 lie could not bo 
 
 h younger. This 
 
 hd. 
 
 pared to comply 
 llowcd him to the 
 he entered, Inez 
 retreated to her 
 heart full of de- 
 interview, 
 tico of her. His 
 xed upon the bed 
 sought his offices 
 
 veme. 
 
 Bed over him since 
 eceived that letter. 
 , there still might 
 lant of his former 
 show what he once 
 go remained ; tho 
 lini so greatly that 
 power of recogni- 
 naciated ; he was 
 363 protrndcd ; his 
 lips were drawn 
 hite hair wns tan- 
 short, gray bristles 
 ■shaven chin. Ho 
 aself unintelligible 
 essly at the bed- 
 Blake stood by 
 ;hc sick man, and 
 
 assy eyes and fast- 
 As ho did so, there 
 5 change. 
 
 3S there shone the 
 I recognition ; and, 
 ; was a look of ter- 
 
THE GOLD CRUCIFIX. 
 
 n 
 
 M 
 
 ror unapcnknblo, of horror Intolerable. Yet 
 tliat look seemed fagoiudted ; It could not bo 
 withdrawn ; it was fastened on the faco before 
 him in one tixed gaze. Suddenly, and with a 
 Rroiin, ho gave a convulsivo Btiirt, os thout;ti 
 ho would fly from that which cither his eyes 
 or his wild fancy had thus presented before 
 him. Hut the eftbrt was too much. His 
 Htrcngth WHS gone, This was its Inat effort. 
 One movement, and then ho fell down. 
 
 Ho lay motionless now. 
 
 Ulake wtts just about leavin;; tho room ; 
 but ho saw tlil-', and waited. As Wyverno 
 fell, ho rushed \ip to the bedside with a pale 
 face. He looked at tho form which lay there, 
 and then at tho priest. Tho priest iooked 
 witli a mournful faco at the figure on the 
 bed. 
 
 There it lay, the thin, emaciated frame 
 from which tho sotd had pone ! That horror 
 which had been the latest expression of those 
 features still lurked there ; tho eyes stared at 
 tho ceiling; the jaws had fallen. 
 
 Blake stooped down and closed, with ten- 
 der hands, the eyes of the dead, 
 
 " I have como too late," said the priest, in 
 a low and mournful voice. 
 
 "Tlio delirium has lasted for a week," 
 said Blake. " Ho has imagined something 
 terrible in you." 
 
 CnAPTER VII. 
 
 THE OOI.D CnUCIFIX. 
 
 Tnus the blow had fallen at last ; and, 
 though Inez had tried to prepare herself for 
 it, she felt crushed by it when it came. For 
 the death itself she might have been ready ; 
 it was not the mere fact of bereavement, not 
 merely the sorrow of a loving daughter, that 
 now overwhelmed her. It was something far 
 different which had its origin in the circum- 
 atances that had preceded and immediately 
 accompanied his death. Already she had felt 
 sore distressed and perplexed by the terrible 
 possibilities that had been hinted at in that 
 nnintelligible letter, and she had tried to turn 
 her thoughts away from so painful a subject. 
 In vain. The circumstances arotmd her had 
 not allowed her to do so. The sick man him- 
 self forced tbem upon her ; and, in addition 
 to all that she had already learned, ho had 
 uttered words most terrible even to hoar as 
 
 delirious ravings, but which, if true, told 
 things that could not bo endured. 
 
 Let ns See, now, what tho circumstanccB 
 were that immediately followed Mr. Wyvernc's 
 death. 
 
 Inez had left tho sick man's chamber as 
 tho priest entered. Sim had gone at once to 
 her own room. She had flung herself upon 
 her couch, with her face buried in tho pillows, 
 recalling every incident in that terrible scene 
 wliich sho had just witnessed. That her hand 
 should be joined to the hand of Basil Blako 
 might, under ditferent circumstances, havo 
 had in it nothing distasteful to her feelings- 
 but, at this time, and under such conditions, 
 it had be(5n simply frightful. For her father 
 had struck her down by the terrors of the 
 revelation that he had made; he had installed 
 another in her place next his heart, and it 
 was only through the meditmi of this sup- 
 planter and usurper of her place that ho re- 
 ceived her back to his love. 
 
 Her falher had said that sho was not hia 
 daughter. This was the one thought that 
 now stood precMiiinent in her mind. And was 
 this decliration the act of a sane man, or was 
 it the raving of nn insane man ? Pr. Blake 
 had insisted, over and over again, that it waa 
 delirium. Did Dr. Blake really believe so 
 himself, or had he said that merely to console 
 her for tho time? 
 
 How coidd she answer sueh ((uestions as 
 these ? 
 
 In the midst of these thoughts she sud- 
 denly became aware of a certain awful hush — 
 a solemn stillness through all the house. It 
 was as though all in the house had sunultane- 
 ously stopped brea tiling. 
 
 Something had happened. 
 
 There was only one tiling, ns Inez knew 
 well, which could account for this — tho one 
 thing toward which her fearful soul had been 
 looking. But it was doubly terrible now. It 
 was too soon. She expected to see him again. 
 Her last hope would be that he might take 
 back all those words. AVhat if he had left 
 her now forever? What if his last worJa to 
 her should be nothing more than those appal- 
 ling onc.s which she had just heard. 
 
 She started to her feet, and stood with 
 her hands clasped together, her limbs rigid, 
 her pallid face turned to the door in awful ex- 
 pectation, her eyes staring wildly, her ears 
 strained to catch tho slightest sound. The 
 silence continued for what seemed to her a 
 
ii 
 
 ! i 
 
 28 
 
 AX OPEN" QUKSTIOX. 
 
 fearful length of time. At lust there were 
 footsteps ill the hall. She wished to go and 
 make inquiries, and put an cid to her sus- 
 pense; but she could not move. 
 
 Then there came a light knock at the 
 door. Inez tried to speak, but could not. 
 The handle was turned. The door opened 
 slowly. 
 
 It was her maid Saunders. 
 
 The maid's face was quite pale ; she held 
 a corner of her apron to her eyes, and looked 
 furtively and hesitatingly at her mistress. 
 
 " Oh, if you please, miss," she began, and 
 then stopped, 
 
 Inez tried to speak, and again was unable 
 to utter a word. 
 
 *' Miss Mordaunt thought I'd best let you 
 know, miss — immejitly, if you please, miss — 
 and, if you please, miss, he — it — your poor 
 papa — it's — it's all over, miss." 
 
 " lie's dead ! " moaned Inc?;, in a low, 
 tremulous voice ; and then, turning away, she 
 flung herself again upon her couch. 
 
 Saunders stood looking at her for some 
 time, as though waiting for orders. But no 
 orders came from her mistres:'. She satisfied 
 herself that she had not fainted, and then 
 quietly left the roniii. Outside, Miss Mordaunt 
 was waiting, who camo in and lookcc at Inez 
 for a moment. She saw, however, thit noth- 
 ing could be done, and tlierefore very natural- 
 ly concluded that for the present the be- 
 reaved daughter ought to be left to herself. 
 
 Inez now remained motionless for several 
 hours. All the while her mind was filled 
 with the remembrance of those words which 
 formed so strange a legacy from a dying fa- 
 ther to a daughter, and with the unparalleled 
 thoughts to which those words gave rise. It 
 waf easy to recall them all. Over and over 
 again she citeratcd them : " I have no damih- 
 ierl You arc not mill c I Youarrhh! lie is 
 coming for you and for vengeance/" Together 
 with these words she recalled his words to 
 Blake. It was Blake who had kissed him. 
 It was Blake to whom he had shown a father's 
 love. It was also Blake, no doubt, who had 
 closed his eyes when all was over. 
 
 It was abo.it an hour before sundown 
 when Inez at length reused hcrpolf. She 
 rose, arranged her dress, and called her maid. 
 Saunders came in, as before, cautiously, and 
 watching her mistress furtively. 
 
 " I wish (0 see him," said Inez. " Ho and 
 Ask if I may see him now." 
 
 She spoke in a low voice, but without any 
 tremor that could be detected. 
 
 " Oh, yes, miss," said Saunders, " you may. 
 They told me to tell you more'n an hour ago." 
 
 Inez said no more, but left the room, fol- 
 lowed by Saunders, and went to the apart- 
 ment around 'which so many griefs were al- 
 ready gathered. She opened the door. The 
 curtains were drawn. 
 
 " AVait here for me," said she to Saunders, 
 and thru, entering, she closed the door behind 
 her. 
 
 The room was too dark to see any thing, 
 and Inez drew one of the curtains aside and 
 thus let in a dim light. Then she turned 
 towiird the bed, whereon she saw tiie outline 
 of the figure stretched out there. Tor a mo- 
 ment she hesitated, and then advanced till 
 she reached the head of the bed, where she 
 stood for a few moments in thought. At 
 length, with a steady hand, she drew down 
 the covering from oft' the face of the dead. 
 
 There it lay, all that was mortal of the 
 man whom she had called father, but who had 
 disowned her with his last, dying words, and 
 who, before her very eyes, as she sat crushed 
 and stricken before him, had installed another 
 in her place, and driven her from his heart. 
 Against such trcatiacnt her soul rebelled ; the 
 dark doubt that ho had cast into her mind as 
 to wi ether he was her father prevented her 
 nr ,v from mourning over the dead ■, ith a 
 daughter's grief; and, even as she looked at 
 the face of the dead, her chief and uppermost 
 thoughts were about the impenetrable mystery 
 that now surrounded hor. 
 
 That thin, withered f..ce, cold in death, 
 with its sunken checks, and projecting cheek- 
 bones, and hollow orbits, where the closed 
 eyes lay sunken, bore no rcsemblaiico to the 
 one who in life had been known as Ilonnigar 
 \Vyvcrne. The lips were drawn back, and 
 the teeth were disclosed, so that there was 
 formed something like a grisly smile. It 
 seemed to Inez that this man was yet mock- 
 ing her even in death, and that this ghastly 
 smile had been called u]/ by her approi."!]. 
 The thought was too horrible. She drew 
 back the covering, and turned away. 
 
 She turned away and stood in the middle 
 of the apartment with hor face averted from 
 tlie dead. Of the n inner of his death she 
 had as yet heard nothing. Whether he had 
 said any thing more or not — whetlier ho had 
 relructed or confirmed his declaration about 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 '-0 
 
 .Jill 
 
THE GOLD CRUCIFIX, 
 
 n 
 
 but without any 
 1. 
 
 idcrs, " you may, 
 )'n an hour ago." 
 )ft the room, Ibl- 
 it to the apart- 
 y griefs were al- 
 , the door. The 
 
 she to Saunders, 
 the door behind 
 
 see any thing, 
 rtains aside and 
 hen she turned 
 ; saw the outhne 
 icre. For a mo- 
 in advanced till 
 ! bed, where she 
 n thouglit. At 
 slie drew down 
 ; of the dead. 
 3 mortal of the 
 ler, but who had 
 ving words, and 
 she sat crushed 
 nstalled another 
 from his heart, 
 ul rebelled ; the 
 nto her mind as 
 
 prevented her 
 dead ■ ith a 
 
 she looked at 
 and uppermost 
 ctrable mystery 
 
 cold in death, 
 ojcoting ohetk- 
 ero the closed 
 nililaiioo to the 
 n as Ilonnigar 
 iwii back, and 
 liiat there was 
 sly smile. It 
 was yet moek- 
 at this ghastly 
 her approi,"!!, 
 lo. She drew 
 away. 
 
 in the middle 
 ' averted from 
 his death she 
 lu'thcr he had 
 hcther ho had 
 laiation about 
 
 her, she could not know, and this she was 
 eager to learn. This she could find out only 
 from Dr. Blake. To send for him was, how- 
 ever, so repugnant to her delicacy that she 
 hesitated for some time ; but finally, seeing 
 that there was no alternative, she went to the 
 door and told the maid to ask him to come. 
 
 In a few moments Ulakc entered. Uc 
 bowed to her in silence. Ho did not attempt 
 to console her, or to condole with her. There 
 were reasons which made any such things im- 
 possible, for, while ths astonishing words of 
 the deceased had disturbed Inez as we have 
 iieon, they had produced in the mind of Blake 
 an ctrect in every respect as perplexing, as 
 confusing, and as agitating. Tliose dying 
 words lived in his memory as in hers, but she 
 was the 'ast one in all the world with whom 
 ho wov.id care to discuss then.. 
 
 Inez was seated near the window, and 
 Blake took a seat not far away. The silence 
 lasted for some time. Inez had much to ask, 
 but knew not how to begin. 
 
 " Dr. Blake," said she, at length, in alow, 
 mournful voice, " it was very unfortunate that 
 I left — him — so soon — but I thought that he 
 would be spared to us a little longer. Was 
 there not time, after his confession, to call 
 me?" 
 
 "There was not," said Blake, slowly — and 
 then after a pause ho added, " There was no 
 confession." 
 
 " Xo confession ! " exc'aimed Inez. 
 
 The doctor shook bij head. 
 
 " He was not able to speak when i ;ie priest 
 came to him. Before you had been gone ten 
 minutes — all was over." 
 
 Inez looked at him earnestly. 
 
 " Ho said nothing, then? " 
 
 " Xothing," said Blake, 
 
 For this intelligenco Inez was not quite 
 prepared, for she had hitherto supposed that 
 a C" jssion had been made to the priest — in 
 whi'' c she hoped that some result might 
 come Ul it. But ho had died and made no 
 sign, and this it was that now seemed most 
 bitter, And now what next was there to in- 
 fiuirc— what more should she ask of him? 
 That next question trembled on her lips, yet 
 she feared to ask it. The question wo\ild be 
 a final one — a decisive one. It would change 
 her who'o future life — it would affect it mate- 
 rially for weal or woe. It would put an end 
 to her suspense on one point, and confirm one 
 dark suspicion or remove It, 
 
 "Dr, Blake," said she, at length, after a 
 long delay, fixing her sad eyes earnestly upon 
 him, with a look that showed him that no 
 evasion would be tolerated now ; and speak- 
 ing in a voice whose mournful intonations 
 found an echo in the depths of his soul — "Dr. 
 Blake — you know what his dying words — his 
 last words to me were — and his las-t acts — 
 you know also what those dying words and 
 acts were to you. You must understand the 
 whole force of their appalling meaning — and 
 you must see that even the death of one whom 
 I have loved as a father, cannot be more ter- 
 rible than that revelation which he seemed 
 to make. While he was speaking you told 
 me that it was only delirium. I ask you now 
 in the name of that God who sees us both — 
 did you speak the truth ? Will j-ou now say 
 to me that it was delirium," 
 
 She stopped, and her eyes, which had 
 never withdrawn themselves from his, seemed 
 now to rest on him with a more imperative 
 earnestness, as though they would extort the 
 truth from him. His own eyes fell, and a 
 feeling of something like dismay took posses- 
 sion of him, as he thought of the answer 
 which she was forcing from him. 
 
 " You will not answer me," said Inez, 
 mournfully, after a long pause. 
 
 Blake drew a long breath. 
 
 '■ It is not always possible to say exactly," 
 said he, in a hesitating manner, " how much 
 of delirium '^nters into the fancies of a sick 
 man. lie was levtirish — he had uoen taking 
 powerful drugs — at that time his mind may 
 have gone altogether astray. It is hnrdly pos- 
 sible to answer your qv-'stio i ■"ositively." 
 
 "Have you thought o*" ♦';osc worda 
 since ? " 
 
 " I have, and Ins'ui'! Vi/u most solemnly 
 that I cannot attach any intclligiblo meaning 
 to them." 
 
 "In my case," said Inez, thinking of the 
 letter, " circvmstanocs have occurred which 
 give a strange and painful significance to 
 those words, though I cannot understand how 
 they can be true," 
 
 Blake said nothing, lie, too, had his own 
 reasons for attaching a painful significnnce 
 to those words, Bm; he did not wish to say 
 one word whieli ni;gl.t increase the trouble of 
 Inez. He wished, if possible, to say that 
 which migh^ riiiiovo her suspicions, ytt this 
 very thing he know not how to say, 
 
 " One more question," said Inez, " Do 
 
m 
 
 30 
 
 AN OI'EX QUESTION. 
 
 1 
 
 > :"ji 
 
 ■ 1! 
 
 I! 
 
 you now believe, in your own lieart, Dr. Blake, 
 that those words were the language of deliri- 
 um ? " 
 
 Blake's heart beat fast. lie looked at 
 Inez, and then looked away. lie knew not 
 how to answer this direet (juestion. He 
 •would have been willing to evade, or even to 
 indulge in a little mild deceit for her sake ; 
 but with those clear, sad, earnest eyes fast- 
 ened upon him, no deceit, however slight, was 
 possible. 
 
 '' You do not answer," said Inez. " Your 
 silence can have only one meaning. AVill you 
 say that you believe those words were deli- 
 rium ? " 
 
 Blake looked at her with a face full of 
 mournful deprecation. It seemed to him at 
 that moment that his inability to give the an- 
 swer which she wished, was placing between 
 them an eternal barrier, yet that answe ' was 
 one which he could not give. In his secret 
 soul he knew perfectly well that the words of 
 the dying man were sane and rational. 
 
 Silence now followed, and Blako, after 
 ■waiting some minutes, and finding that Inez 
 had notliing further to say, rose and took his 
 departure, leaving her alone with the dead. 
 
 And now im incident occurred which 
 seemed to complicate still more the extraor- 
 dinary net-work of bewildering circumstances 
 ♦''ftt V. as interweaving itself about Inez. 
 
 She was pitting by the window. I lor back 
 ■was turned toward the bed. In order to put 
 herself iu that position, she had moved the 
 chair a short distance from the place where it 
 had been standing. It was a heavy stulled 
 chair, without caster.H, and to move itre()\iired 
 some ellbrt. As she sat here, her feet ref tod 
 on the very place where the ch;\ir had origi- 
 nally stood. 
 
 As Blake retired, she leaned her head for- 
 v.ard, and, feeling wear}', she looked for somo 
 support to it. The window-ledge was at the 
 right height to give this support. Upon this 
 ■window-ledge she placed her right hand, and 
 then turned herself slightly, so as to rest her 
 forehead on this hand. As she made this 
 movement, her foot struck something that lay 
 upon the floor, and a slight clinking sound 
 arose. Thinking that it might be some orna- 
 cnt which had fallen, she stooped to pick it 
 up. 
 
 On lifting it up, she found, however, that 
 it was no ornament, but something of a far 
 different kind. 
 
 It was a crucilix, to which was attached a 
 small fragment of chain. Kaising it close to 
 the light, the very first glance filled her with 
 astonishment. 
 
 The crucifix was about three inches long. 
 It was of fjolid gold, and of the most exquisite 
 workmanship. The broken chain was also 
 of gold, and it seemed to have been snapped 
 asunder unknown to the wearer, who had 
 gone awa)', leaving it here behind him. 
 
 But who was the owner ? 
 
 Not Mr. Wy vcrne. He had nothing of the 
 kind, nor was he a man who would Lave car- 
 ried such an article on his travels. 
 
 It seemed to Inez most probable that i'.u 
 golden crucifix belonged to the priest. Tii^ 
 priest had come, but his oflice was not per- 
 formed. There may have been some agitation 
 in his mind at so sudden a call, followed by 
 so sudden a death ; and, as his thoughts were 
 occupied with this unusual event, he may not 
 have noticed the Ic-is of the crucifix. The 
 chain may havo broken by catching on some 
 projection, such as the arm of the chair, it 
 had fallen to the floor, and perhaps imder the 
 chair, where it had lain unnoticed until she 
 had moved the chair from its usual place. 
 
 In this way Inez accounted for the extraor- 
 dinary presence of the golden crucifix in this 
 chamber. But, while she was thus thinking, 
 she was gazing intently upon the elaborate 
 work, and the exquisite design of the crucifix 
 itself; and, finally, having studied one side, 
 she turned it over with the idea that the name 
 of the owner might possibly be engraved on 
 the reverse, or something else which might 
 give a clew to its ownership. The moment 
 that she turned it over, her attention was ar- 
 rested by some letters. Looking at them 
 closely, she read the following. 
 
 At the intersection of the arms of the 
 cross were these letters : 
 
 B« In* 
 
 i" Memoriam, 
 
 I. M. 
 
 On the lower part of the cross, and running 
 down its length, wore these words : 
 
 JHe Jem Ikmiiiif, 
 
 Dona ei reguievi, Amen. 
 
 As Inez looked at tho-^c letters, i ho felt 
 utterly confounded, and ' \i\<X scan r, iidJovo 
 lior own eyes. Yet the e were fl'u -• .era 
 unmistakably, (ho inhi ■■; ^liicb .'"ur a week 
 and more had filled a!i her thoughts; tho 
 
 .^^y 
 
 :.l^ 
 
THE GOLD CRUCIf'IX. 
 
 n 
 
 ■h was attaclied a 
 {aisiiig it close to 
 cc filled her with 
 
 hree inches long, 
 be most exquisite 
 t chain was also 
 ave been snapped 
 ivearer, who had 
 chind him. 
 
 ad nothing of the 
 ) would have car. 
 •avels, 
 
 )robablo thai i'.if 
 the priest. Th; 
 lice was not per- 
 ^n some agitation 
 call, followed by 
 lis thoi'ghts were 
 ■vent, ho may not 
 lie crucifix. The 
 jatching on some 
 of the chair, it 
 erhaps under the 
 loticcd until she 
 I usual place, 
 d for the extraor- 
 1 crucifix in this 
 s thus thinking, 
 in the elaborate 
 ;n of the crucifix 
 tudied one side, 
 ea that the name 
 be engraved on 
 Ife which might 
 ). The moment 
 ittcMition was «r- 
 lokiiig at them 
 
 I* 
 
 10 arms of the 
 
 ,'4 
 
 ss, ond running 
 ordu : 
 
 Irmn. 
 
 letter.'., > h-J felt 
 
 scanr, ijriicve 
 o fI'Li" !. : ,cr8 
 icl' .''or u week 
 
 thoughts; the 
 
 mysterious letters, B. M., which all that time 
 hid been present in her thoughts by day and 
 night. What did this mean ? How came the 
 crucifix iicre — this crucifix, marked with such 
 signs as these ? 
 
 That it did not and could not belong to 
 Mr. Wjverno she felt confident, as has been 
 said. She knew that he had brought no such 
 article with him. He was indifl'erent to all 
 religious matters ; and, besides, she had been 
 his nurse for a week, during which time that 
 very chair had been frequently moved. She 
 reverted then more confidently than ever to 
 her former conclusion, that it belonged to the 
 priest; and then at once aro.se the question, 
 How came this priest by any such thing as 
 this ? One wild thought instantly arose that 
 the priest himself was 13. M. The letter had 
 stated that he was in Home, on his way to 
 England. Might not this priest have been 
 the very man ? And, if so, what then ? What 
 had happened at that interview ? Had they 
 spoken together, or had Mr. Wyverne avoided 
 his dreaded enemy in a more efTieacious man- 
 ner than that which the letter had suggested, 
 and fled from him, not by a pretended death, 
 but by one that was real? Could the priest 
 bo B. M. ? If so, she might see him, and solve 
 all the mystery. 
 
 Witli ti;;s thought, she called in her maid. 
 
 "I- th'! priest here, Saunders?" asked 
 Inez 
 
 ' *h. t '. uiss ; he left long ago." 
 
 " .■!..'; i'20 ' IIow long ago ? " 
 
 "-v'l, v<ny long, miss, after — after poor 
 master." "Iter I •• was took," said Saunders, 
 hesitating . ^ i.j cfibrt to find some suitable 
 way of ::^ .diioning tiie dread subject of death. 
 
 iliis intelligence was to Inez a sad disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 " Do you know where he went ? " 
 
 "No, miss." 
 
 " Do you know his name ? " 
 
 "Nj, miss; but, if you please, miss, I'll 
 i .«ro for John Thomas. I think he knows, 
 
 " Send him to my room," said Inez. " I'm 
 \&'^'r: "uiPre." Saying this, Inez rose, wearily, 
 am! r iurncd to her own apartment. 
 
 lu n few minutes John Thomas made his 
 appearance. He was a tall footman, with 
 heavy face and irreproachable calves. He 
 bowed, and said : 
 
 "I beg parding, miss; but wos you a 
 wantin' me ? " 
 
 After which he stood with the corners of 
 his mouth drawn down, and a lugubrious 
 aspect on his face, which was maintained by 
 an occasional snuffle. 
 
 "I want to ask you about that priest," 
 said Inez. " Do you know his name ? " 
 
 " Me, miss ? No, miss ; and, wot's more, 
 there's nobody abr'ut 'ere as knows it. I alius 
 likes to know wot's goin' on, miss ; but this 
 'ere priest got ahead of me." 
 
 " Didn't he give any name i " 
 
 "Name, miss? No, mis.s. He came late 
 last night, and left early this mornin', not long 
 after the — the late mournful bereavemink, 
 miss." 
 
 At this, Inez felt utterly disheartened. 
 
 " Nobody knows hauy think about 'im 
 more'n me ; an' wot I knows hain't no more'n 
 the letters of 'is name, which I see 'em on 'is 
 valise, as 'e walked out of the hinn." 
 
 "Letters of his name!" exclaimed Inez, 
 catching at these words. " AVhat letters did 
 you see V " 
 
 "Why, miss, I felt hinquisitlve about 'im, 
 and, has I couldn't find hout 'is namo, I 
 watched 'is valise. It 'ad two letters on it, 
 painted quite big — " 
 
 " Two letters ! " said Inez, breathlessly. 
 " What wore they ? " 
 
 "The letters," said John Thomas, "wos 
 B. M." 
 
 At this confirmation of her theory, Inei 
 was too nmch overcome to make any re- 
 joinder, but sat in silence and perplexity for 
 some time. At last she looked up. 
 
 " What did he look like ? " she asked, 
 abruptly. 
 
 "The priest, miss? — raejium size, miss; 
 dark complected ; heyes black, and 'eavy 
 heyebrows ; 'is 'air, too, miss, wos a hir'n 
 gray. He looked more like a Ilitaliau than 
 a Iltnglishman, miss." 
 
 To Inez this information gave no assist- 
 ance : but she noted in he," mind the chief 
 points in this description, in case of future 
 need. 
 
 She saw Dr. Blake onco more that same 
 evening, and received from him a still more 
 minute description of the personal appearance 
 of the priest " B. M." 
 
33 
 
 AX OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 I I 
 
 CIIAPTER Vlir. 
 
 THE EnONY CASKET, AND ITS STRANGE CON- 
 TESTS. 
 
 The remaing of Ilcnnigar Wyvernc were 
 sent home for burial. 
 
 Inez and Bessie, with tlicir servant.^, left 
 for home immediately 
 
 Di'.' Blake acc( ':.n"cd them as far as 
 Boulogne. He had ' ugement what- 
 
 ever to do this. Inez ., eoccupied, and 
 
 80 buried in the depths > t^- own gloomy 
 thoughts that she seemed to be unconscious 
 of his presence. At Boulogne, therefore, he 
 bade her farewell, and stood upon the pier, 
 gazing with mournful eyes upon the steamer 
 that bore Inez away from him, until it was 
 out of sight. 
 
 Inez had not chosen — for reasons already 
 mentioned — to make a confidante of Bessie. 
 It is to be supposed, therefo j, that this young 
 lady had no idea of the peculiar troubles of 
 her friend, but attributed them, as was natu- 
 ral, to the pain of boreavement. She showed 
 the utmost delicacy in her behavior toward 
 Inez, and never sought to utter any of those 
 condolences which are so useless to assuage 
 the true grief of the heart. 81ic refrained 
 also from intruding upon the solitude of Inez 
 when she showed that she wished to be alone, 
 and merely evinced her afleclion by sundry 
 little attentions which were directed toward 
 the bodily comfort of her friend. AVliatevcr 
 Bessie's own thoughts or feelings were, tluy 
 never appeared ; nor was it certain at all 
 whether she felt wounded or slighted by the 
 reserve of one from whom she might perhaps 
 have claimed greater confidence. But Inez 
 was naturally of a reserved temper, and, even 
 if she had been the most communicative soul 
 in the world, the secret that she now had was 
 one which few would care to communicate. 
 
 In that great craving and longing to ex- 
 press her secret griefs which Inez felt, as 
 most people feel, at this time, she had re- 
 course to a simple plan, which was not with- 
 out its advantages. She wrote down the chief 
 facts of her mysterious case in her private 
 memoriindum-book, and over these words her 
 eyes used often to waniier, not merely in the 
 solitude of her own room, but even in the 
 greater publicity of rail-cars and steamboats. 
 
 What Inez wrote down was as follows ; 
 
 1. For so.tic xinltwirn cause, II. W. and 
 B. J/, were mortal enemies. 
 
 2. It seems as if II. W. was the offender, 
 and B. 31. the injured one. 
 
 3. lor this reason, perhaps, II. ]V. stood in 
 mortal terror of B. 21. 
 
 4. A third party in this case is one Kevin 
 Miu/rath.. 
 
 r>. / have been brought up as the daughter 
 
 nf II. W. 
 
 6. //. ir, on his death-bed, and with his 
 last words, has solemnly said that I am not his 
 dauffhier. 
 
 I. II. W. has said, on his death-bed, that I 
 am the daw/hler of his mortal enemy, B. M. 
 
 8. //. ]r. 1ms said, on his death-bed, that 
 Basil Blake is his son. 
 
 9. B. M. is a lioman Catholic priest. 
 
 10. How can I be the daughter of a R. C. 
 priest ? 
 
 II. B. M. was jtresent at the death-bed of 
 II. W., and saw him die. 
 
 12. If he is my father, why did he not 
 seek for me? Answer — Because he may have 
 been told that I am dead. 
 
 \^. B. Jf. dropped his crueijix. I found U. 
 
 By constantly brooding over these things, 
 which she had thus summed up that they 
 might bo always present to her eyes, Inez 
 found lierself sinking deeper and deeper into 
 an abyss of bewilderment from which no out- 
 let appeared. Tlie great question was, What 
 shall I do? and this she could not answer. 
 Her own helplessness was utter. Her posi- 
 tion was niost false and intolerable. The 
 name by which she was known was not hers. 
 Her parentage was thrown in doubt, and that 
 doubt indicated something intolerable to a 
 mind like hers. Out of all this confusion and 
 misery she had one definite purpose only, and 
 that was, to carry on the search as soon as 
 she reached home, and take the first oppor- 
 tunity that presented itself of investigating 
 the papers of Ilcnnigar Wyvcme. 
 
 To one who was so eager as she was, the 
 first opportunity would inevitably be seized. 
 Scarce had Inez set foot within her house, than 
 she began a search among those effects of the 
 ileccascd which had been sent home already. 
 Here f^he found nothing; but a greater search 
 was before her — one, too, which she had held 
 in view all along, and for which she had pre- 
 pared herself before leaving Villeneuve. This 
 was the investigation of the cabinet of Ilcn- 
 nigar Wyvernc, where she supposed he would 
 
THE EBONY CASKET, AND ITS STRANGE CONTENTS. 
 
 Muse, 11. W. and 
 
 was the offender^ 
 
 ps, JL W. stood in 
 
 s case is one Kevin 
 
 ip as the daughter 
 
 bed, and with his 
 ' thai I am not his 
 
 iln death-bed, that J 
 'al enemy, B. M, 
 his death-bed, that 
 
 'athoUc priest, 
 iavghler of a R. C. 
 
 at the death-bed of 
 
 r, v'hij did he not 
 tecause he may have 
 
 rufifix. I found U. 
 I over these things, 
 med up that they 
 to her eyes, Inez 
 per and deeper into 
 from which no out- 
 luc3tion was, What 
 couhi not answer. 
 s utter. Her posi- 
 intolcrablc. The 
 own was not hers, 
 in doubt, and that 
 ^ intolerable to a 
 this confusion and 
 purpose only, and 
 pcarch as soon a8 
 e the first oppor- 
 If of investigating 
 vvenie. 
 
 ■r as she was, the 
 vital)ly be seized, 
 thill her house, than 
 those effeets of tlie 
 ent homo already, 
 jut a greater search 
 which she had held 
 which she had pre- 
 g Villeneuve. This 
 he cabinet of Hen- 
 suppofcd he would 
 
 have been most likely to keep any thing re- 
 lating to the great mystery, if, indeed, any 
 thing at all had been kept. At Villeneuve 
 she had thought of this, and had prepared 
 for it by obtaining then, before the effeets of 
 the deceased were packed up, the keys of that 
 very cabinet. These he had carried with 
 liim, and she found them in his travelling- 
 desk. 
 
 Inez had no difficulties thrown in her way. 
 Bessie showed no inclination to interfere 
 with any of her movements. She still main- 
 tained the same delicate consideration which 
 has already been mentioned. She seemed 
 rather to wait for Inez to make the first ad- 
 vances toward their old confidence, and ven- 
 tured upon nothing more than the usual kiss 
 at meeting in the morning and parting at 
 night, and an occasional caress when the 
 mood of Inez seemed to allow it. Bessie had 
 also cultivated a pathetic expression of face, 
 which was quite in accordance with her style 
 of beadty, and made her look so very interest- 
 ing that Inez once or twice felt inclined to 
 break her resolution and confide all to her 
 friend. This, however, was but a momentary 
 impulse, which a second thought never failed 
 to destroy. 
 
 The city residence of the late Ilennigar 
 Wyverne, iiisq., was a large and handsome 
 edifice in a fashionable quarter of London. 
 Opposite the morning-room was an apartment 
 .which was called the library, but which had 
 been used by the deceased as a kind of office. 
 Books were around on three sides, while on 
 the fourth were two articles of furniture de- 
 voted rather to business than to literature or 
 learning. One of these was a closet, filled 
 • with papers all neatly labelled and lying in 
 ; pigeon-holes. The other was a massive cabi- 
 .|net, which contained the more important books 
 Igand papers. It was this last which Inez wished 
 -Imore particularly to search. 
 M To carry on such a search would require 
 ■fet'.me, and it would bo necessary to be free 
 ,^roin observation. These conditions could 
 Vi'tot be obtained by day, and night must be 
 >the time. Among the hours of the night it 
 ;:iwoiild be necessary to choose those when the 
 household would be certain to bo asleep. 
 Those hours would bo, at least, not earlier 
 than two in the morning. At that time she 
 might hope to be unnoticed, unsuspected, and 
 undisturbed. This was the time, ilien, that 
 . Inez decided upon, and she resolved to carry 
 
 her great purpose into execution on the sec- 
 ond night after her arrival. 
 
 In spite of the great necessity which she 
 felt pressing her on to this task, it was one 
 from which Inez recoiled instinctively. It 
 seemed to be a dishonorable thing. But this 
 notion was one which she reasoned herself 
 out of; and by pleading the dictates of duty 
 she silenced what was perhaps, after all, noth- 
 ing more than false sensitiveness. 
 
 It was not so easy, however, to overcome 
 that weakness of nerve and natural timidity 
 which were caused by the nature of her under- 
 taking. Sotting out thus on this midnight 
 errand, it seemed to her as though she were 
 about to commit some sin ; and it was some 
 time, even after the hour had arrived, before 
 she felt strong enough to venture down. At 
 length she rallied her sinking strength, and 
 stealthily left her room. Pausing there, she 
 stood listening. All was still. She carried a 
 wax-candle, but it was not lighted. She had 
 some matches, and could light the candle 
 when she reached the library. 
 
 Softly and stealthily she descended. There 
 was no interruption of any kind whatever. 
 She reached the library and entered, after 
 which she shut the door as softly as possible, 
 and locked it on the inside. She then took 
 her handkerchief and stuffed it into the key- 
 liole. After this she examined the windows, 
 and found that the blinds were closed. No 
 light could now betray her presence here, and 
 so she lighted her candle and looked around 
 her. 
 
 The dim light of the single flickering can- 
 dle but feebly illuminated the large and lofty 
 room. In the distance the walls and shelves 
 stood enveloped in gloomy shadows. But 
 Inez had eyes only for that cabinet which she 
 had come to explore. It was immediately in 
 front of her, and she held the keys in her 
 hand. 
 
 For a moment she hesitated. It seemed 
 to her now that the moment bad come — the 
 supreme moment when the secret would be 
 all revealed. Yet about that revelation what 
 horrors might not hang! Already one revela- 
 tion had taken place, and it had been bitter 
 indeed. AVould this be less so ? It seemed 
 to her as though about the secret of her par- 
 entage tlieie lurked endless possibilities of 
 crime, and shame, and dishonor. 
 
 But there was no time to lose. Suddenly 
 mastering her feelings, she put the key in the 
 
34 
 
 AX Ol'LN QUESTION. 
 
 lock. The bolt turned back, ^be opened 
 the door. 
 
 Belore her lay the ordinary contents of a 
 cabinet. There were account-booka standing 
 upright, and papers filed away and labelled, 
 so numerous that the sight disuouraged Inez. 
 It would take many days to look over them 
 all. But they were all labelled so carel'uliy 
 that it seemed possible for her to got a gen- 
 eral idea of most of them after all. She knelt 
 down in front of the cabinet, and, drawing up 
 a chair, she put the candle upon it. Then 
 she began to look over the papers, beginning 
 at the right-hand comer. 
 
 This task soon became very wearisome. 
 Bundle after bundle of papers revealed no 
 name that had any connection with those ini- 
 tials whoso meaning she was so eager to dis- 
 cover. Some were receipts, others letters, 
 others documents of a business nature. At 
 length she paused, and her eyes wandered dc- 
 BponJeutly over the whole assemblage of pa- 
 pers, to see if there was any thing there 
 whioh seemed by its position or appearance 
 to indicate any thing peculiar, any thing dif. 
 ferent from the monotony of the ot'-f^rs. 
 
 lu the very middle of the cabinet there was 
 a square drawer about a foot in width and 
 depth, and this seemed to Inez to be a place 
 where more important or more private docu- 
 ments might be kept. It seemed best to open 
 this at once. She had the whole bunch of keys 
 withhir, which she had obtained possession of 
 at Villcueuve, and felt sure that the key to this 
 drawer would be among them. One by one 
 she tried the keys that were on the bunch, 
 and at last found one, as she had hoped, which 
 would fit. She unlocked the drawer and 
 opened it. 
 
 One look inside showed her that at length 
 she had found one thing at least which she 
 desired — something ditferent from the general 
 assemblage of receipts, letters, and business 
 documents. 
 
 A casket lay there before her, inside the 
 drawer. It was quite small, not more than 
 six inches in length, and was made of ebony, 
 with silver comers and edges, together with 
 silver feet, and a handle of the same metal. 
 At the sight of this, she felt an uncnutrolliiblc 
 impatience to get at the secret of its contents, 
 and snatched it with eager hands out of the 
 drawer. Some letters on the silver plate of 
 tile casket, immediately underneath the han- 
 dle, attracted her attention. She held it clo.^e 
 
 to the light. The silver here was somewhat 
 tarnished, and the letters were of an antique 
 Gothic character, such as are used for inscrip. 
 tions over the doors of Ci^thedr.ll^", and at first 
 were not quite intelligible. IJut Inez rubbed 
 at the silver with her sleeve till the plate 
 grew bright, and then once more held it to 
 the candle. 
 
 The letters were now fully revealed. Iler 
 heart throbbed wildly at the sight. The let- 
 ters before her eyes were those same ones 
 which so haunted her — 
 
 B. 51. 
 
 And, now, what should she do ? Stay 
 here and examine the casket? No. She was 
 liable to discovery. She had been here long 
 enough. Better, far, to take the little casket 
 away and examine its contents in her own 
 room, at her leisure, without the terror of pos- 
 sible discovery impending over her constantly, 
 and constantly distracting her thoughts. In 
 that casket she felt must lie all that she could 
 hope to find, whatever it might be; and, if 
 this were empty, or if its contents revealed 
 nothing, then she would have to remain in her 
 ignorance. If the casket held any thing, she 
 might keep it ; if not, she might return it at 
 some future time; but, meanwhile, it was 
 best for her to take it away. 
 
 So she now closed the drawer, locked it, 
 then shut up and locked the cabinet; after 
 which she rose to her feet, and, hiding the 
 casket in the folds of her dress, she took the 
 candle and prepared to leave the room. 
 
 Before unlocking the library -door she 
 stood and listened. As she stood, she thought 
 she heard a low, breathing sound close by 
 her. Starting, in ten'or, she looked hastily 
 around. But the room was all in gloom, and 
 all empty and deserted. It seemed to her 
 that it was merely her fancy. But once more, 
 as she waited listening, she heard it even 
 more plainly. This time it seemed like a 
 suppressed cough. It was ou the other side 
 of the door. 
 
 In an instant it flashed upon her that sho 
 had been watched and followed, and that 
 some one was now outside trying to peep 
 through the keyliole. But who ? Could it be 
 some burglar, or cotild it possibly bo one of 
 the servants ? 
 
 She waited still, and listened. But there 
 was no further found. The cough had been 
 suppressed, and, if there was any one watch- 
 ing, he gave no sign now. There was some- 
 
TUB EBONY CASKET, AND ITS STRANGE CONTENTS. 
 
 35 
 
 Ls somewhat 
 f an antique 
 1 for inscrip. 
 >, and ut first 
 Inez rubbed 
 Ul the plate 
 ■e bdd it to 
 
 vealed. Her 
 ;bt. The let- 
 e same ones 
 
 ; do? Stay 
 No. She was 
 ;en here long 
 5 little casket 
 i in her own 
 terror of pos- 
 er constantly, 
 tlioughts. In 
 ib;it she could 
 t be; and, if 
 :ents revealed 
 remain in her 
 any thing, she 
 \t return it at 
 while, it was 
 
 or, locked it, 
 [ibinet; after 
 d, hiding the 
 
 she took the 
 
 room, 
 iry - door she 
 d, i^he thought 
 )uiid close by 
 ookcd hastily 
 in gloom, and 
 cmed to her 
 ut once more, 
 
 ard it even 
 cemed like a 
 the other side 
 
 n her that she 
 vcd, and that 
 ying to peep 
 Could it be 
 ilily be one of 
 
 mI. But there 
 ^h had been 
 my one watch- 
 icre was some* 
 
 thing fearful, to this deft;ncelcs3 young girl, 
 in the thought that on the other side of the 
 door might be some lurking enemy, and that 
 the moment she opened it he might spring upon 
 her ; and, for a long time, she stood in fear, 
 unable to open it. But beneath this fear there 
 was another fear of too long a delay — the fear 
 of being discovered in this place — of being 
 compe d to give up her casket before she 
 had cxumincJ its contents; and this roused 
 her to a sudden pitch of resolution. 
 
 She ren """d her handkerchief from the 
 key-hole, and inserted the key as noiselessly as 
 possible. Then turning it, she opened the 
 door, and peered tremblingly into the dark- 
 ness. She saw nothing. Slie put forth her 
 head. Nothing was revealed. Could it have 
 been, after all, a mistake ? She tried for the 
 moment to think so. She dared not blow the 
 light out just yet, however, but walked with 
 it up the stairs, and then, reaching the top, 
 she extinguished it. 
 
 It was dark all the rest of the way to her 
 room, and she hurried on as quickly and as 
 noiselessly as she could, but there was a ter- 
 rible sense of being pursued which almost 
 overcame her. When at last she reached 
 her own room, she closed her door hastily, 
 locked it, and then instantly lighted the gas, 
 whose bright flame, illuminating the whole 
 apartment, quickly drove away every vestige 
 of her recent terror. 
 
 Had she not found that casket, there is 
 no doubt that the smothered cough which 
 she had heard or imagined would iiave im- 
 pressed her much more deeply, and excited 
 within her mind some strange suspicions ; 
 liut, as it was, the casket filled all her 
 thoughts, and she had an inordinate and 
 irresistible longing to open it at once. 
 
 Once more she searched among the keys. 
 One there was, the smallest in the bunch, of 
 very peculiar shape, which, seemed cxact^ 
 adapted to that casket. She tried this one 
 first of all. It was the right one ! She 
 turned it. The casket was unlocked. 
 
 Ilor heart was now throbbing most vehe- 
 mently, and for a moment she delayed before 
 lifting the lid, fearful of ilie result of this 
 search. At length, however, the momentary 
 hesitation passed; she laid her hand on the 
 lid and raised it. 
 
 The casket was there, open before her 
 t>yes. 
 
 Inside of this there was a parcel. On the 
 
 outside of this parcel were written these 
 words : 
 
 "Mv Darlings." 
 
 Inez opened the parcel, with hands trem- 
 bling no»v in this supreme moment of excite- 
 ment, and the contents soon lay revealed. 
 
 What it contained was a locket made of 
 gold, of most exquisite design and finish, 
 around the edges of which was a row of 
 brilliants. This locket was about two inches 
 in length, and somewhat less in width. Its 
 shape was oval. It was constructed so as to 
 open in three places, and on the edge thero 
 were three springs. By pressing the spring 
 on the right, the side of the locket flew 
 open ; the left spring opened the left side of 
 the locket ; and the middle spring opened 
 the locket in the middle. 
 
 Each one of these openings disclosed a 
 miniature portrait, exquisitely painted on 
 ivor)'. One of these represented a lady, the 
 second a girl of about twelve years of age, 
 the third a child. Under each portrait was a 
 tablet, on which was engraved some letters. 
 Under the lady's was the name " Inez ; " un- 
 der the girl's was the name "Clara;" and 
 under the child's was the name " Inez." 
 
 As Inez opened these and looked at them 
 one by one, her heart beat so fast and her 
 hands trembled so violently, that she had to 
 lay the locket down. She gasped for breath. 
 She buried her face in her hands and wept. 
 These tears brought relief, and, once more 
 taking up the loeket, she looked at the por- 
 traits through her tears. 
 
 She looked at those portraits, and there 
 arose within her feelings mysterious, un- 
 speakable, unutterable. They seemed like 
 dreams — those faces. Where in her life had 
 she seen the lovely face of that lady who 
 smiled on her there out of that portrait so 
 sweetly V Where had she ever seen the face 
 of that beautiful girl Clara, whose deep, dark 
 eyes were now fixed on her ? And who was 
 that child Inez ? Who ? Could the thought 
 that was iu her mind be true ? Dare she en- 
 tertain such a fancy ? Uud she herself ever 
 been one of those three ? Could it be that 
 she herself had ever, in far-off days, been the 
 original of that beautiful child-portrait that 
 now met her eyes — smiling in itc innocent 
 happiness? Was that her sister ? Was that 
 her mother? Was it possible that this which 
 was iu her mind could be any thing else than 
 a feverish, a dciiriuus fancy — a fancy brought 
 
I 
 
 N I 
 
 li 
 
 86 
 
 AS OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 out of the workings of that brain which of 
 late had been so intensely and bo unremit- 
 tingly active ? 
 
 No ; the faces were not unfamiliar. These 
 ■were not the faces of strangers. Inez ! 
 Clara ! Inez ! 
 
 Hitherto her eyes had been fascinated by 
 the portraits, but now they caught sight of 
 something else at the bottom of the casket. 
 It was a piece of paper folded like a letter. 
 
 She took it up. It was a letter. It bore 
 the address : 
 
 "IIesxigar Wtverse, Esq., 
 
 "Zondon." 
 
 It was a fine, bold hand, and resembled 
 the same one in which the words were writ- 
 ten which Inez had seen on the parcel. On 
 opening it she read the following : 
 
 "My PEAK ITexnioak — Will you have the 
 i-indiicss to keep this casket for me until I send 
 for itf It contains their miniatures, which, 
 after some deliberation, I have concludid not to 
 take with me. Ever ycnirs, 
 
 " Beuxal MounACNT." 
 
 Bernal Moi ilaunt ! 
 
 Inez read that name over a hundred times. 
 This was the meaning of the initials, then. 
 And Mordaunt ! AVhy, that was Bessie's 
 name. What was the meaning of that ? 
 Did Bessie know, after all ? Had she all 
 along been acquainted with all this ? Could 
 it be possible that Bessie had known that 
 secrot which she tried so hard to conceal 
 from her? She had been in the habit of 
 regarding Bessie all along as a sort of human 
 butterfly, but she began to think that Miss 
 Mordaunt might have a far deeper nature 
 than she had ever imagined. 
 
 For hours Inez sat up, thinking over this, 
 ■without being able to understand it. At last, 
 however, her exhausted nature gave out, and 
 she retired to bed. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A CURIOUS FANCY. 
 
 Blake watched the steamer until it was 
 out of sight, and then turned sadly away. 
 The great change that had come over Inez 
 disheartened him, for, altho\igli ho was aware 
 of the cause, he was not prepared for such a 
 
 result. It seemed to him now as though this 
 separation was an eternal one, and the star- 
 tling revelation which had been made by the 
 dying 'Wyverne, while it filled him with 
 amazement, seemed also to fix between him 
 and Inez, for all the future, a deep and im- 
 passable gulf. His present residence was 
 Paris, and he returned there on the follow- 
 ing day. 
 
 Arriving there, he spent some time in his 
 rooms, after which he went forth in the di- 
 rection of the Quartier Latin. Here he en- 
 tered a house, and, going up to the second 
 story, knocked at the door of a room in the 
 rear of the building. 
 
 " Come in," said a deep-bass voice. 
 
 Blake entered thereupon, saying : " Hell- 
 muth, old fellow, how are you ? " 
 
 At this, a man started up, letting a pipe 
 fall from his moulh to the lioor, and upset- 
 ting a chair as he did so. 
 
 " Blake ! " he cried. " By Heaven, Blake I 
 Is this really you ? AS'elcome back again ! " 
 
 And, with these words, he stiode over tow- 
 ard his vi-sitor, and wrung his hand heart- 
 ily. 
 
 Pr. Blake's fiiend ■was a man of very 
 peculiar physiognomy. He was a tall man, 
 broad - shouldered, deep -chested, and largo- 
 limbed. His hair was short, his beard was 
 cropped quiio close, and a heavy though 
 rather ragged mustache, with loiig points de- 
 pending downward, overshadowed his mouth. 
 Hair and beard were grizzled with plentiful 
 gray hairs, which gave an air of grinmcss to 
 his face. His brow was deeply wrinkled, his 
 eyes were deep set, and gray and piercing. 
 His nose was aquiline, and he had a trick of 
 stroking it with the forefinger of his left hand 
 whenever he was involved in thoughts of a 
 graver kind than usual. It was an austere 
 face, a stern face, yet a sad one, and one, too, 
 which was not without a Certain charm of its 
 own ; and there were many who could bear 
 testimony to the warm human licart that 
 throbbed beneath the sombre exterior of Kane 
 Hellmuth. 
 
 The room was a large one, and abedroom ad- 
 joined it, but both were furnished in the most 
 meagre manner. The floor was of red tiles. 
 There was a sofa and an arm-chair. A plain 
 deal table stood in the centre. Upon this 
 was a tumbler and a bottle, a tobacco-box, 
 and several pipes, 
 
 lilake flung himself on the so*"- .nd Kane 
 
4 
 
 as though this 
 c, and the stnr- 
 cii made by the 
 llfd him witli 
 ix brtwceii him 
 1 deep and iiii- 
 rcsideiice was 
 ou the follo\Y- 
 
 omc time in liis 
 lortli in the di- 
 1. Here he cn- 
 1 to the second 
 f a room iu the 
 
 ' Hell- 
 
 iss voice, 
 saying : 
 
 9" 
 
 p, lcttin<T a pipe 
 lloor, and upset- 
 
 Heaven, Blake! 
 D back again ! " 
 
 fiti'ode over tow- 
 hi.s liand hcart- 
 
 a man of very 
 was a tall man, 
 'sted, and largo- 
 t, his beard was 
 a heavy though 
 \i huig points de- 
 lowed his mouth. 
 :d with plentiful 
 r of grinmess to 
 ply wiiiiklcd, his 
 ay and piercing. 
 lie had a trick of 
 r of his left liand 
 in thoughts of a 
 t was an austere 
 )ne, and one, too, 
 tain charm of its 
 
 who could bear 
 mian heart that 
 I exterior of Kane 
 
 and a bedroom ad- 
 lished in the most 
 was of red tiles, 
 n-ehair. A plaia 
 litre. Upon this 
 L>, a tobacco-box, 
 
 le so*": ,.nd Kane 
 
 J 
 
!i I' 
 
 !' l: 
 
 I, 
 
 ■I 
 
 ■' 
 
 I 
 
'W 
 
 A CURIOUS FANCY. 
 
 87 
 
 Ilcllmuth picked up tlio chair, and seated 
 Liinsclf on it aguin, 
 
 " YouVo been gone a long time, Blake," 
 said bo, stooping to pick up his pipe, and 
 filling it again as he spoke. " I began to 
 think that you had emigrated altogether from 
 the capital of civilization, to saw the bonca 
 of outside barbarians." 
 
 " Oh, I've been rusticating a little," said 
 Blake, indifTereutly, " and doing a little in the 
 way of business. I've been last in Switzer- 
 land — I'll give an account of myself, some 
 time. And what have you been doing with 
 yourself? " 
 
 " Won't you take something? " said Hell- 
 muth, without noticing Blake's last remark. 
 "I've some cognac here." 
 
 " Cognac 1 what ! you with cognac ? " said 
 Blake, in evident surprise. 
 
 " Yes," said Ucllmuth. "I've had to come 
 to it." 
 
 Saying tliis, ho rose from his chnir, and 
 going to a closet he produced u tumbler, 
 which he gravely placed on the table. 
 
 " Take some," said he. 
 
 Blake poured out a little. Uellmuth 
 poured out half a tumblerful, and gulped it 
 down. 
 
 " You'd bettor smoke," said lie. 
 
 " I think I shall," said Blake, and, produ- 
 cing a meerschaum from his pocket, he filled 
 uud lighted it. Ilellrauth lighted his also, 
 and soon the room began to grow somewhat 
 cloudy. Silence now followed for some time, 
 which may have been owing to the occupa- 
 tion afforded by the process of smoking, or 
 may have been caused by preoccupation of 
 mind on the part of both of them. 
 
 Kane Uellmuth, however, seemed more 
 absorbed in his jwn thoughts than Blake. 
 He stretched out his great, long legs, leaned 
 b.ack his head, and, with eyes half closed, 
 puffed forth great volumes of smoke toward 
 the ceiling. Blake lounged on the sofa, occa- 
 sionally watching the form of the other 
 us it loomed through the gathering smoke- 
 clouds, lie seemed on the point of speaking 
 several times, but each time he cheeked him- 
 self. 
 
 The silence was at length broken by Kane 
 Uellmuth. 
 
 " Blake," said he, suddenly — and, as he 
 said this, he sat upright and rigid, fixing his 
 piercing gray eyes on his friend. 
 
 "Well," said Blake, unconsciously rising 
 
 out of his lounging position, and looking up 
 in some surprise. 
 
 " Do you believe in ghosts ? " 
 
 "Ghosts," repeated Blake — " believe in 
 ghosts ? What a question ! Why, man, what 
 do you mean ?" 
 
 " I mean this : do you believe in ghosts ? " 
 
 "Why — I believe in — apparitions, of 
 course — that is — you know — I believe that in 
 certain abnormal conditions of the optio 
 nerve — " 
 
 " Oh, of course — of course," interrupted 
 Kane Uellmuth, with a wave of his hand. " I 
 know all that — every word of it. All jargon 
 — nothing but words. That is the case 
 wherever science deals with the soul. I need 
 not have asked you such a question. You'ro 
 a materialist, and you believe nothing but 
 what can be proved by experiment. I once 
 had the same belief. But let me tell you, my 
 dear boy, your materialism is only good for 
 the daylight and the sunshine. Wait ti'J it 
 is all dark — outside and inside, for mind and 
 body — and then see what becomes of your 
 materialism. It goes to the dogs." 
 
 "Teihap^ so," said Blake; "but, at any 
 rate, science can have nothing to do with fan- 
 cies. It is built up out of actual facts. Sci- 
 ence is not poetry or superstition. It is the 
 truth, whether pleasant or unpleasant. For 
 my part, I am a scientific man, and nothing 
 concerns me that cannot be proved." 
 
 " Well," said Kane Hellmuth, " we need 
 not argue. I might say that science is in ita 
 infancy, and can decide nothing ; that there 
 are things as far out of its reach aa the 
 heaven is beyond the earth, but what's tb<' 
 use? I come back to myself. I'm glad yoiri'o 
 here, Blake. I've got an infernal load on my 
 mind, and I want to tell it to somebody, if 
 it's only for the relief that one feels after a 
 clean confession." 
 
 Kane llellmuth drew a long breath, laid 
 his pipe on the table, and, turning his eyes 
 toward where Blake was sitting, sat for some 
 moments in silence, staring intently before 
 him. It was not at Blake that he was look- 
 ing, but at vacancy; and his thoughts were 
 far away from the scene immediately be- 
 fore him. Blake did not interrupt him, 
 but sat watching hiin, waiting for him to 
 speak. 
 
 At last Kane Hellm'xth broke the silence. 
 Ills voice was harsh, and he spoke with sol- 
 emn and impressive emphasis. 
 
rr 
 
 AN' OPEV QUESTION'. 
 
 " Iltiiko,'' saiil lie, k1ow1\, " I'm a lianiilcd 
 man 1'' 
 
 At this cxtmordirmry reinnvk ni:\ko'.s fii'sU 
 impulse was to linif;li, but tliero nn^ sonio- 
 thing in the oxprrssioii of Kiinn llclliimtli's 
 face which cheeked tlie rising levity. 
 
 " The eirciimstnnccs nre so extraordinary," 
 murraiircd IlcUituith, aH tlK)iij;h snliloqiu/ing, 
 "and it has been repeated so often that it 
 cannot bo explained on th'^ -round of fancy, 
 or of liallucination. Y'jU see, an hallucination 
 generally arises out of a surrt.unding of ex- 
 citing circumstanecp, and is always accom- 
 panied by some degree of mystery, unless, of 
 course, as you said a little while ago, the optic 
 nerve is immediately all'eetcd ; but, mind you, 
 my boy, you take . thoroughly healthy man — 
 a man of iron nerve, elciir hea<l, practical 
 xniiul, strong body — put Ihat man in a pidilio 
 street, or in a railway-train, or in the midst 
 of his daily duties, and say would it be pos- 
 glble for such a man to be subject to an hal- 
 lucination, and to experience it, not oncn but 
 four several times, and in such away that the 
 form presented before his eyes was most cer- 
 tainly no mere apparition, but a renl exist- 
 ence ? " 
 
 Kane Tlellmulh had been looking a^ llin 
 floor as 1) > spoke, and, on finislui:^. raised 
 his eyes with earnest and solemn inquiry to 
 Blake. 
 
 Blake made no an=wer. ITo was not pre- 
 pared to form ary reply. 
 
 Kane Flellmuth was puttint; his ease very 
 strongly, but Blake's ignorance of all the cir- 
 cumstances forced him to wait till he should 
 hear more. 
 
 " As to the face," continued Ilellmuth, 
 onoo more lowering his eyes, and falling into 
 his soliloquizing tone, " there is no possibility 
 of mistaking it. I. can belong to one, and to 
 one only. The features, the eyes, the expres- 
 sion, could by no possibility belong to any 
 other. Yet bow this can be, and why it can 
 bo, I cannot comprehend." 
 
 " What is the form that is commonly as- 
 pnmcd by this — this — ah — appearance that 
 you speak of?" asked Blake, as Kane Ilell- 
 muth again paused. " Is there only one ap- 
 parition, with only one shape, or are there 
 eevcral, with something in common?" 
 
 " There is onl< one," said Kane Ilellmuth, 
 solemnly. " It is always the same featurc^, 
 form, and dross." 
 
 "Would you have any objection to tell 
 
 what it is like ? Is it a man, or a woman, or 
 a cinld, for instance 1 " 
 
 " It is a woman," said Kano Ilellmuth. 
 "She is always dre.''S(d an a nun. The face 
 i? always ilie same, and bears one unehangofl 
 expi-cssion." 
 
 " A nun ! " said Blake. " Tliat would bo 
 a black dress. I'ardon nie if I allude to spec- 
 tral illusKjns, but have um ever investigale<l 
 the subject of colors «iih regard to optical 
 deluifions, and do you know how black would 
 alfvCt such illusions f " 
 
 " I have not." 
 
 "Nor have I. 1 thought, perhaps, that 
 the suggestion n>i|;ht bo worth sometiiing." 
 
 "No," said Kano Ilellmuth, "it is worth 
 nnlhing in thi^ ease, for, after all, th(! dress 
 is the least iiuportant part of this visitor of 
 ndiie. It is tlic face — the face, the features, 
 the look, above all, the eyes, that fix them- 
 selves upon mc, and seem to penetrate to my 
 inmost soul." 
 
 " Is this face tint you speak of at '.1 fa- 
 miliar — that is to say, does it look like any 
 face with which you have formerly been ac- 
 quainted, or is it some perfectly strange 
 one ? " 
 
 " Familiar ?" exelaimod Kaae Ilellmuth. 
 "It is oe.ly too familiar. It is the face of 
 one who has been associated with the biight- 
 est and the darkest moments of my life — one 
 who was more to me than all the world, and 
 whose memory is ftill dearer to me than all 
 other thoughts. Years ago I lost her, and 
 that loss broke up all my life. I never think 
 it worth while, Blake, to talk about so unim- 
 portant a subject as myself; but I may re- 
 mark Ihat I was once a very different man 
 from what I now am, and occupied a very dil- 
 fcrcnt position. She was with mo in that oUl 
 life ; but, when she died, I died, too. I am 
 virtually a dead mnn, and it seems that I hold 
 communion with the dead." 
 
 To Blako this strange discourse seemed 
 like the ravings of incipient insanity. It was 
 unusu.ll in Kano Ilellmuth, who had all along, 
 ever since Blako had known him, been distin- 
 guished for his perfect clear-headedness and 
 dry, practical nature. Yet now it seemed as 
 though beneath all this there was some lurk- 
 ing tendency to insanity, and that Kane IIoll- 
 muth's strong intelleet was giving way. His 
 strange language, and his fancy that the dead 
 had appeared to him, togei ler with his evi- 
 dent liability to '-pcctral • hisions, all awak- 
 
 /I 
 
 I 
 
A CURIOUS FANCY". 
 
 ui' a wonian, or 
 
 lino ll(;l1muth. 
 mm. 'I'bo face 
 one unilmiigc'fl 
 
 Tliat would bo 
 
 allude to ppcc- 
 
 icr invosligiitcd 
 
 ;ai(l to optical 
 
 )\v bind; >vouliJ 
 
 , p(M'liii]-s, that 
 soiriclhin|r." 
 !i, " it Is worth 
 •r iill, th(! drr.=<4 
 ' this visitor of 
 .0, tlio features, 
 tliat lix tluni- 
 5rnctiftle to my 
 
 ak of nt '.l fa- 
 look like any 
 •merly bcrii ac- 
 rfcctly strange 
 
 [ane IloUmutli. 
 is tlio face of 
 vilh the biiglit- 
 )f my life — one 
 the world, and 
 to mc than all 
 I lost licr, and 
 I never think 
 abont so mum- 
 but I may rc- 
 ■ different man 
 pied a very dif- 
 mo in that oUl 
 cd, too. I am 
 ems that, I hold 
 
 ;cour«:o seemed 
 siinity. It was 
 bail all along, 
 m, been distin- 
 icadcduess and 
 V it seemed aa 
 vas some lurk- 
 hat Kane Hell- 
 ring wiiy. His 
 J tliat the dead 
 r with his cvi- 
 ions, all awak- 
 
 ened new feoUnjss in I'dake'^i mind, and he 
 now felt anxious to learn what his friend be- 
 lieved had appeared to him, so aa to »eo tho 
 direction which Ium wnnderinq finey or his 
 disease might be taking. It was a friendly 
 eynipathy with such an affliction, and an 
 earnest desire to bo of some service. 
 
 " Yes," continucil Ilellniuth, in tho same 
 strain, " I died oneo. V/o died together, at 
 tho sumo time. I am nciv dead, in law, in 
 reality, virtually dead — a dead man ! And it 
 is because I am still moving about among 
 living men, I daro say, tliat slifi comes to me 
 now to warn nie. Last night's appearance 
 showed that things were coming to a climax." 
 
 " f-ast night ? " asked lilake. " You saw 
 this as recently as lust night, did you ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Hellmutii, " for that matter I 
 sec it now — that is to say, I have so vivid a 
 memory of it that by shutting my eyes noiv I 
 can reproduce it." 
 
 " How tinny times have you seen it alto- 
 gether ? " 
 
 " Fi)ur times." 
 
 " How long is it since you first saw it ? '' 
 
 " .Vbiiut two years ago." 
 
 " Have you any objection to tell mo tho 
 kind of appe;iranee which presented itself 
 each time, and tho circumstances under which 
 you s^w it? " 
 
 "Objections? certainly not; I am anxious 
 to tell you exactly how it was in each case." 
 
 Ilellmuth drew a long breath, and was si- 
 lent for a few moments. Ho then continued : 
 
 " 1 cunio to Paris about two years ago. 
 Not long after my arrival hero I went to 
 Nolrc-Dame. I went to hear Pero Ilyacinthe. 
 I was a great admirer of his. There was an 
 immense crowd there, as usual. I was in tho 
 miilst of it when it parted to make way for a 
 procession. At that moment I saw, straight 
 in front of me, just across tho space made 
 for the procession, not more than six feet 
 away, tho figure of a nun ! Sho was clothed 
 in black from head to foot. Iler flico was 
 turned to rac, and her eyes were fixed on 
 mine with a burning intensity of gaze that 
 penelrated to my inmost soul. The face was 
 full of unutterable sadness and mournfulness, 
 and there was also in it a deep and overpow- 
 ering reproachfulncss. I cannot describe it 
 at all. There, however, was this black nun 
 with the pale face of death opposite me, with- 
 in reach, standing there, motionless ns a 
 statue, with her eyes, full of a terrible fa.-cina- 
 
 tion, filed on mine. It waH the figure, tho 
 fnoe, the look, tlio eyes, the attitude, ami tho 
 expression of my dead wife ! " 
 
 Kane Ilellmuth looked at Blake with a 
 gaxe that seemed to search out tlie thoughts 
 of the other, and again paused for a few tno- 
 mcntH. 
 
 " Well," ho resumed, " I need not enlarge 
 on my own feelings. Words are useless. I 
 will only say that this figure thus stood, mo- 
 tionless, looking at me, and I stood, motion- 
 less, looking at her, across this space that 
 seemed to have opened on puqioso to disclose 
 her to me ; and the time seemed long, yet it 
 could not have been longer than was neces- 
 sary to allow the procession to come six feet 
 or so. Tho procession rr^ \ cd on, and, in tho 
 smoke of incense, and Uio confusion of tho 
 crowd, the figure was lost to sight. After 
 the procession had passed, I looked overj"- 
 where, but saw nothing more of it. 
 
 " I must say that I was very much upset 
 by this ; but the habit of scientifio thought 
 came to my aid, and I accounted foi it in 
 various wnys-auch ways as you would sug- 
 gest to explain away what you consider the 
 fancies of a disordered brain. Still, I knew 
 perfectly vrell that my brain was not in the 
 slightest degree disordered, and so I fell back, 
 or tried to fall back, upon the theory that it 
 was some chance resemblance that had so 
 affected me. Various things affected my be- 
 lief ir this ; but, nevertheless, it seemed the 
 only terrible one, but the impression produced 
 on me was deep, and seemed likely to be last- 
 ing. 
 
 " Well, several months passed away, and 
 at length I had occasion to take a run over 
 to England. It was early morning. The 
 train in which I was had gone about ten 
 miles, and reached a small station, the name 
 of which I forget. Another train was stop- 
 ping there, and, just as wo came in, it was 
 beginning to move out. I was sitting on the 
 side next to the other train, carelessly look- 
 ing out of tho window. I was facing the en- 
 gine, so that the other train moved toward 
 me, and thus I ilirc^w my eyes over the pas- 
 sengers as they passed by. Suddenly my 
 gaze was riveted by a face which was turned 
 toward me. It was on the other train. Tt 
 was a nun — the same nun — the same face, 
 the same look, tho same expression, the same 
 eyes ; and they fastened themselves on mine 
 with the same burning intensity of gaze which 
 
40 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION, 
 
 :! 
 
 I had noticed at Notre-Dame. At this sec- 
 ond meeting I felt even more overwhelmed 
 than on the first occasion. Again the time 
 seemed very long in which those eyes held 
 mine in the spell of their terrible fascination ; 
 yet it could not have lasted longer than the 
 brief moment that was requisite for the other 
 train to pass us. 
 
 "After this second visitation, I confess 
 I felt more bewildered than ever. I gave up 
 ray journey to England, and, quitting the 
 train at Amiens, I came back here. If the 
 first sight of this nun figure bad been un- 
 accountable, this second one was even more 
 so. Several months mure now passed away, 
 and I can only say that I remained in a state 
 of perfect bewilderment as to the cause of the 
 two appearances which I have described. I 
 began now .'o think that, since I bad seen it 
 twice, I might see it again, and was conscious 
 of an uneasy otate of mind, in which I folt 
 myself to bo constantly on the lookout. 
 Thus far it had appeared in the midst of 
 crowds, and by daylight ; the next time it 
 carae it might appear in solitude, and amid 
 the darkness. The thought was not a pleas- 
 ant one, and yet I cannot say that I felt ex- 
 actly afraid. It was more awe than fear, to- 
 gether with a decided reluctance to be sub- 
 jected to any further visitation. 
 
 " At length it came again. It was during 
 the ]a.at fete NapoUon. It was a little after 
 nine in the ever Ing. I was seated in front 
 of th" f'-fe Vigny, on the Boulevard de la 
 Madeleine. I was smolring, and indolently 
 watching the crowd of people that streamed 
 by, and listening to the confused murmur of 
 idle chat or noisy altercation that rose all 
 around me. The crowd was immense ; ard 
 the passl ig forms, the rolling carriages, the 
 noise, tumult, music, and laughter, all served 
 to draw my mind out of certtin thoughts over 
 which it had been brooding somewhnt too 
 much. 
 
 " It was at this moment, and in this place, 
 then, sitting there smoking, amid the sur- 
 roundings of cvery-day life, and the flare of 
 prosaic gas-lights, thst I saw it apain. It 
 passed along the edge of the sidewalk. I 
 was looking toward the othei side of the 
 street when It gl'ded into oiglit. It moved 
 slowly along with a solemn stop ; and, as it 
 moved, it turned its face and fixed its eyes 
 full upon me. Jt was the same figure — the 
 black nun's dress — and the same look, inex- 
 
 pressibly sad, despairing, and reproachful. 
 It did not stop, but moved along, and was 
 gradually lost in the crowd. 
 
 "There was something about its glance 
 that thrilled through me, and seemed to take 
 away all my strength. I felt as before — pet- 
 rified. I longed to advance toward it, and 
 find out for myself whether this shape was 
 corporeal or incorporeal. I could not. Even 
 after it harl passed I felt unable to move for 
 some time. When at length I was able to 
 rise from my seat, I went off after it in the 
 direction which it had taken, but I could not 
 find out any thing whatever about it, cr sec 
 any figure whatever that bore the slightest re- 
 semblance to it." 
 
 K.ane Ilellmutli fixed his eyes more sol- 
 emnly than ever on Blake, and, after a siiort 
 sUence, continued : 
 
 "Last night I saw it once more. But 
 there are certain circumstances connected 
 with this fourth meeting which cannot be en- 
 teliigible to you without further explanation. 
 I think I shall have to trouble you with an 
 accoun of my past to some extent, if you 
 care to listen, and don't feel bored already." 
 
 " My dear old boy," said Blake, earnestly, 
 "I shall fe-l only too glad to get the confi- 
 dence of a mar. like you." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 TP.ifi ?•»■... I. DBAOGHT. 
 
 Blake d.*ew himself nearer to his friend, 
 in the inl'nsity of the curiosity that was by 
 this time awakened within him. Kane Ilell- 
 rautl' iose ;o his feet, poured out a glass of 
 rav cognac, drank it down, and then, resum- 
 ing 111: spnt, ho sat erect, with his eyes fiy.el 
 on vacancy. 
 
 "Wlien I say," began Ku. e Ile'imuth, 
 " that I nm at this moment a dtad man, and 
 that I died ten years ago, you think, of 
 (•rursc, cither that I am using figurative Ian- 
 f.uage, or else that I am showing signs of in- 
 3anity. Neither of these is the case, how- 
 ever. When you hear what I have to say, 
 you will perceive that these words are true, 
 and actually describe my present con>"ition. 
 
 "It is a little more than ten years ago 
 that I was married. My wife was an English 
 pirl. She was at a peniionnai in this city, 
 (jirls in this country are seldom allowed any 
 
 m: 
 
nd reproachful, 
 along, and was 
 
 bout its glance 
 Bcemed to take 
 as before — pct- 
 toward it, and 
 this shape was 
 30uld not. Even 
 able to move for 
 
 1 I was able to 
 f after it in the 
 
 but I could not 
 about it, or see 
 
 2 the slightest re- 
 
 3 eyes more sol- 
 nd, after a short 
 
 once more. But 
 ,ancf;8 connected 
 ch cannot be en- 
 ther explanation, 
 ible you with an 
 le extent, if you 
 bored already." 
 Blake, earnestly, 
 I to get the confi. 
 
 X. 
 
 .CGHT. 
 
 irer to his friend, 
 iosity that was by 
 him. Kane Ilell- 
 !d out a glass of 
 , and then, resum- 
 ffith his eyes &Tci 
 
 I K.. Ue'lmuth, 
 a dtad man, and 
 ;o, you think, of 
 ing figurative Ian- 
 owing signs of in- 
 is the case, how- 
 lat I have to say, 
 36 words are true, 
 irescnt cont'ition. 
 han ten years ago 
 rife was an English 
 onnat in this city, 
 ■eldom allowed any 
 
 (r> 
 
r '! i 
 
 ii; I 
 
 I 
 
 
"&■ 
 
 THE FATAL DRAUGHT. 
 
 41 
 
 liberty before marriage ; but she was an Eng- 
 lish girl, and for that reason, perhaps, was 
 allowed a fur greater degree of freedom than 
 would otherwise hare been possible. I be- 
 cumo acquainted with her through the me- 
 dium of an English family — people, by-tlie- 
 way, whom I thought very singular associates 
 for one liko her. She was about seventeen, 
 fair, fragile, innocent as an angel. The first 
 time that I saw her, I loved her most pas- 
 sionately. I was able to see her frequently, 
 and at length induced her to marry me. 
 
 " I had nothing whatever to marry on. I 
 was at that time a mad spendthrift ; and, 
 though I began life with a handsome allow- 
 ance as second son, I soon spent it all, and 
 had plunged head over heels in debt. Ify 
 father paid my debts once, and died soon 
 after. My elder brother would do nothing 
 for mo, and so I soon found myself in a des- 
 perate position. I had to leave England, and 
 come here. Here my bad habits followed me, 
 and I soon found myself involved as heavily 
 as ever. It was under these circumstances 
 that I had the madness to get married, and 
 drag another down into the abyss in which I 
 was. 
 
 " She was an orphan. She had lost her 
 mother four years before. Her father was 
 broken-hearted, and left the country. She 
 heard of his death soon after. She had been 
 at this boarding-school ever since. She had 
 a guardian. There had been a sister in her 
 family, a mere child, who had also died. 
 Thus she was alono in the world, and under 
 the authority of a guardian whom she had 
 never seen but once, and who took not the 
 slightest interest in her. She had no future 
 before her, and loved me as passionately as I 
 loved her, and was therefore quite willing to 
 be mine. 
 
 " Well, I had a little money about me, 
 and with this I started on a bridal tour. AVe 
 went to Italy, and spent three months there 
 — three months of perfect happinrss — three 
 months which, in so miserable a life as mine 
 has been, seem now like a heaven of bliss, as 
 I look back. I drove away all thoughts of 
 ray circumstances. I gave myself up alto- 
 gether to the joy of the present. I would 
 not let the cares of the future interfere for 
 one moment with the happiness which I had 
 with her. I knew that there would have to 
 be an end, but waited till the end should 
 come. 
 
 " At length, the beginning of the end ap. 
 proached, and I began to see the necessity 
 of exertion of some sort. I had already 
 written to the guardian, acquainting him with 
 the marriage. I now wrote to him a second 
 time. He had taken no notice whatever of 
 the first letter, which excited my suspicions 
 that he was inclined to be severe on us. I 
 had an idea, however, that he might have 
 some property belonging to my wife, and 
 wished to know what there was to rely on. 
 
 " Paris was not a very pleasant place for 
 one in my circumstances, nor was it safe for 
 me to go there ; but I risked all, and went 
 there, expecting that the guardian would 
 prove amiable, and trusting to the chapter 
 of accidents. While I was about it, I wrote 
 also to my elder brother, telling him that I 
 was nir-KJed, that I intended to lead a new 
 life, and asking him to use his iuliuence to 
 get me some office. 
 
 "I got my brother's answer first. He 
 Iiad always felt a grudge against me, because 
 my father had once paid my debts. It seemed 
 as though so much hud been taken from him. 
 1 never knew bcfori> nhat an avaricious and 
 cold-hearted nature had. If I had known 
 it, I would not have written. His letter was 
 perfectly devilish. He sneered at my mar- 
 riage, and lamented that his cirei. instances 
 would not allow him to do the same, remind- 
 ed me of all my shortcomings, threw ui the 
 old grudge about my debts, and told me that 
 with my talents I should have won a rich 
 wife. Such was his letter. It prepared me 
 for worse things, and these soon came to 
 pass. 
 
 " On my arrival at Paris, my creditors all 
 assailed me, of course. I went to seo the 
 chief ones, and gave them to understand that 
 my wife had money, and that, when I could 
 come to terms with her guardian, I would 
 settle every thing. The thing seemed plausi- 
 ble to them, and they consented to wait. It 
 was a lie, of course ; but, when a man is hi 
 debt, there is no lie which he will not tell to 
 fight off his creditors. The course of a fail- 
 ing merchant, or a gentleman going to ruin, 
 is generally one prolonged lie. 
 
 "At length, wearied with waiting, I wrote 
 once more to the guardian, telling him that, 
 if I did not hear from him, I would bring my 
 wife, visit him in person, and force him to 
 render an account of her affairs. 
 
 " This time I got an answer ; it was not 
 
!l 
 
 Mr 
 
 ' 
 
 
 42 
 
 AX OPEN QUESTIOX. 
 
 very lonp. lie said that ny wife had no 
 fortune at all for which to render an account, 
 that she had been naaintained at his expense 
 thus far, and lie had hoped that Bhe would do 
 far better for Iierstlf than she had done. Her 
 marriage witliout his consent, ho declared, 
 had destroyed all claims that she might hare 
 on his consideration. Ho cast her off, and 
 thought it but just that the man who had 
 stolen her should support hn In answer to 
 my threat about coming in person, he merely 
 remarlied that for one in ray position England 
 ■would hardly be a desirable place to visit. 
 
 " 111 news soon spreads. This break-up 
 of my last hope became gradually known. 
 It may have been gathered from my own 
 wofds or manner ; but, whatever the cause 
 was, it was certainly foun<l out, and I soon 
 began to feci the efl'ects of it. Tiic crowd of 
 clamorous and hungry creditors gathered 
 thick around me, and ruin, utter and abso- 
 lute, was inevitable. I had no more money ; 
 I could not even fly, for I was watched, and 
 could not buy my tickets. I owed my land- 
 lord, who also was as clamorous as the rest. 
 One day more, and I should be thrown into 
 prison, with no hope of escape. I should be 
 torn from my wife forever. And slie — what 
 would become of her? She whom I had 
 guarded so tenderly — she who had never 
 known what it was to struggle for herself, 
 Avith all her youth and beauty and innocence 
 — what could she do, if I was torn from her, 
 n she was driven from the boarding-house 
 into tlio streets, alone, penniless, alone in a 
 great ci(y, and that city Taris? There was 
 hell in that thought. 
 
 " Such was my position. For me there 
 was ruin — imprisonment perhaps for life — 
 eternal separation from my wile ! — for licr a 
 fate worse ten thousand times — the hideous 
 fate which awaits the unprotected innocent in 
 a city like Paris. Thus the crisis had come. 
 One day more would decide all. The landlord 
 had threatened me with ejection and arre: t. 
 One day niorc would pUmge me into a prisou- 
 cell, and throw ray wife on the streets. AVo 
 had no friends. She was alone in the world. 
 So was I. Slic loved me so passionately tliat 
 separation from mo would be death to her — 
 death? that would be the lightest of the evils 
 that awaitcil her." 
 
 Kane Holhnuth paused. lie had Fpokcn 
 tlnis far in low but Tehomcnt tones, and, 
 though he tried to rcstrairi himself, there were 
 
 visible marks of the intense agitation of feel- 
 ing that was called up by all these bitter 
 memories. He sat erect and rigid, with his 
 eyes fi.\ed gloomily before him, and his hands 
 clutching the arras of his chair. But the 
 hands that grasped the chair were strained to 
 whiteness by the convulsive energy of that 
 presiuro ; and his brow lowered into a frown 
 as black as night; while on his face the 
 brown, weather - beaten complexion had 
 changed to a dull, ghantly pallor. 
 
 "Death!" he repeated. "Yes, death! 
 If I had been torn from her, and flung into 
 prison, I should have killed some one, and 
 have destroyed myself. Arrest was death. 
 I'or my wife there was no better fate. For 
 her the best thing tliat could take place was 
 death. Death was before us in any case, and 
 therefore the quo.«tion in my mind became 
 reduced to this: How shall this death, which 
 is inevitable, be best encountered ? 
 
 " These thoughts had been coming to me 
 gradually, and out of these thoughts came 
 this conclusion. It took shape when my 
 brother's letter came, and assumed a final and 
 definite form when I received tlie answer from 
 the guanlian. For myself it was easy to 
 decide — but in this case I had more than my- 
 self to consider. My wife. How could she 
 bear the thought? Or how could she receive 
 the communication wliich I wished to convey 
 when it was one like this ? 
 
 " Thus fir she had known nothing except 
 that I loved her. I had not shared with her 
 a single Olio of my cares. I had spared }<t 
 all unnecef'Muy distress. In my own anguish 
 it pleased me to see her innocent happiness, 
 to listen to her bright plans for the future, to 
 watch the expression of her elofiuent face as 
 she talked with me. Never was tliere a man 
 more devotedly loved — more adored than I 
 was by her. The whole wealth of a loving 
 nature she poured forth to me. She had not 
 one single thought apart from mo. Iler love 
 was like worshin in its devotion, but it had 
 the warmth and the glow oi human passion. 
 
 " But the communication which I longed 
 to make was made at last. It had to be made. 
 It was the day — the Inst day of our freedom. 
 The next day was to ( i m1 ail. It was early in 
 the morning. I had not slept all ninht long. 
 In the morning she told mo that she had not 
 slept. Then nho looked at mo with unutter- 
 able mournfulness. Wo wore sitting at the 
 bieakfaat-tablc at that time. Slie looked at 
 
 1 
 
 1^ 4 
 
THE FATAL DRAUGHT. 
 
 gitation of fecl- 
 ill these bitter 
 
 rigid, with his 
 1, and his hands 
 ;'hair. But tlic 
 H'cre strained to 
 
 energy of thai 
 red into a frown 
 m Ilia face the 
 mplexion had 
 or. 
 " Yes, death ! 
 
 and tlung into 
 
 Bomc one, and 
 -est was death. 
 ettiT fate. I''or 
 
 talic place was 
 in any ease, and 
 Y mind became 
 lis death, wiiich 
 3red ? 
 1 coming to me 
 
 thoughts came 
 hape when my 
 imcd a final and 
 ;lio answer from 
 it was easy to 
 I more than niy- 
 IIow could she 
 lujii she receive 
 ishcd to convey 
 
 nothing except 
 harcd with her 
 liad spared '">r 
 iiy own anguish 
 cent happiness, 
 )r the future, to 
 lofpicnt face as 
 tas there a man 
 adored than I 
 1th of a loving 
 s. She ha<l not 
 mo. Her love 
 tioM, but it luid 
 unian passion, 
 which I longed 
 had to be made, 
 of our freedom. 
 It was curly in 
 I all niiiht long, 
 lat she had not 
 no with unuttor- 
 c sitting at the 
 She looked at 
 
 mo as I have said, and then with a sudden im- 
 pulse she flung her arms about me, and, bury- 
 ing her face on my breast, burst into tears. 
 
 "I paid nothing. These were her first 
 tears with mo. I dared not even soothe her, 
 for fear lest I should be unmanned. 
 
 "At length she overcame her feelings. 
 She raised herself, and, looking at mo with 
 intense earnestness, she began to speak, in a 
 low, calm voice, in wliich there was not a 
 trace of emotion. 
 
 " ' You arc keeping from me some terrible 
 secret,' said she, ' and I am miserable. What 
 is it that is on your mind ? There is noth- 
 ing that you need not tell mo. There is only 
 one thing that could bo a calamity to me — to 
 lose your love. And I have not lost that yet 
 — have I, darling ? ' 
 
 " As she siiid this, I drew her close to 
 mo, and pressed her to my heart. And tlien 
 I told her all. I told her, looking ii\to her 
 eyes, and watching her face. She listened in 
 silence. 
 
 " I told her what was before us. ... I 
 told her what there was — for her — and for me 
 — prison — death — worse. . . . 
 
 " Finally, I told her what I had thought of as 
 an escape for both of us. ... I tried to light- 
 en the blow, by speaking of our eternal union 
 hereafter — to be secured by leaving this life 
 together. 
 
 " Siie was terribly agitated. So sudden had 
 been this revelation ! It was too sudden. In 
 my own excitement at that time I did not no- 
 tice it so much ; but in the years that have 
 elapsed since then, I have recalied every look 
 of hers, every act, every word. Above all, I 
 have been haunted by that first look that was 
 called up on her f>ce — that look of mourn- 
 fiiliicss iiicTpressihlo — of despair — of mute 
 reproach — all of whieh were in her face — and 
 ♦1^0 burning intensity of gaze with which her 
 sad, earnest eyes fixed themselves on mine. 
 She ching to mo. She again hid her face on 
 my breast. She wept there long; and all the 
 tiine 1 t.ilked on. I carcscd In r. I tried to 
 console her as best I could. 
 
 " At length she raised herself again, and 
 looked at me with unutterable love anfl devo- 
 tion ; her voice was calm again. She told 
 me she would do whatever I proposed — that 
 she was mine, body and soul— for this life and 
 ■ the next — that life without me was impossi- 
 ble — that if I were torn from her she would 
 die — that she would rather die with mo than 
 
 away from me — and to die together would bo 
 sweet, since we had to die. 
 
 " All these sweet and loving words filled 
 me with delight and enthusiasm. I began to 
 speak about the life to which wo were going, 
 and, as I had filled my head with the senti- 
 mental ravings of French novelists, I had no 
 lack of assurance as to the immediate bliss that 
 awaited us in spite of such a mode of departure 
 from this life. To all this she listened quiet- 
 ly. She did not share my enthusiasm. Her 
 religious training must have made it seem 
 false to her. But, in her, love triumphed over 
 religion, and she consented to die because I 
 asked her. She did not expect to go to heav- 
 en; that is evident to me now; but she only 
 wished to go with me wherever I should go — 
 or wherever I should send her. There was in 
 her heart the stimulus of a glorious purpose 
 — of v.'hich I knew nothing, but which had 
 occurred to her then, and animated her to the 
 task." 
 
 K.ano Ilellinuth stopped abruptly, and, 
 closing his eyes, lot his head fall forward on 
 his breast. He was overcome by his feelings, 
 and by the throng of dark memories whicii 
 were gathering around him ; and waited for a 
 while to collect his thoughts and his strength 
 before relating the end. Blake watched him 
 in silence, with a face full of a mournful in- 
 terest. At last Ilellmuth raised his head and 
 went on, speaking very rapidly : 
 
 "Slie said that it would be sweet to di? 
 for me, and that she would only take the fatal 
 draught from my hand. She said that sho 
 would give me my draught. Thus, sho said, 
 wo would avoid the gnilt of suicide. It 
 seemed then like the sweet casuistry of love ; 
 but rdtvo then I have known that it was an 
 act of divine self-sacrifice, the sudden im- 
 pulse of devoted love, that throw her own life 
 away in calm self-abnegation; and sought to 
 find a way to save roe by the sacrifice of her- 
 self. But I suspected nothing then. I let 
 her do as she chose. I put the phial of poison, 
 which I had procured already, in her hand, 
 and she went to the sideboard and poured it 
 out in two glasses. Then she came back and 
 placeil them on the table. Sho handed one 
 to mo and I handed the other to her. Then 
 we sat looking at one another for some time. 
 She was now trembling violently. I took her 
 hand and helil it, hoping thus to strengthen 
 her. In vain. I began to falter ot the sight 
 of her great distress. But at that moment I 
 
"'% 
 
 44 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 i 
 
 I 1 
 
 was roused by a noise at the door. I thouglit 
 nt oiico of the ofTicers of the law, ai^d the 
 landlord, and hurried there to sec who it was. 
 I saw no one. Then I came back — and this 
 last alarm restored my resolution. I took her 
 hand — and we both drank. . . ." 
 
 Again Kane IlellmulU paused, and it was 
 now a long time before he went on. 
 
 " This is what I mean," he resumed in a 
 hoarse voice, " when I say that I died then, 
 and am a dead man now. Out of that death 
 I revived. I found myself in a hospital, just 
 emerging from a burning fever. I learned 
 that I bad been there for months. It was 
 months before I was able to leave. I learned 
 that I had been sent here. And where was 
 she ? Who had buried her ? Dow had I 
 escaped ? 
 
 " For days and weeks there was but one 
 thought on my mind. How had I escaped ? 
 
 "And gradually there came t*^ me a 
 thought that made life more intolerable than 
 ever. I saw it all at last, I recognized her 
 loving purpose, in her proposal to give me my 
 draught. She had designed to save me. She 
 would die — willingly, since I wished it; glad- 
 ly, since death would be administered by me. 
 She would die ; but, nevertheless, she would 
 save me, and this was her sweet deceit — to 
 give nie a draught which should produce 
 senselessness, out of which I might come 
 back to life, while she would go where I sent 
 her. 
 
 " I thought also that I could see another 
 reason. She had understood from my words, 
 no doubt, that she had reduced me to this. 
 She saw that my care was for her, and that, 
 were it not for her, I should not die — or 
 think of dying. Alone, I could live ; but I 
 could not support her. This, no doubt, she 
 • saw, although no such thought ever came to my 
 mind. This she saw, and therefore she died. 
 — Yes. Rasil Blake — look on me, and recog- 
 nize a villain who has done to death the 
 most loving wife that ever gave her heart to 
 man. She died, that I might live; that I 
 might be free from what she supposed was 
 an incumbrance to me in my poverty. Ah, 
 now — how well I understand that look which 
 Blie gave me when first I communicated to 
 her my fatal plan I Ah, great Heaven I 
 AVhy did death reject Tvz' What business 
 have I in life ? 
 
 " The moment mat I was able, I fled from 
 Paris. I considered myself dead. I resolved 
 
 to begin a new life. You wonder that I 
 didn't kill myself. I wonder too. At any 
 rate, I considered myself a dead man. My 
 name is not IlellnuUh ; what it used to be is 
 no matter. It is Ilellmuth now. Once only 
 did I make use of the old name. It was in a 
 letter which I wrote to the guardian. I found 
 myself cherishing a faint hope that she might 
 have escaped. I wrote to him, telling him 
 briefly what had happened. After some de- 
 lay, I received an answer. It destroyed my 
 last hope. It informed me that my wife was 
 dead ; that she was found dead in the room 
 on that morning; and that she was buried 
 in rerc-la-Chaise, through the pity of some 
 one of the creditors who had relented at the 
 sight of the ruin which had resulted from my 
 vicious and guilty extr.avagance. 
 
 "After this, I became a wanderer. I 
 worked with my own hands to get my living. 
 I have been over all the world as a common 
 seaman. I have worked as a laborer. About 
 two years ago I came back to Paris, feeling 
 an uncontrollable desire to visit her grave. 
 It is at P(irc-la-Chaise. I go there often. It 
 is a simple slab bearing her name, with the 
 date of her death. 
 
 " And now," continued Kane Ilellmuth, 
 " you will be able to understand the full sig- 
 nificance of what I spoke of first. That 
 black nun is th3 form and face of her who is 
 buried in Perc-la-Chaise. The expression 
 on her face is precisely the same which I 
 saw there when I first told her of my pur- 
 pose. All that despair and mournfulness un- 
 utterable ; all that mute reproach ; and even 
 all that deep, self-sacrificing love — all is there. 
 It is the same face always. Rcracnibor this, 
 and bear this in mind, while I tell you what 
 happened last night at Pere-la-Chaise." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 nEAU on ALIVE? 
 
 Kane IIki.lmuth gulped down another 
 tjLiss of raw cognac. 
 
 ■' Kiic is buried in Pere-la-Ohaise," said 
 he, " They put a stone over her grave, and 
 I found it without trouble. I went there the 
 moment I reached Paris. No one knew me. 
 All danger for me was over, if I had cared 
 for danger. I came only to weep at her 
 tomb. It's the fashion on the Continent for 
 
DEAD OR ALIVE? 
 
 4& 
 
 oil wonder that I 
 ndcr too. At nny 
 a dead man. My 
 lat it used to bo is 
 li now. Once only 
 name. It was in a 
 I guardian. I found 
 lope tliat slie might 
 o liiin, telling liini 
 d. After some de- 
 It destroyed my 
 ic that my wife was 
 dead in the room 
 lat she was buried 
 h the pity of some 
 had relented at the 
 id resulted from my 
 gance. 
 
 IC a wanderer. I 
 ds to get my living, 
 world as a coraraou 
 IS a laborer. About 
 ck to Paris, feeling 
 to visit her grave, 
 go there often. It 
 her name, with the 
 
 ed Kane Ilellmutli, 
 crstand the full sig- 
 >ke of first. That 
 1 face of her who is 
 The expression 
 the same whieh I 
 told her of my pur- 
 iid mournfulncss un- 
 reproach ; and even 
 ig love — all is there. 
 ■3. Kemcr.iber this, 
 hile I tell you what 
 re-Ia-Chaise." 
 
 : XI. 
 
 I L I y E ? 
 
 ped down another 
 
 ere-Ia-Ohaise," said 
 over her grave, and 
 . I went there the 
 Ko one knew me. 
 iver, if I had cared 
 ily to weep at her 
 u the Continent for 
 
 men to woop, you know." He frowned, and 
 tugged at his tawny, ragged mustache. 
 
 "Yes," he added, "and a very conve- 
 nient fashion it is, too, sometimes — or else 
 — a poor devil's heart might break." 
 
 Something like a groan burst from him, 
 and he dashed his brown hand across his 
 eyes. 
 
 " It's two years," he continued, " since I 
 came here. You know how I live. I hap- 
 pened, in my wanderings, to be at the Cape 
 of Good Hope the time the diamond excite- 
 ment broke out. I had nothin ; else to do, 
 so I wont to the diggings, and had moderate 
 luck. That's one reason why I came here. 
 I put my gains in government stock, and go* 
 enough francs to keep me in my plain fusn- 
 ion. All I want is to be witliin walking-dis- 
 tance of Pere-la-Chaise — not too near, you 
 know; enough to take up a good day, if ne- 
 x.e3sary, in going, staying there, and coming 
 back. Somehow, during these late years, my 
 religious views have changed, I no longer 
 hold to the gospel of the French novelists. I 
 do not now believe that I should have gone 
 straight to heaven from my lodging-house; 
 and I comfort myself by praying for the soul 
 of my lost Clara. The Church stands between 
 the living o'ld the dead. I feel a strange con- 
 solation in >he thought that I am not cut off 
 utterly from ber whom I have lost. The 
 Church sends up her prayers, and I blend 
 mine with them. By her grave I feel nearest 
 to her, and therefore I go to Pore-la-Chai.<e. 
 Therefore, also, I have adopted the mode of 
 life which you see me following — acting as a 
 sort of lay-brother, going about among the 
 poor devils of fallen humanity whom I see 
 around me, and trying to do something to 
 give them an occasional lift. I wouh' have 
 scorned the African diamonds if tkoy could 
 have given mo no more than a living for my- 
 self. I took them for Clara's sake; and, 
 since she made me lire, and sent me back io 
 life when she went to death, so I study to 
 make my life such that I may meet her here- 
 after with — with less shame than I miglit 
 otherwise feel. 
 
 " But now, my boy listen," continue! 
 Ilellmuth, rousing himself and drawing a 
 .ong breaih, "listen. You know Pere-la- 
 Cliaisc — that is, in a general way. You know 
 the tombs there. The grave is about fifty 
 paces away from the gate, in one of the more 
 obscure parts of the cemetery. Close by it is 
 
 a cenotaph, with an iron door, and inside this 
 cenotaph is an altar, as is often the case. On 
 this altar the friends of the dead place im. 
 mortcUes, and frequently on Sundays or holi- 
 days, or on the anniversary of deaths, they 
 place lighted candles there. Yesterday was 
 one of these occasions, and the candles were 
 burning after dark, throwing out a faint 
 gleam through the iron bars of the door. 
 
 " Xo one is allowed there after dark ; but, 
 when one is inside, he may staj', for no one 
 can see him easily among so many monu- 
 ments, I went there toward evening, and 
 stayed after dark. I had frequently done so 
 before. Amid the darkness, it seemed as 
 though I was drawn nearer to her. By her 
 grave it seemed as though I could hold com- 
 munion with her departed spirit. At least it 
 was consoling to be so near even to her mor- 
 tal remains. 
 
 " So I remained there, and the gates were 
 shut, and I was alone in that city of the 
 dead. The shadowy monuments rose all 
 around on every side, and looked like a 
 ghostly population. I was by her grave. 
 From the cenotaph nearest mo the lights 
 shone forth, and illuminated a small space in 
 the gloom. As I sat there I thought over all 
 the events of the mournful past. I had been 
 praying for the repose of her soul, but what 
 was the meaning of that visitation whieh I 
 had had three times ? Was her spirit not 
 yet at rest after so many years ? Was there 
 any thing which she wanted of mo ? What 
 was there that I could do ? 
 
 " Then I knelt over her grn-, e and prayed. 
 
 " IIow long I was kneeiing I do not know. 
 I haven't the slightest idea, nor is there any 
 way of finding cut. There are occasions in 
 a man's life when human measurements are 
 useless, and duiation extends itself indepen- 
 dently uf the liiv'tations of time. It might 
 have bee.'i ]o' . , or it might have been short ; 
 I do not li'iow. I only know tliis, that, sud- 
 denly, in thi midst of the deep abstraction 
 of prayer and moditation, I became aware of 
 a presence near. T'lCre had been no noise 
 that I was conscious of; there was no foot- 
 fall, no breathing even — nothing. IIow the 
 knowledge came I do not know, but it did 
 come, and I was thus aware of some object, 
 some shape, some being, in my neighborhood. 
 
 " I had been meditating profoundly and 
 praying earnestly. I had striven to abstract 
 rnvself from all thoughts of the externa! 
 
mmmm 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 'f 
 
 i I 
 
 4G 
 
 AX Ol'EX QL'ESTIOX. 
 
 world, but tliu3 it was that, through all thu 
 Bolemn gloom of that sclf-abstractiou, and 
 that elevation of Boul above the woild, there 
 came to mc this suggestion of n living thing 
 near me. 
 
 "I roused myself, and raised my head, 
 and looked forth into the scene before 
 me. 
 
 " The first glance was enough. Tliere was 
 something, as I had been aware, aud what it 
 was I saw instantaneously. The feeble liglit 
 of the wax -candles came glimmering out 
 through the bars of the iron gate of the 
 cenotaph into the gloom, and fell upon an 
 object there, which was standing full before 
 mc, not more than half a dozen yards away — 
 standing there erect, a liumau shape, witli 
 black robes — the robes of a nun. The light 
 uhone on its face, and the face was full before 
 nie, and it was on this face that my eyes 
 rested as I raised them. The eyes of this 
 being also were fixed upon mine, and chained 
 them, and held tiieni with a terrible fascina- 
 tion. 
 
 "All that I have said about that face was 
 there now, but to me the whole expression 
 seemed intensified. It was the old, wdl- 
 rcmembered look — the look of her face as it 
 had appeared when I saw it last in life. 
 There was that mingled grief and omazo- 
 incnt, that sharp anguish, and dark despair. 
 There, too, was still that melanclioly re- 
 proach, which, on that morning, had con- 
 veyed the protest of an innocent young life 
 against the destruction which I had brought 
 upon it ; but now the reproach seemed deeper 
 and involved a profounder condemnation. The 
 eyes that chained mine in their gaze seemed 
 to have more of that burning intensity which 
 I had noticed before, and glowed witli an 
 awful lustre as they met mine. 
 
 "I knelt aud looked, but 1 did not breathe. 
 I couW not move. I did not have any im- 
 pulse to fly away or to ej ring toward it. It 
 seems to me now as if I was for a short time 
 in a state of perfect ment.al torpor. My state 
 of mind was not one of horror. It was im- 
 bscility, or, rather, vacuity. I thought of 
 nothing. I desired nothing. I feared noth- 
 ing. 1 was simply conscious of the presence 
 of this being wlio thus confronted me. 
 
 "At 'cngtb the figure moved Its hands, 
 and then seemed to shrink away into nothing- 
 ness. The darkness swallowed It up. As I 
 looked, I perceived that It was no longer 
 
 thoro. It was gone. It liiid vanished. I was 
 alone, 
 
 " I remiiincd there for some time — I do 
 .lot know how long — in the same position, 
 and in the same state of mind. At length I 
 gradually regained the use of my faculties. I 
 rose from my knees, and walked forward iu 
 the direction where the figure had vanished 
 into the darkness. I found nothing whatever. 
 I waited and walked about for sonio time 
 longer, and then I went to tho gate, roused 
 the keeper, made some explanation of my 
 presence there, aud was let out. I thou came 
 homo." 
 . .Such was Kane Ilellmuth's story. 
 
 After he had eudcd it, he lighted his pipe 
 and began smoking. Blake said nothing, but 
 imitated his friend's example. Tlie former 
 seemed lost in his own meditations, and tho 
 latter found it very difficult to make any com- 
 ments. 
 
 '• Well," said Kane Ilellmuth, at length, " I 
 should like to hear what you have to say. 
 Say it out. Don't be afraid of oll'ending any 
 prejudices or prepossessions of mine. You're 
 a materialist. 1 am not. Let nie hear what 
 you, as a materialist, have to i\\.y." 
 
 " Well," said Blake, slowly, " in the first 
 place, I have merely to say this, that I cannot 
 for a moment share your belief. For every 
 thing that 1 have ever seen in all my life, or 
 learned, or studied, shows this to mc with 
 perfect clearness, that the dead can never — 
 never come back to life — never — never." 
 
 " You are begging the question," said 
 Kane ilellmuth, quietly. 
 
 "Any theory is acceptable rather than 
 youre," said Blake. " The dead are the dead. 
 Tiiey come back no more. No fond longings, 
 no prayers, can bring them back. Supersti- 
 tion may call up vision b, but these are only 
 projections of the brain, the images wrought 
 by the vivid fancy. With these, science and 
 reason can do nothing. No proof has ever 
 been adduced — no proof can t ver be adduced 
 — that the dead can reappear, or can have 
 any existence, that we can coniprehend." 
 
 " Very well — we dilier," said Kane Ilell- 
 muth, " and now let me hear what you — re- 
 jecting, as you do, my belief — have to pro- 
 pose as a theory of your own." 
 
 "I cannot, on tho instant, propose a 
 theory which will satisfy every contingency in 
 your case," said Blake. " You yourself say 
 that you have already tried to accouut for this 
 
 M 
 
I vuiilslic'J. I was 
 
 Bomc time — I ilo 
 lie same position, 
 liud. At length I 
 of my facilities. I 
 i\ullieil forward iu 
 ;urc had vanished 
 
 nothing whatever. 
 it for BoniC time 
 
 tho gate, roused 
 xpliinalion of my 
 out. I thou came 
 
 :h'3 story, 
 he lighted hi3 pipe 
 e paid nothing, but 
 niilc. The former 
 editations, and tho 
 t to make any com- 
 
 muth, at length, "I 
 you have to say. 
 
 d of oll'ending any 
 
 18 of mine. You're 
 Let me hear what 
 
 to <-..iy." 
 
 lowly, " in the first 
 thi.-i, that I cannot 
 belief. For every 
 u in all my life, or 
 
 5 this to ino with 
 dead can never — 
 
 icver — never." 
 
 10 question," said 
 
 )tablc rather than 
 
 dead lire the dead. 
 
 No fond longings, 
 
 in back. Supersti- 
 
 but these are only 
 
 Ihe images wrought 
 
 these, Bcicnce and 
 
 No proof has ever 
 
 m ever be adduced 
 
 ipcar, or can have 
 
 1 coniprcliend." 
 
 ," said Kane Ilell- 
 henr what you — re- 
 elief — have to pro- 
 )wn." 
 
 instant, propose a 
 very contingency in 
 " You yourself say 
 J to aceouut for this 
 
I)i;ad oi: ai.ivk? 
 
 47 
 
 upparilion on all ordiuary sciciUUic or practi- 
 cal grounds, and are forced back to your 
 theory ol' the Eupcrnaturai. Now, what I have 
 to 8.iy is simply of a general character." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 "Well, in the first i)lace, we will dismiss 
 altogether the idea of hallucination, since 
 you reject it. You fuel eonlident in your own 
 perfect sanity and robust nerves. There re- 
 mains, tlierefore, one of two alturiialivcs — 
 one is this: Tiiis one whom you have seen is 
 u living person who, for some reason, is play- 
 ing a part, and following you. What the 
 reason may be I can, of course, have no idea." 
 
 "In answer t) that," said llellmuth, "1 
 can only say that no one can iiave any motive 
 lor doing so." 
 
 "Why not? You have already tolJ me 
 that you live under an assumad name. Tliink 
 over your old relations, and your old position. 
 Has any one any claim on you? Is there any 
 one whose interest it would be to find you in 
 life or in death? Do your relatives know 
 that you are alive, or dead? Is tliere any in- 
 lieritancc coming to you which cannot go to 
 your heirs till your death is proved ? " 
 
 " By Heaven ! " cried Kane Ilellinuth, 
 " what thoughts arc these which you are sug- 
 gesting to rao ? AVhat do you moan by this, 
 lUsil Blake?" 
 
 " Simply this," said Blake ; " an estate 
 may wait for its heir. The heir m.ay be miss- 
 ing. Until his death is proved, the next of 
 kin cannot inherit. Is there any inheritance 
 which may fall to you ? are there any otiiers 
 next of kin to you ? If tliis is so, it may be a 
 matter of iulinite importance to some people 
 to get at your secret, so as, in the one case, 
 if tliey are friends, to give you your rights; 
 or, in the other case, if they are enemies, to 
 put you out of the way." 
 
 Kane Ilellmutli frowned darkly, and sat 
 in thought for a long time; and Blake saw 
 plainly that this suggestion had produced, 
 from some cause or other, a most profound 
 effect. 
 
 " Blake," said ilellmuth, at length, " when 
 I said that I was a dead man, I had reference 
 to this very thing chiefly. I meant that I am 
 dead to all my fcirmer rights and i)rivileges; 
 that, since that day, I have turned my back 
 on my past, and no temptation, however 
 great, shall be strong enough to entice me 
 back. I feel that, since Clara gave me life, I 
 ehall hold it from her, as hers, and not mv 
 
 own. This resolution 1 have kept thus far. 
 But, as to wiiat you suggest, you have hit the 
 mark fair. I have an inheritance — a great 
 one — an inlieiitancc to gain which many men 
 would stick at no crime whatever. A few 
 years ago my elder brother died. All his es- 
 tate is mine, lie never married. 1 am the 
 next heir. They arc looking for me. 1 saw 
 the notice of his death in tiie papers three 
 years ago. I have seen advert isemcuts for 
 information about myself. Largo rewards 
 iiavo been olfored. . . . Y'es," continued 
 Kane Ilellmuth, bitterly, after a pau.sc, " the 
 wealth which my elder brother valued so 
 highly is all mine now. Once I could not get 
 any sum to save myself from a terrible fate ; 
 now I can have it all by merely saying tlio 
 word. But, now, why should I say the word ? 
 What is that estate to me? What do I care 
 for money? AVhy should I go back to my 
 old home ? Can I bring back my old nature ? 
 Xo. 1 cast it from me. I refuse it. I am 
 dead." 
 
 "Well," said Blake, "you arc the best 
 judge al)Out your own affairs, and wo are 
 now merely considering tlie probable cause 
 of this apparition. One part of my sugges- 
 tion is justified by the fact which you state. 
 One thing now remains to be asked — who is 
 the next heir ? " 
 
 " The next heir," saiii Kane Ilellmuth, " is 
 my younger brother. There were three of us. 
 lie comes in as heir if I am dead." 
 
 "lie must be anxious to find out," said 
 Blake, "or to prove it if it is so." 
 
 "Of course, that is human nature. He 
 was a boy when I saw him last — an average 
 boy, neither better nor worse than his fellows 
 — but, with such a prize before him, I can 
 easily understand that he would be just as 
 well pleased if he could prove that I am 
 dead." 
 
 " It is a painful subject," said Blake, " and 
 we had better not discuss it. I merely meant 
 to show that there were sufficient reasons for 
 some one to follow you — either to find out 
 your secret, or for some other purpose." 
 
 " Yes," said Kano Ilellmuth ; " but, allow- 
 ing that, how can this marvellous resemblance 
 to my lost darling be accounted for? That, 
 of itself, is enough to put your suggestion out 
 of court." 
 
 " Advantage may have been taken of that 
 tragedy in your life. Some one may have 
 been found who bears a sufTiciently close re- 
 
I 
 
 
 I 
 
 AN OPEN' QUKSTIOX. 
 
 semblance to her to pass olT an licr at a dis- 
 tance." 
 
 " Impossible ! " said Kane Ilellmutli ; " yon 
 forget timt tliis one is in a strange garb; you 
 forget what casual meetings they have been ; 
 above all, you forget that this face is identical 
 with that of niy lost wiO' — not in feature 
 only, but ill expression — and an cxpiession 
 of a very peculiar nature. For the look that 
 she gives nio is not ono that can l)c caught 
 up by some impostor. That is iiioonceivaljle. 
 l'"or it is the last look of my dying wife — dy- 
 ing under such circumstances — a look which 
 for years has haunted nic, nnd tliis is the look 
 which I now see in this presence wiiich has 
 appeared before mo. No. The theory of 
 hallucination is preferable to this last one. I 
 will allow that my brother may be anxious to 
 prove my death; I will even coiicimIo that he 
 may have emissaries in search of me ; but I 
 maintain that this being of whom I speak 
 cannot possil)ly have any connection with 
 that." 
 
 " Very well," said lll.ike, after a pause ; 
 "we will let this pass. I said there vere two 
 alternatives. This is one. There is yet an- 
 other. It is this — do not start when I sug- 
 gest it; you told me to bo frank; I speak it 
 with all respect and sympathy for you and 
 for her — Kane llellinuth, after aU, i/our ivi/e 
 may yet be alive ! " 
 
 At these words Kane Ilellmutli started to 
 his feet, and regarded IJluke with an awful 
 face. 
 
 "She is dead I " he said, in a harsli voice. 
 
 " Who says so ? Who has seen it ? " 
 
 " Did I not got that letter from her guar- 
 dian ? " 
 
 "You did— but what of that? Ho said 
 that some others said so ; it is third-hand in- 
 formation. Did you ever go back to that 
 house to ask ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " When ? " 
 
 " When I came back." 
 
 " What ! two years ago ? eight years after 
 it occurred ! Why, by that time the neople 
 had forgotten it all, or else they had gone 
 away." 
 
 Kane Ilellrauth stared at lilake. 
 
 "You are right," he said, hesitatingly; 
 " they had gone ; I have never been able to 
 find them." 
 
 " Mind now," said Blake, " I am only 
 arguing against your theory of the supernatu- 
 
 ral. I am showing you how this may be ra- 
 tionally accounted for on other grounds ; and 
 I say this, that you liavc not yet hud reason 
 to feel certain that she died. ir,i/<"' escaped, 
 why should not she? How do you know that 
 she gave you a weaker draught, and look a 
 fatal one herself? That is only u theory of 
 yours; you have no proof. How do you 
 know that the drug was strong enoufih ? It 
 may have lost its virtue ; it may have been 
 badly made up ; she, in [louring it out, may 
 have made a mistake. There are a dozen 
 ways of accounting lor it other tlian the way 
 you have fancied. No ; sIk! has liv( d ; slic 
 has become a nun, thinking that you were 
 dead. You liavo como across her own self, 
 by chance, on various occasions. Your in- 
 tense excitement lias thrown around her va- 
 rious semi-supernatural adjuncts which have 
 imposed upon your reason. (Jo and accost 
 lior when you see her next. S^peak to her. 
 Do not allow yourself to ,ink into a stupor." 
 
 To all this Kane Ilellmutli listened with a 
 frown. (Iradually, however, the frown passed. 
 Tho old look came back. He resumed his 
 scat. 
 
 " Well," said he, calmly, as Hlake ceased, 
 " it is quite right for you to say this. I have 
 thought of all that, however, though I must 
 say it comes with i'resh force from another. 
 Still there is no conceivable reason why any 
 human beings should take the trouble to get 
 up such an elaborate piece of deceit. It wus 
 no one's interest to do so. No one could gain 
 any thing by it. The peojilo who laid her 
 dear remains in tlie grave had no motive for 
 acting a farce. The guardian had no motive 
 for keeping it up. Who could have been 
 benefited, or what end could have been 
 gained ? There is her grave, and there is 
 the stone wiili her name. How can it be 
 accounted for if she is not dead ? " 
 
 " If I were to suggest all that is in my 
 mind to say," remarked Bl.ike, "you would 
 call me visionary. 1 should think, however, 
 that, until you know more than you seem to 
 have lcarne<l — more than even she herself 
 seemed to know about her antecedents, about 
 her father, and her guardian, and the nature 
 of that calamity which so strangely deprived 
 her of all her friends — until then you have 
 no right to say that there was no motive for 
 imposing upon you and the world a false ac- 
 count of her death. Hut this is a thing which 
 I do not care to speak of. One thing only I 
 
DR. BLAKE'S STRANYiK STORY. 
 
 49 
 
 low tlii.i iiiav be rn. 
 itlior };rouml» ; Qiiil 
 ot jit Imil rcnHoii 
 d. if yon cscnpeil, 
 r do you know that 
 •au};lit, and look n. 
 is only a tlicory of 
 )of. How do you 
 tronp t'noii};li ? It 
 ; it iiiny liavc lietn 
 ouiing it ovit, may 
 riiiTO are a dozen 
 oilier than tlic way 
 pho lins livid ; fIu' 
 iiig lliut yim were 
 •ros3 licr own self, 
 rnsiionH. Your in- 
 own nro\ind her vii- 
 Ijuncts which have 
 jn. (io and accost 
 xt. Speak to her. 
 link into a stupor." 
 luth listened with a 
 :r, the frown pnpned. 
 ;. lie resumed his 
 
 ly, as r>lakc ceased, 
 to say this. I have 
 vcr, thoufih I must 
 orcc from another, 
 blc reason why any 
 c the trouble to get 
 e of deceit. It was 
 
 No one could gain 
 coplc who laid her 
 e had no motive for 
 •dian had no motive 
 could have been 
 
 could have been 
 ;ravc, and there is 
 How can it be 
 t dead ? " 
 t all tliat is in my 
 
 Rl.ike, "you would 
 uld think, however, 
 a than you seem to 
 n even bIic herself 
 r antecedents, about 
 ian, and the nature 
 strangely deprived 
 mtil thou you have 
 ! was no motive for 
 he world a false oc- 
 this is a thing which 
 '. (ine thing only I 
 
 should liko to ask— If you have no objections 
 — her name, lier maiden name," 
 
 " Clara Mordaunt, said Kane Ilellmutb, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 Ulakc started. 
 
 " Mordaunt 1 " ho repeated. 
 
 The name was a familiar one, associated 
 with the happiest hours of his life, with the 
 presence of Inez ; for, wherever Inez Wyverno 
 was, the' • ■ >o was her friend, Bessie Mordaunt. 
 
 Kane Jleilmuth, however, was looking 
 away, and did not notice the start which 
 IJlake gave. 
 
 "I do not like this guardian," fuid he, 
 after a pause. " You should see th.it man." 
 
 • So I intended to," said Kane Ilellmuth, 
 "but unfortunately it is too late — ho is 
 dead." 
 
 "Dead? Ah! that is bail. Did ho die 
 very long a'"i V " 
 
 " Oh, no ; only about a week ago. I saw 
 it in thv ;i;" ." 
 
 " Ah 1 " 
 
 "Yes; he died in Switzerland somewhere 
 — Villencuve, I think — yes, it was Villcneuve. 
 The name is so peculiar a one that it caught 
 my eye at once. 1 saw it in Galiffnani, a day 
 or two ago. I am old enough now always to 
 look at tho deaths and marriages, the first 
 thing." 
 
 lilako did not hear more than half of this. 
 He heard only the first words. As he heard 
 them, his heart throbbed wildly, and a feeling 
 of indefinable terror eamo over him. Died 
 at Villcneuve ! — the guardian ! — tho guardian 
 of a girl named Mordaunt! lie liad suspect- 
 ed evil on the part of this guardian ; he had 
 given utterance to those suspicions. All the 
 v.ild words of tho dying man came back 
 lioshcr than ever to his memory — all the 
 giicf of Inez, and all the horrors of that 
 filial death. His face grew ghastly white, 
 lie clung to the arm of the sofa for support. 
 
 " What was his name ? " he gasped. 
 
 " His name ? " said Kano Ilellmuth. 
 'What? the guardian? It's a very odd 
 name. It's— Ilennigar Wyvcrne ! " 
 
 " Oreat Heaven 1 " exclaimed Blake, with 
 so strange a cry that Kano Ilellmuth started 
 and looked at him in amazement. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 DK. III.AKK'd STnANOR aTORT. 
 
 TiiK amazement of Kano Ilellmuth at 
 tho sight of Itliike's face was unbounded. 
 Thus far he had been the prey to excitement, 
 and Ulakc had bonn the sympathizing friend 
 and .spectator. The tables were now turned. 
 The emotion had passed to Hlake ; the rule 
 of sympathizing spectator to Kano Ilellmuth, 
 As for Ulake, there was every reason, as is 
 evident, why lie should be overwhelmed by 
 surprise and agitation. W'hat liis feelings 
 were toward Inez have been sufficiently ex- 
 plained ; what his feelings were toward Ilen- 
 nigar Wyvernc may be conjectured. Mention 
 has already been made of tho dying man's 
 declaration — that Blake was his own son, and 
 of Blake's perplexity at such an announce- 
 ment. He now found that this man who was 
 standing in so peculiar a relation toward him- 
 self was identical with tho very man whoso 
 connection with Kano Ilellmuth he had found 
 so suspicious ; and against whom ho had just 
 been trying to lead up tho suspicions of his 
 friend. Would he still maintain those suspi- 
 cions ? Would he now carry out to its ulti- 
 mate consequences that train of thought 
 which was on his mind just before Kane lloll- 
 n.iith had mentioned the name of Ilennigar 
 Wyvernc ? 
 
 The exclamation of Blake was followed 
 by a long silence and a profound meditation, 
 in which he was evidently in a state of great 
 embarrassment and perplexity. 
 
 " Well," said he, at length, " this conver- 
 sation has certainly taken a turn which is 
 most extraordinary and most unexpected. 
 I will not conceal from you that I feci com- 
 pletely upset, and that tho mention of this 
 guardian's name puts me in a most astonish- 
 ing position with regard to this affixir of 
 yours. I have been brought of late into 
 very close connection with this man, and 
 there is a very mysterious prospect of a still 
 closer connection being discovered. I havo 
 not mentioned any thing of the events with 
 which I have been connected during the past 
 few weeks, but there is something in my af- 
 fairs which seems to run very wonderfully 
 into your own. There is something also in 
 them 80 puzzling, so confounding, that I am 
 unable to grapple with it altogether. Per- 
 haps you can help me. Perhaps wo can help 
 
I 
 
 ti 
 
 N 
 
 AN OPES QUESTION. 
 
 I 
 
 one another. Pftrliapa my alTuirs can throw 
 BOine liglit on yours, or yours luay throw light 
 on mine." 
 
 "(io ahead by all mecns, old fellow," Baid 
 Kane Ileliinutli ; " at any rate, it will divert 
 iny thoughts, and Lord knows I want some- 
 thing to uivert them just now, or else I shall 
 go mad." 
 
 " Veiv wel!," Faid Blake. " My ftoiy be- 
 gins I'roni the time that I lel't here six weeks 
 ago. I was worn out by overwork. 1 had 
 an uiuiertuking of immense importance be- 
 fore me, before entering upon which it was 
 absolutely necessary for me to recruit niy 
 strength. A change of air to the sea-side 
 tvas tlie most importaut thing for me, and, ac- 
 cordingly, I went to St. Mulo. 
 
 " On my arrival here I found an English 
 party, wlio at once excited my deepest inter- 
 est. There was an elderly gentleman in feeble 
 health and two young ladies, one of whom 
 was his daughter and the other was his 
 dauglitcr's friend, and perhaps relative. 
 She seemed to look upon the gentleman as in 
 some way her guardian ; but perhaps that is 
 my fancy. Now you will begin to understand 
 some of the significance of my story when I 
 tell .,')u that the name of this elderly gentle- 
 man was Ilennigar Wyverne." 
 
 " Ilennigar Wyverne 1 " repeated Kane 
 Hcllnnith. "Ab, is that so? Why, then, 
 you must have been with him when he died, if 
 you were in Switzerland — that is, if you got 
 ncquiiinted with him, which I presume you 
 did." 
 
 "I did," said Blake. "I will come to 
 that presently. I was saying that there were 
 two ladies — 01.0 Miss Wyverne, the other — 
 the one whom I may call the w^.rd — Miss Mor- 
 daunt." 
 
 Kano Ilcllmuih started in strongest agita- 
 tion. 
 
 " Miss Mordaunt!" lie exclaimed, "award 
 of Hennicar Wyverne. (Jrcat Heavens ! mun, 
 what i^tory is tlii.s that you have to tell me ? 
 Miss Mord:iunt I What was her other name? " 
 
 " Itessie," Hi.id Blake. 
 
 " Bessie. Ah, that means Elizubeth — Eliz- 
 abeth — H'ra — Clara had a younger f'i>ier who 
 diet', iter death may have been a mii'take. But, 
 DO ; (hat flistcr'8 r> ;me was not Elizabeth. It 
 was some ibreign name — unusual. I dor t 1 ■ 
 mcnibcr it at all, A similarity of name, prot, 
 ably a relation. Wyverne BC?ms to have ' a,l 
 a strong interest in tho Mordaunt farjuy 
 
 But what did this Miss Mordaunt look 
 like ? " 
 
 '' Yery pretty, about seventeen, a brilliant 
 blonde, witty, frolicsome, absurd — in fact, 
 more like a sportive child than a young lady ; 
 the most utter butterfly I ever saw." 
 
 " No resemblance there," said Kane IlelU 
 muth, thoughtfully — " no resemblance whatev- 
 er. She was a brunette — grave and earnest." 
 
 " That is what Miss Wyverne is," said 
 Bkke. 
 
 " Well, go on," said Kane Ilellrnuth, anx- 
 iouB to hear more of Blake's story. 
 
 " I was saying," resumed Blake, " that 
 this party excited in mc tho strongest inter- 
 est. Miss Wyverne appeared to me the most 
 beautiful being that I ever saw ; and I frank- 
 ly confess that I fell in love with her at once. 
 This will account for the persistency with 
 wliieh I watched the party. 1 hadnodiOiculty 
 in doing so, ft ■ they epent most of tho time in 
 the open air, and Miss Wyverne was always 
 with her father. 
 
 "Now, you may take for granted my love 
 for Miss Wyverne. I make no secret of that ; 
 and I mention it so that you may understand 
 other things. 
 
 " I soon saw, to my surprise, that the el- 
 derly gentleman took an evident interest in 
 my humble self. At first I thought that he 
 had heard something of my medical skill; but 
 I soon dismissed that thought as a piece of 
 preposterous vanity. Unlortuntitely, what- 
 ever my medical fikill may be, the world 
 knows nothing at all about it ; so that an 
 invalid at St. Malo would have been the lost 
 person to at.ributo any such qiuility to mc. 
 After a time I began to see that this interest 
 ill mc grew stronger, Piid its manifestation 
 more open. As I met him rolling along in 
 his perambulator, or walking feebly up and 
 down near his loi'^lngs, I always caught his 
 eyes fixed upon my face, and they were fixed 
 there with a certain intensity of gaze that 
 was most rc.iiarkable. There was, beyond a 
 doubt, something in my face which excited 
 his attention, and ),c was studying it to find 
 out for himself what it was. 
 
 " Well, I wi»3 wondering how I could pet 
 acquainted with him, and trying to dcvi.sc 
 some plan of bringing it about so ad not to 
 force mvself upon him, but I could not 
 hit upon any way that was satisfactory. 
 My passion for Mi'<8 Wyverne gave me my 
 chief impulse to this ; but at the same time I 
 
 
 L 
 
DII. m.AKE'S STIUNGE STOKV. 
 
 51 
 
 i3 Mordaunt look 
 
 ivcntccn, a brilliant 
 , absurd — in fact, 
 than a young lady ; 
 ever saw." 
 a." said Kane Ilell- 
 eseinblance wbatcv- 
 jravc and earnest." 
 Wyvcrne is," suid 
 
 anc Ilclluutb, anz- 
 c's story. 
 
 mea lllalso, " tbat 
 ho strongest inter- 
 ircd to nie the most 
 r saw ; and I frank- 
 ve with her at once, 
 iie persistency with 
 . Ihadnodiffitulty 
 most of tbo time in 
 I'yvcrne was always 
 
 for granted my love 
 ke no secret of that; 
 i'ou may understand 
 
 surprise, that tho e!- 
 i evident interest in 
 St I thought that he 
 cy medical skill ; but 
 ought an a piece of 
 JntortuneileJy, what- 
 raay be, the world 
 bout it ; BO that an 
 d hare been the lost 
 such qiiiilily to nic. 
 ee that this interest 
 lid its manifestation 
 lim rolling along in 
 Iking feebly up and 
 [ always caught his 
 and tliey were fixed 
 tensity of gaze that 
 riierc W08, beyond a 
 
 face which excited 
 s Bludyiug it to find 
 ras, 
 
 'ing liow I could get 
 nd trying to devise 
 
 about so aei not to 
 n, but I could not 
 It was satlsractory. 
 yvcrno gave mo my 
 ut at the same time I 
 
 ff 
 
 wish you to understand that I felt an extraor- 
 dinary interest in thn old muu, so much so, 
 indeed, that if Mi?j Wyvcrne had gone away, 
 I should still lipvo stayed there, so as to try 
 to form an acquiiintance witii her lather. 
 
 " Well, at length, this problem was solved 
 for nic. Mr. Wyverne himself made the ad- 
 vances — he sought my acquaintance. One 
 day I was standing looking out at sea when 
 ho ciiine walking along, iiccompaniod by his 
 (laughter, and followed by his footman. He 
 came up to me an'l raised his hat : 
 
 " ' Can you tell nic,' he asked, ' what that 
 steamer is ?' 
 
 " Ho pointed to a large steamer passing 
 along out at i;ca. I infor^ned him to the best 
 of my ability. He then began a conversation, 
 and turned it to the suliieot of the climate of 
 S». Malo. IIo soon found out tbat I was a 
 doctor. This brought forth r: larger cn- 
 lidenco on his part, and he 'icgan to tell 
 nio about h'n troubles and his motive in 
 coming hero. »Iu fact, before an hour • e 
 Bcemed like old fricnil-. He seated himself 
 upon a bench by thf~ roaJ-side, fronting the 
 fica. Miss Wyvcrne placed herself on one 
 Kiile, I on tho other, and we all talked to- 
 gether as though we had known one another 
 for a long time. More than this, he ia'.ro- 
 ducod me formally to Mis." Wyvcrne, and 
 made me accompany him to his hotel. 
 
 'There is no need for me to go into de- 
 t.iils. Mr. Wyvcrne's regard I'or me was cvi- 
 <lont, and it was so marked, so strong, and so 
 unv.irving, that it aflbrded perpetual surprise 
 to mo. He engaged me regularly as his 
 medical adviser, at a salary that to me was 
 enormous; ho delighted to have mo with 
 him ; he encouraged my attentions to Miss 
 V/yverne ; and, as she was always with her 
 father, and as lie wanted me to be always 
 Willi him, tho consequence was, that she and 
 I were together far more than is commonly 
 the case with two young peoide even when 
 they are in tender relations with ono an- 
 other. 
 
 ".Mr. Wyverne was troubled with disease 
 of the heart. He had been ordered to this 
 place by his I.K)ndon physician, with, the in. 
 juneiion to refrain from all excitement. That 
 injuneliou I eniorced upon him wiili the ut- 
 most emphasis, St. Malo afforded many ad- 
 Tuntages, and we remained there four weeks 
 after 1 had made his acquaintance. During 
 thai time I noticed his unfailing regard j but, 
 
 nioic than this, I was on.cu .itiuck by the 
 peculiar expression whieh would come to his 
 face wh.nn his eyes icslod on me — an expres- 
 sion which had iu it a meaning that aliso- 
 lutcly coiilonndcd nic. It was a parental 
 look, but moi'3 yearning — more maternal, in 
 fact, than paternal ; yet why ho, a perfect 
 stranger, should regard me, another stranger, 
 with such an expression, was utterly and 
 completely out of my power to imagine. , 
 
 " .My inotlier lives in England. I cor- 
 respond with her regularly. Of course, I 
 wrote her all the particulars of my acquaint- 
 ance witli these new friends. I was already 
 sufficiently confo'.Mided, but the letter wliicli 
 I received from my mother in answer to mine 
 completed my bewilderment. It w^as the most 
 oxtraardinary epistle that ever was written. 
 My first impression was that tlie poor, dear 
 lady had suddenly gone niiif' My ullin...i, 
 conclusion was, that there was about this 
 .Mr. Wyverne an unfathomable mystery, and, 
 what was more, that my mother held the 
 key to it. She remarked iha» Providence 
 had brought us two together — had brought 
 mo and Mr. Wyverne faea to face. She said 
 that she was full of amuy.L.nent and gratitude 
 at the wonder that had come to pass ; that 
 at first she had felt like warning nie against 
 him, and adv.ying me to leave h.m ; but that 
 hhe had prayed fervently over it, mid her 
 mind had been changed. She concluded by 
 urging me to dcvoto myself to Mr. Wyvcrne ; 
 to follow him wherever ho went ; to give hitn 
 my love, and try to win his ; to watch over 
 him, and try to prolong his life. 
 
 "Such wan tha unaccouiitablo letter with 
 which my mother made my confusion worse 
 confounded. 
 
 " At length I became satisfied that the 
 sea air was not so good as it miglit be. It 
 was wliat is commonly called 'too strong' 
 for one in Mr. Wyvcrne's peculiar dclicaoy of 
 lieaKh and feebleness of constitution. I rec- 
 ommended Villeneuve, which place was well 
 known to me. Mr. Wyverne at once decided 
 to go. IIo did not seem to have any will but 
 mine. His reliance upon me had in it .«om»»- 
 thing exceedingly touching, and ;he'C was 
 that in his look and in his tone in addre^-'sing 
 me which was full of a profound w! os We 
 travelled by easy stages, and arrived there 
 without any accident." 
 
 After this Ulake proceeded to I'ceount tho 
 events which Lave already been uarrated> 
 
AS O^EN QUESTION'. 
 
 I II 
 
 The letter which had prostrated Mr. Wyveme 
 he had neTer seen. It had been picked up 
 by Bessie, and handed to Miss Wyvernc. 
 
 The points upon which Blalce laid em- 
 phasis may be summed up briefly in the fol- 
 lowing way : 
 
 First, — That Mr. Wyvernc exhibited a re- 
 gard for him which was unmistakable and 
 extraordinary. 
 
 Seeondtf/. — That Mr. Wyvcme's expression, 
 when looking at him, had in it something 
 most striking, and might bo called pater- 
 nal. 
 
 Thirdly. — That his mother's letter pointed 
 nt some knowledge on her part which made 
 it desirable for him to continue his connection 
 with Mr. Wyveme, and also led to the suspicion 
 tlmt she herself might have been acquainted 
 with Mr. Wyveme in some way in past 
 years. 
 
 Foitrtlth/. — Coming upon all these, and 
 gaining new meaning from these things, while 
 it gave new emphasis to them, was the death- 
 bed declaration of Mr. Wyveme, in wliicli he 
 claimed Basil Blake as his own son. At this 
 same time he said that Miss Wyvcrne was 
 not his daughter. Moreover, he wished Basil 
 Biako to marry her. 
 
 Fifthhj. — Wyvernc's declaration wiis ac- 
 companied with remorseful alhisions to two 
 persons. One of tlit se was Blake's motlicr. 
 The other was Miss Wyverne's fatlier. In his 
 manner of allusion to tlicse two tliero were 
 manifost tlic signs of conscious gui't of some 
 sort at their expense. 
 
 SixtMy. — Wyvernc had hastily sent for a 
 priest. Ho had not seemed to bo so near 
 death as to be unable to receive holy com- 
 niiiuiun ; but the result had been most unex- 
 pected. Tlie moment that liis <ycs had cauglit 
 sight of the priest ho seemed horror-stricken. 
 To Bluko that death seemed caused by sheer 
 terror. About the priest he had discovered 
 notiiing. He did not know his name. The 
 question yet remained wiictiier his fear was 
 owing to tlie priest, or to some resemblance 
 whicli ho had fancied in the priest to some 
 other person. 
 
 Finally, after making all due allowance 
 for every thing, there arose the question 
 which of two alternatives to choose. One of 
 these was the theory that ho was delirious all 
 through Ills last 'llncFs. In this case those 
 events must all go for nothing. The other 
 was, that he was conscious and perfectly rea- 
 
 sonable. In this case the events of that 
 dying bed towered up to supremo impor- 
 tance. They interwove themselves with other 
 things. They joined themselves to the inci- 
 dents which had gone before them, and gave 
 to all these a tremendous significance. Be- 
 yond all these preliminary incidents these last 
 events rose up to that appalling climax of 
 death, and gave to Blake a new character, a 
 new name, a new place in the world, and a 
 new duty in life. 
 
 How should this be decided ? 
 
 The two friends talked over this subject 
 from every point of view. 
 
 " It cannot be decided now," said Kane 
 ITellmuth. " You must make further inquiries. 
 Before you can pretend to decide a question 
 of such momentous importance to yourself, 
 there are two peisoiis whom it is absolutely 
 necessary for you to see. One of these is 
 that priest, if you can possibly trace him. 
 The other is, of course, your mother." 
 
 " I will write to her," sai4 Blake. 
 
 " Have you not yet done so ? " asked Kane 
 Ilellmuth, in surprise. 
 
 " Xo." 
 
 "Tlicn, do not write. Co in person. See 
 her. Tell her all. See how she looks." 
 
 Blake hesitated. 
 
 " You do not understand," said he. " It 
 is not a subject that a son can talk over with 
 his mother. In fact, I feel a reluctance to 
 mention it even in writing. She has made a 
 profound secret of it, and — in short — I do not 
 know what — painful memories — I may awak- 
 en — or what anguish I may cause her — by — 
 by bringing such a subject before her." 
 
 Knnc Ilellmuth looked solemnly at Blako 
 for a few moments, and then asked: 
 
 "Are you sure that she is your moth- 
 er?" 
 
 " My mo'Jier ! " exclaimed Blake. " What ! 
 she — she not my mother I What! confident 
 of that ? She I No other thought is possible. 
 She? Oh, yes; there is no doubt about that. 
 AH the memories of my life centre about hor, 
 and all the happiness of my life has como 
 from her. From my earliest thoughts, I have 
 the recollection of her sweet face, her yearii- 
 'ng love, her teniler words, and more tender 
 looks and caresses. Whatever may bo tho 
 mystery of my life, there is none about her. 
 She never could so play tho mother with an- 
 other woman's child." 
 
 "Well," said Kano Ilellmuth, " you have 
 
 hm 
 
 k.i 
 
DR. BLAKE'S STRANGE STORY. 
 
 c events of that 
 supremo impor- 
 nsclves with other 
 selves to the iuci- 
 e them, and gave 
 significance. Be- 
 ncidents these last 
 palling climax of 
 1 new character, a 
 the world, and a 
 
 lided ? 
 over this subject 
 
 1 now," said Kane 
 to further inquiries, 
 decide a question 
 trtance to yourself, 
 )m it is absolutely 
 One of these is 
 lossibly trace him. 
 lur mother." 
 jniA BialiC. 
 leso?" asked Kane 
 
 fio in person. Bee 
 ow she looks." 
 
 land," said he. " It 
 n can talk over with 
 eel a reluctance to 
 ;. ^tio has made a 
 — in short — I do not 
 lorics — I may awak- 
 nay cause her — by — 
 :t before lier." 
 id Holrninly at Blako 
 lien asked : 
 she is your moth- 
 
 mcdBlnke. "What! 
 ■1 Vliat ! confident 
 • thoujiht is possible, 
 no doubt about that. 
 life centre about her, 
 )f my life has corao 
 liost thoughts, I liavc 
 ircct face, her yearn- 
 dfl, and more tender 
 hftlftvcr may bo tlio 
 3 is none about her. 
 ' the mother with an- 
 
 [Tellmutli, " you ha»e 
 
 m 
 
 4 
 
 means of judging which are superior to argu- 
 ment. A mother's lovo cannot easily bo 
 counterfeited. The things you mention are 
 the surest proof that she is your mother ; and 
 so, if she is. I can understand your hesitation, 
 of course. ' >e priest, also, will be diflScult, 
 if not impossible, to find, for the reason that 
 you have not the slightest clew to him. 
 (should you recognize his face if you were to 
 see it again ? " 
 
 " I should," said Blake, " instantly. It is 
 so remarkable a face that I could not pos- 
 sibly mistake it. I could pick out that priest 
 from among any crowd, and swear to his 
 identity." 
 
 "Tiiat is well," said Kane Ilcllmuth, 
 thoughtfully, "There is one other person, 
 by-the-way, who ought to do seen. Tliis 
 Jlias llordaunt. i^urcly, slie knows some- 
 thing. Perhaps she could tell about — Cla- 
 ra." 
 
 " There would be no necessity for me to 
 see her," said Blake. " She can know noth- 
 ing of my parentage. You are the one who 
 ought to sec her. If, as is possible, she is 
 tlic younger sister of your Clara, she can give 
 you some information as to the fate of her 
 father, and possibly may tell you something 
 about that point which we were discussing." 
 
 "/have nothing to ask about," said Kane 
 ITcllmuth, calmly. " It was a theory of j/our*. 
 2fy belief is fixed. You, in order to suggest 
 a commonplace explanation to this apparition, 
 and to avoid the supernatural, in wliieh I be- 
 lieve, suggested tliat this was herself — in life 
 — and, consequently, that she — did not — in 
 short, that she escaped, as I did. I main- 
 tained that such an escape was inconceivable 
 in the face of her guardian's testimony and 
 the actual grave. You then proceeded to 
 show that the guardian's conduct was suspi- 
 cious, that ho miglit have had reasons for 
 putting her out of the way, and concealing 
 the fact by a pretended death and burial. It 
 was i/our theory ; it was not «ii/i^ Wliat do 
 you now say ? You yourself have seen this 
 guardian ; he was Ileunigar Wyverne. You 
 knew liiin. Answer now. Was Ilonnigar 
 Wyvemo the kind of man who would have 
 been capable of an infornal conspiracy, such 
 as you suggested ? " 
 
 At this question Blake turned pale. 
 
 " When you speak of Hctinigar Wyverne," 
 said he, " you speak of one for whom I had 
 already formed a strong regard before that 
 
 moment when he claimed me as his son. Bis 
 evident regard for me inspired equal regard 
 in my breast. His daughter, too, made ray 
 regard for the father still stronger. 11 o 
 seemed to me to be an honorable eentleman. 
 Since you ask mc that question now, I can 
 only say to you, Kane Ilcllmuth — and I say it 
 solemnly — I do not believe that Uennigar 
 Wyverne was capable of such an act as the 
 one that I have suggested. Besides, the mo- 
 tive which I have imputed to him was false. 
 Here is another Miss Mordaunt in his family, 
 treated like a daughter, just as your Clara 
 would have been, no doubt, had she lived. 
 Whether there is any inheritance or not, I do 
 not know ; but it could have had nothing to 
 do with the dealings between guardian and 
 ward o" which you spoke. I believe that 
 Uennigar Wyverne's letters to you contained 
 the truth. Ilarsh he may have been, but I 
 do not believe that he was capable of any act 
 of crime. I take it all back ; and I can only 
 say that the mystery of your apparition re- 
 mains at this moment unaccountable." 
 
 A long silence followed. Such a sudden 
 change in Blake's sentiments surprised UeU- 
 muth so much that he had nothing to say ; 
 and this testimony to the character of Clara's 
 guardian at once destroyed all suspicion that 
 he might have begun to have of any decep- 
 tion on his part. These last words of Blake 
 had also destroyed the very argument which 
 he had framed but a short time before. 
 
 "Well," said Kane Ilelhnuth at last, 
 " dropping my own afl'airs for the present, I 
 should like to ask you what you intend to do 
 now. Do you intend to make any examina- 
 tion about the — ah — tho truth of the — this 
 strange statement of Wyverne's ? " 
 
 To this Blake did not return any imme- 
 diate a.iswcr, but sat in deep thought for a 
 long time. 
 
 " You see," said he, at length, " I am pre- 
 vented from taking any immediate action by 
 various important circumstances. In the first 
 place, the only persons who can give me any 
 direct information, or rather whom I can ask 
 for such information, ore cut off from me. 
 The priest has passed away, and has left no 
 sign. There is no conceivable way of tracing 
 him. I have already done every thing that 
 man could do to find out sometliing about 
 him, but have been utterly unsuccessful. Tho 
 other person is my mother; but how can a 
 son mention to a mother such a subject as 
 

 1 
 
 54 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 thfa which Hcnnigar Wyvcrnc's declaration 
 forces upon nio ? No. Itather than mention 
 it to her I would allow it to remain an eternal 
 mystery, and live in ignorance always. But, 
 in addition to this, there is another thing that 
 ties my hands," continued Blake, in a more 
 earnest tone. " This afiair does not concern 
 me only. It concerns another, and one, too, 
 who, as you may have gathered from what I 
 told you, ia very — dear to me — yes — dearer to 
 me — than — than life. It is true, no words 
 of love have ever passed between mo aiul 
 Miss Wyvernc — for certain reasons which are 
 • easily explained — but yet her woman's instinct 
 must have revenled to her long ago the nature 
 of my feelings toward her. Her father en- 
 couraged my attentions, as I told you ; but I 
 •was held back by a com idcrafion which 
 would hi.ve weight with ev..>ry high-spirited 
 man. I. is this: I am poor. She is rich; 
 she is an heiress. I could not bring myself, 
 OS I was and am, to do any thing which would 
 make mo liable to br stigmatized by the world 
 aa a miserable fortune-hunter. No; not one 
 word of love would I ever speak to her till I 
 had ill some way lessened the immense dis- 
 tance between ns, and had at least raised my- 
 self above the reach of sneers. I did not 
 wish to get rich, nor do I hope io do so , my 
 aim was, and is, in some way to gain reputa- 
 tion among mm. At present I am utterly 
 obscure; but, if I coidd only gain s-ome fame 
 for myself, I shouUl then l;e able to conic to 
 her on more equal terms, and ask her to be 
 mine. I know very well how hard it is for a 
 man to pii!*!! hiinself above the level of lis 
 fellows, but I mean to try. The only trouble 
 is, it will t:il;o too much time. But never 
 mind about this. 
 
 " I am speaking abou' what I intoad to do 
 In this matter of Jlr. Wyverne's strange dec- 
 laration. Now, that declaration, as you see 
 yourself, was twofold. He claimed me as his 
 son. Very well. But then he also disowned 
 her aa his daughter. He took mo to his 
 heart, and addressed me in the languatro of a 
 father; but he nko thrust her away, and 
 spoke to her as one wlio wns of no value to 
 liim, and of no interest in his eyes. Ami 
 that, loo, on his death-bed ! AVith his dying 
 Toice he informod her that she was not his 
 daughter — worse, he declared to her t'lat she 
 was the daughter of his worst enemy — an 
 rncmy, too, who doM not seem to have in- 
 jured him, anil upon whnin ho had inflicted 
 
 injuries so terrible that they had caused no* 
 only the most poignant remorse, but also ex- 
 cited iu his mind the sharpest terrors of some 
 striingc vcn{.'eance that his enemy meant to 
 inflict. 
 
 " Now, you sec, if I aim to prove tho 
 truth of this statement of Mr. Wyverne's, or 
 even examine info it, what is it that I must 
 do ? I must enter upon a course of inquiries, 
 tho result of which will affect not only my- 
 self but her. Suppose, for the sake of argu- 
 ment, that I should at last succeed in fiiidjig 
 out and in proving that Mr. Wyverr.e's words 
 were literally true, and not the ravings of de« 
 liriuni, I should then, of course, discover, first 
 of uU, that I am his son, though hi w in tho 
 world that could be I do not i>rotend just now 
 oven to conjieture. But that would nut be all. 
 That same discovery would show that she is 
 not his daughter. Who, then, is she ? She 
 is some unknown person. AVho is her father, 
 if Mr. Wyverne is not ? Where did idie come 
 from? What di'^honor — what shame — yes, 
 what infamy would such a discovery heap 
 upon her innocent head ! Cood Heavens ! 
 could I have the heart ; would it oven be pos- 
 siblc for me to cause such ndscry, such an- 
 guish, to any one in her positio!i, even if sho 
 were a total stranger ? I hope not ; I am sure 
 not. But she is not a stranger. She is the 
 one whom I love better than liff, and I say 
 now honestly and calnil;. that I would rather 
 die than do any thing that would interfere 
 with her happiness. She ! why I am so 
 situated now that my only hope h to be able 
 at some time to pain her fr,r myself; and how 
 could I now do such a thing as this? No; 
 my hands are tied. I cannot move a step in 
 this matter. I am only afraid that she may 
 do somcth'ng to satisfy her own mind; and, 
 if there t'.ould happen to be any thing in 
 this ; if she should diseoverthat she in really 
 not the daughter of Mr. Wyverne, but of 
 some other man ; and that I am tho one who 
 is to supplant her and usurp her place — wliy, 
 good Heavens! wliat a gulf would lliat AU- 
 covory place between her an<l me ! And sho 
 la far enough removed from me already, 
 Heaven knows t Besides, thcio is the grief, 
 the suffering, that such a discovery would 
 cause. She, poor girl, has already sutl'ered 
 ennupli from the mere suspicion of kucIi a 
 tiling as this. How could I do any thing that 
 might change that suspicion into conviction, 
 and thus increase her tioubles? Mr. Wy- 
 
MAKING IXQUIRIia. 
 
 had caused not 
 Dfse, but also ex- 
 it terrors of some 
 enemy meant to 
 
 ira to prove tho 
 [r. W'yvcrne's, or 
 
 is it tliiit I must 
 lursc of inquiries, 
 L'ct not only my- 
 thc sake of nrgu- 
 ■uccccd in fmd'iiig 
 Wyvoriie's words 
 ;lie ravings of do 
 rsc, discover, first 
 ;iough hi w in tho 
 
 prototul just now 
 t would nut be nil. 
 
 show that she is 
 iion, is she ? She 
 Alio is herfiifher, 
 hero did she come 
 ihat shanio — yes, 
 a discovery heap 
 
 (lood Heavens ! 
 lid it even be pos- 
 
 iiiifcry, such nn- 
 dtion, even if she 
 jpeno* ; I iim sine 
 ngcr. Fhc is the 
 lian liff , end I say 
 lat I would ralhrr 
 it woiild interfere 
 I ! why I am so 
 hope is to be able 
 ■myself; and how 
 ng as this? No; 
 lot move a step in 
 aid that she may 
 r own mind ; and, 
 
 bo any thing in 
 Tthat she in really 
 Wyverne, but of 
 
 I nm the one who 
 p her plaee — why. 
 If would Hint dis- 
 ind mc ! And slio 
 from nic already, 
 tlieio is the grief, 
 I discovery would 
 IS nirendy suffered 
 ispicion of such a 
 I do anything thnt 
 )ii into conviction, 
 nublcs? Mr. Wy- 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 
 Tcme's unfortunate wordt have already result- 
 ed in changing her whole nature, in making 
 her brood incessantly over this one mystery 
 which has been suggested to her. Her former 
 kindness and friendly feeling toward me have 
 been changed into what is at tho best mere 
 indifference; and, if I have any hop * 
 all now, it is that, if nothing more is dor j, 
 these cares of hers may eventually pass away. 
 So, you see, these are the thinj^s that tie my 
 hands just now, and force me to inaction." 
 
 Blake had spoken earnestly and frankly, 
 as though ho were giving utterauec without 
 reserve to \m inmost thoughts. HcUniuth 
 listened in silence, and, when he had finished, 
 made no observation whatever. Perhaps he 
 thought Ulakc's conclusions unassailable, or 
 perhaps, wrapped up in his own thoughts, he 
 had not heard a word that his friend had 
 been saying. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 M A K I N O I N Q C I R I K S . 
 
 The result of the examination of the cas- 
 ket had served to complicate still further the 
 difTiculties by which Inez was surrounded, and 
 to introduce among them new actors, most 
 conspicuous among whom was Bessie. Hith- 
 erto, in her profound abstraction, Bessie had 
 been quite lost sight of, and her only aim had 
 been to hide from her, as much as possible, 
 the troubles th.it iiaJ come upon herself. 
 Hut now tho revelation of the true nnuic in- 
 dicated by the initial " M.," at once seemed 
 to bring Bessie into the circle of circum- 
 stances, and suggested her as a possible act- 
 or in the events wliicli might be fo' thcoming. 
 The name showed that Bessie might be con- 
 nected with thnt same family to which Mr. 
 Wyverne had said she herself belonged ; her 
 connection with Mr. Wyverne appeared to 
 make it certain; an<l, if this wore so, Bessie 
 misht bo some relation to herself What re- 
 laiion ? This wn-s impossible for her to say. 
 
 Tills discovery of tho name of Mordaunt 
 thus put Bessie at once in a different posi- 
 tion. It seemed to Inez thnt all along, under 
 tho appearance of childish innocence and 
 friendly sympathy, she had possessed tho full 
 knowledge of that secret which she had been 
 trying so hard to keep from her. She now 
 recalled the incident at Villencuvo with re- 
 gard to tho letter. Bessie had picked it up. 
 
 She had read it. She knew all that was in 
 it. Doubtless, she may have thought over 
 the meaning of its contents as earnestly as 
 she herself had done, and had superior means 
 of information about its statements to help 
 her to a conclusion. 
 
 To regard Bessie in so new and unusual a 
 light was unpleasant to Inez. She had al- 
 ways thought of her ns a frolicsome child ; 
 it did violence to her feelings to think of her 
 as one who was as capable as herself of keep- 
 ing her own counsel and preserving a secret. 
 It seemed to her now to be of no use to 
 maintain her own reserve any longer. In 
 fact, it was impossible to do so, nnd, more 
 than this, it was absolutely necessary for her 
 to ask some questions of Bessie. She wished 
 to find out who Bessie's relations really were, 
 and to learn how much she really knaw nbuut 
 this matter. She had understood that Bessie 
 was an orphan ciiild — tho ward of Mr. Wy- 
 verne — who would in due time inherit a re- 
 spectab'.o fortune, but had never known any 
 thing more definite, partly beerjise Bessie 
 was reticent on the subject of her family, 
 and partly because she herself felt a natural 
 delicacy preventing her from asking questions 
 of a private nature. 
 
 Tlius, therefore, a full explanation with 
 Bessie was absolutely necessary. But Inez 
 felt a strange repugnance to it. Bessie 
 seemed now no longer the same, and the en- 
 tire confidence she once had in her had been 
 shaken during the past week, .''till Inez was 
 of a frank nature, and so she quelled her re- 
 pugnance, and lost no time in seeing her 
 friend. 
 
 Bessie met her more than )iall'-way. As 
 Inez entered her room to engage in the con- 
 versation which she proposed, Hessie's face 
 brightened, and she ran toward her, fir. , her 
 arms around her, nnd kissed her over and 
 over ngiiin. 
 
 " Why, my own darling Inez ! " she ex- 
 claimed, " is it possible ? And so you won't 
 mope any longer. You have been so sad, you 
 know. You have quite broken my heart. I 
 knew, of course, dear, that you could not 
 help being sad, yet still it was very hard for 
 nie to see you so absent. And you never 
 favored your poor little Bessie with one sin- 
 gle look — no, not one ! And now, dear, you 
 must cheer up. I'll never, never, never let 
 you mope any more." 
 
 rratlliug in this way, with the utmost ex> 
 

 P! 
 
 
 56 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 ubcrancc of afTcction, Bessie clung to Inez, 
 and drew her toward the sofa, where they sat 
 down, Bessie with lier arms fondly twined 
 around her, with her fresh, smiling ;'.ice close 
 to that of Inez, and her clear blue eyes fixed 
 lovingly upon those of her friend. 
 
 " You shall never mope again, Inez dear 
 —no, never, never. You have others who 
 love you. Do you think it is right to be so 
 cruel to a loving heart lii<e mine ? " 
 
 By such gushing affection as this, by these 
 fond caresses and loving reproaches, Inez felt 
 at first completely overwhelmed, and, for a 
 ticie, the faint suspicions that had entered 
 Ler mind faded away. She returned Bessie's 
 caresses, and they talked together, for a little 
 while, in the old strain of perfect confidence 
 and siitcrly love. At last, however, the sus- 
 pense in which she was, and the intense de- 
 si'o she felt to get at the bottom of this 
 Fccrc', Drought her back to the purpose for 
 which she had come. 
 
 " Bessie, dearest," said she, " you know 
 what I have had to be.ir of late, and will 
 make allowances for me, I am sure, if I ap- 
 peared to be cold toward you. If I were to 
 tell you all, you will wonder how I endured it 
 .it all. And I will tell you all some day when 
 I feel able to speak calmly about it. But 
 there is something now that I want to ask 
 about, and the person I wish to ask is vour- 
 self," 
 
 " Me ? " said Bessie, opening her eyes 
 wide. 
 
 " I am in great trouble, dcor," said Inez, 
 " apart from the sorrow I feel about poor 
 papa, and I want you to help me." 
 
 " Sorrow — what ! more sorrow ♦ " cried 
 Bessie, in mournful accents. " Oh, my own 
 poor, dear darling, unfortunate Inez, what 
 can have happened ? Oh, how sorry I am, 
 and oh, how glad I shall be if I can do any 
 thing for you 1 " 
 
 " It was something that poor papa said 
 on his death-bed — the last words he spoke. 
 IIo said them to roe, and they trouble me 
 awfully. I cannot bear to think of them, 
 dear, and so I cannot tell you now, ))ut I will 
 soon. Ho could not liavo meant vhat he 
 said. It must have been his delirium." 
 
 "So it wa«, surely," said Bessie, vehe- 
 mently, In her slightly Irish way. "Never 
 could he hnve said any thing at all — at all — 
 that would hurt your feelings if it hadn't 
 been for his delirium. They tell mc he was 
 
 out of his mind entirely, poor dear ! So don't 
 think any thing more about it, but try to be 
 youi" own self again, Inez jewel." 
 
 " I hope it was so, I'm sure," said Inez, 
 sadly, " but I don't know, and I can't help 
 my own feelings. Still, there is something 
 that I want to ask from you. Part of my 
 troubles arise out of something which poor 
 papa said about some person whose name is 
 Mordaunt." 
 
 As Inez said this she looked steadily at 
 Bessie. Bessie returned her look calmly. 
 
 "Mordaunt!" she repeated, with a slight 
 smile. " Sure that's my name. How very, 
 very funny, Inez darling ! Was it mo he 
 meant, jewel ? I'm sure I don't s.ee why you 
 should worry about that ? " 
 
 " Woi'ld you have any objection to tell 
 me a littl? about your pap.i, Bessie dear ? I 
 want so nuch to know. If it is a painful 
 subject, ycu need not answer, and I beg par- 
 don for ashing." 
 
 "Objcc.ion? Why, my poor, dear Inez, 
 not the leajt in life. I'd be only too happy, 
 darling, to do that same if I only could. But 
 it's little or nothing I know about that same. 
 Poor dear, darling papa died when I was 
 very, very little, and I have only heard from 
 others what I know about him, and that's lit- 
 tle enough, so it is. Unfortunately, all that 
 I know is told in a few words, dear. His 
 name was Bernal Mordaunt, and ho died 
 when I was a bit of a chi' not more than 
 three years old. He was in some foreign 
 country when ho died, and I really do not 
 know even the name of the place. But a 
 child only one year old cannot be supposed 
 to know much, can she, Inez dearest ? " 
 
 The last part of this Inez had not hoard. 
 She had heard the name Jkrnal Mordaunt, 
 and no more. She hid heard Bessie quiet- 
 ly claim him as her father. After that, she 
 heard nothing. Her lieart throbbed wildly, 
 and her mind was confused with a whirl of 
 fancies that came to her. 
 
 " So your father's name was Bernal Mor- 
 daunt?" said she, at length, in a steady 
 voice. 
 
 " Pear Inez ! how very, very sad you look ! 
 Why, what possible interest can you take in 
 poor papa?" said Bessie, in a sympathizing 
 tone. 
 
 " Do you remember any thing about your 
 mamma, Besiiie?" asked Inez again, after a 
 pause. 
 
 4 
 
MAKIXG INQUIRIES. 
 
 «r 
 
 lear ! So don't 
 , but try to be 
 I." 
 
 iro," said Inez, 
 id I can't help 
 e is something 
 1. Part of my 
 ing wliicli poor 
 whose name is 
 
 )kcd steadily at 
 ook calmly, 
 d, with a alight 
 no. How very, 
 ■Was it mo be 
 n't spe why you 
 
 )bjoction to tell 
 Be^sio dear ? I 
 ■ it is a painful 
 , and I bog par- 
 poor, dear Inez, 
 only too happy, 
 )nly could. Hut 
 bout that same, 
 ed when I was 
 only heard from 
 n, and that's lit- 
 unately, all that 
 )rds, dear. His 
 and ho died 
 
 not more than 
 n some foreign 
 I really do not 
 place. Hut « 
 lot be supposed 
 dearest ? " 
 
 had not lienrd. 
 ernnl Mordanut, 
 rd Bessie quiot- 
 
 Afler that, rlie 
 throbbed wililly, 
 ftilh a whirl of 
 
 was Dcrnal Mor- 
 ;lh, in a etcady 
 
 <ry sad you look ! 
 , can you take in 
 I a sympathizing 
 
 thing about your 
 ez again, after a 
 
 " My darling mamma died before I was I 
 bom," said IJosaic, in a childish voice. " I 
 never saw her in my life. I have beard that 
 poor papa's grief for poor darling mamma 
 was BO violent that he ran away from the 
 country, and died of a broken heait. Hut I 
 never saw either of them. Sure and it's my- 
 self would be the happy girl if I had some 
 recollection of a papa or mamma to look back 
 upon ; but I never, never had one, Inez dar- 
 ling. That is the reason why I never spoke 
 about them to you before. It's so very, very 
 sad, dear." 
 
 Again Bessie's words made the heart of 
 Inez throb with strange vehemence. Every 
 word seemed to assure her of that which she 
 half dreaded to know. In this unknown Her- 
 nal Mordauut, and in that beautiful lady that 
 bore her own name, Inez, she saw those 
 whom Mr. Wyvcrnc's words made her own 
 parents ; in the two portraits of these chil- 
 dren, she saw " Clara" and " Inez." She saw 
 no " Bessie." What place was there for a 
 " Bessie " in that little family group ? Yet, 
 Bessie's words seemed to indicate this. One 
 tiling alone made it seem impossible, ai:d that 
 was the statement that her mother had died 
 at her birth, or, as she expressed it, " be- 
 fore she was born." Could she have been a 
 younger child, whose portrait had never been 
 taken, and never included among the others? 
 But that was impossible. If she herself were 
 the "Inez" of the portrait, then Bessie could 
 not possibly belong to that family. Bessie 
 was, in fact, several months older than her- 
 self, and there was no place for her. On the 
 other hand, Bessie could not be the child of 
 the portrait, for, apart from the dttference in 
 the names, which might be passed over, there 
 was an insuperable difficulty in the faces. 
 That child was a brunette. Bessie was a 
 golden-haired blonde. 
 
 These thoughts passed through her mind 
 while Bessie was speaking, and, as she ended, 
 Inez asked her, in the same tone as be- 
 fore: 
 
 " Were there any others of you ? " 
 
 " There were, surely," said Bessie, " as 
 I've heard, though I never inivr them. Two 
 sisters older than me. I wai the baby, and 
 —oh, Inez dear, I'm so fond of babies. Are 
 you not fond of them, Inez deareet ? " 
 
 Bessie raised her large blue eyes to her 
 friend's face an she said this, and looked at 
 her with a loving gmile. 
 
 "Sisters?" said Inez, without noticing 
 hr'r question — " sisters, and older than you ? 
 Why, I never knew that you had sisters." 
 
 "And no wonder," said Bessie. "It was 
 a sad world for all of us ; for my two sisters 
 died when I was a child, and it's only the 
 names of them that were left me. You will 
 not wonder now, darling, that I have never 
 chosen to make you my confidante about my 
 family, when there is nothing but so very, 
 very sad a story to tell. It's me that neve» 
 could bear to speak of that same." 
 
 " What were their names? " asked Inez. 
 
 " Their names ? " said Bessie, with a long 
 sigh. " There were two, one several years 
 older than the other. The eldest one was 
 named Clara, and the youngest one had the 
 same name as you have, Inez. And isn't that 
 awfully funny, Inez dear? But I believe 
 your dear mamma was some sort of a relation 
 to my dear maramr., and that accounts, I sup- 
 pose, for their both taking the same name for 
 their children. But my sister Inez must 
 have been about three years older than me. 
 Sure it's a mournful subject, and I can't bear 
 to think of it at all at all. Do you know, Inez 
 darling, it's really very hard for you to talk 
 about this ? You really almost make me cry. 
 And I hate crying so." 
 
 Saying this, Bessie turned her eyes on 
 Inez, who saw that those calm, blue orbs were 
 moist with tears. 
 
 " They all died — all," said Bessie, mourn- 
 fully. " Jly sisters died while I was a child, 
 and I never saw them. My dear grandpapa 
 took charge of me, and I was brought up in 
 Ireland, you know, till your poor dear papa 
 sent for me, three years ago." 
 
 All this Inez heard with the same feelings 
 of perplexity. If Bessie was right, then she 
 saw that her own suspicions were utterly 
 wrong ; but, on the contrary, if she was right, 
 then how could Bessie have ever grown up 
 with such an unaccountable belief as this? 
 The Inez of the portrait might not be herself, 
 after all. What foundation had she for her 
 suspicions but a sick man's delirious words ? 
 She v-as younger than Bessie, instead of being 
 "Idcr. If Bessie was right, then she was en- 
 gaged in a foolish task, and heaping up end- 
 less trouble for herself to no purpose what- 
 ever. 
 
 Still, Inez had, after all, so strong a belief 
 that her suspicions were well founded, that 
 she was unable to dismiss them as yet. 
 
[■ 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 
 58 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 ' i i 
 
 ! 
 
 There were other thinf^s in addition to tliia 
 about which sho wished to ask Ucsiiic. 
 
 "Bessie, dear," said slic, "you remember 
 that letter tliat you picked up in the hotel at 
 Villeneuvo and handed to me?" 
 
 " Yea, darling." 
 
 " You rend it." 
 
 At thi.s Bessie's fair face flushed scarlet, 
 and the l)ripht and sunny smile that u.sualjy 
 irradiated it was chased away by a frown, ami 
 a sudden flush swcfit over it. But this passed 
 instantly, and Bessie said : 
 
 " Well, really, Inez darling, I hardly knew 
 what I was doing, I was sc terrified, and I 
 wondered so much what had happened, and I 
 was so fond of your poor dear papa, that I 
 read it witliout thinking that it was his let- 
 ter. I would not have dreamed of reading it 
 though, Inez dcarost, but the writing was si> 
 familiar that I thought it was no harm. It 
 was my own dear grandpapa's writing, and I 
 thought it was something about me. Sure 
 and anybody would have done that same, and 
 never have given it a thought." 
 
 At this new piece of information, Inez 
 started in fresh amazement. 
 
 " Your grandpapa ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " True for you, Inez dearest, my own 
 darling grandpapa ; and wouldn't you have 
 read a letter written by your grandpapa if 
 you had been so excited, and so frightened, 
 and didn't know what you were doing? And, 
 after nil, there wasn't much in it at all, at 
 all. Really, I could not make it out — not one 
 single word, dear. AVhy your poor dear papa 
 should feel shocked at such a letter is quite 
 beyond me — quite. And, really, now that 
 same I don't believe at all, and I don't think 
 the letter had any thing to do with it." 
 
 " What is your grandpapa's na ue, Hes- 
 sie?" apkcd Inez, anxiously. 
 
 " Kevin Magrath, sure," said Bessie. 
 
 " It is ;'. very unusual name," said Inez ; 
 "I never heard it before." 
 
 "Well, Inez dear," said Bessie, "poor 
 grandpapa is in — in trouble — most of the 
 time — and I don't generally introduce his 
 name into conversation. He's never done 
 the least harm in life — poor, dear grandpapa ! 
 — but the world is hard on him." 
 
 " Do you know what he meant by those 
 letters B.M. ? " 
 
 " Surely not. ITc w should I know that ? " 
 
 •' He said that B. M. U alive, and had come 
 back." 
 
 "Did ho? Really, the words Iiad no 
 meaning to mc, Inez dearest, and I have 
 forgotten all about them." 
 
 " Don't you think that B. M. means Ber- 
 nal Mordaunt?" 
 
 " Bcrnal Mordaunt f Why, that , poor 
 papa! Why, Inez dearest, what can you 
 pos.silily moan? Sure and it's joking you are! " 
 
 "Didn't you think of that?" 
 
 " Xi'ver, till this moment," said Bessie, 
 solemnly. " Ilow should I ? I read the let- 
 ter without understanding one sin^ile word. 
 It seemed to me like one of the puzzles one 
 reads in the magazines. Hut what do you 
 ni(!an by all this about my poor papa, Inez 
 dear? Really, do you Know you make mc 
 feel <|uite timid ? It's like rai.sing the dead 
 — so it, is." 
 
 " ,\nd this Kevin Sliigrath is your grand- 
 papa ? " said Inez, in whom this infunnation 
 had created unbounded ainazemenf. 
 
 "Yes," said Bessie, "he is my own dear 
 grandpapa. He's awfully fond of mc, too ; 
 but he has his trials. I'm afraid he's not 
 very happy. He's eo funny, too ! I'm sure 
 I somitimes wonder how he can ever have 
 been my dear mamma's papa; but he is so, 
 entirely." 
 
 " Your mamma's name was Magrath, 
 then ? " 
 
 "Of course, it must have been," said 
 Bessie, simply. " But, Inez dearest, are you 
 almost through ? Do you know you really 
 make me feel tiervnus? I never was eross- 
 qiiestioned bo in my life, and, if you don't 
 stop soon, you will positively make mc feel 
 quite cross with you. I never saw dear 
 mamma, you know ; and 1 hate to be remind- 
 ed of my lone and lorn condition " 
 
 "Forgive me, Bessie dearest," said Inez, 
 who saw that Bessie's patience was giving 
 way. " I will only ask you one or two quc8> 
 tions more, and only about that letttr. Do 
 you icmembcr noticing a tone of alarm run- 
 ning through your grand|)apa'8 letter?" 
 
 " Never a bit," said Bessie. " Was there 
 any ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Inez, "very much alarm. 
 The writer ecenied frightened at discovering 
 that B. M. was alive." 
 
 " And wliere's the wonder ? Sure, I my. 
 self would be frightened out of my senses at 
 that same. Now, wouldn't you, Inez dear- 
 est — wouldn't you yourself be frightened? 
 Now, wouldn't you— say?" 
 
 I 
 
 ! 
 
MRS. KI.KIN'. 
 
 rorda had no 
 t, and I have 
 
 M. means Ber> 
 
 y, thai . poor 
 ivhat can you 
 iking you are!" 
 ?" 
 
 ," fluid IJcsHio, 
 I read I lie 1ft- 
 e sin^ile word, 
 lie puzzles one 
 t what do you 
 loor papa, Inez 
 you nialvO iiic 
 i.sing the dead 
 
 1 is your prnnd- 
 lii» information 
 tncnt. 
 
 9 my own door 
 id of mo, too ; 
 ofraid lie'a not 
 too ! I'm sure 
 can ever Imvc 
 ; but lie is so, 
 
 was MagratI), 
 
 re b(cn," said 
 learcst, are you 
 now you rcolly 
 levcr was cross- 
 d, if you don't 
 make me frel 
 evcT saw dear 
 ,e to be remlud- 
 ion " 
 
 est," snid Incr, 
 nco was pivinp; 
 me or two ques- 
 hat k'ttir. Do 
 c of alarm run- 
 s lotler?" 
 [>. " Was tberc 
 
 r much nlarm. 
 at diricovcring 
 
 r ? Sure, I my- 
 of my senses at 
 you, Inez dear- 
 be frightened? 
 
 ' 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 "Of course; but, then, this lottor spoke 
 of some danger that my papa would incur, if 
 this ' H. M.' found him. ilo advised him to 
 run away — to Russia, or America." 
 
 " Did ho ? " said Bessie, with a bright 
 smile. " Haha I the omadlmwn! Sure and 
 it's ju<t like him, for nil tlio world I He's 
 always running away and hiding himself. 
 Sure and I can explain it oil to you, Inez 
 jewel. This B. M. is some creditor." 
 
 " Creditor ! " 
 
 " Why not ♦ Don't I know all about it ? 
 Isn't poor, dear prandpnpa head over heels in 
 debt, and always in hiding? Isn't he afraid 
 to show his no.^e in Enirland? Sure and ho 
 is. And HO, you see, Iiu'z dearest, that must 
 bo what ho meant. Your poor, dear papa 
 must have owed money to this B. M., and, 
 of course, this It. M. is going, or was going, 
 to dun him. Oli, if you had been brought 
 up in Ireland, you'd understand all about that 
 same. 'Deed and you would. So now, my 
 poor Inez, don't worry yourself about noth- 
 ing. Don't think and talk about things like 
 tlusc. I cannot imagine what in the wide 
 world has come over you. You really shock 
 mo. And all about a stupid letter about some 
 stupid money ! " 
 
 With these words, Bessie woimd her arms 
 fondly about Inez; and, when Inez opened 
 her mouth to ask some new question, she 
 playfully put her hand against it, and de- 
 clared she would not let her speak unless she 
 promised not to say any thing more about 
 this subject. 
 
 "You arc talking stupid penenlogv, Inez 
 dear," said she, "and I positively will not 
 listen to another word. I cortaiidy shall bo 
 angry if you continue your cross-questions a 
 moment longer. They make my head aehc ; 
 and I thiid< you are very, very uiddnd, and I 
 wouldn't tre.\t vou so— so I woiddn't." 
 
 Inez found it impossible to resist Bessie, 
 and, though there were many other thinfjs 
 which she wished to ask, she was cnmpelltd 
 to leave them, for the present at least. 
 
 But what she had learned from Bessie did 
 not in the slightest degree quell her curiosity, 
 or satisfy her doubts, or soothe her suspi- 
 cious. S(ill there rang in her ears the dying 
 words of Mr. Wyverne— " You arc not my 
 daughter!"— and still the images of the 
 three portraits (loated before her eves. 
 
 ClIAl'TKIl XIV. 
 
 VRS. KLEi:r. 
 
 TnK conversation with Bessie left Inez in 
 a great state of doubt and hesitation. As 
 far as she could sec, Bessie had been perfect- 
 ly frank and uncmborrasscd in all her statc- 
 ment.i. Those statements were all as plain 
 and simple as they possibly could be. And 
 yet they were completely at variance with the 
 suspicion which she had been cherishing ever 
 since Mr. Wyverne's death. 
 
 Bessie's story was plain, simple, and intel- 
 ligible. It was also very plausible, and, in- 
 deed, far more credible than tlio theory of 
 her own parentage, which she had raised out 
 of Mr. Wyverne's declaration. 
 
 It was this : 
 
 liernal Mordaunt had a wife and two chil- 
 dren — Clara and Inez. To these ho was ten- 
 derly attached. 
 
 At the birth of the third child Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt had died. 
 
 This third eliild was Bessie, and she was 
 three years younger than the " Inez " of the 
 portrait. 
 
 But Bernal Mordaunt's grief at the death 
 of his wife was so excessive that ho could en- 
 dure his home no lonjror. He left the coun- 
 try, and soon after died. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt's father now took these 
 ehililren under his care. He was this same 
 Kevin MaCTath who had written that ill- 
 omened letter. .Tuil^ing from Bessie's feel- 
 ings toward him ho must have been a kind- 
 hearted man. He took care of these orphan 
 children. Two of them died, and Bessio 
 Monlaunt was left alone, the last of that 
 family. 
 
 Now, in some way, her father seemed to 
 be brought into connection with these Mor- 
 dauiits. 
 
 How? 
 
 No doubt as guardian, executor, or agent. 
 Perhaps, in 1 ' j management of Bessie's prop- 
 erty, he had done her some injustice. 
 
 And now, out of all this, quick as light, 
 niiig there (lashed across her mind what 
 might be the true theory of all this trouble. 
 
 Jlrr faihfr miyUt have nthtaken her for 
 
 No sooner had she thought of this than 
 an innncnsu feeling of relief came to her, 1} 
 
 
! 
 
 eo 
 
 AS OPKX QUESTION'. 
 
 i ! 
 
 I ! 
 I' 
 
 
 I - 
 
 eecmed so very prubabic, so piTfcctly nat- 
 ural. 
 
 There had evidently boon some sorrow on 
 her futher'a soul, ariiing from tho conscious- 
 ness of wrong done. It was this that gave 
 to Lira that remorse which ho felt, and of 
 which ho spoke. To whom, then, had this 
 vrong been done of which he spoke ? 
 
 There was no doubt, both from tho letter 
 of Kevin Magrath and from Mr. Wyvcrne's 
 own words, that this wrong had been done to 
 Jiernal Mordaunt. Dcssio herself had indi- 
 cated the nature of that wrong. Her grand- 
 father, she said, was in debt, and perhaps Mr. 
 Wyverne, too. It may have been that these 
 two men had in some way mismanaged the 
 estate of Bcrnal Mordaunt, and for this cause 
 they dreaded him when he reappeared. Bes- 
 sie, then, was the one whom her father had 
 wronged. In his illness his delirious fancies 
 brought all his crimes back. She, his own 
 daughter, appeared to him liko tho injured 
 Bessie, and thus it was that as she came near 
 he had repelled her with tliosc words, " Vvu 
 are not m.v daughter!" It was not herself, 
 then, but Bessie, from whom he had shrunk ; 
 and it was not hers but Bessie's hand that he 
 liad placed in the hand of Dr. Blake. Per- 
 haps all along ho had misunderstood Dr. 
 Blake's attentions ; had thought they were 
 given to Bessie ; had encouraged them for 
 this reason ; and, finally, had at last sought 
 to make some recompense to her by giving 
 her to bo the wife of an honorable man. 
 
 It was not without a sharp pang that this 
 last thought came to Inez, but no sooner had 
 Dr. Blako occurred to her mind than the 
 thought and the pang passed, and away in an 
 instant went the soundness and stability of 
 Bessie's theory. 
 
 For with the thought of Dr. Blake came 
 the recollection that Mr. Wyverne had claimed 
 him as his son. How should she explain 
 this? 
 
 Again, in Kevin Mograth's letter, he had 
 laid particular strcsfi, not on licme, but on 
 JnnI IIow should she explain that? 
 
 Again, and above all, how should she ex- 
 plain those mysterious memories of her child- 
 hood ; how account for her dim recognition 
 of thai mother's face in tho portrait — that 
 elder sister? To do so was impossible. Had 
 they lived at her father's house when she was 
 A child, ^nd had she thus become acquainted 
 with those haunting faces? It might be so, 
 
 yet to her they seemed more, far more than 
 pleasant acquaintances. What was tho secre t 
 cause of that deep emotion which she felt at 
 the sight of them? Whence arose that pro- 
 found yearning of her soul over that mother 
 and that elder sister, as over dear ones once 
 loved and lost ? 
 
 It was evident to Inez that tho past must 
 be looked into by means of the help of others 
 besides Bessie. Among the domestics of tho 
 household could any one be found whoso 
 memory reached back far enough to mako 
 him or her of ony use in the present in- 
 quiry » 
 
 No sooner did lliis question oQcur to Inez 
 than she at once thought of an old domestic 
 who occupied a very peculiar position in tho 
 house. Mrs. Klein had onco been house- 
 keeper, but, having fallen into a species of 
 what may charitably be termed decrepitude, 
 with which, however, gin had something to 
 do, tho active duties of her position were 
 handed over to another, and Mrs. Klein was 
 pensioned off. Mrs. Klein's present residence 
 was well known to Inez, for she hod been in 
 the habit of paying frequent visits to the re- 
 tired potentate, and she now determined to 
 seek her without delay. Accordingly the car- 
 riage was ordered, and, after about an hour's 
 drive, Inez found herself before the humble 
 abode of her old friend. 
 
 It was about two o'clock, and Mrs. Klein 
 was at home. Indeed, the first glance showed 
 Inez that it would have been difficult for her 
 to have left her home ; for there was in her 
 gait an unsteadiness, and in her eye a rolling, 
 watery leer, which would infallibly have 
 drawn down upon her the attentions of the 
 police had she ventured forth to any distance 
 from her humble cot. She was about sixty 
 years of age, dressed in black, with a frilled 
 cap on her head, and a bunch of keys dan- 
 gling from her waist — these last the emblems 
 of her lost sovereignty, but still lovingly re- 
 tained from the force of habit. She was stout 
 and decidedly " beery " in her aspect and 
 manner, and there was a fuddled unctuousnei'S 
 of voice in the way in which she greeted Inez, 
 and a maudlin tearfulness of eye which showed 
 that her naturally keen sensibilities had been 
 subjected to tho impulse of uome gentle 
 stimulant. 
 
 " Which it's welcome you truly air this 
 day, my own dear child. Miss Iliny," she be> 
 gan, in a whimpering voice. "An* mo think- 
 
1 
 
 far more tlmn 
 I waa tho secret 
 ikh slio felt at 
 irosc that pro- 
 er that mother 
 dear ones ouce 
 
 t tho past must 
 ; help of others 
 omestics of the 
 ) found whoso 
 lOUgh to mako 
 the present in- 
 
 in oQcur to Inez 
 in old domestic 
 position in the 
 CO been bousc- 
 lo a species of 
 led decrepitude, 
 id something to 
 r position were 
 I Mrs. Klein was 
 present residence 
 she bad been in 
 t visits to the re- 
 w determined to 
 lordingly the ear- 
 about an hour's 
 ■fore the humble 
 
 k, aiul Mrs. Klein 
 rst glance showed 
 n difflcult for her 
 there was in her 
 her eye a rolling, 
 1 infallibly have 
 attentions of the 
 tb to any distance 
 3 was about sixty 
 ack, with a frilled 
 inch of keys dan- 
 ! last the emblems 
 t still lovingly re- 
 jit. She was stout 
 n ber aspect and 
 idled unctuousnei'S 
 h she greeted Inez, 
 f eye which showed 
 osibilities had been 
 B of liome gentle 
 
 you truly air this 
 liss Hiny," she bc- 
 e. " An' me think- 
 
 
' 
 
 i 
 
 to 
 
 
 m 
 
MUS. KLKIX. 
 
 61 
 
 1^1 
 
 ^S 
 
 L^ 
 
 f*\A\ 
 
 ■\\\, 
 
 In' tlint I'd die willioiit tlio sif-'lit of your 
 sweet face, nn' left 'cro alone in tlio cold 
 world that leaves mo to pine and lanRuitch, 
 an' no ono left to lovo mo now, an' you too 
 may forget, ns tlio pood liook pays ! An' so 
 lie's dead an' gone, nn' the grass waves over 
 he, which ho was ever a kind friend to me, 
 an' a bravo soger, well used to war's alarms, 
 though ho did pension mo off, an' mo as 
 hactyvo an' ns niniblo as a kitten, an' never 
 'ad a day's illness in all my life, since I was 
 a child witli tlio measles, an' managed that 
 'ouso like clock-work nigh on twenty year, 
 wliich ho says tliere was never any other 
 'ousekceper tliat could 'old a candle, and 'im 
 dead an' gone below ! " 
 
 And with this rather equivocal conclusion 
 to her somewhat incnherent address Mrs. 
 Klein drew forth an enormous bandanna hand- 
 kerchief, and mopped away vigorously at her 
 eyes. 
 
 Inez took a scat, and waited patiently for 
 Mrs. Klein to overcome her emotions. At 
 length, tho old lady drew a long sigh, and, 
 putting out her band, took an old teapot 
 from tho table near her, and poured from 
 this into a tumbler a colorless liquid that 
 looked like water, but wlioso pungent odor 
 announced the presence of gin. 
 
 " Which, after bereavement and melan- 
 eholick," she said, " there's nothink so 'ole- 
 porao an' 'onlthy as a drop of this, took, Miss 
 Hiny, only as a mediciiik, on' to stimmylato 
 tho mind an' lieaao tho 'art, wliich I alius 
 docs before I hover goes to my blessed bed at 
 night, an' would 'umbly recommend the same, 
 with my 'umble dooty an' best wishes, for you 
 an' yours, an' 'opin' your dear benefactor left 
 you comfortable, which wo shall not sec his 
 like again in this vale of tears, an' 'c was as 
 good as a fiither to you—" 
 
 The old lady's boo/.iness and twaddle had 
 begun to discourage Inez, who saw no chance 
 of getting any intelligible information from 
 such a fuddled brain ; but suddenly, in the 
 midst of this, the last remark of Mrs. Klein 
 startled her, and she began to tliink that 
 perhaps, by humoring the drunken creature's 
 fancy, she might get more out of her than 
 sho would be able to do if she were sober. 
 For, in the old days, she had never given ut- 
 terance to ony thing that came so near to 
 Inez's suspicions as this. In her later days, 
 she had been occasionally a littlo excited by 
 gin, but never so much as to be off her guard. 
 
 " Yes," chimed in Inez, anxious to see 
 how much Mrs. Klein would tell, "he was as 
 ■•ood 08 a father; ho couldn't liavo done 
 more if he had really been my father." 
 
 " Which there never was o truer word, an' 
 'iin with 'is own son lost to 'im, as a body 
 may say, an' the wife of 'is boosom turned 
 ogin 'im, an' you not 'is liown, an' In this 
 world men 'avo 'ord 'arts when they 'ovo to 
 bring up them as is not their hown — oil but 
 'im, ns never spoke of you but with lovin' 
 kindness an' tender mussies, on' ever shall 
 bo. ' Mrs. Klein,' says he, ' you 'avo a lovink 
 'art, on' I hintrust this 'ere lone balio of the 
 woods to you to brink hup as my hown. Call 
 her by my hown name ; treat 'cr as your 
 young missus ; be virtoous, nn 'you will bo 
 'appy — to bo brunk hup in Wisdom's ways, 
 which is ways of pleasantness, an' hall her 
 paths is paths hof peace.' Which them's 'is 
 hown words. Miss Iliny, as hover was, an' 'im 
 a-confidink in me, as knoo 'ow fully 'c might 
 confide. An', 'Don't you hevcr tell 'cr,' 'o 
 says, 'but what she's my hown, for hit'U be 
 hall the same to 'er in tho bend ; an' to be 
 brunk up soberly, righteously, on' piously, 
 hall the days hof her life, an' has my hown 
 daughter — Misa "yverno — hany think to the 
 controiry 'ereoi ,ii hany wise notwithstand- 
 ink.' " 
 
 " ITow old was I then ? " asked Inez, in a 
 tremulous voice. 
 
 These wandering words were certainly 
 confirming her worst i'ears, and bringing 
 back all hor worst suspicions. 
 
 "Ay, 'ow liold," the old creoturo went 
 chattering on — " which it's a mere child you 
 was, not hover fower year, an' not as much ; 
 an' there was your sister, a fine girl of twelve, 
 that was sent to the nunnery in France — " 
 
 " France ! " exclaimed Inez, in deep ex- 
 citement. 
 
 "Oh, I know it; I remember it," said 
 Mrs, Klein, positively. " An' me 'earin' all 
 about the proposules, an' she o-cryink like a 
 babby at leavink of you. But I comforted 
 'or, an' I says : ' Cheer up, littlo Clara ; you 
 shall see Iliny soon, if so be as you be a good 
 girl, an' go lioff quiet.' An' so she bade a 
 long adoo to things below." 
 
 " Was Mrs. Mordount there ? " asked 
 Inez. 
 
 Ilor heart was throbbing painfully, and 
 she could speak with difficulty. She asked 
 this question and named this name so as to 
 
AN OPEN 'lUESTIOX, 
 
 iHi 
 
 ' 
 
 test licr suspiuious to the uttermost, and put 
 tbcm beyond a doubt. 
 
 "Oh, ny, iiy! an' bo you remember the 
 name — poor hidy ! — which 'er name I •.emcm- 
 bcr well, though never seeink '<•., beink dead 
 an' goue before, nu' you two hdn^ horpliaiis 
 hi tlio cold world below. An' my poor 'art 
 bled for you two In your dissolute state, which 
 your .ma beink dead, an' your pa beink fled 
 far away into strange lands, an' me 'eariii' 
 at'temard that 'e di d in heggsilo — which Mr. 
 Wyverne 'e stood lor'ard, un' says to me: 
 'That child slial' bo mi.ie, to be brunk up in 
 the lap of higsury, an' you be kind an' faith- 
 ful, an' name your hown reward.' iJut I upa 
 an* says; ' My rc.varJ, sir, uxin' your 'umb'.o 
 pai-.l"ik for bcin' so bold, hi.i io be a father 
 U the fav'.ierlci 8 an' a niot!;er to the raolhcr- 
 lt'18.' An' ho .iays : ' You arc right, an' I 
 ci.mmcnd 'er to your faithful boosoni ' " 
 
 " Why did Mrs. Wyvorne leave her h';^- 
 band ? " asked Inez once more. 
 
 " Which 'e wus alius a kind 'ushanJ an' a 
 faithful lallioi an' nobody can deny — no, not 
 Iie-cii 'c"- as li;!t iiim to die hof a broken 'ail 
 •—an' ever 'aJ a l.iiid wcrii f)T hal; tlic 'o'lse- 
 'olJ; nil' took 'er son an' ''a — n,i.sil — 'im ! "■ 
 in' rot hover six year he! f, an' in long curls, 
 tl.0 .;e-C'e-eaiitirul chih' ! An' 'c nays to me, 
 'y^cs. Rleiii,' an' I says, 'Si;,' un' 'i says, 
 'They've go e,' an' I says, ' Wlio ? ' Ar' 'c 
 Bayp, with a 'alt' whimper, ' 'ty wile,' 'o says, 
 'au' my son — my i»oy — my Basi!!' An' I 
 B'ys, 'Sir,' says I, "opin' no horence, a\i' 
 axin* your pardirk — they'll conie h.ick.' An' 
 'e ua." s, '>'Gver; she'a too hobstiiiate, an' 'as 
 bid a 'ietuui;d haydoo.' Sji-j* I, 'Sir, what 
 fcr? Isn't 'his 'ere tliei.- proper 'ome?' Says 
 'e, * W'^'vc 'ad a tiffht, an' siie'fl gone.' 'ays 
 I, ' About wliat r ' Says 'c, ' About 'er, about 
 little liiiiy ' An 'im sc kind an' ijvin' that 
 'e treaU'd 'er lile .1 man, on' nov;.r Iteven ad- 
 vertised her lor sood 'or a sepai-ntion, nor 
 notliink ; an' me hexpeeiin', day hafter day 
 an' year ntfter jear, that she'd relent, an' 
 come 'omc ; but reiont sho did not, an' come 
 'ome ehe did never, but 'id 'orsclf eloje, an' 
 'as never been 'ec?d hof from that day to tlds 
 blessed "lomink. Which 'er 'usband bore 
 the cruel blow like a hangel, an' never re- 
 pined, but showed a Chrii'tiang fortitood, an' 
 forgnv 'is honcmies, an' 'i"-.! a good 'usbund to 
 'er, never a-comii.' 'ome drunk an' beatin' 'er 
 about the 'oad with a broom-'andle, as is the 
 CB86 witli many wivei, but kind and true as 
 
 'c promised an' vowed in his ni:irriage-bond 
 before the haltar. Which if it's the last 
 word I hever spake, Td go to that woman, an' 
 look 'er in tlio heyes, an' I'd say unto 'cr: 
 'My dear, axin' your 'umble pardink, I'l! ad- 
 wise you to pack hup your dud." aii' Oo 'oiiiu, 
 for hif you don't hit's a-goink to Lc the wusa 
 for you an' your boy ; which 'ere is Miss Iliny 
 a-twiiiiuk 'ersell hayrouud 'is 'art, iin' a 
 dau;;liter to 'im, 'avin' lost one father lo find 
 a father in 'im, an' bein' deservink of ii, too, 
 as a warm-'arted gi>'I, an' as dear to mo as a 
 cliild of my hown.' " 
 
 Inez had heard enough. She had no 
 heart lo ask ony further questions. One 
 tiling she had learned which was altogether 
 new, and tliat was, that this s'.stcr Clara had 
 been sent to Vrance — to a " nunnery," as Mrs. 
 Klein said. And there, thought Inez, she mu't 
 have died. Deeply was she touched by Mrs. 
 Klein's remarks about Clara'.s love fur the 
 little sister froir whom she had to part, and 
 her heart was tilled with unutterable regrets 
 and unutterable longings after that lost dear 
 • ne, who loved her once so fondly. 
 
 Mrs. Klein now, being no longer directed 
 by any leading questions, went oil" in a series 
 ol remarks of a hlghly-desultory character. 
 She began by pressing a half-tuuibler of gin 
 upon Inez, and wept freely because Inez re-. 
 ftised. She tiien, sti'.'. weeping, swallowed !». 
 herself. After this she began a lamtutatiou 
 over the wickedness of the world and the dc- 
 piavity of the human heart, as exn'',pliii<>(l in 
 some recent bad bargains which she had 
 made in her favorite beverage. She urged 
 Inez to take her back, to live with her aa 
 companion or chapevon. Finally, ^.J:^ pro- 
 duced on old clay pipe and lighted it. 
 
 Inez had scarcely heard a word for some 
 time past. During Mrs. Klein's desultory 
 rambling she had been buried in her own re- 
 flections, but out of these she was suddenly 
 and violently drawn by a strangling and 
 choking sensation, caused by the smoke of 
 the particularly villunous tobacco in Mrs. 
 Klein's pipe. She hastily rose, and, without 
 a word, rushed to the door, leaving Mrs. 
 Klein talking to the walls of her house. 
 
 About the truth of Mr'' Klein's stato- 
 tnents Inez had not the sligh'.cst doubt. 
 Had she been perfectly sober, it might have 
 been possible to suspect !'.•■; of acting up to 
 some plan dcvi"";!! long ago in Mr ^"'yverno'i 
 life. As it ' x», liuch a suspicion war im> 
 
 
INEZ IlECEIVES A LETTEIJ. 
 
 63 
 
 possible. Tbo circumstances under which 
 this had been said, and the way in which she 
 bad said il, all combined to show Inez that it 
 must be true. 
 
 In tl'is state of mind she drove liomo. 
 
 And now Dessie met her. She rushed 
 down the stairs, and, claspins her in her 
 arms, kissed her, and reproached her lov- 
 ingly for going out alone. 
 
 "h.M'caiid you'll never be your own old 
 self again, Inez darling," she exclaimed. " I 
 had begun to hope that you had got over 
 j-our reserve, and ret'oence, and sadncs.s, an ". 
 solitary ways, and all that sort of thing. I 
 can't stand this at all, iit all. Ueally, Inez 
 duriih.t, you'll break my heart. Why should 
 you hold yourself aloof from nic, and why 
 won't you come back to /our old familiar 
 ways, (ioar? Positively, if you treat me so, 
 I shall have to f;o away, for I shall feel that 
 you no longer lil — lil — love luum — mum — 
 me." 
 
 And here Bi'ssio burst into tears. 
 
 Iiiex kissed her, and tried to soothe her, 
 and felt real self-reproach at having inflicted 
 so iKiieh pain on this innocent child. 
 
 " it was only some foolish business of 
 mine," said she. 
 
 " But you have no business to have any 
 foolish business at all," said Bessie, fr"M'iilly. 
 " You have no right to wound mc i'\ 1^ vas 
 hard enough before, but, after we made frieiiJs 
 again, it was very, very cm.! iu you, Inez 
 de:ir. Irs myself that's bcci Uio niiscrnble 
 girl this day, and it's fairly heart-broken that 
 I am with you ; and you won't do so again, 
 darling, now will you? You wdl not be so 
 cold and unkind, now will yon, Inez dear- 
 est?" 
 
 Inez promised not to olTond again, whore- 
 ii-^m B«Hsio grew calm, and the two spent 
 the rest of the day together as much on their 
 old terms as was possible, when the heart of 
 one of them was \» rung wiih the remembrance 
 of that which she had heard, and when her 
 mind was porplcxed with the problem of her 
 life, and the image of the gentle sister Clara 
 was ever fl.iating before her imagination. 
 
 iSho retired early that night, and ai last 
 fouiid herself alone. 
 
 Here tliero was one thought that perplexed 
 her. 
 
 This wai Bessie Mordaunt — this girl who 
 bore that name, and gave Uiat account of her 
 pareuia^c. 
 
 Inez had now not a duubt loft that sho 
 was, in very truth, Inez Mordaunt, daughter 
 of licrnal Mordaunt. 
 
 She had now not the slightest doubt that 
 Bessie's account of herself was utterly false. 
 
 Uid Bessie know this V Impossible. Bes> 
 sio would not deceive. Bessie herself must 
 bo deceived. 
 
 But how ? 
 
 Evidently Bessie :iiusl have been brought 
 up all htr life in this belief. She E'atod it 
 so calmly and so simply, and it agreed so 
 perfectly with her mode of thought and her 
 position in this house, past and present, that 
 she must belie t-e in what she said. Vet it 
 was all false, and Bessie had been carefully 
 brought up to believe it as true. 
 
 How could this have happened ? Who 
 could have instilled into her so long and so 
 carefully all these lies 1 What could have 
 been the motive of it? Could it have been 
 Mr. Wyvcrno? If so, why had he done it? 
 Or could it have been that man who had 
 brought Bessie uj) — her "dear graudpapa," 
 Kevin Magrath ? 
 
 That was the question. 
 
 CUAPTER XV. 
 
 INEZ RECKIVES A LETTKIl 
 
 That she had been all alorg the victim of 
 some dark plot, Inez now felt confident ; but 
 whether Mr. Wyverne was the originator of 
 the plot or not, she could not tell. There 
 wore many other things also which perplexed 
 her. What was the position of Bessie? 
 Taking her honesty, good faitii, and perfect 
 ini'jcenco for gnmtcd, what was her place 
 in this involved net-work of circumstances t 
 Was she too a victim ? or was she the prnllijee 
 of the unknown conspirators? Who was 
 her " grandpapa ? " What part had he borne 
 in all this? What was lis altitude with 
 regard to her? and what had been his atti- 
 tude toward '(r. Wyverue ? Above all, what 
 was the motive of the conspiracy ? That it 
 was a conspiracy o." no common kind, she felt 
 8'''e. It had begun long ago, aid had been 
 carried on for years What was the purpose 
 of llioso two coufeia'rates — Wyvorne ond Ma- 
 grath? What crJ did they pre ..asc? Waa 
 
64 
 
 AX OrEN QIESTIOX. 
 
 i 
 
 it revenge ? or was it uvaric! ? Was there 
 aDy thill); of lierx that tlioy mi^ht gain ? 
 
 Of course, tlicso questions vould not be 
 answered, and this last one «. s the grcatCHt 
 puzzle of all, for it was imposaiblo for her to 
 imagine what could have been the cause for 
 which these men imd trnnicd so deep a plot, 
 and elaborated it so patientir, and carried it 
 out so carefully. 
 
 Bcrnal Murdaunt was her fitlhcr. She 
 now believed this without the slightest linger- 
 ing doubt. 
 
 Uernal Mordaunc was a priest. Whntwas 
 the meaning of this ? This was a point that 
 she could not comprehend. That he was a 
 Iloman Catholic and not an Anglican priest, 
 sho knew from the allusion in the letter to 
 his " ecclesiastical business " at Konic. What 
 wus the meaning of that ? Was this, then, the 
 cause why her parentage had beon so care- 
 fully concealed ? Was this the cause of his 
 flight — his neglect of his children? Was 
 th« alTeclion of Mr. Wyvcrne, seeking to save 
 her from shame, that had surrounded her 
 with all thin mystery ? Was this the reason 
 fhttt her sister Chira had been sent to a 
 nunnery, and hcrsi'lf br ..ght t'p as Mr. 
 Wyvernc's da\ighter y Was this . o ? and, if 
 so, was it not possible '.hat Mrs. Wyvcrne 
 may have (|uarrolled with her husband on the 
 ground that he was receiving a child of shame 
 into his household, and had taken herself and 
 licr son from the presence of such pollution ? 
 Could this bo so i 
 
 This? Impossible. It was not of alTcc- 
 tion and selfnacriflce that Mr Wyvcrno spnUe 
 on his dyint; bed. It was of repentanco loi 
 crime. It was remorse. It was the agoniz- 
 ing desire to make on atf ement for wrongs 
 which ho had done to her father. 
 
 That fiilhcr had come to him tl'cro at that 
 bedside — the injured man had seen the of- 
 fender, with what result she ha<l heard from 
 Dr. niakc. Of the real horror of that meet- 
 ing, however, fuo knew nothing, fur llliike 
 had kejit t!int a profound secret from Iicr. 
 She haii merely understood from him that 
 Mr. Wyvcrne had 'lied the moment the priest 
 had entered the room, and that not one word 
 hud pastied between thoni. 
 
 There were various qiiestions, roh«et|nent 
 upon her knowledge of the fact of this n>co!- 
 >!!» which nerved to perplex hdr mind still 
 fUrthi^r. 
 
 Jla 1 her fither recognized Mr. Wyvcrno Y 
 
 Pho tlir>ug+it not, and for various reasons. In 
 the iirst i>lacc, she rememborcd tho fearful 
 change that had taken place in Mr. Wyverne's 
 face, and judged, rightly enough, that sach a 
 change would make all recognition impossi- 
 ble, espcciully on the part of one who had not 
 seen him for fourteen years. 
 
 If he had not recognized him, had h« at 
 least known his name ? 
 
 This also she thought i'npossible. If ho 
 had heard so uncommon a name as Wyvcrno 
 mentioned, particularly the full nnmo Hr.nni- 
 gar Wyvcrne, ho would have been struck by 
 it at once. If so, he would not have gone 
 away so hurriedly after that death — making 
 no inquiries adfr those whose guardian Ilen- 
 nigar Wyvcrne hud been. No ; the priest had 
 probably arrived lat.>, as lilakc said, from a 
 hurrie<l journey ; had been summoned almost 
 from his bed to the dying man ; and then, 
 without recognizing him, or learning his 
 name, had continued his hdrried journey. 
 
 The question now arose whether he had 
 not found out since who this man w.%s. lie 
 must have done so. The notice of Hennigar 
 Wyverne's deatli had been pul)lished, and 
 would of course meet her father's eyes, IIo 
 would then learn who it was that had died so 
 suddenly. 
 
 And what then? What, in fact, would be 
 his ac ijn? Tim letter of Kevin MagratU 
 stated that her father was at Home, and was 
 going to Enj;land to see Wyvcrne. About 
 what? The answer was piven in the letter, 
 in part at least : " Inez must be got rid of." 
 It wus for her, then, that her father was com- 
 ;. 8ho was in part, at least, the object of 
 his journey, and of his buxincss in Knglaml. 
 
 Would the death of Ilennigar Wyvcrne, 
 now no doubt well known to her father, make 
 any din'ercuco in his movements? Would he 
 still come to seek after her? What if lies 
 had reached him, such as those amid which 
 lies^io had been brought up ? What if Im 
 iiad heard and believed that his daughters, 
 Clara and Inez, were dead long ago? Could 
 she ex|M'<'t that he would ever search after 
 her? Wyvcrne being deail, what business 
 would he have in Kngland? On the other 
 hand, how KhouM she find him, or cU'cct com- 
 munieatii'n with him in any w.iy ? 
 
 Of the two putters to nhom ihe could 
 
 tract) tlio groat conspiracy which had enfo1de<l 
 
 her and liesslc in its granp from earliest 
 
 i childl.uoi!, one was de.td. ISul tho other to- 
 
 
 m 
 
INEZ RECEIVES A LETTER. 
 
 05 
 
 ttaiaed What would bo do? Would lie 
 givo up, eonfcss all, and set tbinga straight 
 before the worfd ? or would ho coiitinuo to 
 carry on his work ? IIo was ncssieV. " grand- 
 papa." Ilo wat), no doubt, using lior as a 
 tool for his own purposes. Would be ."till 
 trj to bafflo Bernal Monlaunt ? 
 
 Kevin iuaj^v-itli, in the letter which bo 
 bai? written to IJennigar Wy vcrne, had spoken 
 obout Bcrnftl Mr rdaunt with undisguised alarm ; 
 but from that letter it was Wyverne who had 
 chief taus' for fear. So formidable au ene- 
 my "^as Uornnl Mordaunt, that flight or pre- 
 tended (leath were the only ways by which 
 the terrors of his presence could be evaded. 
 Was the danger which had been so dreadful 
 to Wyverne less dreadful to Kevin Ma- 
 grath ? 
 
 Not one of tliesp questions could she an- 
 swer. The one wtiieh was most important 
 to her was about her i'ather's possible move- 
 ments. Did he know that she was alivo? 
 Would he eorao to England ? 
 
 Since that mcraorahic doatli at Villcncuvo 
 a fortnight bud passed away. No signs bad 
 presented themselves as yet of his appearance. 
 This did not look like haste on liis part. Tho 
 delay seeinod unnecessary. It looked as 
 though ho did not know of her oxisten^ \ It 
 looked as though ho had heard of Wyverne's 
 death, and bad given up his design of going 
 to England. 
 
 After breakfast that day, a letter was 
 banded to Inez. 
 
 She looked at it in amazement; it boro 
 tho postmark of I'aris. Who coulU write 
 her from Paris ? There was only one — Dr. 
 Itlake. Hut why should he write f Perhaps 
 it was somelliing with reference to Mr. Wy- 
 verne, or perhaps something tho thought of 
 which excited her indignation. Could it bo 
 possible ? No, it com I not bo ; ho would not 
 dare, at such a time, to write to her a con- 
 fession of his feelings. 
 
 With this thought she loft the table, and 
 retired to her room to rcDd the letter. Tliere 
 was no reason why she shouM not (liiuk so. 
 Dr. Hhikft lived at Paris, or lodgf^d thuro for 
 tho present ; she had no other acquaintance 
 there ; and she did not know enough of his 
 handwriting to judge o' tho writer of tho let- 
 tor by the address. 
 
 Hut the lirst words of tho letter at once 
 put this notion to flight. On optulng it, she 
 nwid the following : 
 5 
 
 "My DEARKST Child : 
 
 " Hy this time you know all, and therefore 
 will t;ot bo surprised at finding that there is 
 one olive who has a right to call you by timt 
 tender name. Returning homo after a long 
 absence, during which you have been taught 
 to believe mo dead, or rather have been kept 
 in ignorance of mo altogether, my only bu-ii- 
 ness now is to fold my beloved daughter in 
 my arms, and save her from tho machinations 
 of those who so long hare had Lcr in their 
 power. 
 
 " It was ray astonishing fate to meet Mr, 
 llennigar Wyverne at Villencuve. 1 was on 
 my way from Rome to England with no other 
 purpose than to see that very man, and re- 
 ceive from him an account of those dear ones 
 whom I had intrusted to him years before. 
 At that inn, just after a short night's rest, I 
 was requested to visit a dying roan. I at once 
 went to the room, and, to my utter amaze- 
 ment, found before me the very man I sought. 
 Fearfully changed though he was, I recognized 
 him ; for beneath the mere outline of features 
 there is always something more, which, as 
 long as life lasts, betrays the man. And here 
 the recognition was rautua'. 
 
 "Although ho was eviJontly surprised, yet 
 my presence was, after a'l, not altogether un- 
 accountable to him ; for iic had heard of my 
 return, as he told me himself, and tho dread 
 of meeting with mo had brought him to this. 
 I will not tell you now all the particulars of 
 that interview, when the soul of the dying 
 man, already hovering on the verge of the 
 eterr 1 world, and goin^ to its last account, 
 lingered for a morarnt to try to atone for tho 
 crimes which ho had committed, to try to 
 obtain forgiveness from the man whom ho 
 had wronged, before passing into tho pres- 
 ence of his Maker. I need only say now that 
 ho told all, witl'out reservation. All — all 
 was confessed. 1 bavo the consolation of 
 knowing that I was not harsh to my false 
 fri^,.,<, nor deaf to iiis appeal for mercy, but 
 forgave him all, freely ; and, while as man I 
 forgave the injuries that ho had done to man, 
 as priest I gave him absclution for the iiins 
 which he hud I'oi.imitted .gainst God. 
 
 " In tho midsi of th ■ tremendous agita- 
 tions of that unparallel .d hour, it never oc- 
 curred to the poor dyinf; miin to mention that 
 you were in the hotel, and close by us, even 
 though much wa:" S'lid about you. He in- 
 fonneJ mo that ho hud already to'il you tho 
 
u 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 truth, though nut all. As it did not occur to 
 Lim to toll mc of your presence, it never oc- 
 curred to mo to suspect it. I had thought 
 of you always as a cliild, and imagined you 
 at boarding-school somewhere. It was not 
 Vxjtil I came hero that I learned where you 
 really were tlien, and where you arc now. 
 
 "As it was, I should havo remained in 
 Villeneuvo long enough, at least, to perform 
 the last, sad funeral-rites over one who. in 
 spite of his treachery, had once been my most 
 intimate friend, liut I could not; business 
 of an urgent nature required my immediate 
 presence hero in Parin, and I had no remedy 
 but to hurry forward. 
 
 " But the emotions called up by that meet- 
 ing have been too much for mc. I am not so 
 young, dear child, as I once was, and I have 
 Buffered very much in body and in mind Jur- 
 ing the years of my absence. Do not be 
 alarmed, my own child Inez., if I now inform 
 you that I am unable to leave my chamber. 
 I have delayed writing to you thus far from 
 tho hope that I might go in person, but the 
 prospect of this is too remote for my impa- 
 tience. Do not imagine by this that my ill- 
 ness is at all dangerous. It is not ; it is se- 
 rious—that is all. IJut there is ono thing 
 which, more than ail drugs and remedies, 
 will give uie new life, and raise mo up from 
 my bed ; and thai ij the sipht of my own be- 
 loved child — sweet memorial of my sainted 
 wife, whose iniajre is Btill enshrined in my 
 heart, for whom my love can never die. (.'onie, 
 then, my daughter — come to your father ! 
 Come, uiy sweet Inez, my only treasure in 
 life ! I long and yearn to look upon your 
 face. Do not diliiy. Do not stop to nnikc 
 any preparations. Do not even think of 
 money. You will find every thing with nie 
 that you may ueei). Come ! I shall expect 
 you to leave on the very day when you re- 
 ceive this, and I hhall count the hours lill you 
 reach me. Hut I fear I ant too urgent. I 
 Bball give you one day, then, dearest daugh- 
 ter; and after that I shall look for you. lly 
 address is No. 123 Hue do la I'erroniero, 
 Paris. A cairiapc will be ut tho station, ami 
 my servants will be ready. I shall send tiomo 
 friend to receive you. 
 
 " I can wrilu no more now, aa I feel ex- 
 hausted, and must reserve any more until you 
 oomc. .In niyi'r, my dearext elillil I Mako 
 bagto ; for ni> strength in fiiiling, and yr)u are 
 my last hope. 1 embrace you with all my 
 
 heart, and wait for you, my own piccious 
 child, with indescribable longing. 
 " Your aileclionato father, 
 
 "Beunal Mordaunt." 
 
 Tho l,andwriting of this letter was dif- 
 ferent from that of the address. In tho ad- 
 dress it was directed in a round, bold, flowing 
 hand ; bu > iu the letter itself i' was written 
 in a trenmlous hand, with froviUent breaks, 
 and words written indistinctly. It looked as 
 though it had been written by some one who 
 was feeble and ill, and had scarce strength 
 enough to conclude his task ; for toward the 
 close it became very much less legible, as if, 
 having liuishcd it, tho writer had been too 
 exhausted to do more, but had to commission 
 another to write the address. 
 
 There were certain circumstances in this 
 letter which at another time would have be- 
 wildered Inez excerdingly. One was tho 
 Btory of the cor.versation between licrnal 
 Mordaunt and Ilennigar Wyverno, followed 
 by extreme unction. Dr. lilake's account 
 was altogether the opposite. He had said 
 positively that not one word had been spoken 
 by either; but that, as tho priest camo in, 
 Wyverno died. Hero was a discrepancy so 
 immense that eoch version desU-oyed tl 1 
 other utterly. Tho othor difllculty lay in the 
 fact that the handwriting of Hernal JJordaunt 
 was not, in the slightest dogree, like the writ- 
 ing of that Bernal Mordaunt whoso short note 
 to Ilennigar Wyrerne, accompanying tho por- 
 trait, lay in the casket. This in itself was a 
 slight thing, and could easily be accounted for 
 on the ground of weakness, change wrought 
 by a new mode of life and increasing years, 
 or the nervous irregularity of a hand unused 
 of late years to hold the ])cn ; but still, in 
 connection with the first-mentioned fact, it 
 was signilioai>t. 
 
 Both of tiiese things, aiul others, also, 
 Inez certainly noticed, but failed to luy any 
 Btress upon thorn whatever. >Shc wa^, in- 
 deed, quite aicapablo now of weighing any 
 thing calmly. That lettir had produced upon 
 her BO overwliclihi'ig an ellect, I' ,m tlici-e was 
 only one idea in Ijormind — hcrli-i' i rill ii: ''aris 
 — seriously ill— longing 'o see her -calling to 
 her to como to him— counting the houri' — her 
 father looking upon her as his only hope In 
 lifu--l<ioking to litf fi r s nngth to draw him 
 up from his bed of languishing — her fathr , 
 with his unutterable lovu foi lier, und ycatu- 
 
i\ 
 
 FATHEU MAGHATH. 
 
 C7 
 
 piecious 
 
 DAUNT." 
 
 • was dif- 
 a tlio ad- 
 Id, flowing 
 08 written 
 it brouks, 
 , looked aa 
 10 one wlio 
 
 Btrcnglh 
 oward tlio 
 gible, us if, 
 
 1 been too 
 .•omiiiission 
 
 lees in this 
 [d Imvo bc- 
 B wua tlie 
 cen Ucinal 
 10, followed 
 u's account 
 le had paid 
 ijceu spoken 
 8t canio ill, 
 icrcpancy so 
 Bd-oyed tl 1 
 ty lay in the 
 at Mordaunt 
 ike the writ- 
 short noto 
 ing ilio por- 
 itaeir was * 
 ccounted I'or 
 npe wrought 
 easing year!", 
 liaiid unused 
 but still, in 
 oncd fact, it 
 
 olhors, also, 
 d to lay any 
 
 10 wa-", iu- 
 »oighing any 
 rodiiccd upon 
 
 tit ilici'C was 
 i..rillii''uriii 
 cr —calling to 
 le liourK — licp 
 
 only lio|io la 
 
 111 draw liim 
 X- her fatho , 
 and yeiitu* 
 
 ing over her. How piteous seemed to her 
 those letteri*, traced with so feeble a liand, 
 growing fainter niid feebler as they ap- 
 proached the end of the sheet ! lloiv pathetic 
 that allusion to her mother — how resistless 
 that call to her to come — how lender aud sweet 
 tliat loving urgency, whicli eould seuroo allow 
 ono day for making her preparations to travel ! 
 
 Xo idea of refusing entered her mind. 
 Such a call must be obeyed. Sho must go. 
 ik'sidos, it was the thing tiiat she herself now 
 longed most of all to do. She began, then, 
 at onco to pack up a few th.lngs. She had 
 money enough in her piirso to take hor to 
 Paris. Hlic nec'lcd no more that, enough to 
 tako her to liis bedside. 
 
 One tliought of Kessic canio to her, and a 
 slight feeling of nadncss at thus being com- 
 pelled to quit her so abcntly. Slie wondered, 
 also, wliat excuse i^ho should make. .She could 
 not show her tho letter. Though her own 
 frank nature would have pronijited sucli a 
 course, her consideration forJiessic restrained 
 her. It wou'.d only bowiMer hor and give her 
 pain, licrual Mordaunt she believed to bo 
 her own father. If slio was ever to bo unde- 
 cciveii, tho explanation would have to conio 
 from tliose who had deceived her — from her 
 "grandpapa," Kevin Magralh. On tho other 
 hand, Inez could not sloop to deceit of any 
 kind, and therefore was unalilo to make up 
 any plausible pretext for hor siidiien depart- 
 ure, lu the end she solved this particular 
 dilHculty by tolling Ilessie that she had to go 
 to Paris immediately on "busiiieiH " 
 
 Tliis iiitelligenco IJessio received in a 
 niui'li belter niaiiner than Inez had antici- 
 pated. She appeared startled, but said noth- 
 ing against it. Slio was mournlul, aud ail'ei}- 
 tionato, and very palhelic 
 
 " Oil, 1 knew ii," slio nail.', tadiy. " I saw 
 it was coming to tliir'. I know, Inez dearest, 
 that you wcro changed and didn't lovo me 
 any longer, liut there's no use in life to say 
 any tiling, for, when love grows cold, there's 
 nut the least use of complaining at all, at all. 
 It's a changed nature you're soeining to liavo 
 just now cutirely, Inoz jewel, but I hope you'll 
 bo your own di;ar self again bel'oro very long. 
 Aud Won't you promise to write me, Inez dar- 
 ling, as (iflen as you can, for I shall bo per- 
 feclly frantic till I htar from )ou Y U soom-t 
 awfully uold and bravo in you. so it does, to 
 go oil' travelling iliis way. I'm sure I should 
 uever be able to do it — never." 
 
 Inez found that she could not leave till 
 the next day. Her preparations, however, 
 were very simple, ijlio took tSaundcrs with 
 her, and a footman was to accompany her as 
 far as .Southampton. 
 
 AVhen Inc/ jirepared to start, shu found, 
 to her surprise, that Dessio was dressed for u 
 journey also. 
 
 " You need not think vou'ro going to got 
 rid of mo so casilv," "•'''. Uessie. "It's my- 
 self that'll bo the lone girl when you go, and 
 what in tho widu world I'll be al'lcr doing 
 with myself without you I don't know, 6o I 
 don't. And so I mean to stay with you till 
 the very last moment, Inez darling, nnd I'm 
 going all tlio way to ^'outlmmpton. ( shall 
 bid you good-by on the pier, and I'm sure I 
 think you might bo just u little bit alTcetion- 
 ate to-day, dear." 
 
 Ii.ez was deeply touched by this mark of 
 Hessie's aU'eetion, and embraced her, and 
 kis.sed her fondly. They then drove to tho 
 station. 
 
 During the drive to Southampton Bessie 
 WHS loving, tender, pathetic, and occasionally 
 lachrymose, i^lio appeared to cling to Inez 
 with HO much tenderness, that Inez felt her- 
 self drawn to tho fair young girl more than 
 ever, and wo.idered how ono like her would 
 bear the blo.v of being told that her nuiuo 
 and her life wore a deceit. She was glad 
 that it did not fall to her lot to tell liessie. 
 
 On tho pier at t'outhamptnn they parted. 
 Inez went with Saunders, and llcssie, after 
 waiting on the whi>rf and waving he'- hand- 
 kercliicf till sho ci uld no longer dis'.inguibh 
 Inez, returned to London. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 FATBCR UAQBAtU. 
 
 Am Inez, with her mcid, Saundcra, landed 
 upon the pier at Havre, several persons wero 
 passing down on ihoir way to another steamer 
 which was just about to leave to:- Southamp- 
 ton. Among thoKo waa ouo man, and, if it 
 hail been possible for her to recognize that 
 one man upon that spot, thu noognitiou 
 would havi' ■hanged altogether thu progreoi 
 of v'ircumKinnccs, and have snatched her from 
 the fate u|M>n which she was blindly rushing, 
 liut aueh a recoguitiou was inipossible, nud 
 Inez passed o'- her way- a'viiy from (ho un# 
 
 li 
 
 H 
 
 M 
 
68 
 
 AN OPEN QITESTIOX. 
 
 ■I I 
 
 man who could Imvo boIvciI every mystery, 
 and removod every difficulty — awiiy from tho 
 man wlio could Imvo saved her, and on to the 
 station to take tho train for I'ari.s. IIo wast 
 dressed us a priest. He was a man of medi- 
 um «tatiiri>, with ii very remarkable face, the 
 expression of which was ho strangely coin- 
 ))oundeil of force and gentleness, of energy 
 iiikI meekness, of resolute will and padiiess, 
 that the eye of tho most cusual observer was 
 irresistibly drawn to tako a longer observa- 
 tion. He carried in one hand some wraps, 
 and in tho othjr an old leather valise, woi'n 
 and battered as thouf^h it had aeompanied 
 its owner over thousands of miles of journoy- 
 iiif^s, nnd blaring upon one end, in white 
 painted lettes, tho mark B. M. 
 
 Following this man wos one whoso tali 
 figure, stern ind strongly-marked features, 
 and 8haj;;ry mustache, revealed the person of 
 Kane ilciimuth. This journey had been the 
 result of his recent conversa.lon with Jflake. 
 The mystery of his apparition had now come 
 to bo a Icadinr^ idea in his mind, and, as his 
 friend hod hinted at the possibility that his 
 wife might not Imvo died, he had lesolvcd 
 upon this journey so as to satisfy his nund 
 oneo for all. As Mr. Wyvcrni-, her guardiiin, 
 was dead, that resource was taken away from 
 him, and he could think of no one to whum 
 he could Ppply for information except that 
 Miss Mordaimt, to whom also Mr. Wyverno 
 had been gimrdinn. It wa-i, tlierefore, to no 
 less a person than Miss Itessie that Kane 
 Ilelhnuth was making this journey. 
 
 As the Bteainer was leaving the pier, tiie 
 priest stood on the deck along with the other 
 passengers, and Kane llellmuth found in this 
 man a mysterious attraction that riveted his 
 gaze in spite of himself. The last man was 
 lie of all men to feel or to yield to, if he did 
 feel, any impulse of idle curiosity ; yet, in this 
 case, in spite of his ePbrts to check himself, 
 lie found his eyes, iio matter how often la 
 would force them to look elsewhere, irresisti- 
 bly drawn back a,<ain to fix themselves upon 
 that Bun-browneil foee, with tho deep, cariK'st 
 glance, the rr loliite purpoHc, the indeseribable 
 pathos — that face which, in its e.;pression, 
 and in the traces of the years, showed Huch a 
 record. It was a ncord of a life of no com- 
 mon kind — a life of struggle anci of suflcring 
 ^an heroic life, yc.t at the same time a life 
 which mn-t have been not without some fid- 
 tlnwut of the lioliest duties of that oflleo 
 
 which his garb indicated — the office of a 
 Christian priest. Kane llellmuth thus fcU 
 his eyes attracted, and with his eyes his 
 heart ; but there was no opportunity of mak- 
 ing the acquaintance of this singular man. 
 Kano Hcllmuth was naturally of a reserved 
 disposition : tho priest, on tho other hand, 
 was too much absorbed in bis own thoughts 
 to be conscious of the intercfit which he had 
 ewa.^'»ued in tho mind of another, and so 
 these two, '■ ho might have found much in 
 common if ^ney had become acquainted, passed 
 on their diflerent ways, withiuit exchanging 
 any word wit one atiother. After leaving 
 the harbor the priest retired, and was seen no 
 more; and Kane llellmuth, who felt no de- 
 i^iro to rest, and no capability of obti'ining it 
 if he had desired it, paced the deck for hours. 
 Arriving at .'Southampton, he saw the priest 
 on landing, and then lost sight of him in tho 
 bustle and confusion of the train for London. 
 
 Kano llellmuth found out the location of 
 the house of the late Mr. Wyverne from tho 
 directory, and went there as soon as possible. 
 It was about four o'clock in the afternoon. 
 
 To his immense disappointment, ho 
 learned that Miss Mordaunt was not at home, 
 and, upon further and more persistent inquiry, 
 found that she was not in town. I'pon still 
 more urgent inquiry as to her movements, 
 John Thomas, with whom he had been speak- 
 ing, thought thut it could be no other than ii 
 lover who could be so persistent ; and, though 
 Kane Ilellmuth's appearance was not that of 
 tho one whom John Thomas ndght imagi'ic 
 08 a suitor for one like Miss Uessie, at the 
 same time John Tlmmas's heart was not with- 
 out some sentiment of its own, and he thought 
 that such a visitor should not, bo dismissed 
 too hastily. Se he went into 'lie house to 
 make some inquiries before i;iving any final 
 answer. 
 
 After u brief absence he returned, and in- 
 formed Kane llellmuth that he could find out 
 all he wanted from Father Magrath, who wns 
 in the house, and had sent an invitation for 
 him to come in. 
 
 Tnis invitation Kane llellmuth accepted. 
 He enter ,'d the drawing-room, and, in a few 
 momeiil' , a person cami in who introduced 
 himself us tho llcv. Mr. Magrath. 
 
 Father Magrath, as John l'hc>mas called 
 him, «"■' a n.«n of -ery remarkable appear- 
 ance. He was dresscil in the usual gnrb of a 
 priesf, but his face was not altogether ia 
 
FATUER MAGRATir. 
 
 69 
 
 keeping with Lis coatuino. lie was appnront- 
 ly about fifty years of nge, of medium lieiglit, 
 witb a frame whoso nervous strength and 
 powerful development had not yet felt the ad- 
 vanee of years. Ilia hair was curly, and only 
 slightly sprinkled with gray; ho had bright 
 keen eyes, straight thin nose, and thin lips, 
 whieh wero curved into a good - humored 
 smile. The pervading expression of his face 
 was one of jovial and hilarious good-nature. 
 llo wore spectacles, which, however, did not 
 conceal the keen glitter of his penetrating 
 eyes. His face was unmistakably Celtic in 
 its character; in fact, it was the face of an 
 Irishman, and, if Father Magrath's name had 
 been less Irish, his face would of itself have 
 been sufBcient to proclaim his nationality. 
 
 A lew questions served to make him bc- 
 <iuainted with the fact that Kane Ilellmuth 
 wished to see Miss Mordaunt for the sake of 
 making inquiries of her about some family 
 matters. 
 
 "Well," said Father Slagrath, "she's 
 nway out of town, and, what's more, she 
 won't be back at all, at any rate not to this 
 house ; but I'm her father confissor, and any 
 qaistious that ye may have to ask, of a rayson> 
 Hide ehyaracter, I'll be quite happy to an- 
 fewer. Ye'U have to excuse me for the pris- 
 iut, however, as I'm ingaged on some busi- 
 nesi of the most prissing kind, and perhaps 
 )c can neeme ttorae hour wliin I can mate ye." 
 
 Kane liellmuth thanked him, and in- 
 formed him that his time was limited, and 
 that the earliest possible meeting would be 
 most acceptable. 
 
 "Sure, thin," Bald Father Magrath, " it's 
 meself tlikt's sorry tliat I can't stee with ye 
 just now, and for tliat matter any time 
 this dee, an' not before to-morrow ayvenin'. 
 Could ye make it convaynient to come to- 
 morrow, in the ayvenin', about eight o'clock T 
 If so, I'll Lo happy to have ye. Come and 
 Hpind the ayvenin'," he continued, in a warm 
 and cordial tone ; " I'll be alone, an' I assure 
 ye I'll be dayloightod to have the plisure of 
 your company.'' 
 
 This invitation, so cordially extended, 
 Kane Hcllmuth accepted with thanks, and, 
 bidding tiie friendly pi ifst adieu, he retired 
 to pass the time as best lie could till the hour 
 of llmt meeting should arrive. 
 
 IVmctual ut the hour, on the following 
 day, Kane Hellinutii roaihed tiie hojse, and 
 was at once shown into the brightly-lighted 
 
 parlor. Father Magrath was not at home, 
 but had left a polite request for his visitor to 
 wait. In about a quarter of an hour he re- 
 turned, and, after a slight delay, he entered 
 the room, and greeted his visitor with very 
 great warmth and cordiality. 
 
 "Sure and it's glad 1 am to see you this 
 night," said Father Magrath. " It's me that's 
 not fond of loneliness at all at all. AVo'lI 
 make an ayvenin' of it between us, thin. I'm 
 of a convivial timpirament, and I howld that 
 convivialectee is one of the issinces of true 
 injoyraint in loife. So v,''j'll get up something. 
 Is it whiskey ye take, viiin, or cognac, or do 
 yo prifir woine, or eel ? For me own part, I 
 always teek whiskey." 
 
 " I shall bo happy," said Kane Ilellmuth, 
 pleasantly, " to join you in any drink that 
 may be most agreeable to yourself. I think 
 that whiskey, as you say, is as good as any 
 thing." 
 
 " Sure and ye nivir spoke a truer word," 
 said Father Magrath. — " Jeemes, my boy," 
 said he, turning to a footman, " the whiskey ; 
 bring a daycanter of Scotch and Irish, and 
 the hot wather, with the it ccteras, — And je 
 smoke, too, of coorse ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Jeemes, whin ye're about it, bring the 
 poipes and tobacco," added Father Magrath. 
 
 At this Jeemes retired, and soon returned 
 with a tray upon which were all the articles 
 which, in the opinion of Father Magrath, went 
 toward making up the requisites for a pleas- 
 ant evening. 
 
 " Vis," said Father Magrath, continuing 
 pleasantly, in a half-serious, half-jocular way, 
 some remarks which he had been making ; 
 " as I said, there is no plisintniss in loife 
 without convivinleetee. Of coorse, I main 
 it in a harrumless sinse. It was not in veen 
 that the ancients ileevatid convivinleetee to 
 the skois, and made it one of the occupee- 
 tions of the Olympian dayeetios. I'm no as- 
 citic. I bclaive inharrumlissand innocint joys, 
 and so I take an occasional drop of somethin' 
 warruni, and an odd whilf of the poipe at in> 
 thervatx. Xow, here ye have whiskey, 1 i'i 
 Scotch and Irish, and I don't know which 
 of them ye prefer, an' I Jon't know meself 
 for that matter. And it's a noightr difficult 
 thing to decoide. For, ye see, there are two 
 great laiding schools, if I may use the ixpris- 
 sion, of whiskey, the Scotch and the Irish, or, 
 lo ixpriss mcsilf more corrictlj, the Erse and 
 
 lilil 
 
jc:"^:^ 
 
 
 70 
 
 AN OPKN QUKSTIUN. 
 
 I 
 
 tbc (laclic. Itolli fiiliooN, liUo botli lifinorf, 
 lire an iinccneotion of tho radiant I'cltio jny- 
 iiiufl, wliii'li, nniiil all its gifts to mat), lias coii- 
 tiiributi'dlliis last and tliis best one, whiskey. 
 Now, there is a very remarkable (lintinction 
 between these two outcomes of the (Celtic jay- 
 iiius. One, tho Gaelic, is best, whin mixed 
 with hot watlicr and taken in tl\e shape of 
 toddy ; tho otlier, the Kruo, naids not the for- 
 eign a<larrunmrnt of hot wather, but stands 
 on its own beesis, as a pure, unmixe<l drink, 
 which in itsilf is a deloiprhf. There's a deep 
 pliilosophical and symbolical i.iayning iti this 
 whicli I !■ -cn't time to ro into just now, but 
 1 may EUf^,'?ist, in passinp, that those two 
 drinks ixplecn in some inisure tlio varying 
 jayniiis of tho rispictivo races, and the in- 
 ternal qualeetees of the two ma\ be seen in 
 their li(iuors. Tho Irisli is best taken raw, 
 without admixture ; tho Scotch is best, like 
 the nation, niixod — that is to say, as the li- 
 quor is best with hot wather, so the (Jaclic 
 race in Scotland has acliicved tho most by in- 
 termixing and blinding with the Lowland .'mix- 
 on populeotion." 
 
 All this Father Magrath rattled ofl" in a 
 quick, jovial way, pouring out gluspcs for him- 
 self and his guest, so as to allow ihomselvcs 
 a taste of each of tho liquors with whicli he 
 professed so close an acquaintance. He poured 
 out the Irish whiskey raw in two wine-glass- 
 es ; but the Scotch whiskey he poured into 
 tumbleri, and manufactured into toddy, in 
 accordance with his own curious theory about 
 tho utility of mixing the Gaelic race and the 
 Gaelic whiskey. Kane Ilcllmuth tastod the 
 Irish liquor, and then sipped tho Scotch in it.i 
 form of Toddy. 
 
 " Ye'll be smoking," said Father Magrath. 
 " Ilerc are two kinds of tobacco, the Turkish 
 and the Virginian. 'Which'll ye have ? Here 
 are poipes, unless ye've brought yer own in yer 
 pocket, which I always do myself." 
 
 " I have one," s.iid Kano Ilcllmuth, pro- 
 ducing from his pocket a short mecrschuum 
 in a case. 
 
 "That's niy way," said Father Magrath, 
 with a sigh of appreciation. " Yo do right. 
 Your own poipe, and your own silf, that's the 
 true smoker's motto. 
 
 " It's a mighty quaro thing, too," con- 
 tinued Father Magrath, as he filled his pipe, 
 "about tills same fashun of sniokin;.', and 
 this same tobacco. Have ye ivir tl'onght 
 where it origeciiatid ? Ye know the popular 
 
 thayory that it canio from -\niericii. Don't 
 believe n word of it, Columbus did enough 
 for 'ho wurruld, but it wasn't iiim or his dis- 
 covery that gave tDbnoeo to civooloezeotion. 
 
 " Yo see," ho continued, " tliere's this dif- 
 fceculteo staring yo in the face. Ye've got 
 to account for tho uncversaleeteo of itc 
 use. One (piurler of tlie human race vise to- 
 bacco. How has it ixtiiiiHcl so widc^ly in lisu 
 lliiii fowcr cinturii'S? If Columbus is tho 
 earliest date for the use of tobacco, how did 
 it piiiitrate into India and China in that 
 toime? Now, my tliayory is this: ye know 
 Ciiina, Ye know how all the greit iiivin- 
 tioiis and discoveries of civeoleezretion have 
 been traced there; paper, printing, pow- 
 der, tlie mariner's compacts, and other things. 
 Now, I trace toliiu'co there. It wasn't Amer- 
 ica tliut gave tobacco to the wurruld. It was 
 China. China gave tay. China-gave also to- 
 bacco. If researches are made into Chinese 
 history, I don't doubt that it will be found 
 that toliacco ha!« been i.scd there for thou- 
 sands of years ; that Confucius snii(lr<l ; Meii- 
 cius chewed; that Fo-hi smoked; and that 
 the Tartar nomads, anil the IVrsians, and the 
 Intlians, received their knowledge of tho 
 ' sublime weed,' as Hyron calls it, from i'hina. 
 And I don't know but that America may have 
 rccci'od it from Cliiiia also, for if, as some 
 suppose, America was peopled by the Mong(d 
 race, there isn't the laste doubt in life but 
 that they carried their poipes with thini. 
 
 " Now, whin ye look at tobacco," con- 
 tinued tho priest, in an animated way, " ye 
 see three grand classeef(!ecections, corrispond- 
 ing with tho three grand divisions which wo 
 notice in moilem civccleezcction. First, there 
 isthoAsecatic; it isnianipiilecled, anddnigged, 
 anil spoiccd, and made into a luxurccoiis ar- 
 teeficial substance for the use of tlie upper 
 classes of socicetee. It rip<-isints Art. Then 
 there is the American, which comes to us in 
 its purity. This riprisints Nature. Finally, 
 wo have the rlulV made here in the varccoud 
 countries of Kurope ; giving a rivinue io tho 
 governiiiints, nnil grinding tho face if tho 
 poor. Tills riprisints the Ilrummngin system 
 of manufactures, which is swallowing up all 
 Art, and all Nature, and fhrifening to swal- 
 low up modern civeeloczeetion itsilf. IJiil, 
 mark me, tlior'l! be a rayaction among the 
 nations. The pe.oph? will no longer bo op- 
 prlscod. (lovcrninints will no longer tread 
 down humancctee in tho dust. The many 
 

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FATIIEIl MAtlHATn. 
 
 71 
 
 will at Inst force their wantx upon tlio notice 
 of llio few. Tho (InvH of tlio privceU-pcd 
 classes are wclliiiKh indiil. If modem civ. 
 c('li'c/.i.'Ction iiicnii!) any thing it incniis llic 
 rights of iimii. Those rights man will have, 
 rirst among them, ho will insist on having 
 free tobaL'co; ho will wrist this great luxury 
 of tho liumiin race from the grasp of tyranni- 
 cal governmintH, and stand u|) in all the dig- 
 nity and grandeur of manhood to Brnolie, or 
 to chew, or to do any thing ilse to which the 
 great heart of humanity may impil him." 
 
 Thus far Knne Ilellmuth had listened to 
 the priest without any coramont. Just hero, 
 however, [lartly because Father Mngrath 
 happened to pause, ond partly because he 
 was surprised at this cropping out of revo- 
 lutionary sentiments from one who belonged 
 to tho most conservative class of mankind, 
 he said : 
 
 " You talk ns though you had embraced 
 the radical gospel. Is radicalism common 
 with tlie priests of your church ? " 
 
 Father Magrnth looked at him with a keen 
 glance for a few moments, 
 
 " Oh," said he at last, " this is only talk. 
 A man's banter never shows his real sinti- 
 inints. For my part, luy life and my thoughts 
 arc all taken up with a work in which mod- 
 ern civeeleezection, and radicalism, and con- 
 servatism, and all the other isms, niver inter. 
 How should they? I'm nn antoeriuarian. I 
 gave up all my time to the most zilous antee- 
 tpiarian rascai'ches. Most of my life I live at 
 Komc. There I come into immaydeeate con- 
 ■(act with the Holy Father, and tho whole 
 College of Kyardeenals. If there's any one 
 man tliey know, that man's Father Mfigrath. 
 The ixhumcotiona I've made, and tho cxplo- 
 reetioiis, and tho discoveerics, would take all 
 night to tell. ^Vhy, it was only tho other 
 day I found at Civita Castellano, in an owld 
 Aytruacaii tomb, an antique unun, and I've 
 got it here now, and that same urrun is worth 
 moro thin its weight in solid gold, so it is. 
 There's people that's olferrcd me more already, 
 and I refused. Mf. a radical ! I'd like to see 
 ineself bothorin' me head about modem poli- 
 tics. Vut mo in Florence in the days of 
 Cosmo do Medici, and I'll take my stand 
 with one po-ty or the other; but this vulgar 
 nineteenth ciutury, with its miserable party 
 Biiuabbles, seems like child's play to me. 
 
 ■' The worst of it is," continued Father 
 Magrath in a pensive tone — " tho worst of it 
 
 Is the lack of a proper spirit at Komc. Why, 
 here I am ; and I've been urging for yearn 
 upon the Itonian (iovernment a conrsc of 
 action that might have given them untold 
 wcahli. First, I've \irged the ixhumeetion 
 of the rahttine — the it.ilaco of the Cresars, 
 tho Aurea jMmin Aeronit, Tho trisures 
 that nuist lie buried there wouM be I'uough 
 to give them nieiins for earryiii;,' out tlje bulil- 
 est designs that Antonelli or anybod) else 
 might wish. Secondly, and still more ear- 
 nestly, I've urged upon them the i)hin of di- 
 verting the Tiber from its bed. It would 
 cost something, it is true; but the cost would 
 be nothing whin compared with the raysult. 
 Why, only think of tho trisures that lie 
 buried there — the gold, tho silver, tho dia- 
 monds, the gims, and precious stones ; tho 
 statues, the carvings, the ornimlnis innumer- 
 able. Trisurc ! Why, in tho bed of tho 
 Tiber is enough trisure to buy up all Italy! 
 And yet tho I'apal (iovernment is hard up. 
 And why—?" 
 
 Father Magrath patised and looked ear- 
 nestly for a few moments at Kane Ilcllnuith. 
 
 "Why?" he resumed. "I'll tell you 
 why. It's because they want an Irish 
 pope!" 
 
 "An Irish pope!" repeated Kane Ilell- 
 muth, as Father Magrath paused. 
 
 " Yis," said Father Magrath, solemnly— 
 "an Irish poj)c! Home, Italy, riiristeiidom, 
 all need an Irish pope. The Italians cannot 
 govern Home, or the Church, in the nine- 
 teenth cintury. They are a worn-out race. 
 It's not poverty that ails thim. It's indo- 
 lince, inertia, want of interproise, cowardice, 
 and all that, (live Christendom on Irish 
 pope, and she'd be redeemed. The worruld 
 would wear a dilTirint aspict allogithcr, tho 
 day after tho iliciion of a born I'addy to the 
 chair of Paint Payter shoidd be made known. 
 Xo country but Irelaiul, no race but the Irish, 
 could furnish the riquisito qmileefeeceetions. 
 Ireland has tho piety, and the loyalty to the 
 I{om.in Catholic faith, and at tho same time 
 it has the spirit of iiulipindinco, the love of 
 freedom, and above uU the rintliss, bounding, 
 invincible, indel'atigable inirgy, that makes 
 this ago what it is. What is now the Isyding 
 nation in tho wurruld ? America. Who 
 have made America what it is ? Tho Iri.sh 
 people. And, therefore, the Irish people, 
 being at once the most pious and the most 
 I iiiirgitic of all the races of man, are the ones 
 
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 72 
 
 AX OI'EX QUESTION. 
 
 from whom, above nil, the next Pope of Rome 
 should be ilicted ! " 
 
 Upon this Father Magrath at length suc- 
 ceeded in lighting his pipe, an attempt in 
 which for some time he had been baffled by 
 his own eloquence, and then, puffing out 
 heavy volumes of smoke, he relapsed for a 
 time into silence. 
 
 CHAPTER XVir. 
 
 FAMILY MATTERS. 
 
 Father MAcnATn thus succeeded at last 
 in lighting his pipe, and for a few moments 
 his flow of ''onversation was cheeked. lie 
 Bat holding the pipe with his left hand to his 
 mouth, while his right hand stirred a spoon 
 round the tumbler of toddy. Clouds of smoke 
 rolled up around his head, through which his 
 eyes occasionally peered forth in a furtive 
 way, yet with a quick, keen, penetrating 
 glance at the rugged face and sombre brow 
 of Kane Hellmuth. The latter su.veyed the 
 priest calmly, but said nothing. He had 
 come to this interview out of no desire for 
 society, out of no love of conversation, and 
 no taste for that conviviality upon which his 
 companion laid stress. He had come simply 
 because ho hoped that he might be able to 
 learn something directly or indirectly about 
 Clara, his late wife ; and it seemed to him 
 that one who filled the responsible post of 
 father-confessor to this family would be the 
 very man who, of all other;!, would be the 
 most likely to give him that information 
 which he needed. lie listened, therefore, in 
 silence and with patience to the priest's re- 
 marks, thinking that his wandering fancy 
 would soon exhaust itself, and his mind come 
 to bubiness matters. 
 
 "I rigrit cxtramely," said Father Magrath, 
 at length, " that Miss Mordaunt isn't at home. 
 But she couldn't stay here any longer. The 
 rayeint sad occurrince, the dith of her viniri- 
 ble frind, precd daiply upon her mind, and 
 she has been compillcd to quit the city. For 
 me own part, I must say that, although I was 
 not altogither surprised at poor Wyverne's 
 dith, I filt it extramely." 
 
 "Yes," said Kane Ilellmuth, who, now 
 that Father Magrath had got to a- topic like 
 this, was anxious to keep him to it and to 
 draw him out, " yes, I suppose so, but it was 
 
 very sudden, and I did not know tliat ai y 
 one could be expecting it." 
 
 Father Magrath sighed and shook his 
 head. 
 
 " I was acquainted witli the doctor who 
 attended him." 
 
 " The doctor that altindid him ? " repeated 
 Father Magrath. " That'll be Dr. Burke— no. 
 Blade — no, that's not it — it's something like 
 it." 
 
 " Dr. Blake." 
 
 " Blake — yis, that's the name, so it is. A 
 young man — yis. Miss Mordaunt infarrumed 
 me all about it, and she mintioued him with 
 much rayspict." 
 
 " There was some trouble on Mr. Wyverne's 
 mind toward the last," suggested Kane Ilell- 
 muth. " The doctor said that Miss Wyverne 
 seemed to feel uneasy. I hope that she has 
 overcome that feeling." 
 
 " Miss Wyvcrne — what ? " said Father Jla- 
 grath. " What's that ? Why, ye don't mane 
 that wild fancy of his ? Sure and did ycr 
 frind the doctor let her go off with such a 
 fool's fancy in her poor little head? D'ye 
 mane hi.4 notion about not knowing her? 
 Sure and it's wild he was. Didn't I hear all 
 about it. He didn't ricognize his own choild. 
 It was delirium, lie was out of his sinsis. 
 Yer frind the doctor must be very young to 
 take the language of faver and delirium for 
 sober siuse. I'm afraid he hadn't his wits 
 about him ; but, most of all, I blame him for 
 not explaining to her, poor girl. Faith, thin, 
 there's no fear that she'll be troubled about 
 that. She's got a black future before her, 
 I'm afraid." 
 
 ''I sincerely hope that no new affliction 
 has happened to Miss Wyveriie." 
 
 " Well, it's ginerally considered an afflic- 
 tion," said Father Magrath, " to be lift di?ti- 
 choot." 
 
 "Destitute? Why, wasn't her father a 
 very rich man? " 
 
 Father jiagrath shook his head with sol- 
 emn and mournful emphasis. 
 
 " No," said he, " Miss Wyverne has noth- 
 ing. Her father had nothing to layve her. 
 He was head over heels in dibt. Under tho 
 show of great apparent wilth, ho concealed 
 utter poverty." 
 
 " You amaze me," said Kane Ilellmuth, in 
 a sympathizing tone. 
 
 " It was an old dibt," continued Father 
 Magrath, "contracted years ago — he nivcf 
 
 / 
 
 i 
 
FAMILY MATTERS. 
 
 73 
 
 father a 
 with sol- 
 
 ■was able to do any thing witli it. lie had to 
 kape up a certain style, and this, of coorse, 
 necissitated a great ixpiuditure ; consequently 
 he wint from bad to worse. One man was 
 his chief creditor, and he was lenient for a 
 long time, until this last year or so, whin he 
 changed his chune, and demanded a sittlc- 
 inint or some sort of security. All this preyed 
 greatly upon my poor frind's mind, and, in 
 conniction with the life-long anxieties cf his 
 business, resulted in some affiction of the 
 heart, some inflammeetion of the pericarjum. 
 And here now ye see the ind. Here he is — a 
 did man — and here is his daughter literally 
 pinniliss. AVIiat's wust, she doesn't know 
 any thing about it yit, and I'm bothered out 
 of me life about it, for it is my milancholy 
 juty to infarrum her of these facts, but how 
 I'm to do it I don't for the life of me know." 
 
 Father Magrath was silent for a few no- 
 ment;!, and peusively sipped his toddy. 
 
 " By-the-way," said he, at length, "this 
 frind of yours, the doctor, do ye know where 
 be is?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; he's in Pari?." 
 
 " In Paris ? Well, that's very convay- 
 nient. I find that it is nicissary for me to 
 obtain some sort of a formal stectment from 
 bis medical man, if possible, rilitiv to the dis- 
 ease of poor Wyverne, and to have it jewly 
 attested before some magistrate. If yer fr'ud 
 is so handy as that, maybe I might write and 
 he'd forward the nicissary documents. Would 
 ye have the kindniss to give me his address ? 
 and, perhaps, ye'd better write it out in this 
 mimorandum-book." 
 
 With this Father Magrath drew a merno- 
 randum-book and a pencil from his poclset. 
 Opening the former, he handed it to Kane 
 Ilellmuth. The latter took it, and, on the 
 page indicated by the priest, ho wrote down 
 the address of Dr. Blake in full. Tiie priest 
 thanked him, and restored the memorandum- 
 Look to his pocket. 
 
 "Yis," ho continuc(' in a soliloquizing 
 tone, " it was very sad the whole affair, poor 
 Wyvernc's life and his dith. His money- 
 troubles killed him at last. He was always 
 hard up — his wilth all show, and a grasping 
 criditor, and him as poor as a rat, with noth- 
 ing to leave his daughter, poor girl." 
 
 "What'U become of Miss Wyvcmo?" 
 asked Kane Ilellmuth, with some interest. 
 
 Father Magrath smiled. 
 
 " Oh, for that matter, there's no danger. 
 
 after all. It's only the sinsc of indipindinco 
 that she'll lose. She has frinds that love her 
 far too dearly to see her suffer, and they'll 
 know how to keep her from knowing any 
 thing of want." 
 
 " Was Mr. AVyvcrne any relation to Miss 
 Mordaunt ? " asked Kane Ilellmuth, who now 
 felt anxious to bring the conversation nearer 
 to the subject of his thought. 
 
 "A distant relation. Mr, Wyverne was 
 her guardian." 
 
 " Slie has something, I suppose, to live 
 upon?" 
 
 " Oil, yes ; she is sufficiently well pro- 
 vided for to make her fol jew oontintmint. 
 Her wants are not ixtravngant. She has been 
 brought up witli very simple tastes, and, foi 
 that matter, if the worst eomcs to the worst, 
 she could be a governess. It's very different 
 with her from what it is with Miss Wyverne, 
 that's looked on hersilf all her life as an 
 heiress." 
 
 " Has Miss Mordaunt any brotlicrs or 
 sisters ? " 
 
 "No," said the priest; "she's alone in 
 the wurruld. There were others, but tlwy'ro 
 dead and gone. She's had a sad lot in life — 
 orphaned in her infancy — alone without any 
 rilitivcs to speak of — but she's got a good, 
 and a gintlc, and an angilic dispo;iition of her 
 own." 
 
 " Had she no sisters ? " asked Kane Hell- 
 muth, in a voice which he tried to make as 
 steady as possible, but in which, in spite of 
 his efforts, there was a perceptible tremor. 
 The priest took a hasty glance at him, and 
 saw that his head was bowod, leaning upon 
 his hand. 
 
 " She had," said the priest, after a short 
 hesitation — " she had a sister." 
 
 " A sister ? I thought so," said Kane 
 Hellmuth. " Was she older or younger ? " 
 
 " Older — tin years older." 
 
 " Do you know her name ? " 
 
 " Clara." 
 
 With every new word the agitation ,.1" 
 Kane Ilellmuth had increased, so that it 
 would have been perceptible to duller eyes 
 than those keen and scrutinizing ones of Fa- 
 ther Magrath, which were fastened so vigi- 
 lantly and so searchingly upon him. 
 
 " Bessie," said the priest, in a mournful 
 tone, " comes from nn ill-fated family. I 
 hope she may be an ixciption to the mourn- 
 ful distinies that seem to purshoo her rili- 
 
74 
 
 AX OPEN QUESTIOX. 
 
 tivea. There was the mother, died in the 
 prime of'licr life; there was the father, wint 
 mad with sorrow, and took himsiif off to for- 
 eign parts, where he wint and died. Thin, 
 there was tliis elder sister. Whin Mr. Mor- 
 daunt died, Mr. Wyverne slipped forward and 
 took the two poor orphans under his own 
 protiction. Uo didn't take thim into his own 
 house, because it wasn't convaynent, owing to 
 family difi'eeculties of his own with his wife ; 
 but he put the two orphans in good hands, as 
 I can tistify. He was as good as a father to 
 thim. Uo took care of their little means, 
 and, for that matter, ye might say he gave 
 it to thim." 
 
 " What became of tliis elder sister ? " 
 asked Kane llellmuth, in a scarcely audible 
 voice. 
 
 "It was a very sade fate, the saddest I 
 iver knew," said the priest. " Mr. Wyvorne 
 had determined to give her the beat educa- 
 tion possible, and sint her to a boarding- 
 school in Paris." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Well, it's almost too sad to talk about. 
 Eemimber, she was very young — a mere 
 choild — not over sixteen, and that, too, in a 
 Frinch school, where gyerruls arc so secludid. 
 Well, it happened that some prowling advin- 
 turcr — some unprincipled and fiendish delu- 
 dherin' riptoile — managed to make her ac- 
 quaintince. Ye know the iud of that. There 
 is only one ind. That ind was hers. Clara 
 Mordauut was ruined by the macheeneetioiis 
 of a scoundril that I hope and trust is ayvin 
 new gittin his jew in this life or the other." 
 
 At this, Kane IlcUmuth's face turned to a 
 ghastly pallor. It was hard indeed for him 
 to listen to this, and yet say nothing. 
 
 " I have heard something about it," said 
 he. " A friend of mine once told mo, some 
 years ago, but he said they were married." 
 
 " Married ! " said the priest, with t, sneer. 
 " There were no pains taken to lit the mar- 
 riage be known, at any rate, and the scandal 
 about her was as bad as if she had not been. 
 No, depind upon it, there was no marriage. 
 She was run away with. It was the old story, 
 and it came to the same ind." 
 
 " The end ? what was the end ? " gasped 
 Uellmuth. 
 
 " The villain deserted her, lul — " 
 
 "Ho did, not!" cried llellmuth, in a terri- 
 ble voice, starting up and looking at the 
 priest 
 
 " I only say what I've heard, and what the 
 frinds of the poor gyerrul have heard and 
 have believed," said the priest, mildly. " Per- 
 haps ye know more about it than I do. If 
 ye were livin' in Paris that toime, ye might 
 have found out, and in that case ye can tell 
 me." 
 
 Kane llellmuth made a mighty eflbrt, and 
 regained his self-control. 
 
 " Excuse me," said he ; " but years ago 
 I saw the man that you speak of. lie was my 
 friend. lie said that he was married." 
 
 The priest shrugged his shoulders in- 
 credulously. 
 
 " Oh, of course, he said so," he remarked ; 
 " that's what they always say. At any rate, 
 there is the fact that she was -irtually be- 
 trayed, deserted, and died the worst of deaths, 
 brought down to that by a brokin heart. 
 What matter his imply protistations about 
 farrums of matremoney, I ask ye, in the face 
 of sich a catasthrophe as that ? " 
 
 To this Kane llellmuth made no answer. 
 He came to get information, not to argue or 
 to apologize. He knew better than any other 
 what was the actual extent of the guilt of 
 that man of whom the priest spoke so se- 
 verely ; but he had no heart to offer an apol- 
 ogy. Was not the deed itscK 'ull of horror ? 
 had it not crushed his life down into the dust 
 of never-ending Belf-rcproach ? 
 
 " Did she die ? " he asked, in a faint voice, 
 returning to the subject. 
 
 " She did, and by the worst of deaths. 
 She died — and — by her own hand." 
 
 The priest paused. Kane llellmuth lis- 
 tened breathlessly. At last the revelation 
 was coming. 
 
 " It was found out by their landlord, who 
 told her frinds afterward all about it. Ac- 
 cording to his story, the two had high words 
 togither that morning. Toward ayvenin' he 
 suspictid something, and knocked at the dure. 
 There was no answer, which made him break 
 open the dure. There he saw a sight that 
 filled him with horror. The poor gyerrul lay 
 did, stone did, on the flure, and the scoundril 
 that had killed her was in some drunken fit 
 on a sofa, or in bed. Uo was sint off to his 
 frinds — she was buried. He disappeared, 
 and I hope he's did. I wouldn't like to bo 
 sittin' near that man. Priest though I am, 
 I fonr I should feel a murderous inclination 
 stealing over me. I wouldn't have any con- 
 
 fidince in mcsilf, at all at all — not me. Ye 
 
 i 
 
FAMILY MATTERS. 
 
 75 
 
 say yc're liis fi-iiul. (';in ye tell me what bu- 
 camo of liim ? " 
 
 " He's dead," said Kane Ilellmuth, in a 
 faint, choking voice. 
 
 " Dead ? Thin 1 hope ho killed himsilf. 
 That was the best thing left for him to do af- 
 ter killins that poor gyerrul." 
 
 At this Kane Ilellmuth bowed Jowa his 
 head, and buried his lace in his hands. Was 
 there any thing more now for him to learn? 
 Was not this enough, this confident declara- 
 tion of Father Magrath ? Did he wish any 
 more ? Could he venture to go into details 
 about such a subject, and ask the particulars 
 of that most terrible of tragedies from a man 
 like this, who uttered words that pierced like 
 daggers ? That were too hard a task. The 
 information which he had already gained 
 seemed sufficient. 
 
 " Ilcr frinds,'' continued the priest, still 
 pursuing the train of thought which had been 
 started, " buried her, and strove to save her 
 name from stain by putting the name of tha 
 man on the stone, just as if ho had been her 
 husband. And so, if ye iver go to the cime- 
 tery of Pere-la-Chaise, ye'll see on that stone, 
 not the name of Clara Mordaiint but Clara 
 Riithven. Kuthven, ye know, is the name of 
 the villain that killed her." 
 
 At this a deep groan burst from Kane 
 Ilellmuth. 
 
 "Sure, ye don't seem well," 'said the 
 priest, in a tone which was meant to express 
 sympathy. " Won't ye take some more whis- 
 key? Try it — noat. Its moighty illictive, 
 whin taken that way, for dispilling mintal 
 deprission, and shuperinjewcing a contint- 
 miut and placidity of moind." 
 
 Iviine Ilellmuth shook his head. 
 
 " V7cli," said the priest, "I'll power out a 
 thii-.-bleful for niesilf, for the subject is a dis- 
 tris'-ing one intirely. And bo yc say," ho 
 continued, " that this man is a frind of yours, 
 or was ? Sure, and I'd like to know, thin, is 
 ho alive now ? ■' 
 
 Kane Ilellmuth drew a deep breath. 
 
 " He's dead," said he again, in a hollow 
 voice. 
 
 "Dead! Oh, yis. So ye said before. 
 Whin did ho die ? " 
 
 " Ten years ago," said Kane Ilellmuth. 
 
 "Tin years ngo ! Why, that was the 
 eamo toimc! " 
 
 "He died when she died," said Kane Ilell- 
 muth, in the same tone. 
 
 " Sure, and I nivir hoard a word of that 
 afore. And what was it that ho died of? 
 Mill, like that, don't often die off so aisy. 
 They live long, whin their betters die ; and 
 that's the way of the wurruld. What was it 
 that he died of, thin ? " 
 
 "He killed himscll'," said Kane Hullmuth, 
 in harsh, discordant tones, that seemed wrung 
 out of hiin. 
 
 "Killed himself!" repeated the priest. 
 " Well, it's well he did ; for, if that man wero 
 alive now at this moraert, it would be enough 
 to make poor Clara rise from her grave." 
 
 These last words were too much. Thus 
 f\ir this priest had shown an astonishing capa- 
 city for saying things that cut his conipauiou to 
 the very soul, and saying them, too, in a cas- 
 ual, offhand, unconscious way, as if they were 
 elicited by the subject of their conversation. 
 It had been hard for Kane Ilellmuth to en- 
 dure it thus far, but he could endure it no 
 longer. These last words summed up briefly 
 the whole horror of his present situation, to 
 avert which, or to escape from which, he had 
 made this journey. 
 
 IL started to his feet. He did not look at 
 the priest. 
 
 " I'm much obliged to you," said he, " for 
 the information which you have given." 
 
 At this t!ie priest stared at him in aston- 
 i.-hnient, which, if not real, was certainly well 
 feigned. 
 
 " What's this ? " he said, " what's this ? 
 Why, man ! What d'ye mane ? Ye can't bo 
 going! And the ayvenin' not fairly be- 
 gun." 
 
 " I must go now," said Kane Ilellmuth, 
 abruptly, in a hoarse voice. "My — my time 
 is limited." Uo stood swaying backward and 
 forward, his face ghastly, liis eyes glazed, 
 and staring wildly at vacancy. He did not 
 see the keen glance of the priest as he ear- 
 nestly regarded him. 
 
 Kane Ilellmuth staggered toward the 
 door. The priest followed. 
 
 " Sure," said he, " it's sick ye are. And 
 ye won't take another glass ? Perhaps, ye'd 
 like cognac. In the name of wonder, what's 
 come over ye, man ? Take some cognac, or 
 ye'll niver get home. Sure, and I'll nivct 
 let yc go this way. Wait, and get some co- 
 gnae. Faith, a!id ye must wait, thin." 
 
 Saying this, the priest laid his hand on 
 Kane Hcllmuth's arm, and drew Iiira back. 
 Kane Ilellmuth stood with a dazed 'ook in 
 
 1^ 
 
Ml 
 
 m 
 
 76 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 Lis eyes, and an expression of anguish on liis 
 face. Tbo priest liunied to tlio sideboard, 
 and, pouring out a tumbler nearly full of co- 
 gnac, offered it to his companion, who took 
 it eagerly and gulped it down. The fiery 
 draught seemed to bring him back to himself, 
 out of that temporary state of semivinoon- 
 Bciousness into which ho had far.<^n. His 
 eyes fell upon the priest, and the wild light 
 faded out of them. 
 
 " Pardon me, sir," said he, in a perfectly 
 cool and courteous manner, which offered a 
 striking contrast to the tone of his voice but 
 a minute before. " I am subject to spasms 
 of the heart, and Pra afraid Pve caused you 
 some alarm. But they do not last long, and 
 your kind and prompt assistance has helped 
 inc." 
 
 " Won't ye sit down again, thin? "said the 
 priest, earnestly, " and finish the ayvenin' ? " 
 
 "You're very kind," said Kane Hellmuth, 
 *' but, after this attack, I might have another, 
 and, under the circumstances, I think I had 
 better go." 
 
 "Won't ye stay and rest, thin, till ye feel 
 stronger ? " persisted the priest. 
 
 "Thank you," said Kane Hellmuth, "but 
 I require the open air just now. A walk of a 
 mile or so is the best thing for me. I shall, 
 therefore, bid you good-by, with many thanks 
 for your courtesy." 
 
 Saying this, he held out his hand. The 
 priest took it and shook it heartily. 
 
 "I won't say good-by," said the priest. 
 " We'll meet again, I hope. So I'll sny au 
 revoir." 
 
 "Au revoir,'^ said Kane Hellmuth, cour- 
 teously, falling in with the priest's mood. 
 
 They thus shook hands, and Kane Hell- 
 muth departed. 
 
 The priest accompanied him to the door. 
 Ue then returned to the room. He poured 
 out a fresh glass of toddy, lighted a fresh 
 pipe, and then, flinging himself into an arm- 
 chair, sat meditating, smoking, and sipping 
 toddy, far into the night. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MORDAUNT MANOR. 
 
 Several miles away from Keswick, Cum- 
 berland, lay some extensive estates, Eurround- 
 ing a first-class country-house, known as Mor- 
 
 daunt Manor. About a fortnight after tho 
 departure of Inez for the Continent, a solitary 
 horseman stopped at the gates of Mordaunt 
 Manor, and was a'"mitted by the porter. 
 
 A broad avenue lay before him, winding 
 onward amid groves and meadows, lined on 
 each side by majestic trees, among which 
 clouds of rooks were fluttering and scream- 
 ing. Riding along this avenue for about a 
 mile, he at length came in sight of the manor- 
 house. It was a stately edifice, in a style 
 which spoke of the days of the Restoration 
 and Queen Anne — one of those massive and 
 heavy houses which might have been built by 
 a disciple of Vanbrugh, or Vanbrugh him- 
 self — a false classicism cmploj-ed for domestic 
 purposes, and tlicrefore thoroughly out of 
 place, yet, on the whole, undeniably grand. 
 There were gardens around, which still had 
 that artificial French character that was loved 
 by those wlio reared this edifice. There was 
 any quantity of box-wood vases, and plants 
 cut to resemble animals, and a complete popu- 
 lation of nymphs and Olympian gods. 
 
 The horseman uismoar^ted, at length, and, 
 throwing iho bridle to one of the servants, 
 ascended tho steps and entered the house. 
 He gave his name as Sir Gwyn Ruthven. 
 
 Sir Gwyn Ruthven seemed to be an aver- 
 age young man of the period. Ue was under 
 twenty-five years of ago, of medium height, 
 with regular features, brown hair cut short 
 and parted in the middle, side-whiskers not 
 extravagantly long, bright, animated eyes, 
 and genial smile. An eye-glass dangled from 
 his button-hole, and a general air of easy 
 self-possession pervaded him. 
 
 Two ladies were in the drawing-room as 
 he entered. One of these was an elderly 
 personage, with a face full of placidity, self- 
 content, and torpid good-nature. The other 
 was a young lady, whose vivid blue eyes, 
 golden hair all flowing in innumerable crimps 
 and frizzles, retrousse :iose, perpetual smile, 
 and animated expression, could belong to no 
 other person in the world than Bessie Mor- 
 daunt. 
 
 Bessie had already risen, and greeted the 
 new-comer with the cordial air of an old ac- 
 quaintance. She then introduced her com- 
 panion, who seemed to act in the general 
 capacity of duenna, guardian, chaperon, 
 guide, philosopher, and friend. 
 
 " Let mo make you acquainted with my 
 dearest auntie — Mrs. Hicks Lugrin." 
 
igUt after tho 
 .eut, a solitary 
 I of Mordaunt 
 ; porter. 
 
 him, winding 
 lows, lined on 
 among which 
 ; and seream- 
 3 for about a 
 
 of the manor- 
 ;e, in a style 
 e Restoration 
 
 massive and 
 
 been built by 
 mbrugh him- 
 d fordcuestic 
 ighly out of 
 jniably grand, 
 lich still had 
 that was loved 
 3. There was 
 s, and plants 
 ompletc popu- 
 
 gods. 
 it length, and, 
 
 the servants, 
 !d the house. 
 Ruthven. 
 be an aver- 
 He was under 
 2dium height, 
 air cut short 
 :-whisker8 not 
 limated eyes, 
 dangled from 
 .1 air of easy 
 
 * 
 
 wing-room as 
 IS an elderly 
 placidity, self- 
 e. The other 
 id blue eyes, 
 erable crimps 
 ■petual smile, 
 , belong to no 
 Bessie Mor- 
 
 I greeted the 
 )f an old ac- 
 3ed her com- 
 the general 
 D, chaperon, 
 
 tited with my 
 ■in." 
 
i 
 
 ■i'i 
 
 
« 
 
 11 
 I 
 
 s 
 
 o 
 
 5I0RDAUXT MANOR. 
 
 ;7 
 
 " I could scarcely believe what I licard," 
 Bald Sir Gwyn. " I had no idea that the Mi93 
 Mordaunt of Mordaunt Manor was you ; but, 
 from what they told me, I saw it must bo. 
 Even then I could hardly believe that I should 
 be so fortunate as to have you for so near a 
 neighbor ; and so, you sec, I've dropped cere- 
 mony, ond come at once, without giving you 
 time to res after the fatigues of your jour- 
 ney. 15ut, 'pon my life, Miss Mordaunt, I 
 couldn't help it ; and it's awfully good in you, 
 you know, to see me." 
 
 To this Bessie listened with Jier archest 
 look and merriest smile. It was evident that 
 they were very good friends, and that the 
 pleasure which Sir Gwyn so plainly expressed 
 was not disagreeable to her. 
 
 " Sure," said she, " a month ago this day 
 I liadn't the least idea I'd be here now ; and 
 I don't know what to make of it at all, at all. 
 But it was so very, very sad about poor, dear 
 Mr. 'Wyvcrne ! It almost makes me cry. 
 But, then, you know, it's such a comfort to 
 be with my dearest auntie again ! " 
 
 Sir Gwyn looked at her admiringly. 
 
 "You vanished nut of London so sud- 
 denly, you know," said he, " that I began to 
 think I should never see you again. And Mr. 
 Wyverne — ah ! — yes — very sad — to be sure 
 — as you say. I suppose, however, he was 
 no relative — " 
 
 Bessie sighed. 
 
 " No, not a relative," said she ; " but then, 
 you know, he was always so awfully kind to 
 me, and he was my dear old guardy, and, 
 really, I loved him almost like — like — an — 
 an uncle, you know ; and it's myself that was 
 fairly heart-broken — when — when I lost him." 
 
 Another sigh followed. It was a mourn- 
 ful theme, and Sir Gwyn's face was full of 
 sympathy for this lovely mournar. 
 
 " How is Miss Wyverne? " he asked, gen- 
 tly. 
 
 Bessie sighed, and shook her pretty little 
 hc&d. 
 
 " She feels it very, very deeply," said she, 
 " of course — she is such a very affectionate 
 nature — and it was all so awfully sudden, you 
 know ! I was so anxious for her to come hero 
 with me — poor darling 1 — but I couldn't get 
 her to do so. And it's fairly dead with grief 
 she is this day. I told her how I sympathized 
 with her, but it w.as no use. Oh, yes, Sir 
 Gwyn ! it's myself that knows what it is to 
 lose a papa, and a dear mamma, too, by the 
 
 same token; for I've been through it all, and 
 it's awfully sad. It almost makes me cry." 
 
 At this Sir Gwyn looked deeply distressed, 
 and tried to change the conversation. 
 
 " I suppose," said ho, " Miss Mordaunt, 
 you have not boon here for a long time ? " 
 
 "Xo," said Bessie, "not since I was a 
 child. It's perfectly strange to mo. I don't 
 remember one single thing about it. But I 
 was so very, very young, you know — a child 
 in arms, positively ! So, of course, I remem- 
 ber nothing. I was taken away to France, 
 you know." 
 
 " To France ? " repeated Sir Gwyn, in some 
 surprise. 
 
 lie knew nothing about the history of 
 Bessie's life, and was quite eager to get her 
 to tell something about a subject which was 
 evidently so deeply interesting to him. 
 
 "Yes," said Bessie; "and so, as I was 
 taken away so early, I reoUy know nothing 
 whatever about Mordaunt Alanor, though it 
 is my own sweet home. My dearest auntie 
 knows all about it, and many's the time she's 
 took up whole days telling me about my an- 
 cestor?." 
 
 At this Sir Gwyn regarded Mrs. Hicks 
 Lugrin with a bland and benevolent smile, as 
 thougli her close connection with Bessie was 
 of itself enough to give her interest in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Perhaps you don't know, then," said he, 
 with a smile, " that I am your nearest neigh- 
 bor. I should have told you that in London, 
 if I had only known it." 
 
 " Oh, auntie told me," said Bessie. 
 
 " I hope," said Sir Gwyn, " that Mordaunt 
 Manor won't be any the less pleasant to you 
 on that account." 
 
 " Well," said Bessie, with a droll emilo, 
 "there's no knowing. You may be after 
 finding me a disagreeable neighbor, and, be- 
 fore we know it, we may be engaged in litiga- 
 tion with each other. And I never knew till 
 yesterday, and I think it's the awfuUest, fun- 
 niest thing ! " 
 
 " It's a remarkable coincidence," said Mrs. 
 Hicks Lugrin, suddenly, after a period of deep 
 thought, " and one, my dear Bessie, which, I 
 may say, is as pleasant as it is remarkable." 
 
 There was some degree of abruptness in 
 this speech, and in the tone of Mrs. Hicks 
 Lugrin there was something that was a little 
 stiff and " school-ma'iimish," but Sir Gwyn 
 was too amiable to criticise the tone of a 
 
i 
 
 
 I! I 
 
 h 
 
 78 
 
 AX OPEN QUESTION'. 
 
 kindly iciuaik, and was too wuU pleased to 
 think of Buch a thing. IIo looked more bc- 
 nignantly than ever at lira. Uitks Liigrin, 
 and a thought came to him that bhe was a 
 very admirable sort of woman. 
 
 "Oh, thanks," ho laughed, "bat really 
 when you como to talk of pleasure about 
 this discovery, I am dumb. I'lortsurc isn't 
 the word. 1 assure you llulhvcn Toners will 
 know a great deal more of me now than it 
 has thus far. I've been deserting it too 
 much. It's a pity, too ; for it is one of the 
 finest places in the country. Perhaps some 
 day I may hope to have the honor of showing 
 it to you and your — your amiable aunt. I'm 
 awfully sorry that I have no one there to do 
 the honors, but you know I'm alone in the 
 world, like yourself. Miss Jlordaunt." 
 
 Saying this. Sir Gwyn looked at her wilh 
 very much tenderness of expression and a 
 world of eloquent Buggcativcness iu his 
 eye. 
 
 " IIow very, very funny — that is, sad I " 
 said Uossio, hastily correcting herself. 
 
 " That," remarked Mrs. Hicks Lugriii, 
 with her usual abruptness, " is a circumstance 
 which can easily be remedied." 
 
 This remark conveyed a meaning to Sir 
 Gwyn whicl), though not in very good taste, 
 was nevertheless so very agreeable to him 
 that his face flushed with delight, and he 
 thought more highly of lifrs. Hicks Lugiin 
 than ever. I?ut Bessie did not seem to ap- 
 prehend its implied meaning in the slightest 
 degree. 
 
 " Ruthven Towers," slio said ; " what a 
 perfectly lovely name — so romantic, you know 
 — and I do hope. Sir Gwyn, that it is a dear 
 old romantic ruin, I'm so awfully fond of 
 ruins ! " 
 
 " No," said Sir Gwyn. " I'm very sorry, 
 but, unfortunately, it's iu excellent preserva- 
 tion." 
 
 " IIow very, very sad 1 " said Bessie. " I 
 do so dote on old ruins ! " 
 
 At this Sir Gwyn looked pained. For the 
 moment he actually regretted that his grand 
 old home was not a heap of ruins, so that he 
 might have the happiness of gratifying the 
 romantic enthusiasm of this lovely girl. 
 
 " Ruins," interrupted Mrs. Hicks Lugrin, 
 " may be very congenif.l to the artistic taste, 
 but, for a young man that has life before him. 
 there is nothing so wholesome as a whole 
 Louse over his head." 
 
 This remark Sir Gwyn entirely approved 
 of, and acknowledged it by another of his be- 
 nignant smiles. 
 
 The conversation now wandered off to 
 other things. Sir Gwyn and Bcssio had 
 much to say about the last London season. 
 Ho had met her then, and had seen her sev- 
 eral times, during which interviews he had 
 gained a friendly footing, and had begun to 
 manifest for her an interest very much deeper 
 than usual, which Bessie could not liave been 
 altogether ignorant of. Upon the present oc- 
 casion he was evidently most eager to avail 
 himself of all the advantages wliicli grew out 
 of this former acquaintance ; combined with 
 the additional advantages of his position in 
 the county, and his close neighborhood to 
 her, it gave him occasion to offer her many 
 little services. He knew all about Jlordaunt, 
 and could tell her all about it. He could 
 also show her Ruthven Towers. These were 
 the things that first occurred to him as being 
 at once most desirable, most pleasant, and 
 most natural, under the cireumstaiiecs. 
 
 Bessie's chaperon seemed to bo pleased 
 with Sir Gwyn's polite attentions, but Bessie 
 herself was very non-committal. She spoke 
 of the necessity of seclusion, and alluded to 
 the death of her guardian as something which 
 she ought to observe in some way commen- 
 surate with her own grief. Sir Gwyn, upon 
 this, was too delicate to press the matter, and 
 postponed it until another time. 
 
 " English country -life,"' said Bessie, in 
 the course of these remarks, "is a strange 
 tldng to 1-10 entirely. I've never seen any 
 thing of it, at all, at all ; and really it will be 
 quite a new world to the likes of me. I was 
 so young when I was taken to France, you 
 know. Sir Gwyn, and all that I know of Eng- 
 lish country-lite is what I have heard from 
 dear auntie — isn't it, auntie, dearest ? " 
 
 " Your observations are entirely correct," 
 said Mrs. Ilieks Lugrin. 
 
 " Then let me hope,'' said Sir Gwyn, po- 
 litely, " that you will find it as pleasant as 
 London life." 
 
 " Oh, I'm sure I found London life per- 
 fectly charming," said Bessie, with enthu- 
 siasm. "And you know I had just come 
 from France, and you may imagine what a 
 change it was." 
 
 " You must have lived tliere all your life." 
 
 "Yes," said Bessie. "It was at St.- 
 Malo. Have you ever been there. Sir Gwyn?" 
 
 ! i 
 
MORDAUXT MANOR. 
 
 79 
 
 pur life." 
 
 at St.. 
 
 Gwvn?" 
 
 " No, neviir." 
 
 " Oh, it's such a yicrfecUy charmiug 
 place," Hiiid Bes.sic, " iuul it's more like iiiy 
 Lome tluin any other phico. It's so lovely. 
 And I was tiikeu tlicre when I was— oh, only 
 tlio little.-it luito of a little thing, and lived 
 there till only a year ago. Sir Gwyn, and sure 
 it was myself lliat had the sore heart when 
 poor, dear, darling guardy came to take me 
 away, so it was." 
 
 " I'm sure it mu.^t have been," saitl Sir 
 Gwyn, in tones full of tendcrest sympathy. 
 
 " I'm sure it was awfully .sad to lo.so my 
 papa and mamma," said IJessio, mournfully, 
 " but to lose my home seemed w orse, so it 
 did ; and that's why I feel so awfully sorry 
 about my poor, darling Iny. Not but tliat 
 she ho.s a home — but then it doesn't seem like 
 it at all, nt all." 
 
 "I suppose not," said Sir Gwyn. 
 
 "And it's worse for poor, dear, darling 
 Iny than it is for me," continued Bessie, 
 " for you know .she lias no one, and I have 
 my other dear gnardy, my poor mamma's 
 dear papa, you know. Sir Gwyn. And he's 
 the very nicest person I You can't imagine ! " 
 
 Sir Gwyn looked as if he were trying to 
 imagine, but was unable. 
 
 " You know her, my own dear, darling 
 Iny — do you not. Sir Gwyn '? " 
 
 " Iny '! You mean Miss Wyvcrne ? " 
 
 " Yes — Inez her name is — the same name 
 as mine, you know," continued Bessie, gently 
 and sadly. 
 
 " The same as yours ! " exclaimed Sir 
 Gwyn. " Why, I thought that yours was 
 Elizabeth ? I remember Miss Wyverne, of 
 course, and she always called you Bessie." 
 
 As Sir Gwyn uttered this name there was 
 an indescribable tenderness in the tone of 
 his voice which, did not by any means escape 
 the notice of Miss Bessie, but she gave no 
 sign to that efl'ect. She merely went on, iu a 
 calm way : 
 
 "Oh, yes; she always insisted on calling 
 me Bessie. Slie said it was awkward for 
 both of us to be Iny. .My name, you know, 
 is Inez Elizabeth — Inez Elizabeth Mordaunt." 
 
 " I think Inez is a perfectly beautiful 
 n.ame," said Sir Gwyn, cnthusiaslically. 
 
 "So do I, surely," said Bessie; "it is so 
 entirely. In I'ranee they all called me Inez, 
 but dear, darling Iny set the fashion of call- 
 ing mo Bessie; ami, after all, it would have 
 been awkward to have two in the house 
 
 named Inez, and so it was nulhing else but 
 Bessie, Miss Bessie, and so I grew to 
 love that name, because I loved so the dear, 
 darling friends who called me by it. Still, I 
 think Inez is awfully lov.'ly, and it's uncom- 
 mon and ronnintic. Bear, darling Iny and I 
 arc second cousins, and Inez is a family 
 name, you know, so wc both ha<l it." 
 
 All this was news to Sir (iwyn, of course, 
 who, as he said, had heard her called " Bes- 
 sie," and had always thought of her mider 
 that name. Still, "Inez" was undeniably a 
 beautiful name, and Miss Mordaunt was no 
 less lovely under thi.s sweet foreign name 
 than she had been under the plainer one of 
 " Bessie." He lamented that he was not at 
 liberty to make uso of either one of theso 
 names and call her by it. The time for that, 
 however, had hardly come as yet, and he 
 could only indulge in the hope that it ndght 
 come before very long. 
 
 This preference which Bessie expressed 
 for tlio name " Inez," was also sanctioned 
 and solemnly confirmed by Jlrs. Hicks Lu- 
 grin, who said, iu her characteristic manner: 
 
 " Jly dear, your preference is every way 
 justifiable, and you should insist now on all 
 your friends calling you by the name for 
 which you yourself have so decided a prefer- 
 ence." 
 
 When Sir Gwyn at length took his de- 
 parture, it was in a state of mind that may 
 be described as made up of exultation, expec- 
 tation, anticipation, elevation, and all other 
 " alions " which go to set forth the state of 
 mind which humanity experiences under the 
 stimulus of Love's young dream. Already, 
 in that London season above referred to, he 
 had been smitten with Bessie's charms ; and, 
 though her absence had weakened this efl'ect 
 to some extent, yet now the sight of her face 
 more than revived these old feelings. The 
 circumstances under which he now saw her 
 tended to deepen this effect. She was in a 
 quasi state of mourning. She announced 
 that she intended to keep herself secluded, 
 for a time at least, and avoid the gayeties of 
 society. Her "mourning" was thus deep 
 enough to keep her restricted within the very 
 sphere where she would be most accessible 
 to him. Ilcr face now seemed to him more 
 piquant than ever ; the perpetual smile 
 which Nature had stamped upon her lips did 
 not readily adapt itself to a sombre ex- 
 pression of grief ; and thus Bessie's attempta 
 
 IP 
 
i 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 80 
 
 AN OI'EN QUESTION'. 
 
 to look bereaved and afflicted wcro only suc- 
 cossl'ul iu so fur as they served to call up to 
 lier I'lice a new expression, and one, too, of a 
 very attnictive kind. The cireunistanccs that 
 had tlui3 brought her hero and given iiim 
 Huch access to her, could not bo regarded by 
 him witli any otiicr feelings than those of the 
 deepest satisfaction ; and ho determined to 
 avail himself to the very utmost of the rare 
 privileges wliich cliimcc had accorded to 
 bim. 
 
 And so Sir f!\vyn, on the very next day, 
 found a pretext for riding over to Monlaunt 
 Manor, lie found Itessio as cordial as ever. 
 
 She received liim with a smile, that bo- 
 witched him, and witli a simple, frank friend- 
 liness that was most touehsig. K!ie told him 
 it was " awfully kind " in him to con;o to sec 
 her again when elio was so lonely. She re- 
 marked that Mordatnit Manor was "anfully 
 stupid," with other tilings of the same kind. 
 Mrs. Hicks Lnjirin also ehimcc' in witii simi- 
 lar sentiiiients. On this visit Sir Own ven- 
 tured to hint at a drive through tlie country. 
 Mrs. Ilicks Lugrin thought that it would bene- 
 fit Bessie's health, and that a eompanion like 
 Sir Gwyn, who knew all the history of the 
 county, would be a benefit to the minds of 
 both of tliem. 
 
 The drive was very successful, and was 
 repeated. In a few days Ilessie went out 
 riding with Sir Gwjn, first confining herself 
 to the park, and afterward going into the 
 outer world. Then it began to be interrupted, 
 for the great world was in motion, and every- 
 body wlio pretended to be anybody was hur- 
 rying to Mordaunt Manor to welcome its lovely 
 young mistress to her ancestral home and to 
 her native county. 
 
 CnAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE LOST ONE FOUNO. 
 
 From what has been related it will be seen 
 that Miss Bessie had experienced a great 
 change in her life, having tlins suddenly ad- 
 vanced from the position of certainly not 
 much more than ward to the conspicuous ele- 
 vation which was given by becoming mis- 
 tress of Mordaunt Manor. Nor in coming to 
 what she called her ancestral home did she 
 find any lack of any thing which she might 
 have conceived of as necessary to the gran- 
 
 deur of her position. Tliere was the Ilall it- 
 self, and the broad estate, ami every thing 
 corrc'spondcd, without and within. Troops 
 of servants stood ready to do the slightest 
 bidding of their young mistress ; men-ser- 
 vants and niaid-servants, footmen, grooms, 
 coachmen, pages, appeared before her wher- 
 ever she wandered. Prominent among tlicso 
 were several dignified functionaries — the but- 
 ler first ; then the French chrf de ciihine and 
 the housekeeper, Mrs. Spiller. Overall these 
 Miss Bessie reigned as cjueen ; while, as her 
 prime-minister, Mrs. Ilicks Lugrin stood at 
 her side to give her counsel, or to carry into 
 execution her wishes. Tlius Mordaunt Manor, 
 on once more being open to tlio great world, 
 ap])earcd fully equipped. During the years 
 in which it had been closed every thing had 
 been managed with the utmost care ; and 
 now it seemed about to enter upon a new ca- 
 reer, under auspices at least as brilliant as 
 any which it had ever known. 
 
 As the eye of the great worhl tlius came 
 to turn iiself upon tlie young mistress of 
 Mordaunt Ilall, and to subject her to its scru- 
 tinizing gaze and its cold criticism, Bessie 
 boro the ordenl in a manner wliicli could not 
 be surpassed if slie had been trained all her 
 life for this very thing, rerfectly calm and 
 self-possessed, she yet showed nothing which 
 was in any way inconsistent with the most 
 sensitive delicacy and maiden modesty ; she 
 appeared like the type of innocence and 
 self-poise combined ; and around all this 
 was tlirown the charm of her rare and ra- 
 diant beauty. Society, whieli thus came to 
 criticise, remained to admire ; so beautiful, 
 and at the same time so wealthy an heiress 
 had but seldom been seen ; and she was evl- 
 dently one who was adapted to shine in tho 
 lofty sphere to which she had been born. 
 Society thus took note of all her charms. 
 Society decided that Miss Bessie had a re- 
 markably tender and ad'eetionate nature. So- 
 ciety noticed the slight touch of Irish brogue 
 in her accent, and thought that it added 
 a zest to her already bewitching manner. 
 Society also noticed the attentions of Sir 
 Gwyn Ruthven, and smiled approvingly. It 
 was without doubt a most excellent and suit- 
 able thing; and, if Sir (Iwyn Rutliven could 
 win her, the match would be unexceptionable. 
 The two largest estates in the county already 
 adjoined one another ; and tliis wou!<l unite 
 them into one magnificent property. Society, 
 
THE LOST ONE FOUND. 
 
 81 
 
 in foot, admired this prospect so very greatly 
 that it unnnimoiisly declurcd Sir (iwyn's at- 
 tcntions to bo " really riuitc providcntiiil." 
 
 The blinuiislimetits of the groat world and 
 the devoted attentions of Sir Gwyn Rutlivcu 
 did not make up the whole of Besfie'a life, 
 however. One part of it was taken up iti a 
 correspondence which, though not large, was 
 yet of immense importance. It was not 
 large, for it consisted of but one letter every 
 other day or so, yet that one letter was so 
 Important that most of her time when alone 
 was taken up with the study of it, and with 
 writing her answer. Tlie letter which tilic 
 sent in reply was always dropjicd iuto tho 
 n^all-ha-:; with her own hand, and it always 
 bore the same addrc ss — Kivin MagrdtU. 
 
 Several weeks of Bessie's new life passed 
 away, and at length, one day, she received a 
 letter from tliis one correspondent which con- 
 veyed intelligence of such unusual importance 
 to her that she remained most of her time in 
 her room with tho letter before her, ponder- 
 ing over its startling intelligence. To Sir 
 Gwyn, who called on her as usual, sho did 
 not deny herself, but appeared as animated, 
 as careless, and as joyous as usual ; but, after 
 his departure, she once more sought her own 
 apartment, and there sat motionless for 
 hours, witli the letter in her hands, plunged 
 into tho deepest thought, and wiili such an 
 expression of anxiety on her brow, and such 
 a deep abstraction in her gaze, that if Sir 
 Gwyn Ruthven could have seen her he would 
 scarce have been able to recognize the face 
 of tho smiling, joyous, exuberant, and careless 
 girl, whose image had been stamped so deeply 
 upon his memory, and upon his heart. 
 
 After receiving that letter, Bessie sat up 
 late into the night, and it was well advanced 
 toward morning when sho wrote a reply. Sho 
 then retired, slept a few hours, and, after ris- 
 ing and taking a slight breakfast, sho wort 
 herself, as usual, to mail her letter. 
 
 About a week after this, a gentleman 
 drove up to tho gates of Mordaunt Park. 
 Dismounting from his carriage, which was 
 evidently a hired one, he paid the driver, who 
 at once returned in the direction of Keswick. 
 Upon this the gentleman went to the porter's 
 lodge and stood talking for a few minutes 
 with the porter. 
 
 Thi? new-eomer was a man of medium 
 Stature, with dark complexion, which had a 
 sun-brcv. .led, wcatiier-beaten appearance, like 
 6 
 
 tho face of a sailor ; but the reflncracnt of tho 
 features, and a certain indescribable sorne- 
 tliing in tho cxpn^ssion, showed that ho was 
 something very ditlerent. His dres;) showed 
 hira to be a clergyman. lie had heavy eye- 
 broivs, from beneath wl,ich glowed piercing 
 black eyes. His jaw was R(|uuro and mas- 
 sive, and yet, in spito of tliese signs of 
 strength, Mj." I nd resolute will, the preva- 
 lent expression i' lis iiice was one of gentle- 
 ness ; and there ^ ero Bufflcient indications 
 there of a nat' ''c .vhich was full of warm hu- 
 man syn , tides. His hnir aS sprinkled 
 with gr. tad he seemed "oinowhere between 
 fifty and sixty yea..! of age. lie walked with 
 a blow pace, and i.i 'ds gait and in his man- 
 ner there wo: w ocrlain unmistakable signs of 
 feeblenes.-). 
 
 This man ston ! 'alking witli the porter 
 for some time, and at length, ha'i'ig satisfied 
 himself, ho turned away and walked wyt tlio 
 avenue toward tho ITall. lie walked slowly, 
 and with feeble steps, as has been said, and 
 used a cano, which he carried to assist his 
 walk. Ho frequently paused, and looked 
 around ; but, whether this was throu^di cu- 
 riosity or through weariness, did not appear. 
 At length he camo within sight of the Hall. 
 Here there was, by the side of the avenuo 
 and under the trees, a rustic seat, and npon 
 this tho clergyman wearily placed himself. 
 
 He had not been there long, when tho 
 sounds of galloping horses arose in the dis- 
 tance, coming apparently from somewhere 
 down the avenuo. Tho old man was sitting 
 on the rustic seat, with his eyes fixed upon 
 Mordaunt Manor-house, and did not appear 
 to he^r these sounds. Soon, however, they 
 drew nearer ; and at length a gentleman and 
 lady came galloping by, on their way to the 
 house. The gentleman was Sir Gwyn Ruth- 
 ven. Tho lady was Bessie. They had been 
 riding. Sir Gwyn did not notice the old 
 man, being too much absorbed in his fasci- 
 nating coiiipanion to bo at all conscious of 
 any other i- :ng; nor did he see the start 
 V hich the old man gave, and the eager gaze 
 which ho directed toward them. Bessie 
 caught one glimpse of him and of his rapid 
 gaze, but appeared not to see him, for she 
 instantly turned her eyes away, and went 
 speeding past. Thus, to the old man, as 
 ho fixed his eyes on her, there appeared 
 this flitting vision of loveliness ; the round, 
 rosy, dimpled face, the sunny blue eyes, tho 
 
 ' * 
 
83 
 
 AN OrEN QUESTION. 
 
 it '■' 
 
 i! 
 
 I ! 
 
 [ 
 I ! 
 
 beautiful perpetual smile, and the gleaming 
 golilen hair of the young heiress, forming an 
 image of beauty that might have excited the 
 odmiratiou of the most world-worn or the 
 most eold-liearted. She rode with admirable 
 grace, her elegant figure seemed formed for 
 horsemanship, and, thus speeding by, she was 
 borne swiftly away toward the house. 
 
 The old man still sat, and, after she had 
 dismounted, and had disappeared within, he 
 still kept hia eyes fixed upon the door-way 
 through vvhicli she had vanished from his 
 gaze. An hour passed, but he did not move. 
 At length. Sir Gwyu reappeared and rode 
 past toward the gate. Upon this, the old 
 man rose and went toward the house. 
 
 Upon Bessie's return, she had allowed Sir 
 Gwyn to bask lor a time in the sunshine of 
 her presence, together with the shadow of 
 the presence of Mrs. Hicks Lugrin, and had 
 been as gay and as charming as ever. Upon 
 his departure, however, she had flown at once 
 to her room. Hero all her absti-action re- 
 turned; she seated herself by the window, 
 and breathlessly watched the movements of 
 the old man, She had seen him ! What 
 would he do ? 
 
 She saw Sir Gwyn ride past. 
 
 She saw the old man then rise and walk 
 toward the house. Tben she retreated to the 
 middle of the room and waited. 
 
 A servant brought up a card : 
 
 " M. VAbU BeniaV 
 
 Bessie took it in silence, and looked at it 
 carefully. 
 
 " Tell him that I shall be down presently," 
 said she, very quietly, " and tell Mrs. Hicks 
 Lugrin that I should be obliged to her if she 
 would come here." 
 
 The servant retired. 
 
 In a few minutes Mrs. Hicks Lugrin en- 
 tered. 
 
 Bessie handed her the card. 
 
 Mrs. Hicks Lugrin road it, and said not a 
 word. 
 
 "I have been thinking," said Bessie, 
 " that, on the whole, it would be as well, 
 auntie, if you were not to be present at our 
 interview."' 
 
 " Oh, most undoubtedly," said Mrs. Hicks 
 Lugrin. " I only thought that perhaps you 
 mi^ht require my presence for purposes of 
 corroboration or identification." 
 
 " Never a bit," said Bessie ; " trust me 
 
 for that, auntie. Am I an owl ? Sure, it's 
 me that's well able to take care of myself 
 without any help at all at all — and there yo 
 havf it. But it's really getting awfully es- 
 citing," she added, in a different tone, " and 
 do you know, auntie dear, I really begin to 
 feel a little neiTous ? " 
 
 Mrs. Hicks Lugrin said nothing, and Bes- 
 sie soon after went down to the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 The old man was seated in the middle of 
 the room, with his face turned toward the 
 door. As she entered, she saw hia face, fig- 
 ure, and expression, most distinctly. A win- 
 dow which was on his left threw light upon 
 him, and gave the most distinct view possi- 
 ble. She herself also, as she came in, was 
 revealed to him as fully and completely. She 
 came in as light as a dream, with her ethereal 
 beauty, her large, tender, deep-blue eyes, her 
 golden hair, her dimpled cheeks, her sweet 
 smile of innocence ; there was on her face 
 a simple expression of courteous inquiry, 
 blended with gracious welcome ; and, with 
 this on her face, she looked at him steadily, 
 with the fixed glance of an innocent child, 
 and came toward him. 
 
 He rose and bowed ; then she sat down, 
 and he resumed his seat, drawing himself 
 nearer to her as he did so. He then looked 
 at her earnestly for some time. He appeared 
 agitated. His hands trembled ; there was a 
 certnin solemn sadness and melancholy on 
 his face. 
 
 " And you arc Inez ? " he at length said, 
 in a tremulous voice. 
 
 At this, there came up in Bessie's face 
 the deep, wondering look which often arose 
 in her eyes. She said, softly : 
 
 " Inez Mordaunt." 
 
 " Inez Mordaunt ? " rcperted the old man, 
 " I saw you when you were a child. I — I 
 knew your — you.' parents. You have changed 
 so much that I should not have recognized 
 you, and you do not look like either of your 
 parents." 
 
 "How very funny 1" said Bessie; "and 
 did you really see me ? and so long ago ? 
 Indeed, then, and it's true what you say, that 
 I've changed ; for, when I was a child, my 
 hair and eyes were darker. I've got some of 
 my hair now — cut off by poor dc- darling 
 mamma — and really do you know it's quite 
 brown ? and isn't it funny, when I'm sxtch a 
 blonde now f " 
 
Sure, it's 
 f myaelf 
 
 there yo 
 rfuUy ex- 
 ne, "and 
 
 begin to 
 
 and Bes- 
 drawing- 
 middle of 
 iward tlio 
 3 face, fig- 
 f. A win- 
 light upon 
 iew poasi- 
 ne ill, was 
 etcly. She 
 icr ethereal 
 le eyes, her 
 , her sweet 
 )n her fiico 
 us inquiry, 
 , and, witli 
 im steadily, 
 occnt child, 
 
 10 Bftt down, 
 ing himself 
 Ihen looked 
 le appeared 
 there was a 
 lancholy ou 
 
 length said, 
 
 Jessie's face 
 often arose 
 
 the old man, 
 child. I— i 
 ave changed 
 recognized 
 ther of your 
 
 essie; "and 
 1 long ago ? 
 you any, that 
 a child, iny 
 got some of 
 dc. darling 
 BW it's quite 
 n I'm such a 
 
 r 
 
BBW—W 
 
 ir I 
 
THE LOST ONE FOUND. 
 
 m 
 
 A melancholy emilc came upon tlio old 
 man's lace, and a look of tenderness appeared 
 in his eyes as he listened to Bessie's prat- 
 tle. 
 
 " And you are Inez? " he said once more, 
 slowly, in a tremulous voice, which wt.s full 
 of indescribable pathos. 
 
 Uessie said nothing, but smiled sweetly. 
 
 Thus far this interview had certainly been 
 An unusual one. The old man's address had 
 boon abrupt and odd in the extreme. Evi- 
 dently he had no desire to be otherwise than 
 ourteou.^ ; and yet his manner showed a 
 strange lack of the commonest observances 
 of civility. Bessie, on her part, showed her- 
 self quite at her ease; altogether frank, un- 
 conventional, and communicative. She evinced 
 110 surprise whatever at the old man's singular 
 mode of address, but accepted it as a mutter 
 of course, and certainly such a reception by 
 her was quite as extraordinary as the be- 
 havior of the visitor. 
 
 " You don't know me," said the stranger ; 
 "you do not recognize the name which I sent 
 up. I wonder if it is possible for you to guess 
 the errand upon which I have come ? I won- 
 der how you will bear the news which I have 
 to tell ? " 
 
 lie spoke in a tone of profound sadness, 
 yet infinite sweetness and tenderness, fixing 
 upon Bessie the same gentle and loving look 
 ■which he had already turned toward her, 
 Bessie looked back at him inquiringly, and 
 now a thange came gradually over her own 
 face. 
 
 " I don't know, I am sure," she said, in a 
 faltering voice. " You seem to have somc- 
 tliing dreadful on your mind; and I don't re- 
 member ever seeing you in all my life. Oh, 
 what is it * Tell me, and do not — ch, do 
 not ! — keep me in suspense. It's something 
 awful ; I know it is. It is some sad news I " 
 
 Aa Bessie said this, a, sudilcn expression 
 of terror pussed across her face, and she 
 clasped her hands and started back. 
 
 " Do you remember your parents ? " asked 
 the old man, in the same tone, and regarding 
 licr with the same look. 
 
 " My piirents ? " said Bessie. " Oh, no — 
 only a little. My dear, darling mamma died 
 when I was only three years old; and my 
 poor dear papa left me then, and went away 
 somewhere, and died. And I have often 
 wept — oh how bitterly ! — as I thought of 
 tboso d ng ones— lost entirely— that I was 
 
 never going to sue again at all, at all ! And, 
 do you know, really, it's quite awful?" 
 
 Bessie sighed, and rubbed her little hand- 
 kerchief over her britiht-bluc eyes. 
 
 The old man's eyes now seemed to devour 
 her, as they rested upon hor in the intensity 
 of their gaze. There was also in them a cer- 
 tain expression of longing, yearning love — 
 something deeper than any thing which had 
 yet appeared, and yet something which was 
 the natural development of that gentleness 
 and tenderness with wliich he had gazed at 
 her from the first. 
 
 It cost him an effort to speak. 
 
 " Your parents," he said, in a low voice, 
 " did not both die. Your father did not — " 
 
 "Xo," said Bessie; "poor dear papa, aa 
 I was saying, was so upset by the death of 
 poor dear, dailing mamma that he left the 
 country, and died abroad, so he did. And, 
 oh ! it is so very, very sad I " 
 
 The old man's eyes glistened. \Va3 it a 
 tear that trembled there ? 
 
 "Your father," said he, in tremulous 
 tones, " did not die. He — is — alive." 
 
 " Oh, really, now," said Bessie, " you're 
 altogether wrong, you know. Pardon me — 
 but I ought to know, when I've been mourn- 
 ing over liira all my life. Sorrow a day has 
 passed that I haven't folt what it is to be an 
 orphan ! It's fairly heart-broke with grief I 
 am when I think of it. And then, you know, 
 it was so very, very hard for poor darling 
 papa to go and die so far, so very far 
 awuy !" 
 
 " It was all wrong ; it was all a mistake," 
 said the old man, drawing his chair nearer, 
 and looking at her with more longing eyes, 
 and speaking in more tremulous tones. "It 
 was a false report. He was on his way East. 
 He was very ill at Alexandria. It was the 
 plague. But he recovered. He had givea 
 up the world, and so ho never wrote. But 
 he did not die — " 
 
 " Sure, then," interrupted Bessie, " he 
 might have dropped a line to me. Oh, if I 
 v;ould but havo heard from hita only one 
 word ! And me all alone in the wide world 
 — none to love me — none for me to love — an 
 orphan I It was heart-breaking entirely, so 
 it was ; and really, now that I think of it, I 
 wonder how I was able to bear up." 
 
 Again Bessie rubbed her eyes. 
 
 The old man said nothing for some time, 
 lie was struggling with profound emotion, 
 
 ^ 
 
J 
 
 84 
 
 AN' OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 and for a few inimites was qviitc unable to 
 speak. 
 
 " Inez ! " said ho at last, in a voice deep, 
 low, tremulous with unutterable tenderness. 
 
 At this Bessie looked up with the same 
 frightened faeo which she had shown a short 
 time before. 
 
 "Inez," said the old man, "it was hard 
 for you to be left so many years alone, as 
 you thought, in the world ; but the reasons 
 will all be explained some day. Your father, 
 Inez — your father now mourns over this, and 
 Bees that he indulged a selfish grief, and was 
 too forgetful of you in one sense, though he 
 never ceased, even in his deepest grief, to 
 love you passionately — you and that other 
 dear one, your sister. But now, Inez — now 
 it is over. Your father has come back to 
 you. Look, Inez — look at me ! I am changed, 
 I know. Look ! Do you not see something 
 in my face that you remember ? " 
 
 At this Bessie rose from her chair, clasped 
 her hands, stared at him, and started back a 
 few paces. 
 
 Tears fell from the old man's eyes. 
 
 " Inez ! " he said, and then was silent. 
 
 "0 sir! what do you mean by this?" 
 cried Bessie. " Is this real ? Do you mean 
 it ? In Ileaven's name, is this true ? You 
 are mocking me. How can I know it ? IIow 
 can I believe it ? And so sudden ! " 
 
 "Inez!" said the old man again ; "it is 
 all true. I tell you that I am your father ! " 
 
 Bessie now stared at him, and her foce 
 underwent several very rcmarV.ablo changes. 
 It was a face so mobile and so expressive 
 that it was wonderful how strongly the feel- 
 ings that she might wish to show were shown 
 forth there. First, then, came surprise, then 
 fear, then timid hope, then joy. Tlie old man 
 watclied all these changes breathlessly, and 
 with tremulous agitation. At last, Bessie 
 seemed to comprehend the truth ; and, as 
 this last joyous change came over her elo- 
 quent face, she sprung forward, and flung 
 herself into the old man's arms. 
 
 And Bornal Mordaunt pressed her to his 
 heart, and kissed her tenderly, and murmured 
 words of love over her fair young head : 
 
 "Inez! my own Inez! my daughter! my 
 darling ! I Iiave found you at last, and we 
 must never part again ! " ' 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AT HOME. 
 
 Tnrs it was, then, that Bcrnal Mordaunt, 
 after so long an absence, came back to his 
 own home. 
 
 The joy of this meeting filled all his 
 heart, and he surrendered himself to it com- 
 pletely. The sadness which years had stamped 
 upon his face was succeeded by the sunshine 
 of happiness ; and he could not remove his 
 loving gaze from Bessie's face. She, on her 
 part, conducted herself admirably ; and ther« 
 was no lack of tender caresses, and of all tho 
 manifold signs of filial affection with which a 
 loving daughter should receive a father so 
 suddenly and unexpectedly rectored. Bes- 
 sie's whole nature seemed singularly gentle, 
 and tender, and feminine, and soft, and ca- 
 ressing; and so her father, after years of 
 e.xile and sorrow, found himself at last onco 
 more in the possession of those sweet, domes- 
 tic joys which ho had thought were lost 
 forever. 
 
 Mrs. nicks Lugrin was very properly over- 
 whelmed with surprise when she learned what 
 had happened; but Bernal Mordaunt, who had 
 been informed of her oflice in the household, 
 greeted lier with warm yet gentle courtesy, as 
 his d.iughter's friend and benefactor. 
 
 There was a whole world of things to bo 
 talked over between these two — Bessie and 
 Mordaunt — and each had something to tell to 
 satisfy the curious inquiries of the other. 
 
 " Do you not remember me at all, dearest 
 daughter— not at all?" was a frequent in- 
 quiry made by Mordaunt 
 
 " Well, only just a little bit — a little tiny, 
 tiny bit, papa dearest," said Bessie. "You 
 know I was only three years old when yoit 
 left; and I only remember a dark -haired, 
 handsome man ; but now you're not dark- 
 haired at all, at all — that is, at any rate it's 
 as gray as it is dark, now isn't it, papa dear- 
 est? And, besides, you would never have 
 known me, for I'm so awfully changed, if you 
 had seen me anywhere else, you know — no it 
 would you, papa dearest?" 
 
 And Bernal Mordaunt, looking at her lov- 
 ingly, could only say : 
 
 " Well, dear child, I must confess that the 
 Inez I expected to see was diffeient from 
 you." 
 
 Bessie gave a gentle yigh. Then Bb» 
 
AT HOME. 
 
 m 
 
 ittlc tiny, 
 " You 
 flicn yoa 
 k - liaii-cd, 
 not dark- 
 rate it's 
 )apa dcar- 
 cvcr havo 
 ;ed, if you 
 now — no IT 
 
 33 that the 
 lent from 
 
 Then she 
 
 Bniilcd. Then she Btooped forward and 
 kissed his forehead. 
 
 "But you love your poor little Inez all 
 the same, if she has grown to be an ugly 
 little blonde — now don't you, papa dearest ? " 
 
 Mordaunt stroked her head fondly. 
 
 "Ah, my child !" said ho, "I take you as 
 you are, and thank Heaven for finding you so 
 loving and so dear. Sorrow and hardship, 
 dearest Inez, have made your father a very 
 different man from the one you remember, 
 and the father who comes back to you has 
 not long to live." 
 
 " papa ! " murmured Bessie — " papa ! 
 dearest, dearest pnpa, don't — don't — don't 
 talk so ! You really almost make me cry." 
 
 Mordaunt looked at her lovingly. Such 
 affection as this, so tender, so devoted, was 
 sweet indeed to him. 
 
 Mordaunt's account of his past life (vas 
 not a very long one. It was the death of his 
 wife that had been the cause of his departure 
 from home, as Bessie already knew. Before 
 that he had lived a life of unalloyed happi- 
 ness and prosperity ; living in splendor at 
 Mordaunt Manor, and holding a leading posi- 
 tion in the county. From all this the death 
 of his wife had suddenly dashed him down, 
 lie had been passionately attached to her. 
 Ilcr death had been very sudden. In an in- 
 stant all interest in life was lost, and all the 
 sweetness and light of existence died out ut- 
 terly, and were buried in her grave. 
 
 A resolution was then taken by him, 
 which, under such cir nmstanccs, was not by 
 any means so unusual as may be supposed. 
 It was to devote himself to a religious life 
 for the rest of his days. He was a Roman 
 Cathjlic, and his Church afforded ample op- 
 jiortunities for the gratification of such a 
 wish as this. His devotion to religion was 
 profound and earnest. To him, in his dark 
 and bitter grief, religion alone gave him any 
 consolation; and amid sucli consolations he 
 Rouglit to bury himself. Ho flung himself 
 into the arms of tlic Ciiurch. He became a 
 priest. Finally, in order to carry out to the 
 farthest his new desires, he sought to become 
 u missionary to heathen countries. This de- 
 sire was gratified without any very great dif- 
 ficulty. 
 
 At the outset he had taken steps to secure 
 a fitting homo for his children ; and for this 
 purpose had applied to Mr. Hennigar Wy- 
 vcrne, who was an intimate friend, and was, 
 
 also, a connection. This gentleman had con- 
 sented to do what Mordaunt requested, and 
 was appointed guardian of the Mordaunt chil. 
 dren, and trustee of the estate till they should 
 come of age. It was, therefore, with a feeling 
 of perfect peace on his children's account that 
 he had gone to his distant field of labor. 
 While on his way to the East he had beea 
 attacked by the plague at Alexandria, and 
 had the narrowest possible escape from death. 
 Recovering, he had resumed his journey, and 
 had spent many years in India. Finally, his 
 health had broken down, and he was com* 
 pelled to return to Europe. 
 
 Now, no sooner had his back been turned 
 upon the scene of his labors and his face set 
 toward Europe, than there arose within him. 
 a great longing to see his children, or at least 
 to learn what had become of them. Ho had 
 given himself up so entirely to the work 
 which he had imposed upon himself, that he 
 had held no communication of any kind with 
 Mr. Wyverne ; and so, on returning home, he 
 was in perfect ignorance about their fate. 
 He remained for a few days in Rome, and 
 then travelled to London. He had to visit 
 Milan and Geneva on his way. This took 
 him through a part of Switzerland, and 
 brought him to Villcneuve. Tliere he was, 
 without knowing it, brought face to face with 
 Wyverne himself. Not until he reached Par- 
 is had he learned thisi, and then it was only 
 from the papers and from certain inquiries 
 which he made that he was able to find out the 
 truth. This discovery was a most distressing 
 one. He longed to Boe Wyverne, but now it 
 was too late. He hurried back to Villcneuve, 
 but the party had loft, and the remains of the 
 dead had been sent forward to London. He 
 retin-ned to Paris, and was detained there by 
 ecclesiastical affairs for some time, after 
 which he hurried to London. 
 
 On inquiring at Wyvernc's house, he found 
 that 5Iiss Wyverne had gone away, and that 
 the house was about to be closed. No one 
 but servants were there, and none of those 
 could give him any information. After la- 
 borious inquiries, he was able to find out 
 Wyvernc's solicitors, and called on them for 
 information as to his daughters. But the in- 
 formation which they gave was only of the 
 most general character. Their relations tow- 
 ard the late Mr. Wyverne, they told him, were 
 not nt all confidential, but only of an ordinary 
 businc-s character; and, consequently, they 
 
L 
 
 I 
 
 I !i 
 
 86 
 
 AX OPEN QUESTIOX. 
 
 Icnew nothing about his private affairfi. Some 
 years ago tlicy had hoard that the older Miss 
 Mordaunt had died abroad. Tlie other one 
 they believed was still alive, though they 
 Icnew nothing at all about her. 
 
 The mournful intelligence of the death of 
 one of his children was thus the first definite 
 information which he had received ; and beyond 
 this il seemed difficult, if not impossible, to 
 learn any thing. Rut his desire was now 
 stimulated, if possible, still more to learn the 
 whereabouts of his surviving child. lie went 
 back once more to Mr. Wyverne's house to 
 question the servants. Most of them were 
 new ones, none had been there more than 
 three years, and of the affairs of the family 
 they knew nothing, except what they had 
 heard as the gossip of their predecessors. 
 This was to the effect that Mrs. Wyverne had 
 separated from her husband and was dead; 
 that Miss Wyverne had lived at a boarding- 
 school until the last year or so, and had gone 
 to live with some relatives, they knew not 
 where. Ho recalled the name of the old 
 house-keeper who had once been there. It 
 was Klein. lie asked after her. He was 
 informed that .^ho had been dismissed for 
 drunkenness. This was all. 
 
 He now sought after this Mrs. Klein. 
 With the help of the police, he at last found 
 her residence; but from the woman herself 
 he could learn absolutely nothing. This 
 arose partly from the drunken confusion of 
 her brain, but partly also from some unac- 
 countable suspicion which she seemed to en- 
 tertain that ho was meditating some injury to 
 Miss Wyverne. She remained obstinate in 
 lier stupid unbelief in him, and from her 
 di.sjointed and incoherent answers he could 
 gather nothing. 
 
 After this there remained nothing for him 
 but to go to Mordaunt Manor. At Keswick 
 lie had learned that Miss Mordaunt had re- 
 turned home, and was living there now. This 
 filled him with hope, and he iiad come on- 
 ward without dchiy. The coiice:ilmcnt of his 
 name arose merely from tlie uesiro to spare 
 her the shock that might arise from too sud- 
 den a revelation, and also from a desire to see 
 liow far she might remember him. 
 
 Such was the Bul)stance of Mordnnnt's 
 story, and, of course, where he was in igno- 
 rance, licssie was able to give him all the in- 
 formation that he desired. 
 
 She informed him, therefore, that Mr. Wy- 
 
 verne had been the kindest, the most affec- 
 tionate, and the most thoughtful of guardians ; 
 that he had sent her away after his wife's de- 
 parture to live with a relative of his, Mrs. 
 Hicks Lugrin; and that she had lived with 
 her ever since, with one interruption. A year 
 ago, Mr. Wyverne had invited her to como 
 and stay with his daughter for a time ; and 
 she had been travelling with them when ho 
 died. She informed Mordaunt, to his intense 
 amazement, that she had been at Villeneuve 
 at the time of Mr. Wyverne's death ; and, 
 therefore, that they must have been in closo 
 proximity without suspecting it. Mr. Wy- 
 verne, she said, had suffered for years, and 
 had been sent to the Continent by his physi- 
 cians as a last resort. About Mrs. Wyverne 
 she knew nothing whatever, nor had Miss 
 Wyverne even mentioned her name. 
 
 About Clara Mordaunt Bessie had but lit- 
 tle to say. Clara had been very much older 
 than she was, nearly ten years, and had been 
 sent to a boarding-school. She had died 
 there, and her death liad taken place about 
 ten years ago. 
 
 Bessie's information, meagre as it was, 
 gave Mordaunt all that he could learn now, 
 since Mr. Wyverne, who alone could 'ell all, 
 was dead. Her story was inteilarded witli 
 characteristic remarks about Mr. Wyverne's 
 kindness; abo\it her "dear auntie's" affec- 
 tionate care; about Miss Wyverne's pcntlo 
 friendship, and her deep grief over her fa- 
 ther's death; and abo\it her own joy at such 
 an unexpected termination to her own troub- 
 les. 
 
 "And as for poor, dear, darling Iny, you 
 know, she has the same name that I have, 
 papa dearest, and isn't that funny? and she 
 used to call me Bessie, to prevent confusion, 
 while I was living at poor, dear Mr. Wy. 
 Verne's — she was the dearest and best of 
 girls — and oh, so affectionate. It almost 
 killed her, papa dear, for her to lose her 
 dear papa. And wasn't it awfully sad, now* 
 And she with never a care in the wide world 
 before ! Oh, but it was myself that had the 
 sore heart for her ! It was too hard for her 
 to bear that same. Sho wnsn't ;he one that 
 would stand grief at all at all 1 And no more 
 was 1, by the same token ; but, papa dLar, real- 
 ly you know it seemed worse for her, because 
 I was so very, very young. But she becan}e 
 quite changed. Her grief was too much for 
 her, and you wouldn't have known her. For 
 
f 
 
 AT HOME. 
 
 87 
 
 
 my part, 1 should liiive stayed with licr till 
 death, but I saw that she did not wish to have 
 me; in fact, she licrsclf went away to some 
 of her friends, and wouldn't lot me go with 
 her, though 1 wished to so. IJut, then, I need 
 not be sorry for that, for, by coming here, 
 I've found you all the sooner — haven't ], papa 
 dearest? " 
 
 While talking about Villcnouvo, Mordaunt 
 informed her of a cross which he had lost, 
 and which he afterward thought had been lost 
 there. On his return ho liad made inquiries 
 about if, but without ed'ect. No one had seen 
 it. It was a precious relic — one which he had 
 got made in memory of his dear wife, and had 
 worn ever since. 
 
 Of this cross Bessie knew nothing what- 
 ever. 
 
 Mordaunt also mentioned some lockets 
 which he had left with Wyverne. 
 
 "They were throe — one of my wife; one 
 of Clara ; and one of yourself, Inez. I at first 
 took them with me, but I found that they 
 only served as reminders of my incurable 
 grief, and caused a distraction to my thoughts 
 and iiTcctions, which, henceforth, I hoped 
 would be centred exclusively on religion. 
 For this cause I made a final sacrifice of my 
 feelings, and concluded to leave them behind 
 me. I sent them to poor Wyvcrne, but nev- 
 er heard from him about thcni. Did you ever 
 Bce them ? Did he ever mention them ? " 
 
 Bessie shook her head. 
 
 " Oil, no, papa dear ; no, nev m*. For you 
 know, of course, if I had seen thein over, I 
 should remember; and Iiow awfully nice it 
 would bo to see myself how I looked as a 
 child — and only three — and much darker 
 than I am now. Only fiincy ! Oh, but it's 
 a strange thing entirely! But, of course, 
 poor, dear Mr. Wyvcrne could never have re- 
 ceived them, you know, papa dear — now, 
 could he ? " 
 
 To 'aordaunt, this suggestion seemed a 
 probable one, and he thought that Wyvcrne 
 must have failed to receive those i)recious 
 lockets, for, if ho had, he would certainly 
 have shown them to his dear daughter. 
 
 So remai'Kable an event as the return of 
 Bernal Mordaunt after so long an absence, and 
 after a general belief in his death, could not 
 be long unknown. Society hastened to offer 
 its congratulations, and to welcome the wan- 
 derer back to its fold. But the wanderer did 
 not show any very strong desire to be wel- 
 
 comed. Society Boon became nware of the 
 fact that licrnal Mordaunt was desirous of 
 quiet and seclusion. The sorrows and hard. 
 ships of years hail produced their natural ef- 
 fect upon his constitution, and ho felt liimself 
 to be, as he told Bessie, a broken man. Aside 
 from this, the profession which lie hid adopt- 
 ed, and the life that he had lived, had drawn 
 him Qway altogether from the great world ; 
 nor could he any longer bring himself to feel 
 any sympathy with that world, or its tastes, 
 or its ways. What had he, the world-worn 
 m.in, the missionary p'-iest — what had he in 
 common with a gay, thoughtless, and frivo- 
 lous crowd; with a society as light and shal- 
 low as that which he saw around him ? But 
 there were yet a number of his old friends 
 living who heard of liis return with joy, and 
 hastrned to greet him. These, of course, 
 were different from the common run, and 
 Mordaunt received them with unfeigned pleas- 
 ure and cordiality. Yet even these visitors 
 could not help seeing that the old Bernal Mor- 
 daunt lived no longer. This man was like 
 another person ; his sympathies, and tastes, 
 and feelings, had all changed. A few words 
 of conversation about the old days served to 
 exhaust the subject of the past ; and then 
 there remained no subject of common interest 
 in the present. So, though Bernal Mordaunt 
 tried to he cordial, and his old friends tried 
 to be enthusiastic, yet the conditions of each 
 had so changed that a feeling of dissatisfac- 
 tion was the only result. 
 
 Bernal Mordaunt thus showed no desire 
 to regain that position in the great world 
 which had once been his ; and might now be 
 his if he had chosen to chiim it. lie hud 
 come home as a broken-down mtin, and he 
 wished to remain home as quietly as possible. 
 The calm of domestic joys, the dear delight 
 of a daughter's fond affection, these were the 
 only things which he now valued. A return 
 to Mordaunt Manor brought back old associa- 
 tions, and revived all those memories which 
 the years had only partially dimmed. Bessie 
 became more beloved, more dear, and more 
 precious to him every day. The old man had 
 only this one object in all the world to love, 
 nnd upon her he lavished all his afTeotions. 
 For her part, it must be confessed that no 
 daughter could have been more ailectionatc, 
 more attentive, more watchful of every mood 
 of his, more solicitous of his comfort. She 
 gave herself up to him completely. 
 
88 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION'. 
 
 s 
 
 There was an incessant vigilance in Bes- 
 sie's watchful care of Mordaunt which sur- 
 prised and delighted him, exciting his tender- 
 est gratitude, and leading to most touching 
 expressions of affection on his part. Even 
 Sir Gwyn was now put in a secondary place. 
 Bernal Mordaunt was supreme in Mordaunt 
 Manor, Bessie was his daughter and his 
 slave. Sir Gwyn saw the new idol of Bessie's 
 heart, and had nothing to say or do but join 
 in the common reverence. And this he did 
 honestly and cordially. 
 
 The fact is, there never was a bettor fel- 
 low than this same Sir Gwyn Kuthven. He 
 was desperately in love with Bessie by this 
 time, and, though no formal declaration had 
 as yet escaped liis lips, still there was an evi- 
 dent understanding between them, and he felt 
 that Bessie was aware of his feelings and de- 
 sires. Now it happened that Bernal Mor- 
 daunt had come home at the very juncture 
 when he wished to have Bessie most to him- 
 self, and the most critical time for his own 
 prospects. Still the young fellow scarcely 
 complained, even to himself. The restoration 
 of a father, long mourned as dead, seemed to 
 liim to be an event which could be thought 
 of with no other feelings than those of sol- 
 emn joy ; and Bernal Mordaunt had that in 
 his face which excited in the mind of the 
 young man the deepest reverence and even 
 affection. Among those who greeted Bernal 
 Mordaunt none was so cordial, so sincere, and 
 BO respectful, as Sir Gwyn. 
 
 Bernal Mordaunt scarcely noticed any 
 others in that society which sent its repre- 
 sentatives to welcome him ; but Sir Gwyn 
 Ruthven could not escape his notice, and, out 
 of Mordaunt's own tender and vigilant pa- 
 rental feeling, he soon detected the love which 
 Sir Gwyn had for Bessie. This discovery 
 tnado him anxious to know more about the 
 young baronet, and thus he sought him out ; 
 and the result was to create in his mind feel- 
 ings of strong esteem for Sir Gwyn, and of 
 thankfulness that his daughter should have 
 ■won the regard of so worthy a man. This 
 discovery also produced a change in his own 
 attitude. He began to fear that he had been 
 too selfish, and had been monopolizing too 
 much of his daughter's time and care, lie, 
 therefore, tried to remain more by himself, 
 BG that he might not interfere in the slightest 
 degree with his beloved daughter's happiness. 
 Tet, strange to say, Bessie would not allow 
 
 this. She began to reproach him for growing 
 tired of her already, and so Bernal Mordaunt 
 had to give up his little plan of self-sacrifice, 
 and indulge his paternal fondness for hia 
 daughter without any further fear of being de 
 trop. But Sir Gwyn had no reason to com- 
 plain, for he was always made cordially wel- 
 come by Mordaunt ; and this species of do- 
 mestic footing upon which he found himsi'lf 
 could not be otherwise tlian i)leasing. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 U A F F L K D FANCIES. 
 
 Aftkr that interview with Father Ma- 
 grath, Kane IJellmuth returned to Paris with 
 a graver sense of mystery, and a profoundor 
 feeling of gloom. The remarks of the priest 
 had stung liira to the very soul ; and yet he 
 did not see how they could have been inten- 
 tional. He did not think it possible that this 
 priest — a man whom he had never seen be- 
 fore, and one who certainly could never have 
 seen him — could have penetrated that deep 
 disguise which years and grief had thrown 
 over him — a disguise far more effectual for 
 concealment than any mere change of attire 
 or arrangement of hair and beard. It seemed 
 evident to him then that the priest's words, 
 sharp and incisive though they were, must 
 have been uttered quite spontaneously, and 
 arose from his indignant sympathy with the 
 injured Clara Mordaunt, without any suspi- 
 cion that he was speaking to her murderer. 
 
 The faint hope, therefore, that had been 
 raised within his mind by Blake's suggestions, 
 had been dissipated by this interview with 
 the priest, and his journey had proved worse 
 than useless. All that he had heard had only 
 served to confirm his worst fears, and to tear 
 open afresh the old wound of his sorrow and 
 remorse. But, in addition to this, there re- 
 mained the mystery of the apparition, which 
 was now even more inexplicable than ever. 
 Had he been able to think for one moment 
 that his brain, or his optic nerve, or even his 
 digestive organs, might be in a diseased con- 
 dition, or in a condition even approximating 
 to it, he might then have had an easy expla- 
 nation. But nothing of this was the case. 
 His bodily frame in every part and every 
 function had never been more sound and 
 vigorous. The apparition, he believed, must 
 
BAFI'LEU TANCIKS, 
 
 89 
 
 I 
 
 have an olijoctive existenco, wliatcvor it was. 
 It3 niysteiioua inovcracntf, the tremendous 
 cfTect wliieh it produced upon him in niiud 
 and body, the extraordinary expression of its 
 face, and the never-to-be-forgotten look of its 
 eyes aa they rested upon him, all conspired 
 to increase his conviction that there was 
 Bomethinn; of the supernatural about it, lie 
 now could have no other f.pectation but that 
 it would repeat its visits. With this expec- 
 tation, he tried to nerve himself to a resolu- 
 tion to force himself out of that passive state 
 in which he had sunk on former occasions, 
 and to take some action — to accost it — or at 
 least to follow it. In this way, if it were pos- 
 sible, he might be better able to fathom the 
 mystery. But to nerve one's self up to a res- 
 olution in the absence of the terror was a far 
 different thing from effecting it in its face 
 and presence ; no one knew this fact bettor 
 than Kane Ilellmuth, and he was too con- 
 scious of his weakness to make resolutions 
 which could not be carried out. He could 
 only resolve, in a general way, to struggle 
 more strenuously against his weakness, and 
 hope that another meeting would find him 
 less unprepared. 
 
 It was in this frame of mind that Kane 
 Ilellmuth returned to his lodgings. Blake 
 had not expected him back so soon, and 
 therefore was surprised when his friend culled 
 at his own rooms, lie had not entertained a 
 visitor in those rooms since that memorable 
 evening when Dr. O'Rourke told him the ap- 
 palling story of the monk Aloysius, When 
 Kane Ilellmuth's knock came, he was think- 
 ing over that very circumstance, and wonder- 
 ing what had become of O'Rourke, from 
 whom he had not heard a word since his de- 
 parture. Various circumstances had inten- 
 sified his interest in O'Rourke's project, which 
 had at first seemed so wild, but which had 
 been presented to hira as so feasible. At the 
 present time, he jumped up hastily and sprung 
 to the door, expecting O'Rourke, and it was 
 with a momentary feeling of disappointment 
 that he saw Kane Ilellmuth. But this visitor 
 was also welcome, for he had been to London ; 
 ho had perhaps seen Inez, and he could tell 
 liira how she was bearing the bereavement 
 with which she had been r.fflicted. 
 
 So, no sooner had he recognized his friend, 
 than he poured forth a current of questions. 
 Had he actually been to London ? Why had 
 be come back bo soon ? Had be found out 
 
 any thing? Hud lie scon Miss Wyvernc ? 
 Had he licard any thing about her? Had he 
 askod any thing about her? To all these 
 questions Ilelhnuth listened in gloomy si- 
 lence. At length, he seated himself, and then 
 leisurely told the general outlines of his 
 story. To this Blake listened with an impa- 
 tience which he tried in vain to repress ; and 
 at length, as UcUmuth ended without having 
 made any mention of the only subject about 
 which he cared to hear, he onco mn-o reit- 
 erated his questions. To these, of course, 
 Ilcllmutii could give no satisfactory answers. 
 He had not seen her, and she had only been 
 spoken of in a casual way by Father Ma- 
 grath. He had mentioned her name merely 
 in connection with her recent bereavement. 
 He told what the priest had said about the 
 condition of Mr. Wyverne's affairs, and Blako 
 was astonished and shocked to learn that the 
 lady whom he had regarded as a great heiress 
 was really no better than a penniless depend- 
 ant. Of course, no idea ever entered his 
 mind about the credibility of the priest's 
 statements. The testimony of one who oc- 
 cupied so important and so confidential a po- 
 sition in the family as this man evidently did, 
 was of itself final, and left no room for doubt 
 in the mind of cither. 
 
 Another deep impression was produced 
 upon Blake by Father llagrath's treatment 
 of Mr. Wyverne's dying declaration. He 
 had half believed in their actual truth, and 
 had led Inez to feel the same, though that 
 truth seemed to him most bewildering and 
 most incredible. Now, however, all such 
 ideas would have to be dismissed. Father 
 Magrath must know perfectly well the truth 
 about the past life of his friend, and his 
 summary rejection of Mr. Wyverne's declara- 
 tion as utter nonsense, together with his very 
 clear and natural explanation of the facts of 
 the case, left no room for further discussion 
 on that subject. After all, from almost any 
 point of view, it was far easier to cr 'sider 
 his words, as Father Magrath expr' ,sed it, 
 the ravings (>{ delirium, than as the sober 
 utterance of reason. If any perplexity now 
 remained on Blake's mind with regard to 
 this subject, it arose wholly out of his moth- 
 er's mysterious language with reference to 
 that man with whom he had become ac- 
 quainted in so singular a manner, and Mr. 
 Wyverne's own very remarkable regard for 
 himself.' Still, perplexing as these things 
 
-' 
 
 90 
 
 A.V OPEN' QUESTION'. 
 
 iniglit l)C, ho WaH now forced to conchifle 
 Ihiit they must be accounted for in any other 
 way rather tlmn that in which he had lately 
 been interpreting them. 
 
 IJolli of these men, then, had been indul- 
 ging in fancies, whicti now seemed to them 
 not only untenable but nonsensical. 
 
 These may bo enumerated : 
 
 First. Kane ilellnuith had indulged in a 
 vague hope that the wife who had died ten 
 years ago might not have died at that time, as 
 he supposed. 
 
 Secondbi. That the mysterious apparition 
 which so strongly resembled her might be ac- 
 counted fur on the ground that it was really 
 herself. 
 
 Thirdhj. Blake hud fancied that Mr. \Vr- 
 verne, wlien in the evident delirium of mortal 
 illness, had been speaking the language of 
 calm and sober reason. 
 
 Fourtlihi. lie had, therefore, been led to 
 believe in these delirious words, and to sup- 
 pose that Inez Wyverne was not the daugh- 
 ter of Ilennigar Wyverne. 
 
 FiftMij. For the B.imo reason he had 
 brought himself almost to the belief that he — 
 Basil Blake, M. D. — was the son of this Ilen- 
 nigar Wyverne. 
 
 Xow, all these fancies, and all other fan- 
 cies connected with these more or less directly, 
 were at once scattered to the winds; and 
 Basil Blake could only congratulate himself 
 that his unselfis!) consider;ition for Inez had 
 prevented him from entering upon so absurd 
 a search as this would have been. It was 
 gratifying in other ways, too. He saw now 
 that one trouble, which had so distressed 
 Inez, would be dissipated ; and he saw al.so 
 that the false position, in which his own ten- 
 derly beloved and honored mother had been 
 placed by Hennigar Wyverne's declaration, 
 had no existence whatever. 
 
 All this time, as will be seen, brth Kane 
 Ilellmuth and Blake remained in ignorance 
 of one important fact. Neither of them had 
 the slightest idea that Inez had left her home. 
 If Father Magrath had known this, he had at 
 least chosen to say nothing whatever about 
 it. According to his statement, Bernal Mor- 
 daunt was the father of Bessie; and, there- 
 fore, the belief which had caused the (light 
 of Inez had apparently no place in his mind. 
 The story which he had told Kane Ilellmuth 
 accorded in all points with the account which 
 Bessie had given of herself to Ine«, though 
 
 not altogether with the story which she had 
 told Sir (iwyn, or the reminiscences of the 
 past which she had narrated to Bernal Mor- 
 daunt himself Inez, however, had indulged her 
 own beliefs, and hod acted upon her own im- 
 pulses ; and now, as has been seen, at the 
 very time when Ulakc and Kane Ilellmuth 
 were holding this conversation, she was far 
 away from her own home. While, therefore, 
 Blake was eagerly (lue^tioning Kane Ilell- 
 mutli about her, lie had no idea that she h.id 
 left her home, and that, too, with I'aris for 
 her destination — that she might, even now, 
 be not very far from him. IJut such a thing 
 could not possibly be suspected under any 
 circumstances, and the dismissal of his fan- 
 cies made it inconceivable to him that she 
 should be anywhere else than at home. 
 
 Among all the facts which Blake gathered 
 from Kane llellmuth's account of liis visit, 
 the one that produced, perhaps, after all, the 
 most profound efl'cct upon him, was the star- 
 tling and unexpected announcement of her 
 poverty. 
 
 At first this shocked him, but afterward 
 other feelings arose within him. Siie was no 
 longer a great heiress ! Iler father's wealth, 
 it seemed, was all fictitious. Tlie great heir- 
 ess was an utterly destitute and penniless de- 
 pendant. She would have, henceforth, to 
 trust fo» her very daily bread to the bounty 
 or the pity of her friends. 
 
 A tumult of emotion arose within Blake's 
 heart; and, after the first natural feeling of 
 pity or regret, there came a sense of gratilica- 
 tion and triumph. Such feelings were quite 
 natural. Far, hitherto, the great wealth of 
 Miss Wyverne had seemed almost appalling 
 to one in his situation, with his fe 'ings tow- 
 ard her, and hopes. Her wealth elevated her 
 far above him, so far, indeed, that he almost 
 despaired of ever reaching so higli. He could 
 oidy hope to attain to an equality with her by 
 some sudden stroke of Fortune. He shrunk 
 from the position of even an apparent for- 
 tune-hunter; and his high sense of honor and 
 manly pride recoiled from the apprehension 
 of the world's comments upon him, even if it 
 should be possible for him to win so great an 
 heircs?. It was this great difference in their 
 positions that had held him back even when 
 Mr. Wyverne had so strongly favored his ad- 
 vances, and had over and over again prevent- 
 ed him from saying to her that which he 
 longed to say, and which she herself some- 
 
' 
 
 n.VFFLED TANCIKS. 
 
 01 
 
 times «ecmB(l not imwllliiif; to licar. Now, 
 liowi'vor, the dUn'reiico was dcstroyoil. He 
 fournl liimsclf on a level with her, not hy his 
 own elevation, but through her dopression. 
 Had lio been merely a friend, ho would have 
 felt sorrow, but, being an ardent lover, he re- 
 joiced. It gave liiiii hope. As soon as the 
 lirst sharpness of her recent bercnvemcnt 
 should be railigatcd, ho might go to her and 
 tell hor all. It only remained for him to 
 m;ike himself able to give her a home in or- 
 der to ask her to bo hi^. 
 
 Tills now became his one idea — to win 
 Inez. 
 
 IJut, in order to win hor, it would be ne- 
 cessary for him greatly to improve his pres- 
 ent position. Just now, he was doing no 
 more tliun enabled him to support himself 
 and assist his mother. Under present cir- 
 cumstances, ho could not gain hor. The one 
 thing that ho wanted was a rise in life. lie 
 wanted it immediately, lie was burning with 
 impatience, if not to win Inez at once, at 
 least to see his way toward gaining such a 
 prize. 
 
 Kane llellinuth left, and Rasil I'lakc was 
 alone. Now, there eame back the thought 
 wliieh ho had entertained when Kane llell- 
 inuth'.- knock had startled him. Ho recalled 
 the memorable interview with Dr. O'Rourkc — 
 the story of Aloysius. One thought arose, 
 and stood forth prominently in h'S mind, ris- 
 ing up to grander proportions, till all his ex- 
 cited soul was filled with one vi-^ion — a vision 
 of splendor unutterable — of wealth illimitable 
 — the vision which O'Rourke's vehement 
 words had once before imparted to his imagi- 
 nation, and which now once more arose and 
 wouM not bo driven away — tho treasure of 
 the (Joesars. 
 
 At another time, and under other circum- 
 stances, Blake might have reasoned away his 
 gathering faith in O'Rourke's theory; but 
 now his love for Inez, his impatience to win 
 her, his own poverty, her dependence, his in- 
 tense desire for some immediate action, all 
 forced his thoughts to dwell upon this, and 
 caused him to give to it that faith which his 
 will rather than his reason dictated. Pome 
 treasure might be there, at any rate. Wheth- 
 er it had been buried there in ancient or in 
 medifcval times mattered not. As long as 
 any treasure might be there, whether of tlie 
 Cscsars or tho popes, tho Ilohonstaufens or 
 the Roman barons, it was worth a search. 
 
 Failure could do no harm ; it coulJ involvo 
 no loss ; while success would give him all 
 that his wiliiest fancies coidd portray. In 
 spite of himself, therefore, his thoughts con- 
 stantly reverted more and more every day to 
 this dazzling, this transcendent, this nnparal- 
 leled project; and, while he struggled to re- 
 press too great eagerness of hope, the remem- 
 branco came to bis mind of all those vehe- 
 ment arguments with which O'Rourke had 
 once before reasoned down his incredulity, 
 and enforced at least a temporary acquies- 
 cence in the credibility of his theory. Ho 
 recalled also the minuteness of details which 
 had characterized the story of Aloysius, and 
 tho stress which O'Rourke had laid upon 
 this; he recalled what ho knew of the char- 
 acter of O'Rourkc himself, a man who, as far 
 as he could judge, seemed too hard and prac- 
 tical, too much possessed of common-sense, 
 to become a prey to visionary projects ; and, 
 to Rlako's mind, O'Rourke's own character 
 appeared one of the strongest arguments in 
 favor of the bulk of his theory. 
 
 During Blake's stay at St. Malo, the events 
 of his life had been so interesting that 
 O'Rourke's plan had become, if not forgot- 
 ten, at least obscured by other things. In 
 the presence of Inez, even the treasure of 
 the Cicsars became a matter of small im- 
 portance. The days pas; "d, and, as every 
 day Inez Wyvcrne oeoipicd a larger space in 
 his thoughts, so O'Rourkc and liis projects 
 became less and less prominent. At length 
 the tragedy of Villencuve occurred, and Inez 
 suddenly became alienated. Between him 
 and her a gulf seemed to have openeii, arising 
 from that mysterious declaration of the de- 
 lirious father, which seemed to place them 
 both in so false a position toward one anoth- 
 er. This last occurrence had furnished 
 Blake's raind with new thoughts, and the 
 alienation of Inez had given him new anxie- 
 ties. Thus they had separated ; and, while 
 tho coldness of Inez had prevented her from 
 exhibiting tho warmth of common friendship, 
 his own delicacy and his respect for her grief 
 had prevented him from showing in any way 
 tho deeper feelings of his own heart. 
 
 But now, under those new circumstances, 
 every feeling that could influence him combined 
 to direct his thoughts once more to the forgot- 
 ten plan of O'Rourkc. Day succeeded to day, 
 and the more he thought of it the more did 
 his thoughts cling to it. Week succeeded to^ 
 
92 
 
 AN OPES' QUESTION. 
 
 li ^li 
 
 il 
 
 ^i 
 
 i II 
 
 [>\ n 
 
 week, aud tlicsio thoiiglitH came to be tipptT- 
 ino8t iu liis uiiiul. It cnmc at last to thifi: 
 that It waa eiinply imposiiible for liim to take 
 liny interest in any other tiling so long as this 
 (ihould be undeciJeil. Ho brilliant a plan for 
 oecuring at one stroke the fortunes of his life 
 woB not to be easily set aside or lightly dis- 
 regarded ; more than this, it forced itsi.df 
 more and more upon his attention, and finally 
 engrossed all his thoughts. 
 
 So aggressive were these thoughts, and so 
 absorbing, that all other things at length lost 
 their interest ; and, eo long as this was held 
 in suspense, he was unfit for any thing else. 
 Kane llellniuth could not help seeing that 
 Blake was preoccui)ied, and i)rofoundly inter- 
 ested in some purpose ; but what it was he 
 forbore to intiuirc. Blake never alluded to 
 the subject, even in the remotest way. He 
 remembered O'llourke's warning, and was re- 
 solved that no carelessness or rash confidence 
 of his should endanger the success of this 
 great enterprise. 
 
 Meanwhile, the days passed on, and the 
 weeks also, and O'Kourke gave no sign. As 
 the lime passed, Blake waited, expecting every 
 (lay to hear from him or sec him. Between 
 Ills interview with O'Rourko and his return to 
 Paris, eight weeks had elapsed ; several weeks 
 more had passed away since, and still there 
 was no sign. Tlic three months would soon 
 be up. 
 
 What then ? 
 
 The longer his suspense lasted the greater 
 his impatience grew, and at length that im- 
 patience became intolerable. It caused in- 
 numerable speculations as to the result of 
 O'Rourke's attempts thus far. Sometimes ho 
 feared that O'Rourko had changed his mind 
 about taking an assistant, and had resolved 
 to do all the work himself. At other times 
 he feared that some disaster might Lave oc- 
 curred, and that the bold explorer into those 
 subterranean realms had paid for his temerity 
 with his life. Again Lis fears took a new 
 shape, and led him to suppose that the ex- 
 periment had been tried, the search had 
 been made, and had resulted in such a 
 total failure that O'Rourke had retired in 
 shame and disappointment too deep to al- 
 low him even to give notice of his failure to 
 Lis proposed confederate. This fact of 
 Blake's anxiety, and of Lis numerous specu- 
 lations about the causes of O'Rourke's silence, 
 shows better than any thing else liow com- 
 
 ])letely this treasure - hunting Hchcmc L.id 
 taken possession of Lis soul. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE RCTL'RN OF ANOTHKR MESSCNdKlt. 
 
 At length one day a tclegr.iphio dispatch 
 was brought to Blake. He opened it, with a 
 vague thought that it might bo some ill news 
 from his mother, from whom he had heard 
 nothing for some time. It was not from 
 England. It was from Rome. It was from 
 O'Rourke. Blake's heart beat high Aviih 
 hope as ho read it, thoi in those few 
 words there was but littlr a definite char- 
 acter. The dispatch was hUows: 
 
 " Have made good btghining. Lc Park two 
 days. He ready." 
 
 The three months were almost up when 
 this came. Blake's fever of excitement had 
 reached its height. His suspense was be- 
 coming intolerable. In the midst of such 
 feelings this message came, and served to 
 stimulate Lis Lopo to the utmost. In that 
 meagre dispatch there was no mention made 
 of tho particulars of the Roman expedition, 
 but O'Rourke spoke of a "good beginning," 
 and told him to be ready. He could not wish 
 for any thing better. It was all that O'Rourke 
 had proposed to do by himself. Any thing 
 more he had already decided to defer, even 
 to attempt, until he should have a companion 
 and an assistant. Best of all, O'Rourke would 
 bo here in two days, and ho would know all. 
 
 The two days passed slowly. Blake saw 
 Kane Ilellmuth once. The two friends had 
 but little to say. Ilellmuth was preoccupied. 
 Something unusual had occurred, but Blake 
 had too much on his own mind to notice it. 
 Had not Blake himself been so taken up with 
 that dazzling plan which now filled all Lis 
 thoughts, and lured him on constantly with a 
 resistless fascination, he could not have failed 
 to notice the troubled aspect of his friend's 
 face. Some now tiling had evidently hap- 
 pened, but what it was Blake did not ask, nor 
 did Kcne Hellnnitii tell. 
 
 That same evening Blake was alone in his 
 room. Ho expected O'Rourke on the arrival 
 of tho Marseilles train; and, if he did como 
 by that, he could not hope to see him much 
 bcforo midnight. Time passed. Ac last raid- 
 night came. About half an Lour afterward 
 
 
Tin: KKTUHN or ANOTIIKU MESSKX(iKK. 
 
 03 
 
 had 
 
 niako heard steps ascending tlio stairway. 
 Ill uncontrulliiblu excitement lio spriiiif? to 
 tlio door and looked out. lie met O'Uourko 
 laco to (iicc. 
 
 " Well, mc boy," s.'ild the latter, wringing 
 niako's hand heartily, " lieio I am again. I 
 Iiavoti't disappointed ye, have I ? Oil, by the 
 powers ! but isn't it the hard time I've Lad ! 
 Sure it's nieself that's been going to give up 
 intirely, over and over agin. Still I'or all, 
 mind ye, it wasn't tlic tiisiire, or tlio cata- 
 comb.', at all, at all. The difriciiltica arose 
 merely iu the attimpt to get a fiithuld, and 
 juring the failure that waa conscfpiint from 
 the obelioosenia.s of the people. Hut I'll 
 tell ye all. Have ye iver a drop of whiskey, 
 thin ? " 
 
 Blake hurriec. 'o his closet and brought 
 forth a bottle, which ho placed by the side of 
 II decanter of wine, that already stood upon 
 uie table, and chen produced a glass. 
 
 " I have cognac," said he, " but I'm sorry 
 to say I have no whiskey." 
 
 O'Kjurke gave a sigh. 
 
 " Well, well," said ho, " it's no bad sub- 
 8tichoot," and, with these word:!, he poured 
 out some cognac. Then he flung himself into 
 an casy-ehair, and, holding the glass in his 
 hand, sat leaning back for a few minutes sip. 
 ping the cognac. At length he put down the 
 glass, and then drew a long breatli of satis- 
 faction. 
 
 " Well, Blake, me boy,'' said he, " I'll tell 
 yo all about it from beginning to ind; all the 
 whirrul and chumuit of ivints that have hap. 
 pencd juring my absinee, and ye'll discerrun 
 for yersclf the difficulties I've had to contiud 
 with. 
 
 " In the first place, ye'll be surprised to 
 hear that all this time thus far has been con- 
 fihumed, not in any subterranean labor, but 
 simply in the attimpt to got a house. Ye see, 
 it isn't ivery house that'd do. There were 
 only a certain number in the immajiate vicin- 
 ity of the monastery of San Antonio. It 
 would have been quite useless to git a house 
 any distance away. Now, ye know, the mon- 
 astery is on the Via del Conti, and the pas- 
 Hago of A'oysius lakes its beginning from the 
 west wall — in the very middle of that wall, 
 according to the description of me own cous- 
 in Malachi, monk that was, and is now in 
 glory. This passage, as I have all along in- 
 farrumcd you, runs in a i;ireetion which must 
 lead to the Roman Forum — now tlie Cami)o 
 
 Vacehino — and the Palatine Hill. Of eoorse, 
 any house I'd be after rinting must bo situ, 
 ated in BiilHeicnt proximity to the monastery 
 to allow of the possebelty of engineering u 
 way to the passage of Aloysius ; or, if I could 
 got a house on the ground, in the rear of the 
 monastery, it would do as well, for thin the 
 passage could be tackled more directly. Well, 
 this, of eoorse, was the thing I tried to do, 
 but it was the very thing I couldn't do. I 
 could pit upper rooms plinty enough, but the 
 lower Uure was the thing I eotddn't git. Thin, 
 there was sieh indifTerince, sieh a lack of in- 
 terprlse, sieh churrulishniss and shupiueness, 
 that over and over I filt inclined to throw up 
 the kyards and returriin home in dispair. 
 
 " Ilowandiver, sieh a prize as the one I had 
 before mo was not one that was to bo given 
 up, merely because there happinod to be a few 
 obstacles at the outsit, ispicially when these 
 obstacles arose from nothing more than the 
 obchuscness anil sluipinencss of min, and 
 other tilings which could easily be conlinded 
 with. So I kipt on ; and, though week after 
 week passed away without any thing being 
 done, yet I persevered, and finally niit with 
 an opporehunity, which I at once seized a 
 holt of. This opporehunity was a largo 
 house, which was one of the foulest, and 
 vilest, and most dilapidated in the city. For 
 this cause I had nlver so much as given it a 
 thought ; for, ye ace, my idea was to hiro the 
 lower story of some house, which might pass 
 for a shuitable risidenee for a man in moder. 
 ate circumstances, who was indivoring to livo 
 economieally. Now, the momint that I saw 
 this old rack of a house, the thought came to 
 me that this would be the place. I need not 
 take it as a lodger, but I might rint the intire 
 structure. It was a large, quadrangular idi- 
 fice, and was crammed and crowded with the 
 lowest class of the population. I wint to the 
 ouner, and riprisinted that I wanted to insti- 
 choot a manufactory there of a new kind of 
 maecaroni, and ofl'errcd to rint the whole 
 building. There was no difficulty about that. 
 I olforred him a good price, and he accepted 
 it; but the realdifficuity was with the tinints, 
 who were unwilling to go. Ilowandiver, they 
 were all poor, and tinints by the week, and a 
 few haiocchi apiece sufficed to make thim, one 
 and all, leave very contintcdiy. So at last 
 the big house came imply into my hands, but 
 the delay iu gitting the tinints all moved out 
 was so great, that it w^as not till a week ago 
 
«4 
 
 AX OPEN QUESTION'. 
 
 , n 
 
 'I 
 
 i 
 
 tliat I was able to inter in and taliti forramcl 
 possission. 
 
 " Well, sir, there nivcr was a luckier 
 chance iu the wide wurruld than the one that 
 put me in possission of that particular house. 
 It was four stories high. It was at least five 
 cinturies old, and maybe tin. The walls were 
 solid and massive ; the windows small and 
 iron-grated; on the lower stones the win- 
 dows worn't open to the street at all, but 
 looked out on the court-yard. Only the 
 upper stories had windows on the street, and 
 these were barred and grated, aa I said. It 
 was quadrangular in shape; and the dure was 
 of massive oak, studded with iron spikes. I 
 had a bit of a hinge put on one the first day, 
 and that's about the ixtiiik of the repairs 
 which I've put on it thus far. Ye see, whin 
 I open my maccaroni manufacture, the re- 
 pairs can be iularged. 'Deed, thin, but re- 
 pairs are needed ; the roof is open in half a 
 ■dozen places, and the plaster everywhere is 
 tumbling from the walls. But the massive- 
 ness of the house is wonderful. It was un- 
 doubtedly built in the old days of faction 
 and street-fighting; perhaps in the days of 
 Boniface VIII., or maybe in those of old 
 Ilildobriiud, or maybe as far back as the 
 times of Theodora and Marozia. Ye may de- 
 pind upon it, I was the happy man tliat day 
 us I saw this. 
 
 " Thin, apart from this, the situation was 
 the very one that was best shuited to my 
 purposes. In the seclusion of this obscure 
 street, one's operations need not be inquired 
 into, nor need they be so carefully gyarded as 
 t'..ey would have to be ilscwhcre. Thin, it lies 
 in the rear of the Monastery of San Antonio. 
 Take a point iu the middle of the west wall 
 of the monastery as one point, and thin take 
 the Arch of Titud as another, and between 
 these two points draw a straight line. Well, 
 the north wall of this old house won't be 
 more'n a few feet distant from that line. 
 What d'ye think of that, now ? Wasn't that 
 luck ? Wasn't that worth waiting for ? 
 
 " Well, of course, my only idea was to 
 examine without delay the lower portions of 
 the house. So, first of all, I had the bit of t>, 
 hinge put on, and thin had the bolts fixed so 
 that I could shut the dures and bar thim. 
 Wliin I did that, I could defy the w. -ruld. 
 Before I did so, I had a bit of a pick brought 
 in, and that was all, barriu' lights, and a bit 
 of food and ('rink. Ye may depiud upon it, 
 
 when I shut mesilf inside, thin I felt safe. It 
 was a fortress. No one could spy mo, no one 
 could assail me. The walla, of achupindous 
 thickness, enclosed me ; and, if the old roof 
 was a bit dilapidated, sorra a bit of differeneo 
 did that make, 
 
 " Well, now, you must know this, and it's 
 a great thing in our favor. The Monastery 
 of San Antonio is on ground that is a little 
 higher than that on which the old house 
 stands ; about six or eight feet, no more. 
 That was another thing I deticted at a glance, 
 and, of course, congratulated mesilf about it. 
 For why? Why, ye see, the cellars of the 
 house would then be thereabouts on some- 
 where the same gineral livil with the livil of 
 the lowermost vaults of San Antonio. Of 
 course, my first visit was made to the cellars. 
 They were very spacious, and ran all under- 
 neath the house. I merely wished to see 
 their ixtint, and also to test the rock, to try 
 how hard it was, whether it would yield easily 
 to the pick, or whether I would have to make 
 use of gunpowder. If it was the same rock 
 as that in which the Ciitacomba are ixcavated, 
 of course I knew I .should have no diffi- 
 culty ; but, unfortunately, I couldn't be sure 
 of that ; for there's another stratum of roclc 
 that lies under Rome, of a very different char- 
 acter. This is travertine, a stone rC wonder- 
 ful nature, aj porous as a sponge, looLing like 
 the petrifactions cf innumerable liLtle twigs, 
 yet as hard as flint; and, with stone like thiit, 
 I knew I couldn't do any thing. I also wished 
 to pound upon the walls of the celK-xr to find 
 out if there might be ixcavations or hi,llows 
 beyond, on the south side; for, if there was 
 any such, it would show me that the Cata- 
 combs were near. 
 
 " Well, ye may be sure I wint to the south 
 wall first and forrumost. I wasn't going to 
 waste any time on other places. Well, the 
 south wall was all built up of stunes of dif- 
 ferent sizes. This surprised me a little at 
 first, for I had a vague idea that I'd find solid 
 rock, but such an idea was shuperlatively 
 absurrud, for what could they do without a 
 regular, firrumly-built foundation ? Well, I 
 po'inded along this wall all the whole length 
 without obtaining any satisfactory results, 
 for there was the same sound all along, and, 
 if there waa any hollow behind, it didn't show 
 itself that way. My chief hope was that I 
 might break away the wall and git to the soft 
 Catacomb rock ; my dread waa that I should 
 
HBBt-T 
 
 felt safe. It 
 y mo, no ono 
 schupindous 
 the old roof 
 of difference 
 
 t 
 
 ii\ 
 
 this, and it's 
 le Monastery 
 lat is a little 
 e old house 
 3t, no more. 
 1 at a glance, 
 silf about it. 
 Bllars of the 
 Its on Homc- 
 i the livil of 
 Lntonio. Of 
 
 the cellars. 
 ,n all uudcr- 
 ished to see 
 
 1 rock, to try 
 d yield easily 
 liave to make 
 le same rock 
 re ixcavated, 
 nvo no diffi- 
 idn't be sure 
 Uura of rock 
 Ifferent char- 
 le rf wonder- 
 , looLing like 
 
 little twigs, 
 one like that, 
 I also wished 
 c(AhT to find 
 IS or hollows 
 if there was 
 at the Cata- 
 
 ; to the south 
 in't going to 
 . Well, the 
 itones of dif- 
 e a little at 
 I'd find solid 
 luperlatively 
 lo without a 
 n? Well, I 
 ivhole length 
 tory results, 
 U along, and, 
 t didn't show 
 5 was that I 
 ;it to the soft 
 ,hat I should 
 
 
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 i ;i i 
 
THE RETURN OF AXOTUER MESSENGER. 
 
 95 
 
 3 
 
 p4 
 
 find the hard travertine, or the soft sand. 
 Under Rome there are these three strata : 
 the hard travertine, such as is used for build- 
 ing purposes ; th6 soft sand, out of which the 
 Roraan cemiut is made ; and the soft sand- 
 stone, where the excavations were made for 
 the Catacombs. It is only where this last 
 occurs that the Catacombs exist, aad so all 
 my hopes depiiidid upon the kind of ground 
 that I might incounter bi;hinu the wall. 
 
 "I wint to work vigorously. The stones 
 began to give way after a few blows of the 
 piclc I got out the small ones first, and thin 
 wint to work at a good-sized bit of a rock, 
 and, afther about two hours' hard work, I 
 fetched it out on the flure. 
 
 " Well, there was plasther behind that 
 again, and other stones, so I had to enlarge 
 the breach to an ixtint comminsurato with 
 what now appeared the evidint thickness of 
 the wall. It was the found.ation-wall, ye'U 
 iinderatand, of an idifiee, built in the uiiddle 
 ages, whin ivery house had to be a man's cas- 
 tle, and this was as strong as a castle. I 
 worked all night long, and still the more rocks 
 I pulled out the more there were behind. By 
 morrunin' I had a hole six feet wide and six 
 feet deep, and still there were no signs of any 
 ind. Well, I had to leave off and seek some 
 repose. I slipt, risted, and rcfrished mesilf 
 all that day, and on the following night re- 
 turruned to ray work. I had worked out anoth- 
 er big stone that lay at the ind of my ixcava- 
 tion. It rolled down the slanting line of the 
 rubbish that Lay in the hole, and it was a 
 wonder it didn't take me with it. As it left 
 its place, I discorruned something dark. I 
 rushed forward, and held my light far in. It 
 was an opening. I thrust ray arrum forward. 
 I could feel that I had reached the outside of 
 the foundation-wall, and that beyond this there 
 was imptiniss. 
 
 " Tare and ages, Blake ! but J was the 
 woniierful raar ■•*, that moraint. I fell to 
 trimbling all o.". Me hand shuk to that 
 ixtiiit that I had to leave down the light on 
 the (lure, and stand still, panting and suffo- 
 cating, with me eyes fixed on that same. Me 
 head seemed an impty as that imptincss be- 
 yond, and inside of me skull me brain wint 
 round in a wild whurrul, and I was for a few 
 tnomints rejucod to a stato of prostration so 
 ixtreme that I couldn't rezhurac me work for 
 ivor 80 long. Howandiver, I picked up mo 
 ■oatterod eiuaes at last, and me lamp too, and 
 
 thin, rcturruning to the hole I'd made, I tried 
 to enlarge it. It was rather dangerous work 
 just thin — and, indeed, it had been so for 
 some time past — but I was too ixcitcd to 
 think much about it, and so I. succeeded, af- 
 ter a half-hour's desperate work, in making a 
 hole large enough for me to put me head and 
 shoulders through. By that time I had got 
 over me ixeiteniiiit altogether, and I wasn't 
 going to let mesilf be thrown oIF ine gyard 
 agin. So I tuk me bit of a light and stuck it 
 through, and thin pushed mc head and shoul- 
 ders iu after it. Well, my first feeling was 
 one of deep disappointmint, but this was in- 
 stantly succeeded by one of wonder. The 
 imptiuess that lay there was only of a small 
 ixlint. It was a hollow cavity, that waj} 
 all; horizontal ; about six feet long, and three 
 feet wide, and two feet high. Beyond this, 
 on the other side, was the rock, which here 
 was white and smooth. I say I first felt dis- 
 appointmint, but, after about seventeen sec- 
 onds, as I said, I was filled with wonder. 
 There could be no doubt that it was a grave, 
 and, as I believed firrumly, a Catacomb giave. 
 But how had it come here ? I accounted for 
 it at once in the easiest way possible. The 
 builders of this house, in digging for a cellar, 
 had come to this grave, and perhaps even to 
 one of the passage-ways with many other 
 graves. They, no doubt, considered them as 
 the graves of the old pagans, and scattered 
 their ashes to the winds; or, if any one of 
 them could read — or, if they sint for a priest 
 to decipher the tablets, they, no doubt, saw 
 that they were Christian dead, and had tliim, 
 all riverintially removed to another place, af- 
 ter which they continued their work of build- 
 ing. That was the way I accounted for it ia 
 my own mind during the few rainutea that I 
 lay there with me head and shoulders poked, 
 through, looking at this impty sipulchre. 
 
 " Well, as I lay there, staring all around, 
 me attintion was suddenly arrested by tho 
 great difference that there was between the 
 stone that faced me, forming the back of the 
 sepulchre, and the rock in which the tomb 
 was cut ; for the rock was brown sandstone, 
 quite rough, too, with the marks of the chisel 
 plainly discernible; while the stone at the 
 rear was white and smooth, with no chisel- 
 marks in particular. A closer look showed 
 me that it was marble, and that it was joined 
 on from another side which lay outside of 
 this where I was. In a momiut I compre- 
 
 i I 
 
96 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION 
 
 IM 
 
 hindid the facts of the case. Tlic ixcavations 
 had been cut in the rear of the grave ; that 
 slab showed the front of it. If so, there 
 must be a passage-way on the other side. 
 The moinint that this thought came to me, I 
 scrambled back, seized tlie pick, rcturruncd 
 once more to the hole, au'' thin dealt a dozen 
 punches wiih all me fc .e at the marble. I 
 was right. The maro'o yielded; a few more 
 blows forced it farther away ; and, fiuallj', 
 with a (lull thud and a low crash, fell in. In 
 another ninit I was in after it, with me 
 lamp in me hand, looking around mo with 
 wild eyes. And oh, but wasn't that the mo- 
 mint of all momints ! Holy saints and an- 
 gels 1 but wasn't I the frantic and delirious 
 man! It was a passage-way; with all the 
 marks, and signs, and appurtenances, which 
 characterize the passages of the Catacombs ; 
 with the slabs, and the inscriptions, and the 
 tiers of tombs, and the bluck darkness in the 
 distance, into which the faint lamp-light only 
 struggled a few feet or so, and thin died out. 
 And, oh, but I was fairly overwhellumcd once 
 more, so that I just sat down tliero and bint 
 mo head down, and cried like a child 1 " 
 
 O'Rourke hastily poured out another glass 
 of cognac, which he gulped down, and then 
 went on : 
 
 " Well, there I was, in the Catacombs, in 
 the very part of the Catacombs I wished to 
 bo, that is, the Palatine Catacombs, and in 
 the rear, that is toward the west of the Mon- 
 astery of San Antonio. Still, the question re- 
 mained — what the passage was. No doubt, 
 as I had all along considered, there were nu- 
 merous passage-ways here, just like the one 
 which I wished to find. I cculd not be satis- 
 fied till I had learned something more about 
 this. So I tuk me lamp, and I started to 
 walk along on mo left, for I knew that the 
 Jlonastery of San Antonio lay in that qtiartcr. 
 Well, as I wint along, I saw nothing but the 
 slabs that covered the tombs and bore the 
 usual inscriptions. They were familiar 
 enough to me, for I'd seen the likes of tliim 
 over and over in tlie Lapidarian Gallery, or 
 the Vatican Museum. So I strolled along 
 without paying any special attintion to any 
 of thim. I was surprised to find that there 
 were no transverse passages, and thought this 
 was a good sign. At length, I began to won- 
 der at the distance I had gone, and to fear 
 that, after all, this was the wrong passage-way, 
 wbin suddenly I found mcsilf brought up full 
 
 in front of a wall. Tho ind was walled up. 
 I could go no farther. There was no doubt 
 about it. This was the Monastery of San 
 Antonio; this was, injubitably, the intrance 
 into the vault — walled up — and this was most 
 certainly the Passage of Aloysius. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ULAKK TAKES LEAVE OF HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 DuRisa this account of himself, O'Rourko 
 had watched Blake very intently, to see the 
 efl'ect produced upon him. If he had wished 
 to create an excitement in lilake'a mind, he 
 certainly had every reason to feel gratified. 
 Already, even before he had come, Blake's 
 tumult of hopes and fears had been excessive ; 
 and now, during this singular narrative, his 
 emotion reached its climax ; so great was it, 
 in fact, that it seemed to deprive him of the 
 power of speech ; and he had sat there spell- 
 bound and mute. Not one word did he say 
 all this time ; but, by his rigid attitude, his 
 clasped hands, his heightened color, his glis- 
 tening eyes, he plainly showed how intense 
 was the excitement within him. Yet tho 
 story of O'Rourke had been so narrated that 
 he had all along been kept in suspense, and 
 therefore his attention had been quickened, 
 and his excitement increased, all through, un- 
 til finally it reached its climax at the end, 
 when O'Rourke came to the convincing proof, 
 and the plain declaration, that he had dis- 
 covered and traversed'the passage of Aloy- 
 sius. 
 
 " By Heaven I " he burst forth ; " I swear, 
 O'Rourke, all this seems almost incredible." 
 
 O'Rourke smiled. 
 
 " I've pot something," said he, " that'll 
 settle the doubts of any man. Look here." 
 
 And be slowly produced from his pocket 
 a rosary. It was old, and stained, and dis- 
 colored. It seemed as though it had been ex- 
 posed to damp for a long time. 
 
 " What's that ?" asked Blake. 
 
 " Well, that's more than I can say, for 
 certain ; but I'll tell you how I got it. I'vp 
 told ye how I got to the ind of the passnp'.— 
 by the Monastery of San Antonio. '.Veil, I 
 stayed therr a few moments, :.nd thin rc- 
 turruncd to tho place of interrance. Arriving 
 there, I did not feel inclined to leave just yit, 
 so I tuk to wajidcriu' along, thinking that I 
 
BLxVKE TAKES LEAVE OF HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 8* 
 
 might go at least as far as Bomo transverse 
 passage, especially as this had been min- 
 lioned in the manuscript. So I walked on, 
 and, at longib, nfttir I had gone about as far 
 from the interrance as it was from that spot 
 to tho monastery, I found another passage 
 crossing, and, looking forward, I could see 
 where the passage of Aloysius still ran on, 
 losing itself in tho darkness. Well, I wasn't 
 prepared for an ixploration, so I felt satisfied, 
 and returruned in a leisurely way. This fust 
 transverse passage corroborated, as you see, 
 tlie manuscript story, together with the story 
 of me cousin Malachi, in ivery particular. 
 And now, as I walked back, I noticed the 
 slabs with the inscriptions. I stopped to 
 look at a few. I noticed the mixture of let- 
 ters which Aloysius mintioned ; that is to 
 say, Greek characters were mingled with 
 Latin, and Greek names and words were 
 spelled with Latin letters. It was this that 
 confused Aloysius, no doubt, vho couldn't 
 have known a word of GreeL, nor even the 
 Greek alphabet. Most of these slabs were 
 dingy and grimy, and the letters were not 
 very deep cut or well formed. At length I 
 noticed one that was less dingy. It was the 
 second from the floor, in a tier of four, and 
 the letters were deep cut and well made. I 
 stopped, and held up my lamp to read it. 
 Well, there I saw the usual monogram, which 
 I described to you before, ye remember, and 
 under it I read these words : 
 
 " ' Til Chrkto. Pax. Anfonino Tinperatore, 
 Marius miles sanguincm effudit pro Chrlsto, 
 Dormil in Face.'' " 
 
 "By Jovel" cried Blake. "You didn't 
 though, did you ? Why, that's the very in- 
 scription that Aloysius mentioned 1 " 
 
 "The very inscription," said O'Rourke, 
 solemnly. " You may imagine how I felt. I 
 can't describe. Anyhow, there I stood, lean- 
 ing forward, and reading this, whin suddenly 
 I trod on something that gave a dull rattle 
 like gravel. I stooped down, and saw a lot 
 of these beads. Some were lying in a line, 
 others had been thrust aside by my feet. The 
 string that had fastened them together was 
 gone. It had, no doubt, mouldered away. 
 Now, whose could that have been ? Not the 
 rosary of an ancient Christian, for tlicy didn't 
 have thim. Not the rosary of mo cousin Mal- 
 achi, for the string couldn't have rotted away 
 in so short a time ; it must, thin, have been 
 7 
 
 the rosary of the monk Aloysius, or of tho 
 poor Onofrio; one of those two, no doubt; 
 and, perhaps, whin they stopped to read this 
 epitaph, it fell from the one it belonged to 
 without its fall being noticed. I picked up 
 all the beads, and I put a bit of a string 
 through thim, for convenience' sake." 
 
 Blake took the rosary, and looked at it 
 with indescribable interest. 
 
 " Yes," said he, " it must be, as you say, 
 the rosary of Aloysius." 
 
 " Of course, it must," said O'Rourke. 
 
 " It's perfectly amazing," said Blake. 
 
 "Excuse me," said O'Rourke, "iVi all 
 perfectly natural. The only wonderful thing 
 about it all is, that I should have been lucky 
 enough to break into the grave. If I had 
 come to the solid stone, I might have had a 
 month's hard work, at least. But, whin once 
 I got inside, it was quite natural, whin you 
 think of it, that I should find this very pas- 
 sage of Aloysius." 
 
 " I suppose it is," said Blake, still looking 
 at the beads. 
 
 O'Rourke now poured out another glass 
 of cognac. 
 
 " Well," said he, as he sipped it, " what 
 are ye going to do ? Are ye ready ? " 
 
 " Of course," said Blake, "not only ready, 
 but eager. I'm ready to start off now, thia 
 very instant." 
 
 " That's right," said O'Rourke ; " and ye 
 haven't told any one ? " 
 
 "Not a sou! — of course not." 
 
 " Well, I didn't know ; a man sometimes 
 has connections that it's difficult to keep a 
 secret from. Ye're a young man, ye know ; 
 handsome, and mighty taking with the ladies ; 
 and, if ye had one in tow, she might see in 
 yer face that ye were after something, and 
 worrum it out of ye." 
 
 " Oh, no; there's nothing of that kind go- 
 ing on," said Blake, with a mournful thought 
 of Inez. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad to hear it, for ic would 
 spoil all," said O'Rourke. " At any rate, hero 
 I am, and here you are, and every thing's 
 ready. We needn't leave this moment, but 
 we'd better start as soon as we can. AVill ye 
 be able to go by the morruning's train ? " 
 
 " Yes." ' 
 
 "Any letters ye have to wiite yo can 
 write to-night, and mail as wo go to the sta- 
 tion, only ye won't say any thing about what 
 it is ye're after ? " 
 
AN OPEN QUESTION, 
 
 " Of course not. I Bball simply write one 
 or two letters, nuJ mention that I am going 
 out of town on business for a month or 
 flo." 
 
 " That's right," said O'Rourke, with evi- 
 dent gratification. " Thin, if nothing does 
 come of it, ye won't git laughed at. We'll 
 keep our own secret, and, if we fail, there'll 
 be no harrum done at all, at all. I'm glad 
 ye kept the secret so well. It shows that 
 myjudgraint about ye was right, and I'm glad 
 of it. A companion and assistant I must 
 have, and I'd rather have you than anybody 
 I know of. Ye'll be not only a fellow-laborer 
 and business partner, but also a friend in 
 case of need. I couldn't get on alone at all, 
 at all. I'm not timid, and I'm not what you'd 
 call shuperstitious, but working alone down 
 there m a, place like that is a test of a man's 
 nerruves that I don't care to impose on me- 
 Eilf. Besides, apart from that, there's worruk 
 required down there that one man wouldn't 
 be enough for. We've got to take ropes, and 
 ladders, and lights, and, in the eviut of suc- 
 cess, we've got to carry some store of articles 
 tliat'll be likely to have some weight in thira 
 for a long distance. There ought to be enough 
 down there to satisfy two min, or, for that 
 matter, two thousand, so I don't objict to go 
 halves with ye for the plisure of yer com- 
 pany." 
 
 "Well, old fellow, come now, it don't 
 seem hardly fair to you to come in for so 
 much, when you have had all the trouble 
 thus far, and the secret is yours, too." 
 
 " Pooh ! we needn't talk now about the 
 division," said O'Rourke ; " that's counting 
 the chickens before they're hatched in the 
 worrust way. It may be a total failure, so it 
 may. Ye'd bcFt be after trying to prepare 
 yersilf for any disappointmint." 
 
 " Oh, well, of course I shall do that, you 
 know." 
 
 " And ye'll have time to write to yer 
 friends." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How many letters did ye say ye'd have 
 to write?" 
 
 "Two." 
 
 " Two '! Ilm ! and ye'll have to be ready 
 to start at five, and it's now half-past one,'' 
 ■aid O'Rourke. " I must be after going." 
 
 " Half-past one ! " said Blake, in surprise. 
 "Why, so it is; I Iiad no idea it was so 
 iBte." 
 
 "Well, I'll be going," said O'Rourke; 
 " so ye'll write yer letters at once to yer two 
 friends? I hope they're not both ladies? " 
 
 " Oh, no, only one of them is a lady." 
 
 "And ye'll be very guarded, so as not to 
 let on what ye're after doing ? " said O'Rourke, 
 cautiously. 
 
 " Oh, you may trust mo for that." 
 
 " Well, I'll be going, and let me advise 
 ye to try to get some sleep. Ye're too ex- 
 cited, man. Write yer letters, go to bed, 
 and sleep the sleep of the just. Thin ye'll be 
 better prepared for future worruk and future 
 excitemint. Ye're altogether too flushed, and 
 excited, and feverish-looking just now." 
 
 " Well, I dare say I am just a little more 
 excited than usuai,' said Blake ; " but it will 
 pass away soon enough." 
 
 "Well, I'll be going," said O'Rourke 
 again. " I'll come here for ye in the morrun- 
 ing. Good-night." 
 
 He wrung Blake's hand with his usual 
 heartiness, and then left. 
 
 After his departure, Blake sat for some- 
 time without moving. The intense excite- 
 ment j- ,0 which ho Lad been th-own by 
 O'Rourke's story still affected him. His 
 heart beat fast and furious, and a thousand 
 dazzling visions of endless treasures swept 
 before his mind. All the accumulated fancies 
 of the last few days now arose up together in 
 one vast assemblage, till his brain fairly 
 reeled beneath their overmastering power. 
 Ho was confounded by the magnitude of hia 
 own hopes ; he wag bewildered by the im- 
 mensity of the treasure which O'Rourke had 
 suggested. 
 
 He sat motionless for about an hour, 
 when suddenly he started to his feet. 
 
 "This will never do," he murmured; "I 
 must write those letters." 
 
 He then went to the table and poured out 
 some cognac, which he drank off hurriedly. 
 Then he procured writing-materials, and Sal 
 down to write. But it was a very difficult 
 task. His mind was so full of other things 
 that his dazzli;ig thoughts intruded them- 
 selves into his letter, making nonsense of it. 
 Three or four wore torn up and thrown aside. 
 At last he managed to write out a rough 
 draft, full of corrections, and, after reading 
 this over, it seemed as well as any thing else 
 that ho could write under (lie circumstances. 
 This, then, he copied out, and what he wrote 
 was the following : 
 
■^ 
 
 1 O'Rourke; 
 ce to yer two 
 h ladies?" 
 a lady." 
 so as not to 
 lid O'Rourke, 
 
 hat." 
 
 ct me advise 
 L'e'ro too ex- 
 I, go to bed, 
 
 Thin ye'll be 
 ik and future 
 flushed, and 
 t now." 
 
 a little more 
 ; " but it will 
 
 id O'Eourke 
 a the morrun- 
 
 ith his usual 
 
 .'1 Mi 
 
 sat for some- 
 tunse excite- 
 a th-own by 
 1 bim. liis 
 i a thousand 
 jasurcs swept 
 ulatcd fancies 
 jp together in 
 brain fairly 
 iering power. 
 5nitude of his 
 i by the Im- 
 O'Rourke had 
 
 ' - i rJ 
 
 Kit an hour, 
 i feet, 
 lurniured ; "I 
 
 id poured out 
 off hurriedly, 
 rials, and Sat 
 very difficult 
 other things 
 trudcd thein- 
 lonscnsc of it. 
 thrown aside, 
 out a rough 
 after reading 
 any thing else 
 'ircuinstances. 
 vliat he wrote 
 
 
I 
 
 f'.'^ 
 
 
BLAKE TAKES LEAVE OF niS FRIENDS. 
 
 " Mr DEAR HELLMnTii : I intend to start 
 off in the first train to-morrow on business. 
 I have heard of a chance of doing something 
 in the South, and tliinli it advisable to try. 
 I may bo gone some time, and I may return 
 in less time. A party is going to accompany 
 me, with whom I propose to associate my- 
 self. Nothing may come of this, but I tliink 
 it is best, under the circumstances, for me to 
 try what can be done. On the whole, I think 
 it is advisable to try. It is somewhere in the 
 South, and my friend who goes with me will 
 do what he can. I may return soon, but I 
 don't know, and if I can do any thing I may 
 not come back for some time. 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 " Basil Blake." 
 
 On reading this over, it struck Blake as a 
 most absurd production, but be had already 
 made some half-dozen previous attempts 
 which were even worse, and so, in despair, he 
 concluded to let it go as it was, and not at- 
 tempt another. It was better to write some- 
 thing than to vanish suddenly without a 
 word, and, at any rate, in spite of the ab- 
 surdity of the note, it did convoy a friendly 
 notice to Ilellmuth of his departure. So 
 Blake folded this, and addressed it to Kane 
 Ilellmulh. 
 
 The next letter was even a greater task, 
 for the effort to write the first one had in 
 some measure increased his confusion of 
 mind, and caused him to express himself even 
 more awkwardly. After over an hour of hard 
 work he accomplished the following : 
 
 " My dear JIotuer : I have not heard from 
 you for some time. It is more than a month 
 since I have heard from J ou. You infonned 
 me that you were going to go to London, 
 and I have not heard from you since. I 
 would go home and see how you are, for I 
 feel some anxiety about you, but just now an 
 event has occurred which seems to promise 
 something in the way of professional advance- 
 ment. If it turns out well, I may stay there 
 some time. If it docs not turn out well, I 
 may not stay there some time. The party 
 who is going there with me is a friend of 
 niine, and a professional friend of mine. He 
 thinks the chances there are good, and, if so, 
 we shall both of us probably remain there 
 some time probably. However, I do not 
 know exactly how long we shall stay there ; 
 some time, however, in case of success ; but. 
 
 if not, of course not. You need not writo 
 unless you write to mo; however, we may 
 not be gone very long probably. 
 
 " A party has mentioned a good prospect 
 of success in the South — a professional friend 
 of mine, and wo shall probably work together. 
 I shall not probably write to you again until 
 the next time I write. I think, therefore, 
 that I had better leave in the first train to- 
 morrow morning ; but, if we are not success- 
 ful, of course I shall probably be back soon. 
 Unless we succeed, I shall, however, not 
 make a very long stay. However, that de- 
 pends upon circumstances to some extent. 
 
 " You will probably be surprised, dear 
 mother, to learn that it is my intention to 
 leave this city by the first train to-morrow 
 morning for the South. The reason of this 
 somewhat sudden departure is this : there is 
 a professional friend of mine who has beca 
 talking to me about that country, and he 
 would like me to go with him. If wo arc 
 successful, we may not, however, return long. 
 I have decided to go in the first train to- 
 morrow morning to the South with a party 
 who is a professional friend of mine, and wo 
 both hope to find a place there where we 
 shall be able to do better for ourselves. In 
 case I am successful, I hope, of course, that 
 you will write me as often as you possibly 
 can, for I am beginning to feel quite anxious 
 about you. Hoping soon to hear from you 
 — I shall, therefore, go and see for myself. 
 Write me often, dear mother, and believe me 
 your affectionate son, 
 
 "Basil." 
 
 Blako did not read this letter over, but 
 managed to fold it and put it in the envelop, 
 lie had not enough of consciousness left to 
 address it ; but, having gone that far, his 
 head fell forward on the table, and he slept 
 profoundly. 
 
 He had not been sleeping long before he 
 was roused by a rough shaking. He sprang 
 up and saw O'Rourkc, who burst into a shout 
 of laughter. 
 
 " So this is the way you sleep, is it ? " he 
 cried. " Your head on the table and your 
 door open to the public. So you've got your 
 letters written, though one of thim isn't ad- 
 dressed. It might go strayhtcr if you were 
 to address it." 
 
 Blake stared and stammered, and it was 
 some time before he could collect his scat- 
 tered faculties. 
 
1 i'jl 
 
 100 
 
 AS OPEN QUESTION". 
 
 " Why— why— you just left-" 
 
 "Taro and oges, mnn ! why, it's five 
 o'clock," cried O'JJourke, 
 
 " Five o'clock ! " gnspcd Blake. 
 
 " Yea. Are you ready ? Are your trunks 
 packed ? Ye needn't take nior'n a valise with 
 ye. But ye'U bo after gathering up ycr duds, 
 and not leaving thira scattered about." 
 
 Upon this Blako hurriedly went about 
 gathering some things which he threw into a 
 valise. Those which ho did not want to take 
 with him ho flung into a trunk, and then 
 locked it. Then, at 0' Rourke's suggestion, 
 lie addressed the letter to his mother, and 
 stuffed the two in his pockets. Then, hur- 
 riedly attending to his toilet, he announced 
 that he was ready. 
 
 They then went down. A cab was ready. 
 Blako told the concierge to take care of his 
 trunk. 
 
 On their way to tho station he dropped 
 his letters in the post-oflSce box. 
 
 f ' 
 
 i ! ■ 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 DESCENSUS AVER Nil 
 
 It was Blake's first visit to Rome. Under 
 any other circumstances, he would have yield- 
 ed to that manifold charm which the Eternal 
 City exercises over every mind that possesses 
 ft particle of enthusiasm, and would have 
 found himself at once examining the treas- 
 ures which here, more than in any other part 
 of the world, are stored up, and serve to il- 
 lustrate and to emphasize the teachings of 
 antiquity, of religion, and of art. But the 
 circumstancen were nnnsual, and Blake's 
 mind was all preoccupied with thoughts of a 
 treasure of a different kind. Already the 
 •wonderful story of Aloysius had borne fruit 
 within his mind, as we have 'een; an'', since 
 Ills departure from Paris, O'Rourke had left 
 nothing unsaid which could stimulate his 
 imagination, or excite his most sanguine 
 hope. His efforts in this direction were not 
 made by means of any attempts at direct 
 description, but rather through what might 
 be regarded as dry details or formal statistics. 
 He talked learnedly about the revenue of the 
 Roman Empire ; of the arbitrary modes by 
 which the emperors extorted money ; of tho 
 wealth of Rome, created out of the plunder 
 of the world ; of the immunity from plunder 
 
 which Rome itself had enjoyed ; and of tho 
 oondition of the city at tho time of Alaric's 
 approach. lie made estimates of the wealth 
 of the imperial palace, and other estimates 
 of the probable value of the plunder which 
 was carried away by the army of Alarie. All 
 his figures were in millions. He assumed a 
 confident air in speaking about the treasure 
 which was concealed in the Catacombs, and 
 sometimes allowed himself to speculate ou 
 the value of that treasure. 
 
 By tiiia means he kept Blake's mind strung 
 up to tho proper degree of enthusiasm and 
 exi'' nient; so that at length, on reaching 
 Rome, he had no other thought or desire than 
 to enter upon the search without delay. In- 
 deed, so eager was he, and so much did his 
 excitement surpass that of his friend, that he 
 would have hurried to the spot at once, had 
 not O'Rourke objected. 
 
 " Sure and this'U river do entirely," said 
 the latter. " Don't ye remimber the proverb, 
 ' Tho more haste, the less speed ? ' D'ye 
 think we're in a fit state to begin a laborious 
 task like ours, whin we're overwhelmed by 
 fatigue and starvation ? For my part, I want 
 a good dinner, a good night's rist, and a good 
 breakfast. We have also to make jue prepa- 
 rations. I've got a list of things that we re- 
 quire, that wo can't get till to-morrow. So 
 ye'U have to make up yer mind to wait. It's 
 lucky that yo've got me to think for ye, so it 
 is." 
 
 Blake's impatience rebelled against any 
 delay, however necessary ; but ho hud to yield 
 to the sober sense, the prudent counsels, and 
 the wise forethought of his companion. In 
 fact, there was no help for it, as O'Rourke had 
 the matter all in his own hands, and no move- 
 ment could be made without him. By this 
 delay Blake's impatience and excitement were, 
 if possible, only increased. He had scarcely 
 slept since O'Rovirke's last meeting with him ; 
 and this night of waiting, from the very fact 
 that it separated him from the wonders that 
 awaited him on tho morrow, afforded too 
 much stimulus to bis fancy to allow of any 
 thing like real sleep. His brain was in a 
 whirl, and the fitful snatches of sleep that he 
 caught in tho intervals of his wild specula- 
 tions were filled with dreams that were, if 
 possible, wilder still. 
 
 On tho following morning, Blake arose at 
 a very early hour, and waited with much im- 
 patience the movements of O'Rourke. The 
 
 
DESCENSUS AVERXI! 
 
 101 
 
 tatter, however, seenicJ in no hurry whatever. 
 Several times Uklic liiioclicd at his door, but 
 recc.'ved only a half-sleepy assurance that he 
 was not awake yet. It was as late as ten 
 o'clock when O'Rourko made his appearance. 
 
 " Salve I " said he ; " in Room I salute yo 
 as a Roman. In other tcrrums, the top of 
 the morruning to ye." 
 
 " Good-morning," said Blake. "Shall we 
 go now ? " 
 
 O'Rourke looked at him for a few mo- 
 ments with a reproachful gaze. 
 
 " llow impatient yo arc," said he, " to go 
 down to the tomb!" 
 
 "Don't you think we're losing time?" 
 said Blake, a little disturbed, in spite of him- 
 self, at an indescribable quality in U'Rourke's 
 tone. 
 
 " Losing time, is it ? Gaining time, I call 
 it. Lot's not go down there till we've seen 
 the sun set in glory from one of the sivin 
 hills of Room. For my part, I'm not going 
 down till night — and there ye have it." 
 
 This resolution Blake found it impossible 
 to change ; so he was compelled to smother 
 his impatience as best he might, and wait for 
 O'Rourke to lead the way. 
 
 All that day O'Rourke obstinately refused 
 to say one word about the Catacombs, or the 
 treasure of the Ciesars, or the history of the 
 middle ages. lie frowned whenever Blake in- 
 troduced those subjects. He sought pertina- 
 ciously and resolutely to keep his own mind 
 and that of Blake fixed upon other subjects, 
 as far removed from these as possible. 
 
 " Ye'll have enough of it when ye get 
 down there. Sure, it's bracing yer mind that 
 I am, in preparation for the orjeal that's be- 
 fore ye." 
 
 O'Rourke took him first to the Pincian 
 Hill, and insisted on showing him the view 
 from that pi.."e. After this he dragged him 
 to the Villa B( rghese, and thence to the Coli- 
 seum. Here h i pointed out the peculiarities 
 of the structure, regarding it both from an 
 archreological and an artistic point of view. 
 From this place he set out for St. Peter's. 
 
 " I wish ye to notice," said he, " the 
 sharp contrast existing between each of these 
 schupindous monimints. The one is the im- 
 bliin of pagan, the other of Christian Room. 
 They are each symbols of the instichutions 
 out of which they sprung. The one is the 
 fit exponint of that material Room that wield- 
 ed its shuprimacy through the mejiura of 
 
 brute force ; the other the exponint of that 
 spiritual Room that exercised its shuprimacy 
 through the higher raejium of the abstract, 
 tho immaterial, the shupernatural. And, as 
 this mighty fane is grander and nobler thin 
 tho pagan amphitheatre, so also is tho Room 
 of tho popes a grander and nobler thing thin 
 the Room of the impirors." 
 
 To most of these discourses Blake was 
 not in a mood for listening ; but the manner 
 of O'Rourko surprised him and impressed 
 him. lie felt puzzled, yet ho tried to think 
 that it was some eccentric plan of his friend's 
 to draw his mind out of its too-excited state, 
 and reduce it to a common-sense calm and 
 self-contained repose. This O'Rourke an- 
 nounced as his purpose, and, as no other ex- 
 planation was forthcoming, Blake was forced 
 to accept it. 
 
 At length the day began to decline, and 
 O'Rourko announced his intention of going 
 to their place of destination. 
 
 The darkness came on rapidly, as is the 
 case in this southern clime, and Blake no- 
 ticed but little of the scenes through which 
 he passed. Even had it been light, his ig- 
 norance of Rome would have prevented him 
 from observing any thing with intelligent in- 
 terest. Once O'Rourke pointed to a largo 
 building and said, " We're coming near, that's 
 the Monastery of San Antonio." Blake saw 
 a gloomy and shadowy pile in a narrow i 
 street, but could not make much out of it. 
 They had not much farther to walk after this, 
 but soon reached a dilapidated house of an- 
 cient architecture and large size, correspond- 
 ing in appearance with the description which 
 O'Rourke had given of the house that he had 
 rented. The doorway was low, and consisted 
 of an archway of massive stones. The doors 
 wore massive, and studded with large iron 
 bolts. The street in which it stood was nar- 
 row and dark, and the exterior of the sombre 
 edifice threw an additional gloom over the 
 scene around. 
 
 O'Rourke opened the door in silence, and 
 motioned to Blake to go in. Blake did so. 
 Thereupon O'Rourke followed, and carefully 
 bolted the massive door. Blake threw a 
 glance about him. He saw that there was a 
 court-yard, around which appeared the sides 
 of the gloomy edifice, from which a deep 
 shadow was thrown down. O'Rourke did not 
 allow him to look long upon this uninviting 
 scene, but went to a door which he unlocked. 
 
101 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTIOX, 
 
 Bliike foUowcJ liiin. They onfcrcil a narrow 
 hull, and O'Kourko carefully closed the door 
 behind him and locked it. 
 
 lie tlicn lighted a lantern, and, without a 
 word, walked along the Imll till ho came to a 
 narrow stone stairway. JlJakc followed him. 
 Down this narrow Ptono stairway the two 
 went, and at length reached a chamber under- 
 neath. This chamber was vaulted, and the 
 walls were composed of large stone?, white- 
 washed. O'Rourko did not wait here a mo- 
 ment, but walked on, followed by Dlake. A 
 narrow arched passage led from this vaulted 
 chamber, and, passing through this, they 
 came to a large collar, from which the cham- 
 ber had evidently been walled off. The cellar 
 was about eight foet in height, and was formed 
 of solid piers, which were vaulted over, so 
 as to support the massive structure above. 
 These piers and the vaulted roof wore oil 
 grimy with dust and smoke, and covered will- 
 mould. The floor was formed of largo slab; 
 of stone. 
 
 O'Rourke still walked on, ond, after pass- 
 ing several piers, at length stopped. 
 
 As ho stopped, he turned and looked for 
 a moment at Blake. Then, without a word, 
 he pointed toward his left, holding up his 
 lantern at the same time so that its light 
 might shine upon the place. Blake looked, 
 and saw a pile of rubbish. The next moment 
 he sprang toward it, and O'Rourke, i,'^\ing 
 nearer, held his lantern bo as to light r n *h/' 
 place. 
 
 Blake stooped down and looked T rv .rd 
 ■with a new outburst of those exeit'tJ loi .ings 
 which had been repressed all day. The pile 
 of rubbish lay against the wall in which there 
 Wfis a large excavation, terminating in a black 
 hole of oblong shape. It was the hole that 
 O'Rourke had told him of. This was the 
 place, and this was the entrance to those 
 dazzling fortunes that awaited him. 
 
 Carried away by a sudden impulse, he 
 hurried forward, and would have gone through 
 that black opening; but O'Rourke laid his 
 hand upon his shoulder, and drew him back 
 in silence. 
 
 O'Rourke now went to the middle of the 
 cellar to a place about twenty feet from the 
 opening, and put down hia lantern on the 
 ptone floor. Blake came up to the place and 
 Baw a number of articles lying there. Promi- 
 nent among these was a light .ooden ladder 
 about ten feet long. There was also a box 
 
 of solid construction on four small wheels ; n 
 stout wicker basket with two handles ; a coil 
 of rope ; a roll of canvas ; a small furnace ; a 
 crucible ; three lanterns ; a vessel of oil ; two 
 pickaxes; two crow-bars; an axe; several 
 balls of twine ; together with some smaller ar- 
 ticles of a miscellaneous cliaractor. O'Uourko 
 had already i'lfornicd Blake that ho had 
 made a hurried collection of all the articles 
 of immediate necessity before he had left 
 Rome for Paris, and the present spectacio 
 showed the latter how diligent he had 
 been. These served as eloquent reminders of 
 O'Rourke's story, and as forcible suggestions 
 of the work that lay before them. 
 
 Blake's first act was to take one of the 
 lanterns. Ho drew some matches from hi.H 
 pocket, and proceeded to light it. Being a 
 smoker, ho always carried matches. These 
 were destined to be useful afterward. Hav- 
 ing succeeded in lighting his lanten ho 
 looked at O'Kourke, and waited for the next 
 ""vement. lie caught O'Rourke's eyes fixed 
 01. " " with an intent air of watchfulness. 
 For a «. .^t Blake felt a slight uneasiness, 
 but at oncv hook it off. O'Rourke's look 
 had struck him 'i being slightly unpleasant, 
 but the thought immediately came to him 
 that his friend was merely watching to see 
 whether he was cool or excited. So the only 
 effect of this apparently-sinister glance was 
 to cool off a little of Blake's excitement. 
 
 O'Rourke now took the ladder and walked 
 toward the excavation in the wall. Blake 
 followed him, carrying his lantern, and noth- 
 ing else. O'Rourke crawled through the ob- 
 long opening, and then drew his ladder after 
 him. Blake followed in silence. lie put his 
 feet through first. About four feet below 
 the opening, his feet touched a foothold, and 
 then ho drew himself altogether inside, and, 
 holding up his lantern, stared eagerly around 
 him. 
 
 It was not much that met his view. Ho 
 found himself inside a passage-way excavated 
 in the solid rock. The rock was a species of 
 sandstone. Its hue was dark, and its surface 
 still bore rough marks made by the tools of 
 the ancient excavators. The height was 
 about seven feet, or a little over. The wall 
 was covered with slabs which bore rudely-cut 
 inscriptions. These slabs were of a lighter 
 color than the wall, and of a smoother finish. 
 They were placed against the wall, one over 
 the other. Immediately opposite him were 
 
DESCENSUS AVERNII 
 
 108 
 
 throe, and abovo and below ttio opening 
 through whicli ho had corao were two others, 
 llct'oro nnd behind him was thiclc and iin- 
 pcnetrabio daritncfis. 
 
 Before liira O'Roiirlje was standing. His 
 back was turned toward iiim. The ladder 
 which he had brought was standing on tho 
 ground, and tho upper part resting against 
 his shoulder. Jlo seemed not lo bo looking at 
 any thing in particular, for his head was bent 
 forward as though ho was in deep thought — 
 as though he was meditating the best plan of 
 advancing. Hlako waited for a few moments, 
 and tiien, feeling eager to go on, ho touched 
 O'Rourko's shou'.i.r. 
 
 Thus far O'Rourke's behavior had been 
 most extraordinary. From the moment that 
 he had locked the outer doors he had not 
 spoken a word. IMake had been impressed in 
 spite of himself by the silence of his com- 
 panion, and had said nothing. Now, how- 
 ever, as Blake touched O'Rourke's shoulder, 
 the latter started and half turned. 
 
 " Well, Blake, me boy," said he, in a cheer- 
 ful tone, " here we are at last amid the mould- 
 ering rimnints of the apostolic marchures that 
 deposited their bones and raised thim ipitaphs ; 
 sure, but it's meself that would be tho proud 
 man to linger here and dally with me areha;o- 
 logie.al riminiscincis. It's a fine field, so it is, 
 for classical inthusiasm. The actual fact 
 bangs all tho ilivatid splindors of Virgilian 
 diction. Sure, but it's careful we've got to be 
 here ; it's easy enough, so it is, to go, but 
 we've got to take precautionary raisures about 
 securing a returrun. Sure j'o know yerself 
 how it is : 
 
 .... 'FacilU tlegclnsiis Avernl; 
 Noctcs atquo dies patct atri janua Ditie ; 
 Scd revoraro grudum, ehuperasquo evadero ad 
 
 auias 
 Hoc opuB, liic labor est. r,iucl, qnos acqnns amavlt 
 Jupiter, aut ardcns evexlt ad actbora virtus, 
 DU gcnitl, potnere.' 
 
 " By-the-way, now that I come to think 
 of it," he continued, "it would bo an iligant 
 question intirely whither Virgil didn't get some 
 of his conceptions of the under worruld from 
 these Catacombs ; but thin, howlding, as I 
 do, tho theory of their Christian origin, that 
 position would be altogither ontinible." 
 
 " Oh, yes; I dare 8a_v," said Blake, indif- 
 ferently ; " but don't you think we had better 
 be moving ? " 
 
 At this O'Rourke turned nnd looked at 
 him with a fixed gaze and a slight smile. 
 
 " Blako, mo boy," said ho, " I have de- 
 
 tccted in you all this day and evening a dc- 
 plorablo tindincy to nnjue oxeitemint. Now, 
 if one thing is prayiminintly nccissitatid in an 
 ixploration of this discription, it's perfect 
 eoolniss and iang-froid. Ye are too feverish ; 
 yo must git cooler. Ye'll lose yer head liko 
 poor Onofrio, and vanish from mo gazo in 
 some of these schupindis labyrinthine wilder. 
 nissis. Try, thin, if ye can, to banish from 
 yer mind tho dazzling visions that are luring 
 yo out of yer sinses, Tho conversation that I 
 mean to maintain here isn't going to be about 
 any thing ixciting or sinsational, but rather 
 upon those august subjicts that give tone and 
 inergy to the mind. Let us wander onward, 
 thin, not as vulgar money-diggers or trisure- 
 hunters, but as learned archoeologists." 
 
 With these words O'Rourko shouldered 
 his ladder, and walked on at a moderate pace. 
 Blako followed. The passage as they went 
 on continued to preserve the same dimensions. 
 On either side appeared tho tablets that cov- 
 ered the tombs, bearing their inscriptions. Its 
 course was not exactly straight, yet the curve 
 was a gentlo one. No side-passages or cross- 
 ings appeared for some time. 
 
 At length a crossing appeared, and here 
 O'Rourke paused. This crossing consisted 
 of a passage of about the same size and gen- 
 eral appearance as the one which they were 
 traversing ; and tho eye, in glancing into it 
 from eilJier side, soon lost itself in the im- 
 penetrable gloom. Hero O'Rourke put down 
 his ladder and the lantern, and then taking a 
 ball of twine from his pocket, he fastened 
 one end to an iron bolt which he had brought 
 for that purpiiGO. This he placed on the 
 floor. It was to be their clew. Thus far all 
 was plain ; but beyond this he dared not trust 
 himself without this safeguard, lie now took 
 up his ladder and his lantern. Blake insisted 
 on carrying the former, and, after some friendly 
 altercation, succeeded in doing so, O'Rourke 
 now held the lantern in one hand, and, put- 
 ting the ball in his pocket, he prepared to un- 
 roll it as he walked, so as to leave the clew be- 
 hind him, 
 
 " Sure, Blake, mo boy," said he, " but this 
 is the descint into the inferrunal worruld that 
 we've read about at school. Here we are, 
 we're .Apneas and Achates, or, better yet, 
 we're Alcides and Theseus — we won't dis- 
 pute which is which. — Have ye ever read the 
 'Hercules Furens?' I warrant ye haven't. 
 
 1 
 
101 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 
 g 
 
 hi' 
 
 Well, it's a fine worruk ; and I've been maun- 
 dering and soliloquizing over some of its lines 
 that are mighty appropriate to our prisiut 
 adventurous jourreny : 
 
 ' Non prata vlridi laeta facie germinant, 
 Nee adulta lent fluctuat zephyro scges ; 
 Non nlla ramoB eilva pomlferos habet ; 
 Bterilis profandl vastitas Bqaalct boH, 
 Et foeda telliin torpet acterno 8ltn, 
 Bernmqne moestuB finis et mnndl ultima, 
 ImmotuB acr haeret, et pigro ecdet 
 Nox atra mundo ; cuncta moerore horrida, 
 Ipsaque morte pejer est mortis locus.' 
 
 " Now, that's what I call mighty fine poe- 
 try," said O'Rourke, " and I'll jist invite ye to 
 projuice any other passage in ancient or mod- 
 ern poetry that'll beat it. Yes, Blake, me 
 boy, that's it — ' ipsaque morte pojor est mor- 
 tis locus 1 ' " 
 
 Ee stopped abruptly, and then, unwinding 
 the string, went forward. 
 
 Blake followed. 
 
 Yes, O'Rourke was trying to quiet his 
 nerves by quoting Latin. Now if that Latin 
 had been pronounced Oxford-fashion, it would 
 not have been very intelligible to Blake, but, 
 being spoken with the Continental pronuncia- 
 tion, and wit'j a dash of Irish brogue running 
 through it, he did not comprehend one single 
 word. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THB CITY OF THE DEAD. 
 
 O'Rourke thus went first, unwinding the 
 String, while Blake followed, carrying tlie 
 ladder. The strange silence that O'Rourke 
 had maintaincu while in the house had been 
 succeeded by a talkativeness which was 
 equally strange. 
 
 "For me own part," said he, as he walked 
 along, " we may as well begyile the splichude 
 of the jourreny by cheerful though not excit- 
 ing conversation ; and, by the same token, I 
 may remark that I have always taken a deep 
 interist iti the Catacombs. Here we have an 
 unequalled opporchunity of seeingthim in their 
 friah virgin cc>ndition. These interesting sub- 
 jects are very useful to keep us in a cool 
 state of moind, and to act as a privintivc 
 against unjuc excitemint. 
 
 " It's ividint," he continued, " that these 
 oi-fe all Christian tombs, for on most of tliim 
 ye way see the monogram that I mintioncd 
 to you. Here, for Instince, is one." 
 
 He stopped in front of one of the tombs, 
 and held up his lamp. Blake stopped, also, 
 and looked at it, though with much less in- 
 terest than that which was felt, or at least 
 affected, by his companion. There were four 
 slabs here, one above another, enclosing four 
 graves. The inscriptions were rudely cut in 
 all these. Some of the names, which were 
 Greek, were spelled with Greek letters. 
 
 " Many of these tombs are ividently occu- 
 pied," said O'Rourke, " by min of the lower 
 classes, but it doesn't follcv that the Chris- 
 tians of the age which buried these bodies 
 had no shuparior min. Of course, the major- 
 ity among thim, as in all other communities, 
 was ignorant, and the majority asserts itself 
 even in this sublime naycropolis. Still, that's 
 a fine ipitaph," said he, pointing lo the one 
 before him. " It's laconic, and yet full of 
 profound meaning. Spartan brivity with 
 Christian pathos." 
 
 The epitaph to which he pointed consisted 
 but of a few words. They were these : 
 
 " Faustina, cruciala, dormit, rcmrget," 
 
 Another bore the inscription : 
 
 " Doitnilorhim CcvciH." 
 
 Another : 
 
 "Aselxis dormit in pace. Vidalia fecit." 
 
 O'Rourke walked on farti jr, stopping at 
 times in front of those tablets which bore 
 longer inscriptions than usual, and trans- 
 lating them for the benefit of his companion, 
 of whose classical acquirements and intelli- 
 gent appreciation of the scene around him ho 
 seemed to have doubts, which were probably 
 well founded. 
 
 " Here," said he, " is one that reminds me 
 of that one of Marius behind us, that I forgot 
 to show you : 
 
 " ' Lavinia, of wondeifid amialililii, tcAo 
 lived ciffhtcen years and sixteen days. Lavinia 
 sleeps in peace. Her father and mother set up 
 this.' 
 
 " Here, Blake, is a long one : 
 
 •' ' Adscrtor, our son, is not dead, but lives 
 in heaven. An innocent boy, you have already 
 begun to I've among the innocent ones. How 
 gladly will your mother, the Church of God, 
 receive you returning from this world/ Let us 
 restrain our tears and cease from lamentations.' 
 
 I "Here," said O'Rourke, as he stopped in 
 
 
tombe, 
 
 TUB CITY OF THE DEAD. 
 
 tm 
 
 frout of another, "is oue of the most inter- 
 esting. It is a bMor.ium, D'ye liappen to 
 know what a bcsomum is ? Well, it's a place 
 where two are buried— or sleep together, as 
 the holy Christians called it." 
 
 A few steps farther on, the attention of 
 O'Rourko was arrested by an inscription 
 which was far longer than any which had yet 
 met bis eyes. 
 
 " See here," said he, " this one tells a long 
 Btory." And then he read it : 
 
 " ' Phocim sleeps here. A faithful bishop. 
 He ended his life under the Emperor Becius. 
 On his knees, and among ifie faithful, he was 
 arrested and led away to execution. His friends 
 placed him here, with tears and in fear. Oh, 
 sad times/ in which even among sacred rites 
 and prayers, not even in caverns and among 
 tombs can we be safe. ]\7iat can be more 
 wretched than such a life, and what than such 
 a death, where they cannot be buried by their 
 friends and relations ? lie has scarcely liv'^ 
 who has lived in Christian times.' " 
 
 O'Rourke stood for a few moments mu- 
 sing. 
 
 "It's been a theme of frequint medita- 
 tion with mc," said he, " the wonderful dif- 
 ferince between these Christians and their 
 pagan contimporaries with rifirince to their 
 regyard of death. Go read the iiiiv;nptions 
 on the pagan tombs. AV hat arc? they all ? 
 Terror unspeakable, mnurniug, lamentat'on, 
 and woe. Not a ray of hope. ' I lift up my 
 hands,' says one, ' against the gods, who have 
 snatched away me innocent.' But what do 
 wo see here ? Not a oad longing after the 
 vanished plisures t:i life, but a confident 
 expectation of a better life to come." 
 
 O'Rourke here gave a deep sigh, and again 
 resumed his walk. This time he paid no fur- 
 ther attention to the epitaphs. It seemed to 
 Blake as though he had been carried awa^ 
 beyond himself, and beyond all immediate 
 recollection of his errand here, by the solemn 
 memorials of the sainted dead. For such 
 feelings as these Blake felt nothing but pro- 
 found respect. It heightened his estimalo of 
 O'Rourke's character ; and, though the con- 
 versation was one in which he hiid not felt 
 able to take part, yet it Iiad produced a 
 marked cffoct upon him. The translations 
 of these epitaphs drove away the wild fever 
 of excitement which had so long clung to 
 him. In the presence of these solemn memo- 
 
 rials of Christian sulferiug and constancy and 
 faith, his longings after treasure and riches ap- 
 peared paltry and trivial, and there was com- 
 municated to his mind a feeling of shame at 
 coming on rach an errand to such a place. 
 With the cessation of his hot excitement 
 there came, also, a feeling of something akin 
 to indifTercnce about the result of his search, 
 and he began to contemplate a possible faiU 
 ure with equanimity. 
 
 Already as they advanced they had como 
 to places where other passage-ways crossed 
 their path, and disclosed depths of viewless 
 gloom on either side. There was something 
 appalling in the suggestions which these af- 
 forded of endless labyrinthc, in which to ven- 
 ture for even a few paces would be a death 
 of horror. They served to remind Blake of 
 the terrible fate of Onofrio, and gave to that 
 slender thread which O'Rourke wtis unwind- 
 ing an inconceivable importance. Upon that 
 slender thread now hung their two lives — that 
 was the tie that bound them to the world of 
 the living, and by the help of which they 
 could alone hope to retrace their steps to the 
 upper air. 
 
 For already the passage-way had wound 
 about in various directions, and they had 
 come to other passages which led into this at 
 such an angle that it would be only too easy 
 to choose the wrong path on returning. None 
 of these passages were crooked, but the diffi- 
 culty lay in the way in which they opened 
 into one another, and in the confusion which 
 their general similarity would create in any 
 mind. 
 
 "I tnini: \'u' going ri";1it," said O'Rourke; 
 "but that I'.st passage-way mny have been 
 the proper course foi' us. Howandiver, we're 
 on tiie wny ♦« '.he Painted Chamber. That's 
 thy nixt objictive point to aim at. Once 
 there, the opening in the flure'll be a 
 gyido." 
 
 T!iey walked on for some distance farther, 
 and then O'Rourko stopped and half turned. 
 Blake camo up and found that the passage- 
 way here had been enlarged. There was a 
 species of chamber — the roof was vaulted — 
 the sides were covered with a thin coating of 
 stucco, upon which were soma faded pictures, 
 roughly drawn and rudely colored. At once 
 he recognized the plac .> as the one which had 
 oecn mentioned in the iitory of Aloysius. 
 
 " The Painted Chamber ! " exclaimed 
 Blake 
 
 i i 
 
106 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 
 ;i 
 
 ■ii 
 
 i| ' 
 
 •i\ 
 
 O'Rourke smiled. 
 
 " True for you," said he. " And so we're 
 right thus far. It's mighty incouraging, so it 
 is — and I must say, ye see yersilf, how much 
 better it is for two to come than one. I con- 
 fess, Blaicc, me boy, there's a solimnity about 
 this place that overawes me ; and, if I'd been 
 alone, I'd have — well, I'd not have come so 
 far this time. I'd have returrened, so I would. 
 And sure and this is a great place intirely, so 
 it is. Sure, and the paintings are on the 
 walls yit, as any one may discerrun, just as 
 me cousin JIalachi said they were — and what 
 is this ? " he continued, going up to the wall 
 and holding up his lantern. " Sure, and it's 
 the Noachian diluge, though rudely enough 
 drawn — and here," he continued, going to an- 
 other place, " is a galley with a sail. I've 
 seen that afore in the LapiJarian gallery, 
 and they interpret it to riprisint the immor- 
 tality of the soul. Here's a palm-branch — 
 here's another ship, and a fish — and a man — 
 maybe it's Jonah they meant. I tell you 
 what it is, Blake, me boy, there's a power of 
 symbolical meaning in all this, and I'd be 
 proud to explain it all to yc some time; but 
 just now, perhaps, we'd better reshume our 
 wanderings." 
 
 Upon all these, which O'Rourke thus 
 pointed out, Blake looked with an interest 
 which had been increased by the scenes 
 through which ho had been passing, and by 
 the solemn thoughts which they had created 
 within his mind. Not unwillingly would he 
 have delayed a little to listen to his compan- 
 ion, who seemed to have such a wonderful 
 comprehension of the mciining of these draw- 
 ings, so rude and bo meaningless to his inex- 
 perienced eyes ; but O'ilourkc's proposal to 
 go on drew away his attention, and he at once 
 acquiesced without a word. 
 
 "We've got to go straight on," said 
 O'Rourke, " and we ought to come to the hole 
 before long." 
 
 The eh.amber was circular, and about 
 twelve feet in diameter. It seemed to be a 
 Bimplc enlargement of the intersection of two 
 passages. Oneo enlarged, it had been deco- 
 rated in the manner already noticed. 
 
 O'Rourke turned away, but still hesitated, 
 in that manner whi.h hud marked his prog- 
 ress here all along. There was evidently 
 something on bis mind. Blake noticed it, 
 but thought that it was simply his medita- 
 tions upon the early Chrisliiins. 
 
 " It's a small place, too, for such a pup- 
 pose," said O'Rourke, speaking as if at the 
 conclusion of a train of solemn thought. " It 
 couldn't have held many. It must have been 
 crowdid, so it must." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Blake. 
 "What purpose?" 
 
 "Well, you see, Blake, me boy," said 
 O'Rourke, " this place was once used as a 
 Christian chapel." 
 
 "A chapel!" 
 
 " Yis. Juring times of perse(.i'ti> 'i, ili.> 
 Christians had often to fly to th sf. tj f-- 
 clcf, and hide here. In these <,n- p' ',. ,;• 
 had to conduct their saured ciriroor i Ihxe, 
 too, they had their burial-services. Oli, mve, 
 if these walls could but speak, what a tale 
 they could tell ! Mind ye, I do-i't hold with 
 some that there iver was a time whin the 
 Christian population came down here en 7nasse/ 
 I hold that it was only the shuparior clergy — 
 the bishops, and sich like — or the imiuint 
 min that hid themselves here. But they held 
 their services here, no doubt; and on Sun- 
 days there would be a large crowd wandering 
 about here, as they were being conducted to 
 these chapels, or as they came to bury the re- 
 mains of some fiind. But what pu'.zles me 
 is, that I don't see any remains of an i Itar, or 
 any thing of that kind. If it had been used 
 as a chapel, there'd have been an altar, and, 
 if 80, there'd have been some remains, unless 
 they afterward removed thim to some church 
 overhead. And that may have been — but the 
 fact is, the quistion is a complicated one, and 
 cannot be fairly and fully discussed on an oc- 
 casion like this." 
 
 With this, O'Rourke turned abruptly 
 away, and, unrolling the string, ho walked out 
 of the chapel through that passage -wa'' 
 which was a continuation of the path 
 along which they had hitherto been advanc- 
 ing. 
 
 Lo walked on, unrolling tlie string as be- 
 fore, holding the light very carefully so as t' 
 see his way, und not saying a word. Blake 
 followed in silence. In this way they went 
 on for about fifty paces. 
 
 Then O'Rourke Btopne() and looked ear- 
 nestly downwFi'fil at tlo j; (Ijway before him. 
 Then ho ad' .''td two '<(f>"i farther. Then 
 ho tuiT'd 'lu J held oi;; 'i' i,/ id with a ■warn- 
 ing poHtu/e. 
 
 " It's the hole ! .--e've come to it ! " said 
 he, in a Iot whisper. 
 
Blake. 
 
 T,.-%; 
 
 "!>■* i- 
 
THE CITY OF THE DEAD. 
 
 107 
 
 S 
 
 " Where ? where ? " asked Blako, hurry- 
 ing up. 
 
 " Tliere ! " said O'Rourke. 
 
 As he said this, he pointed to a blackness 
 in the path before him. Blake looked, and 
 saw an opening in the path, yawning imme- 
 diately beneath them. An involuntary shud- 
 der passed through him, as he thought of the 
 danger which this presented to the incautious 
 explorer. But the danger here was not real, 
 after all ; for no explorers came to this place, 
 except themselves, and they had been suffi- 
 ciently cautious to iivoid it. 
 
 " Me cousin Malachi was right," said 
 O'Rour'ce. " lie came as far as this. It 
 now remains to see whether the monk Aloy- 
 sius was right or not. If so— thin — soon — 
 we — shall — know — all." 
 
 O'Rourke spoke slowly. Blake made no 
 answer. Ho had reached this spot about 
 which ho had thought with intense excite- 
 ment of late — this spot which seemed the last 
 stage in tlie journey to endless wealth ; but 
 now his imagination, which but lately had so 
 kindled itself at this thouglit, lay dull and 
 dormant within him. Already there was a 
 load on his mind, a dull presentiment of 
 evil. lie was conscious of this change. lie 
 wondered at it. He attributed it to various 
 things — to the reaction consequent upon over- 
 excitement long continued ; to the sermoniz- 
 ing of O'Rourke, who had discoursed upon 
 semi-sacred things ever since they had en- 
 tered here ; to the presence of the dead, 
 whose holy lives, and glorious deaths, and 
 immortal hopes beyond the grave, seemed to 
 throw such contempt upon so mean a quest 
 as this, for the sake of which he had violated 
 their last resting-place. But, whichever of 
 these wus the cause, there he stood, not in- 
 different, but strangely melancholy, and dis- 
 turbed in soul with vague alarms and dark 
 forebodings. 
 
 O'Rourke stood looking down in silence 
 into the yawning abyss beneath. Then, draw- 
 ing a long breath, he put his lamp down on 
 one side of tho pathway, and, turning to 
 Blake, he took the ladder from him. 
 
 This ladder he then proceeded to letdown. 
 Ho did this slowly and cautiously. In a few 
 minutes it touched tho bottom, and tiio top 
 of it projected about one inch. The ladder, 
 being ten feet long, showed thus the depth 
 of the passage beneath from the place in 
 which they were standing. 
 
 " My calculation," said O'Rourke, " was 
 based upon the statemints of the monk Aloy- 
 sius. This proves that the statemints were 
 true. Every thing in that manuscript has 
 thus far turrened out true, and I only hope 
 the rest of our undertaking will be equally 
 successful. So now, here goes ! " 
 
 Saying this, O'Rourke began to descend. 
 Blake watched him till he reached the bot- 
 tom. He saw that the passage below was, in 
 all respects, the counterpart of the one above. 
 But he did not delay to look. The moment 
 that O'Rourke had reached the bottom, he 
 began to descend, and in a few moments stood 
 by his side. 
 
 O'Rourke now went on very cautiously, 
 unwinding the string. 
 
 " Shall I take the ladder? " said Blake. 
 
 " No," said O'Rourke ; " if Aloysius is 
 right, there'll be no need for the ladder ; and, 
 if he's wrong, thin our game's up — that's all. 
 Besides, I don't believe there'd be any ixca- 
 vation beneath this. We must now be on a 
 level with the Tiber." 
 
 Blake, upon this, followed his companion, 
 leaving the ladder where it had been placed. 
 
 They walked about thirty paces. 
 
 Suddenly, O'Rourke stopped, and turned 
 round with a blank expression, feeling his 
 coat-pockets, one after the other. 
 
 " What's the matter? " asked Blake. 
 
 " Tare an' ages ! " exclaimed O'Rourke, 
 " if I haven't dropped me other ball of twine, 
 and this one is nearly used up ! I wouldn't 
 trust meself a step farther." 
 
 " Why ! did you leave it behind in the 
 cellar?" 
 
 " Sure and I took it with mo, so I did, and 
 — by the powers ! I have it — I moind pulling 
 out me handkerchief in the chapel, and I 
 moind hearing a thud on the flurc. I must 
 have dropped it. I'll go straight back for it, 
 and you wait here — unless you're afraid of the 
 ghosts — you wait here, and I'll be back in a 
 giffy, so I will." 
 
 Saying this, O'Rourke brushed past Blako, 
 on his way back to the chapel to get the ball 
 of twine. 
 
 " Ye may be going on," said ho to Blake, 
 "till ye come to any new passage-way — it 
 seems like a straight course — or ye may wait 
 for me." 
 
 "Oh, I'll wait for you!" said BUi . 
 " We'll find it, or miss it in company." 
 
 He .«poke in a melancholy voice. He had 
 
 ll 
 
u 
 
 108 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 begun to feel half vexed with himself for his 
 own iudifference ; jet he was indifferent. Nor 
 was it unaccountable. Often does it happen, 
 in the lives of men, that an object, pursued 
 with absorbing eagerness from a distance, 
 grows tame at a closer approach. Thus the 
 lover's ardor is sometimes dispelled on the 
 approach of the marriage-day ; and thus Mont 
 Blanc, which had inspired such a glow of en- 
 thusiasm when seen from the Vale of Cha- 
 mouni, becomes a freezing mass of ice, kill- 
 ing all enthusiasm, when the climber ap- 
 proaches its summit. 
 
 So, in profound dejection, Blake stood 
 still, waiting for O'Eourke. lie had lost his 
 enthusiasm ; his excitement was gone. Ava- 
 rice, ambition — even these feelings ceased to 
 inspire him. 
 
 At length, it struck him that O'Rourke 
 had been gone for a long time. A slight fear 
 arose. It was instantly quelled. 
 
 lie determined to go back in search of 
 him. 
 
 lie walked back for some time. 
 
 Suddenly, he stood still. 
 
 lie was confounded. 
 
 He had walked back a distance greater 
 than that which he had followed O'Rourke 
 after descending the ladder, yet he had not 
 come to the ladder. Only twenty-five paces 
 or so ! lie had walked fifty. 
 
 Where was the ladder ? 
 
 He looked along the arch of the vaulted 
 passage overhead, holding up his lamp. 
 
 He walked back for twenty-five paces. 
 
 Overhead was an opening in the vault, 
 black, impenetrable, terrible ! Was that the 
 place through which he had descended ? 
 
 It was 1 
 
 Where was the ladder ? 
 
 Tfie ladikr was gone I 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 BETRAYED. 
 
 For a long time Blake stood staring at 
 that black opening overhead. Not a vestige 
 of any thing was there. The string had gone. 
 O'Rourke had taken away from him not mere- 
 ly the means of return, but the clew which 
 showed the way. And this was all of which 
 he was conscious. Even of this he was only 
 conscious in a vague wav for his brain was 
 
 in a whirl, and his whole frame tingled at the 
 horror of his thoughts, and, in the immensity 
 of this sudden calamity, he stood bewildered, 
 Incapable of speech or motion — incapable 
 even of thought. Not a sound came to his 
 cars. It was silence all around — the silence 
 of death. Yet his attitude was one of ex- 
 pectancy. As yet he could not believe all, or 
 realize the full extent of his appalling condi- 
 tion. His expectation rested on O'Rourke, 
 and his ears tried to catch the sound of re- 
 turning footsteps. But his ears listened in 
 vain, and the time passed, and horror deep- 
 ened in his soul, till, from this 'iiint hope he 
 descended slowly into the aby- of despair. 
 
 One thought now overspread all his mind, 
 and this was that O'Rourke had betrayed 
 him, and had lured him here for this very 
 purpose. Why he had done this lie did not 
 at that time try to conjecture. He was not 
 yet sufficiently master of his own thoughts to 
 speculate upon this. He had only the one 
 supreme and overwhelming idea of treachery 
 — treachery dark, deep, demoniacal, far-reach- 
 ing — which had laid this trap for him, and 
 had brought him to it. To this feeling ho 
 yielded. His head sank down from that up- 
 ward stretch into which, for a time, it had 
 been frozen ; the rigidity of his limbs, wrought 
 by one moment of unutterable horror, relaxed ; 
 a shudder passed through him ; he trembled 
 like a palsied man, and his nerveless hands 
 could scarcely hold the lantern. But this 
 lig[it now shone before hira as his very last 
 hope — if there was, indeed, any such thing 
 as hope remaining — and to save this he 
 clutched it with a convulsive grasp. This 
 effort roused him from his stupor; and, 
 though his bodily strength was still beyond 
 his recall, yet the faculties of his mind were 
 restored and rallied at the impulse of the in- 
 stinct of self-preservation. Too weak to stand 
 erect any longer, he seated himself, still clutch- 
 ing his lantern, with his back supported against 
 the wall, and then, in his despair, began to 
 think what might be the meaning of this. 
 
 Had O'Rourke really left him f Of this 
 he had no doubt. But why had lie done 
 this ? To this he could give no answer what- 
 ever. 
 
 Suddenly he sprang to his feet, and beijan 
 to call in his loudest voice. His terrors, after 
 all, might be unfounded, and O'Rourke might, 
 perhaps, return. At least he might answsr 
 and tell him the meaning of this. With this 
 
BETRAYED. 
 
 109 
 
 hope he called, and, for some time, hia cries 
 Bounded forth as ho uttered every form of 
 appeal, of entreaty, of reproach, of despair. 
 Ilia voice rang mournfully down the long paa- 
 Bages ; but to him, as he listened, there came 
 no reply except the dull, distant echoes re- 
 turned from the gloomy recesses of the Cata- 
 combs. Whether O'Rourke heard him or not 
 he could not tell. Perhaps he had hurried 
 away at once, so as to be out of the hearing 
 of his cries ; perhaps ho was waiting close 
 by, and listening coolly to the despairing en- 
 treaties of his victim ; but, whatever he had 
 done or was doing, he gave no sign. Above, 
 all wcis dark. Blake covered up his own light 
 as ho looked up, to see if there was any gleam 
 from O'Rourke's lantern visible in that upper 
 passage-way, but his most searching scrutiny 
 failed to distinguish tho slightest possible 
 glimmer of light in that intense gloom. It 
 was the blackness of darkness. 
 
 Once more Blake sank down into the de- 
 spair of his own thoughts. With this despair 
 there was mingled unspeakable wonder at 
 O'Rourke's treachery. The motive that had 
 impelled him to this was utterly beyond his 
 conception. IIo had known him for a year, 
 lie had made his acquaintance in the most 
 casual manner. They had gradually drifted 
 into one another's way. What had ho ever 
 done, or what could O'Rourke have imagined 
 him to have done, that he should plan for him 
 80 terrible a fate as this ? Or what possible 
 purpose of any possible kind could O'Rourke 
 have before himself that could be promoted 
 by such a crime ? 
 
 It was no panic-flight of O'Rourke's. It 
 was deliberate. IIo had taken the ladder so 
 noiselessly that no sound had indicated what 
 ho wa3 doing. lie had even removed the 
 clew. 
 
 It was, therefore deliberate ; and this 
 treachery joined itself to all that had gone 
 before — formed the clima.^ to it all. It was 
 now evident that tho whole story of tho 
 treasure had been planned for the purpose 
 of luring nim to this place and to this fate. 
 The story of Aloysius had been, no doubt, a 
 fiction of O'Rourke's, from beginning to end. 
 His cousin Malachi had never existed. The 
 Monastery of San Antonio probably was a 
 fiction. Tho old manuscript was another, 
 O'Rourke had never produced it. lie had 
 told an exciting story, and worked upon his 
 crwdulily, his necessities, his ambition, and 
 
 his avarice. As to the treasure, it was tho 
 wildest of dreams. If there had been any, 
 he would not have been betrayed to this fate. 
 
 Such was tho sudden awakening of Basil 
 Blake from his dreams of boundless wealth. 
 
 But there remained tho dark and inex- 
 plicable problem of the motives of O'Rourke. 
 
 Could it be that ho was mad ? 
 
 This would account for it all. O'Rourke 
 was eert;.inly eccentric. His eccentricity 
 might bo madnes?. lie might ' avc been one 
 of those homicidal madmen who plan craftily 
 the deaths of others ; and his very acquaint- 
 ance with him might have been sufficient to 
 suggest to O'Rourke a plan for his destruc- 
 tion, lie recalled his strange demeanor since 
 their arrival at Rome ; his singular silence in 
 the cellar; his unwonted talkativeness on tho 
 way through the passages ; his odd gestures, 
 mysterious looks, and significant words. Were 
 not all these the signs of a disordered brain ? 
 
 On tho other hand, if he were not mad, 
 what possible motive could I;c have for his 
 treachery ? Blake could think of nothing 
 whatever in his lifo that could account for 
 any hostile plot against him. All his life had 
 been commonplace, and his position was suf- 
 ficiently obscure to guard him against the 
 machinations of enemies. One thing only in 
 all that life of his stood forth as beyond the 
 obscure and the commonplace. That was 
 tho mysterious friendship of Mr. Wyvcrne, 
 his mother's singular words, and, a'^ove all, 
 the strange and incredible declarations of the 
 dying man. But that had already been de- 
 clared false by another authority. Even if it 
 should be true, could there be any thing in 
 that which could connect itself in any way 
 with O'Rourke's plot, and bo a reasonable 
 cause for such a terrible betrayal as this ? 
 How should O'Rourke know Wyverne ? How 
 could he be benefited ? Or wore there others 
 who wished to get him out of tho way — by 
 such a mode of destruction as would render 
 it impossible that ho could ever again be 
 heard of? Alas! if there were any who 
 had sent O'Rourke to do thir, they had cer- 
 tainly chosen their agent well. Blake now 
 remembered how completely he had concealed 
 his movements ; and he recalled those letters 
 which he had written to Kane Hcllmuth and 
 his mother, in which not the slightest indica- 
 tion was given of the place to which he was 
 bound, or the purpose for which lie was go- 
 ing. He was now alone — no friend could 
 
■ 
 
 110 
 
 AX OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 help — DO one could ever track him here ; and 
 here he must die, and exhibit the fullest real- 
 ity 01 that dread fate which O'ltourke hud as- 
 :ilbcd tu lii' imaginary Onofrlo. 
 
 i;ut nov another change came over Blake 
 •^a reaction from this despair — a recoil from 
 that paralysis of all his energies which had 
 come upon him. lie started to his feet. 
 There was yet time. Could he not retrace his 
 steps ? How much time had already passed 
 he did not know, but, if he could find his way 
 back along the passages to that opening iu 
 the wall, he might yet save himself. 
 
 Tills thought at onco restored all Lis 
 strength of body and vigor of mind to the ut- 
 most. He started to hia feet, and once more 
 looked upward, scanning eagerly that opening 
 above him. The distance was not great. Was 
 it impossible for him to cliuib up there and 
 regain that passage-way ? True, there was 
 nothing but the smooth wall, which presented 
 no foothold just here, except tlio slabs that 
 covered over the graves. Ue could not jump 
 up, he was not sufficiently agile for that. How, 
 then, could he contrive to scale that bare wall 
 of ten feet between himself and the floor 
 above ? 
 
 The wall itself afforded a ready answer to 
 this. On that wall there were three slabs, 
 covering three tombs, one above the other, in 
 the mode which has already been mentioned 
 80 frequently. If those slabs could but be 
 removed, or if only one of them could be dis- 
 placed, then Blake would have a foothold by 
 which he could reach the upper passage-way. 
 These slabs ho now examined most carefully. 
 He struck them with Lis hands ; he tried to 
 find some crevice by whioh ho could got a 
 sufficient hold of them to pull them from their 
 places. But these efforts were vain ; for, 
 though ages had passed away since they were 
 placed here, still the cement was firm, and 
 none of the slabs would yield. 
 
 But Blake would not yet give up. Every 
 thing now seemed to depend upon the prompt- 
 ness with which he worked. He drew his 
 knife, and, opening the large blade, began to 
 cut at the stone over the slab. His intention 
 was to try to cut away the stone to such un 
 extent that he could pass his fingers through 
 and griisp the slab. Ho began with the mid- 
 dle slab. The rock wan soft s.andstone ; and 
 as he cut and dug with his knife he had the 
 satisfaction of seeing that ho was gradu- 
 ally working it away, so that he had the 
 
 prospect in time of making a hole large 
 enough for hia purposes. But his work was 
 slow, and ho discovered very soon that hia 
 knife was wearing away rapidly under it. 
 At length, when his hand ached with the ef- 
 fort, and was bleeding from blisters, when so 
 much of hia knife was worn away that the 
 prospect of continuing much longer at this 
 task was faint indeed, he discovered that the 
 tliickness of this particular slab was too 
 great to give any prospect of removing it in 
 this way. 
 
 Yet the moment that he made this dia- 
 coverj, he made also another, which counter- 
 balanced the first, and changed despair once 
 more into hope. 
 
 The hole that ho had made, though not 
 large enough to enable him to remove the 
 slab, was still large enough to assint him to 
 scale the wall. All that he needed was a few 
 others like it. Two more would suffice. If 
 he could cut one over each slab, even smaller 
 than this, he could then climb up. 
 
 Instantly he set to work onco more, thia 
 time at the lower slab, and here at length ho 
 succeeded in cutting a small slit large enough 
 for him to insert the toe of his boot. It waa 
 not so large as the first hole that he had cut, 
 but suited his purpose quite as well. 
 
 He then turned his attention to the iipper- 
 most sl.ib. The others were flush with the 
 wall. This one, jiowever, projected in ono 
 corner about half an inch. No cutting was 
 therefore required, for he could grasp this 
 with his fingers so as to draw himself up to 
 some extent. 
 
 He now prepared to ascend. But first 
 it was necessary to secure the safety of his 
 lantern. In order to eflect thii', he tore up 
 his pocket-handkerchief and Lis cravat into 
 thin strips, and tied them all together until 
 at length he had a lino fifteen feet long at 
 least. One end of this he fastened to the lan- 
 tern, the other he tied to his knife. Then he 
 flung his knife up through the opening. It 
 fell on the floor there, and thus held the line 
 that was fastened to the lantern below. 
 
 Blake now braced himself for this great 
 effort to climb the waU. Grasping the upper 
 slab, he put his right foot in the lower hole, 
 and drew himself up thus till he waa able to 
 thrust his left foot into the larger hole that 
 he had scraped away over the middle slab. 
 Here there was a firmer foothold, and here, 
 with one vigorous e*'' ••., he raised himself up 
 
 
BETRAYED. 
 
 Ill 
 
 higher, clinging to the upper slab with his 
 right hand, and grasping with his left at the 
 upper floor, lie reached it, and, assisted by 
 his firm foothold, raised himself up higher. 
 Then, with a final spring, ha threw himself 
 up, and, catching his toe on the upper slab, 
 he succeeded in working himself through the 
 opening and on to the floor of the upper pas- 
 sage-way. Then ho drew up the lamp, and 
 put the line in his pocket, so as to use it in 
 case of any further need. 
 
 Once more, then, Blake found himself in 
 this upper passage, and now ho proceeded to 
 hurry back the way he had come. In a short 
 time he reached the Painted Chamber. Here, 
 even if he had felt any lingering doubts as to 
 O'Rourke's treachery, the first sight would 
 have served to dispel them, and confirm his 
 worst suspicions ; for the chamber was emp- 
 ty, and O'Rourke had taken his ladder and 
 his string. 
 
 But there was no time to lose. Ilastc 
 was needed, and yet, at the same time, the 
 utmost caution was equally needed ; for how 
 could he find his way back ? True, the path- 
 way had not been very crooked, and there- 
 fore, if he were to keep in the straightest 
 possible course, he would be most certain to 
 find the true way ; yet still there were places 
 where, among several passages branching off 
 in the same way, it would be difficult to tell 
 the true one. But, until that place was 
 reached, he might hurry on with less circum- 
 spection. 
 
 Accordingly, he advanced as fast as a vigi- 
 lant outlook would allow him, and for some 
 time had no difficulty. At length, to his in- 
 tense joy, he discovered something on the 
 floor. On stooping to examine it, he found 
 that it was the clew. O'Rourke had appar- 
 ently gone back, winding it up as he went ; 
 but at length, becoming perhaps weary of 
 this, and feeling certain of the destruction of 
 his victim, he had contemptuously thrown it 
 down. 
 
 Blake now hurried on faster than ever, 
 with nothing to prevent the most rapid prog- 
 ress, since he was guided by the string that 
 ran along the path. Before long, he came to 
 the ladder, which lay obliquely across the 
 path, as if carelessly flung down by one who 
 was weary of carrying it, and had no further 
 need of it. This ladder was of no use, how- 
 ever, to Blake, though a short time before all 
 his life seemed to depend upon it; so he hur- 
 
 ried on, seeing in it only a sign that ho might 
 yet reach the house before O'Rouvke had left. 
 
 On he went, faster and faster. At length, 
 the clew ended. Blake recognized this place. 
 It was at that first crossing to which they had 
 come, and beyond this ho knew that there 
 were no other crossings till he reached the 
 aperture by which he had entered. To arrive 
 at this point, at last, was almost like an es- 
 cape ; but still his escape was not yet effect- 
 ed, and so he hurried onward. The aperture 
 for which he was now looking was on his left, 
 and, as he went, he watched that side nar- 
 rowly. 
 
 At last he saw it. 
 
 All the other slabs were in their places, 
 but this one was off. It lay on the ground 
 below. The aperture was all dark. Blake 
 sprung toward it, and thrust in his lamp and 
 his head. 
 
 The next moment he stood there, rooted 
 to the spot, staring with wild eyes at the sight 
 before him, while a new despair deprived him 
 of strength and almost of consciousness. 
 
 For there, full before him, in the place 
 where that opening had been through which 
 he had crawled after O'Rourke, was now a 
 wall of stone, presenting a barrier which 
 stopped all escape. There were two large 
 stones. They had been pushed up here from 
 within — by the malignant ond relentless pur- 
 pose of his enemy — not fastened 'rith cement, 
 but lying there solid, irremovable, and be- 
 yond the reach of any efforts of his. 
 
 At this sight he reached the last extremity 
 of his prostration and of his despair. The 
 lamp fell from his hands into the stony sepul- 
 chre, and he burst into a torrent of tears. 
 
 And now, at this moment, while his lamp 
 lay extinguished, and all around there was a 
 durkucss utter and impenetrable — a dark- 
 ness, also, fully commensurate with the dark- 
 ness of his despair — there came to his ears 
 a dull sound from beyond that wall, as if 
 some one was moving there. 
 
 At once Blake roused himself, and lis- 
 tened. 
 
 The sounds continued. Some one was 
 moving. There was the rattling, shufiling 
 sound as of some one piling up stones, it 
 was as though O'Rourke had not been satis- 
 fied with any common barrier to Blake's es- 
 cape, but had resolved to replace the whole 
 wall in all its thickness, and leave it as he 
 had found it. There, then, was his enemy, 
 
us 
 
 AS OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 within a fow feet, yet inacccssiltle and invis- 
 iljle — not remorseful for wiiat lie liiid done, 
 but actively malignant still, and still toiling 
 to occomplisli, in its fullest perfection, the 
 terrible task which he had undertaken. 
 
 Ulake listened in dumb horror, unable to 
 speak a word, even if words had been of any 
 avail. But no words were forthcoming, and 
 be leaned there in that thick darkness, cling- 
 ing to the sepulchre with a convulsive gra?p, 
 and all his soul centred in his sense of iicar- 
 ing. That sense seemed now to have taken 
 nn almost superhuman power and acutencs?, 
 03 though all bis other senses had lent their 
 aid to this. The rattle, the sliding, the dull 
 thud, t".jv> harsh grating of the stones as they 
 were handled by the terrible workman on tlic 
 other side, still went on ; and still the sounds 
 penetrated the wall, and came to the silent 
 place of the dead beyond. 
 
 Blake listened, unconscious of time, and 
 only conscious of the slow approach of his 
 appalling doom. 
 
 At last all ceased. 
 
 Then there came the sound of a human 
 voice — low, mufllcd, sepulchral, but, to Blake's 
 acute bearing, sounding with terrific distinct- 
 ness. There were but four words that thus 
 came to his ears tlirough the thick wall 
 where the stones stood, piled up without 
 plaster, and allowing the awful words to pass 
 through • 
 
 " £lake Wyveme, farewell forever I " 
 
 Then all was still. 
 
 CnAPTER xxvir. 
 
 FILIAL AFFECTION. 
 
 The time passed pleasantly indeed with 
 Bernal Mordaunt. The worn-out man felt 
 this rest to be sweet after his weary life ; and 
 it was sweeter slill, after so ni.iny years of 
 loneliness and exile and wandering, to find 
 around him once more the tender embrace of 
 kindred and of afTection. In his far-distant 
 home, as missionary, the Abbe Mordaunt had 
 not been without those lofty consolations 
 which the active performance oi a high duty, 
 and zealous labor for the good of man, and 
 fervent faith, can give to the soul, even when 
 all earthly joys have been torn from its grasp ; 
 but such labors and such zeal were only pos- 
 Bible in the days of his vigorous manhood. 
 
 Now, when vigor iiud gone, and such apostolic 
 labors were no longer possiljlo, bis heart 
 yearned for some close human tie, and some 
 tender human affection. For this cause Le 
 had thought of his daughters, and had come 
 home to find them. One was gone, but one 
 was left ; and that heart of his, which had 
 so long been destitute of the treasures of 
 human love, now expanded, and filled itself 
 with that tender aflection which was lav- 
 ished by her whom be called " his own," " his 
 only one," " his darling daughter," " his most 
 precious Inez." 
 
 In spite of nil his deep yearning for this 
 filial love, Bernal Mordaunt was not exacting; 
 and it has been seen how carefully he tried to 
 avoid standing between Bessie and one whom 
 he sujiposed to be the object of tenderer and 
 stronger affections than any which she coidd 
 bestow upon himself. It has been seen also 
 how Bessie frustrated his self-denying plans, 
 and met this sacrifice of love, by another sac- 
 rifice of love on her part, and refused to ac- 
 cord to Sir Gwyn any privileges which miglit 
 draw her away from Bernal Mordaunt. This 
 Bernal Mordaunt felt more than any thing 
 that had occurred since his return home. He 
 believed that it must be a sacrifice on her 
 part; yet in his secret soul lie exulted over 
 such a sacrifice, since it had been made for 
 his sake. lie deprecated it as greatly as he 
 could to her, but Bessie met such deprecatory 
 language in a way of her own which was thor- 
 oughly characteristic, by the profession of 
 still greater love, and by the declaration that 
 she would give herself up altogether to him, 
 and for his sake cut herself off from all soci- 
 ety. This, however, Bernal Mordaunt did not 
 wish her to do. In his love for her, he re- 
 garded not only her present but her future, 
 and he was not selfish enough to permit his 
 own happinc; " to stand in the way of what ho 
 considered her permanent good. The regard 
 which he had from the first conceived for 
 Sir (!wyn lluthven had steadily increased 
 with the progress of their acquaintance ; and 
 it seemed to him that Sir Gwyn was in every 
 respect a man to whom he miglit gladly in- 
 trust the daughter whom he loved so fondly, 
 and for whose future welfare ho was so soli- 
 citous. 
 
 Sleanwhile, Sir Gwyn, though full of a sin- 
 cere and devoted regard for Bernal Mordaunt, 
 had not by any means lost sight of the great 
 aim of his present life. Bessie, in her new 
 
I'lLIAL AFFECTION. 
 
 118 
 
 1 npostolio 
 lii'f liciirt 
 IniiJ sorao 
 I cause lie 
 Diad come 
 K but one 
 [liiuh had 
 Jisuros of 
 jled itsolf 
 1 was lav- 
 '"his 
 
 rule of affoctionate daugliler, appeared to him 
 to be more charming than ever. It iietHled 
 but tliis to complete her charuia in h'm eye.-f, 
 and to tranaform her iuto nu iiagel. AVhal 
 waa best, tho cordiality and evident regard 
 which Bernal Mordauut always exhibited tow- 
 ard himself had placed him upon a footing of 
 Comiliar and intimate friendship, and thus en- 
 abled him to see to the best advantage the 
 tender, the incessant, tho self-denying care 
 of Bessie for the old man. Still, in spite of 
 this surrender of herself, Uessie was not sep- 
 arated from him ; in fact, she appeared to be 
 drawn nearer to him, and never had Sir Gwyn 
 more profoundly enjoyed himself, liernal 
 Morddunt himself was -willing to favor the 
 lovers in every possible way ; and often, when 
 Bessie would not leave him, he pretended to 
 be asleep, so us to leave an open Held to Sir 
 llwyn. At other times ho would occupy him- 
 self with reading, and watch those two wlm 
 were both so dear to liiin, witli a quiet smile, 
 which showed with what tender human sym- 
 pathy he noticed tlie progress of all'airs. 
 
 Bessie showed herself in all respects a 
 daughter beyond all praise. She walked with 
 the old man, making him lean on her slender 
 arm ; she read to him all the daily papers ; 
 she assisted in finding out what books he pre^ 
 ferred ; and used to sit at his feet on a low 
 stool reading to him for hours, while he rest- 
 ed his hand on her golden hair, and watched 
 her with a look of unspeakable love. Slie 
 was (piick to discover that he liked her con- 
 versation, and was amused with her little Ili- 
 bcrnicisms, and occasional outcropping of the 
 brogue which distinguished it; and so she 
 took pains every day to have some amusing 
 story to tell him, and to tell it too in her 
 oddest manner, with her oddest idioms, well 
 satisfied if she could succeed in raising a laugh 
 at the point of this ."^tory, which she took good 
 care to introduce always in the most efleetive 
 way. When local events failed, she would 
 fall back upon her early reminiscences, and 
 these were invariably of so grotesque a kind 
 that Ucrnal Mordauut relished them more 
 than any thing else. 
 
 Bernal Mordauut thus was happy — more 
 truly and c ilmly happy than he had been for 
 years. It was not, indeed, so elevated a sen- 
 timent as some ivliich he had known during 
 his active missionary life; not that high spir- 
 itual rapture whieh had sometimes visited his 
 soul ; yet it was true happiness, tender and 
 8 
 
 human and domestic, a feeling well deserved, 
 and well bclitting the man whom years and 
 nard labor and sorrow had enfeebled. For, 
 in spite of tho calm and quiet lil'c into whicli 
 ho had passed ; iu spito of tho pure and iuvig< 
 orating air; in spite of his own peace of mind 
 and happiness ; iu .spite even of the incessant 
 and vigilant and most tender eare of the de- 
 voted Bessie, Bernal Mordaunt's health did 
 not improve, but, on the contrary, strange as 
 it may ajjpear, from the moment that ho camo 
 to .Morduunt Manor, his health and strength 
 gradually yet steadily failed. There was no 
 visible cause for thi.-". Every thing around 
 him seemed adapted to build up a w-eakencd 
 constitution, and give tone and vigor to aa 
 eni'eebled frame, yet still there was the mys- 
 terious fact, and Bernal Mordaunt himself 
 knew it and felt it, accepting if, however, with 
 solemn and placid resignation as the inevi- 
 table will of Heaven. 
 
 One morning, as ho and Bessie were to- 
 gether, Sir Gwyn found them, and after a 
 short time Bessie meekly withdrew. Ber- 
 nal Mordaunt was struck by this occurrence, 
 whieh was quite singular, for Bessie had al- 
 ways chosen to remain on former occasions ; 
 but at length it was explained, for Sir Gwyn, 
 with all the embarrassment whieh is usual iu 
 such cases, proceeded to inform Iiim that he 
 had come to ask his daughter's hand. 
 
 The reception of this request was all that 
 Sir Gwyn could have desired. Bernal Mor- 
 daunt pressed the young man's hand, and 
 looked at him earuestly, with moistened eyes. 
 
 " My dear Gwyn," said he, addressing him 
 in the familiar style which the young man had 
 himself requested that he would use — "my 
 dear Gwyn, tho object ( y learest regard 
 on earth is my sweet dau^ ' ■-. Inez, and her 
 future happiness. You know how dear she 
 is to me, and how I live in her presence. You 
 know, too, what a heart of love she has — how 
 tender she is, how true, how devoted, how 
 forgetful of self. I never cease to thank 
 Heaven for the mercy bestowed upon one so 
 undeserving as I am, in the gift of an angel 
 upon earth, to be my daughter, to love me, to 
 tend me, to devote herself to mc, as she does. 
 But still I am not forgetful of the future, my 
 boy ; and I know that the best thing for her 
 to win is tho heart of a brave, loyal gentle- 
 man, who may be her protector through life. 
 I hi vc seen all this in you, Gwyn, my dear 
 boy, and I am happy iu the thought that you 
 
:i 
 
 S14 
 
 AN OPEN' (iUESTIO.V. 
 
 i 
 
 i' li 
 
 i i 
 
 y<' %. 
 
 love Lev; and, if you can >vin her love, you 
 liuvo, not only my consent, but uiy grateful 
 and earnest good wishes. You liavc my con- 
 sent, (Jwyn, and more — vou liavo my most 
 nllcctionutu Bynipatliies ; I'ur i^ will give mo 
 Biucere happiness to receive you a: my son." 
 
 Gwyu was quite overeonio at suth a re- 
 ception of his request, and murmured some 
 words of acknowledgment. Tlicrc was evi- 
 dently something on Lis mind, however -, und 
 tLis, after <".uje further conversation, all came 
 out. 
 
 " 1 had to ask this first," said ho ; " but 
 I've got something tisc that I'm anxious to 
 tell you, before this goes any further. It's 
 something tliat you ought to know, and I 
 ought to tell. It's about my own all'airs.'' 
 
 Bcrnal Morduunt at this looked at Lim 
 with a pleasant smile of encouragement. 
 
 " The fact is," said Gwyn, " there's some 
 difficulty in my present position, some uncer- 
 tainty as to my right, not only to my title, 
 but also to my estate. I will explain. I am 
 the ;oiingcst of three brothers. 3Iy eldest 
 brother died a few years ago, leaving uo heirs. 
 Now, between me and him tlierc w.is a second 
 brother ; and it is this one 'hat makes my 
 present position uncertain. About ten years 
 ago, he vanished, lie li''^u in Paris when ho 
 was last heard from. lie hud been very dis- 
 sipated. As the second son, he had no pros- 
 pects ; and the wild life which Lc had lived 
 Lad already exhausted what my father had 
 allowed him. There was some talk of a hasty 
 marriage that he had made with sonic grisdte 
 or some unworthy creature, lie that as it 
 may, he vanished, and has never been heard 
 of since. 
 
 " Well, you know, my elder brother died, 
 as I Lave said ; and, as my second brother 
 was not to be found, I came in for the ii.heri- 
 tancc. As to my second brother, I have heard 
 various rumors. Some say tliat he committed 
 suicide ; other.s, that he died in extreme pov- 
 erty in Genoa; others, that he went to India, 
 and died there. But, among all these rumors, 
 BO proof has ever been brought forward that 
 Le is dead. He may be living yet, and tLc 
 only actual proof that I can adduce in favor 
 of Lis death is tlie improbability of any man 
 in needy circumstances allowing a great in- 
 Leritaiice to pass into other hands, when ho 
 Las only to come forward to claim it. At tLc 
 same time, I know this, t'ui Le was always 
 different from otLer men ; and, if Le Lad 
 
 chanced to bo engaged in f<oiuc mode of lifo 
 that suited his ta.stcs for the time, Lc would 
 let the inheritance ]ias8, and not come forward 
 till it sidted him to do f<>. As to my elder 
 brother's death, he must h.ive heard of that, 
 for it was mentioned in all the papers at the 
 time, and, wl'.at is more, notices of it were iu> 
 scrtcd in tlic leading journals on the Conti- 
 nent and in America, i^o, you hcc, as it is 
 possible that ho may be alive, it is also pos- 
 sible that I may not be the rightful owner of 
 the Ituthven estates ; and, if ho should over 
 appear, I should have to give them all up to 
 him. The jirobability of his appearance is 
 certaiidy somewhat remote, but still 1 thought 
 it my duty to oxplaii; tliis matter." 
 
 To all this Bernal Mordaunt listened with 
 a pleasant smile. 
 
 " -My dear boy," said he, as Gwyn ' hed, 
 " I am grateful to you fcr your Iran ii.d 
 
 for your conlidcncc. At the sam \U 
 
 this makes not the sligjitest difl'crcnce m my 
 feelings. \Vhen I accepted the proposal which 
 you uiadc, it was not tlic baronet that I rc- 
 gaidod, or the heir of the Uuihvcn estates, 
 but the young man Gwyn Kulhven, whom I 
 consider as a noble-hearted and loyal gentle- 
 man, and whom I esteem, not for what he has, 
 but for what Le ta. I assure you that it makes 
 no diQereiice to me whether you are rich or 
 poor. TLe life that I have lived, and the 
 principles that have animated mc, have all 
 caused me to regard riches as of less im- 
 portance than the world supposes. Inez has 
 Mordaunt Manor; and, it you should be 
 stripped of every thing, this would remain, 
 and this would be enough, i^o do not let any 
 considerations of this sort interfere with you" 
 Lopes and plans. If you love Lcr, go and 
 try to win Lcr. If she accepts you, I give 
 you my blessing, liut, as for this aiissing 
 brother of whom you speak, of course you 
 have duties there, which I am sure you Lave 
 already tried to fulfil." 
 
 " You arc right," said Gwyn, earnestly ; 
 " I Lave tried to find Lim. I have sent out 
 notices, and Lave even commuiucatcd witli 
 tLe police in Paris, in Vienna, in New York, 
 and in several otLer places. If Le is alive, 
 tLe place is Lis, and I am ready to give it 
 up." 
 
 " My boy," said Bernal Morduunt, in tones 
 more tender than any which Le Lad ever, tLus 
 far, used to Cwyn, " once upon a time, many 
 ycirs ogo, y ur fatLcr and I mode an agree- 
 
I'IMAL Arj-'KCTIO.V. 
 
 115 
 
 I lie of lifo 
 lie would 
 
 30 /'orwarU 
 
 ' my t'lJcr 
 |J or that, 
 
 era ot thu 
 
 Jit wcro ill- 
 
 lllio Couti- 
 
 |(--, a.s it in 
 
 also pos- 
 
 owner of 
 lould ever 
 
 uU up to 
 taranco is 
 
 I 1 tll0U''llt 
 
 rnent. Wo wore very old friend.-'. Wo were 
 boys together. Wo wrio togcllier iit Ktoii, 
 at Miigdalen College, Oxford, and in the siime 
 reginieiit in the arn)y for a few years. We 
 married at about the dume lime. I lived hero, 
 ho in I,(;n(Ion; but, though our fiiiiilifs wore 
 tcparatod, he and I Haw very much of one an- 
 other, and kept up our fiifud.diip. I reniera- 
 bcr your brothers. <in my last visit to Lou- 
 don, where hi* duties kept lilni for tlic greater 
 part of the year, they were at home — Bruce 
 and Kane, lino, maidy boys, though Ilruco was 
 not much to my taste. It was Kane that I 
 admired. You, Gvvyn, must have been a 
 baby. I didn't see you. Vour father and I 
 ■were speaking of our ehiUlren. He had only 
 Bons ; I had oidy daughters. Wo thought 
 that it would be a good thing if cue of bis 
 sons should marry oue of my daughters, and 
 tlius join those two noble estates. We talked 
 it over with enthusiasm, and wo both agreed 
 tliat it would be too desirable a thing to neg- 
 lect; a;id we parted with the wish that it 
 luiglit eventually result in this. Alas ! man 
 proposes, but God disposes: our Uvea were 
 strangely altered from what we autioipatod, 
 and I never saw liira again. But in you, my 
 dear boy, I see him ; and, when I first saw 
 you wiih Diy sweet Inez, I could not help 
 wishing that the old hope of yoai'S ago might 
 be fulfdled in you and her. Still, you must 
 remember that it is not the union of the es- 
 tates that I now regard ; those things I con- 
 sider as of small im])ortance, in comparison 
 with the welfare of my sweet Inez. As to 
 your brother, ii' there is any mode of search 
 that you can yet think of, you had better try 
 it. — And that was the end of poor Kano ? 
 And such a noble boy ! Poor lad ! poor, poor 
 lad I " 
 
 "You may rely upon it," said Gwyn, " if 
 there is any conceivable way by which I may 
 hear of him, I will make use of it." 
 
 " I know that, of course, my boy," said 
 Bernal Mordaunt, kindly. 
 
 After tliis there was a new tenderness on 
 Bernal Mordaunt's part toward Bessie, wliieh 
 also citended itself to Gwyn. The two young 
 people had evidently come to an understand- 
 ing; and Bernal Mordaunt, in all his words 
 and looks, showed plainly that he was well 
 pleased for this to be bo. 
 
 " Gwyn, ray dear boy," said he, one day, 
 taking advantage of an occasion on which 
 they happened to be alone, " I wish to ."(peak 
 
 to you about that subject wliieh we were dis- 
 cussing the other day. You know how dear 
 to my lieart is the welfare of my beloved 
 Inoz. Kvery day I thii.'k of it more and 
 more, and all the mure as I foel that my own 
 end is approaching." 
 
 " t) sir 1" began Gwyn ; but Bernal Mor- 
 daunt checked him. 
 
 " Xo, no," said he, " I know well what 
 you wish to say, but it is not neccssarj'. Jle- 
 iiove me, my own feelings in this matter are 
 a sure guide. .See how it is witli mo. See 
 how much weaker I now ain than I was when 
 you lirst knew mo. I came home somewhat 
 broken in health, it is true, yet still not so 
 much invalided but that 1 might indulge in a 
 reasonable hope of recovery. I had worked 
 hard an I ullere<l much, yet not more so than 
 many oi my brethren in the same holy cause. 
 Under ordinary circumstances I might hope 
 for a complete restoration to Iicaltli from a 
 return to Europe. Indeed, the voyage home 
 proved wonderfully bonelicial, so much so 
 that, when I reached Koine, I was congratu- 
 lated by every one on my vigor and energy. I 
 went to Paris and to London, and ray health 
 continued to improve in spile of bad news 
 which I heard, and distressing doubts, and 
 greit fatigue. When I came here I felt 
 strong. 
 
 " Yet all these hopes which I had formed 
 of renewed health and prolonged life, it has 
 pleased Heaven to make of no avail. It may 
 be that the purpose which lay before me 
 called forth certain latent energies, the exer- 
 cise of which was beneficial ; and that, when 
 all was gained, and there was liothing more 
 to work for, the cessation of the play of 
 these energies threw rae back upon my- 
 self, and left me to sink helplessly into this 
 weakness where I now find myself. I put it 
 in this way, for I know no other way in which 
 I may account for it, yet still, whatever be the 
 cause, it is a fact that, since my return to 
 Mordaunt Manor, I have grown steadily worse 
 and worse every day. At this moment I feel 
 a profound weakness and a failure of vital 
 power, which I am sure must soon have a 
 fatal result. There is no help for it. You 
 know, for you have seen, how tenderly, how 
 assiduously, how devotedly, my sweet Inez 
 has nursed me and cared for me. My very 
 food comes from her hands. Her deep love 
 for me will allow no other hands than her 
 own to prepare certain little dainties which 
 
pr 
 
 
 m I 
 
 116 
 
 AX OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 she knows I like. She watches me night and 
 day. She hovers around me iaecsaantly. And 
 yet, what can she do ? If tcndcrest love could 
 restore me, hers would do it; but, as it is, 
 Gwyn" — and Bernal Mordaunt's face assumed 
 a look which afterward haunted Gwyn for 
 many a day — " as it is, it really sccma as if 
 all her fond care and all her assiduous atten- 
 tion only served to draw me down more sur ly 
 to death. 
 
 "And now, Gwyn, my dear boy," ho con- 
 tinued, after a ^uuso, " what I wish lo say is 
 this : My days I feel are numbered. I must 
 soon leave her ; but, before I go, it is the 
 or.e desire of my heart to see her future se- 
 cured ; to see her, in short, under your pro- 
 tection before she loses mine. I mention 
 this, my dear boy, because I have it so inueh 
 at heart, and because it really seems to ir.o 
 that, if this were accomplished, I should die 
 content. Will you noi, try to do what you 
 can to persuade her to grant this desire of 
 the father whom she loves so tenderly ? " 
 
 " Oh, come," said Gwyn, " I real!/ think 
 you take too desponding a v'.ew of things, 
 and, as to what you mention, I'm sure I'd give 
 my eyes if I could only induce her to consent. 
 Perhaps, if you mentioned it to her, she might 
 be more willing to listci to me." 
 
 " I think I had better do so," said Bernal 
 Mordaunt, thoughtfully. 
 
 CILVrTER XXVIII. 
 
 SELF-SACRIFICE. 
 
 I« 
 
 The matter upon which Pcrnal Moi-dnunt 
 had spoken to Sir Gwyn waa one which had 
 been prominent in hh thougl>ts before, and 
 remained af'erwavd a subject of still more 
 absorbing importance. Jlis deep love fur his 
 daughter forced him to dwell upon this idea; 
 and the more he felt his own inceaaing 
 weakness, the more anxious he w.s to secure 
 his daughter's future before hf, jhould leave 
 her fo'evcr. All that be ha('i said to Sir 
 Gwyn ho felt to be tiiio. It was true that 
 his health had improved after leaving the 
 E.''st, and that he had constantly gained 
 strength up to that moment wlien he had 
 reached Mordaunt Manor. It was truo that, 
 since that time, a change had taken place for 
 tho worst, and that ever since ho had steadily 
 and uniiitcrraptedly grown weaker ; and, con- 
 
 sequently, if ho looked forward to the worst, 
 and confidently expected that death alono 
 could end this, he was justilied in his opin- 
 ion. What might be the cause of this change 
 for the worse Bernal Mordaunt hhnsclf did 
 not know. It might be supposed that the 
 pleasant surroundings of home, the perfect 
 rest and calm, and, above all, tho unwearied 
 attentions of Bessie, would have had nothing 
 l)ut a beneficial effect upon him ; yet Bernal 
 Mordaunt had plainly stated his belief that 
 they had produced upon him an ciTcct which 
 was the very opposite. 
 
 But his daughter's future was now tlio 
 chief thing upon his mind, and soon he felt 
 too impatient to postpone any further tho 
 arrangement which ho longed to have made. 
 
 " My dearest Inez," said he, one evening, 
 after Sir Gwyn h.A left them, " there is some- 
 thing that I wish to speak to you about." 
 
 " What is it, papa dear ? " said Bessie. 
 
 They were alone together — he in an arm- 
 chair, she on a stool at his feet — and, as he 
 spoke, she put her little hand in his. Do 
 pressed it between his own, and went on : 
 
 " It concerns you, my dearest Inez, and 
 is, therefore, the fondest wish of my heart. 
 You see how I am now and how I have been, 
 dear, since my return home. T grow weakjr 
 and wi akcr every day, and I cannot hdp 
 looking forward to tho time when I shall 
 have to leave you." 
 
 " Leave me, papa dearest ? Why, what 
 do you 'nean ? What arc you going to Ic.avp 
 me for ? Aie you tired of me ? Are tou 
 going back to those horrid Chinamen and 
 Turks ? You shall never go near them, or, 
 if you do, I will go with you, so I will." 
 
 Bernal Mordaunt shook his head mourn- 
 fully. 
 
 " I meant a difl'orenf journey, Inez dar- 
 ling," said he, • ind oro on which no earthly 
 friend, however truo ."nd loving, could ever 
 accompany me. It is a journey which I and 
 you and all must go alone, and that journey 
 is nearer, I think, now than ever it was be- 
 fore ; and thla is the journey that I speak of; 
 and I do not wish to go on it until I accom- 
 plish something that is very important." 
 
 At this, Bessie r^ithdrcw her hand, and 
 clasped this and the other together. Then, 
 shrinking back, she fixed her large blue cyea 
 on Bernal Mordaunt witli a look of fear. 
 
 " 0, papa ! " she cried. " 0, papa ! dear, 
 dearest papa t how horrid it is for you to 
 
tlic worst, 
 ;alh ulono 
 1 Lis opiu- 
 bis chansre 
 limself (lid 
 d tliat the 
 ,hc perfect 
 unwearied 
 ad nothing 
 yet Bernal 
 belief that 
 ffcct which 
 
 s now the 
 oon ho felt 
 further the 
 ave made, 
 ne evening, 
 jrc is scme- 
 nbout." 
 il Bessie, 
 in an arm- 
 -and, as he 
 in his. lie 
 cnt on : 
 It Inez, and 
 if my heart. 
 [ have been, 
 ;row weak 2r 
 ;annot hdp 
 hen I shall 
 
 Wliy, what 
 ling to Icavp 
 ? Arc Tou 
 inarncn and 
 ar thcra, or, 
 
 : will." 
 
 lead raouru- 
 
 y, Inez dar- 
 h no earthly 
 ;, could ever 
 
 which I and 
 that journey 
 T it waa be- 
 t I speak of; 
 itil I accoin- 
 ortant." 
 LT hand, and 
 ;ther. Then, 
 rgc blue eycfl 
 
 of fear. 
 , papa ! dear, 
 3 for you to 
 
im 
 
 i ■ 
 
 1:1 
 
 I 'I. 
 

 SELF-SACRIFICE. 
 
 liy 
 
 ^ 
 
 Nb 
 
 talk so! 0, papa! wljy do you talk so? 
 0, papa ! what makes jou eo cruel ? You 
 canuot mean what you say. It's false, so it 
 in. You're not worse, at all, at all. Oh, how 
 terrible it is for you to speak such words, and 
 sure but it's meself that's the heart-broken 
 girl this day ! " 
 
 " My dearest child," said Bernal Mordaunt, 
 leaning forward and placing Iiis hand tenderly 
 on her golden, rippling hair, " my own Inez, 
 these things must be said. If there is a sor- 
 row to como, it is better to be prepared." 
 
 " But I don't want any sorrow to come," 
 said Bessie, " and I ca.n't bear it. If any 
 sorrow comes, I'm sure I shall die." 
 
 Bernal Mordaunt sighed. The thought of 
 her loving and tender nature was too much 
 for him. She was so profound and absorbed 
 in her affection. How could this slender 
 young girl, whoso whole nature seemed made 
 up of tenderness, who lived only to love or 
 be loved, bear the rude shock of affliction, of 
 bereavement ? 
 
 " My sweet child," said he, in a tremulous 
 voice, " Heaven knows how gladly I would do 
 any thing to save you from sorrow — how 
 gladly I vrould put myself between you and 
 every possible evil. But such things cannot 
 be. and there are none so pure and so inno- 
 cent but that they must bear their share of 
 tiie ills of our common humanity. If I am to 
 leave you, and if my loss gives you such sor- 
 row, I might almost regret, for your sake, 
 Inez dearest, that I ever came home, and 
 called forth so much love from you, only to 
 wring your tender heart ; yet, for my own 
 Bake, I canuot hut rejoice that I have found 
 you and known you, and felt your tender love 
 before I go." 
 
 At this Bessie bowed herself down and 
 hid her face in her hands. Ilor form trem- 
 bled violently, and gave signs of deep emo- 
 tion. 
 
 Bernal Morlaunt was himself overcome 
 by the sight of this, and therefore changed 
 the conversation to something else. 
 
 A few days al'terward, however, he re- 
 turned to the point, and this time ho did not 
 dwell 80 much upon that mournful theme 
 which proved so painful to Bessie. 
 
 " You see, my dearest Inez," said he, 
 after some preliminary explanations, " how 
 my heart is set upon this. I really sulTer 
 from the thought that your only protector 
 and guardian is a feeble old man. .Vow, if 
 
 any thing should happen to me, what would 
 become of you ? " 
 
 " But nothing sh.all happen to you, papa 
 dearest ; and if any thing should, why — why 
 — I — I — don't — don't want any thing to be- 
 come of me at all. I waut to lie down and 
 die, so I do, and there you have it." 
 
 " I know well your devoted love, my owa 
 darling daughter," said Bernal Mordaunt, 
 fondly, yet sadly, " but I am now speaking 
 about my own feelings. I may be utterly in 
 the wrong about myself and my health, as 
 you say I am ; yet still I feel this way. Kow, 
 my own child, you always think of my wishes 
 and make them your law. Do you think that 
 you would grant a request of mine which lies 
 very near my heart ? " 
 
 Bessie looked up with childish iuno- 
 cence. 
 
 " What is it, papa dear ? " she asked. 
 
 " It is this, my child : I wish to see you 
 with some protector — less frail and feeble 
 than I am. I might nominate a guardian, but 
 I know of none. Poor Wyverne is gone. 
 Xono of my acquaintances here arc congenial 
 I |it one; and it is this one under whoso 
 g , irdiauship I should like to see you before I 
 — before I grow aTiy worse." 
 
 "Who is he |:\pa, dear?" asked Bessie, 
 in the most un. -.picious manner. 
 
 " Our dear friend (Iwyn." 
 
 "Gwyn!" exclaimed Bessie, ''my guar- 
 dian ! " She looked at him in astonishment. 
 
 " Yes my dearest Inez. lie shall be your 
 guardian, the kind of guardian » liich his love 
 for you and your feelings tov ;ird him would 
 make most fitting. In short, the highest de- 
 sire of my life is to see you his wife before I 
 grow worse." 
 
 At this Bessie buried hor Av' lu her 
 hands, bowed down, and said imi i «ord. 
 
 " You are betrothed, why should you 
 wait? Why not grant an old man's wish 
 when it lies so near hit; heart ? This is my 
 strongest desire, Inez darling. You will not 
 refuse it when 1 ask it so earnestly. And it 
 is nil for your own sake. Can you decide 
 now ? " 
 
 " Oh, papa ! dear, dear papa ! I do so wish 
 that you would get this absurd idea out of 
 your head." 
 
 " It's my wish, dearest Inez," said Mor- 
 daunt, earnestly. 
 
 " Oh, papa dear, how you do put things I 
 You know how oa''iM' I always am to do even 
 
118 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 E 
 
 Hi 
 
 the slightest little thing that you want me to, 
 but this is like asking inc to depcrt you, and 
 how can I possibly do that ? No, papa — my 
 own papa — I know that poor dear Gwyn is 
 awfully fond of me, and I like him too, and I 
 have told him so ; but if it comes to Icaying 
 you, papa dearest-, why I won't, .ind I'd give 
 him up bcforo you, so I would, and there you 
 have it." 
 
 Saying this, I?es»io seized Mordauut's 
 hands, and, hiding her face in them, she 
 covered them with kisses. Tears stood in 
 Mordaunt's eyes ; the devotion of this daugh- 
 ter was wonderful. His father's heart yearned 
 over her with inexpressible tenderness ; and 
 yet out of that very tenderness he still was 
 firm in his resolve to exert ail his power to 
 bring the marriage about. It was for her 
 sake. Should he die, the marriage would be 
 postponed for a long time, and during such a 
 postponement it might be prevented altogeth- 
 er by some casualty. 
 
 All this he pointed out to Bessie, and, to- 
 gether with this, he brought forward other 
 persuasives, but urged most of all his own 
 wish, which, whether reasonable or unrea- 
 sonable, was so set upon this that a disap- 
 pointment would grieve him sorely. One by 
 one Bessie's objections and scruples, and 
 they wore mary, were argued away or set 
 aside, and at last she had no other resource 
 than to assent. Yet, even then, she made a 
 most express stipulation that her marriage 
 with Sir Gwyn should make no difTerenea in 
 their mode of life — that they should still live 
 at Mordaunt Manor, and that she should be 
 his nurse and his attendant as before. To 
 these things Mordaunt consented, and Sir 
 Gwyn was only too glad to win Bessie under 
 any circumstances. 
 
 Having thus gained Bessie's consent, Mor- 
 daunt was urgent in pressing her to arrange 
 it at an early date. His own health now de- 
 clined even more rapidly, and this made him 
 all the more impatient. Sir Gwyn, also, who 
 saw Mordaunt's impatience, united his own 
 ardent entreaties, and Bessie was unable to 
 refuse. 
 
 The marriage thus took place about a 
 month after Mordaunt had gained Bessie's 
 acquiescence. Prominent among those who 
 witnessed the ceremony was Mordaunt, who 
 sat in p chair in the centre aisle, propped up 
 ■with pillows. His strength had failed so 
 much that he had come to this. But the ef- 
 
 fort was too much, and he was so exhausted 
 that on his way home he fainted. 
 
 Sir Gwyn and Lady Ruthven went on a 
 short tour through the Highlands, but were 
 not gone more than a fortnight. Bessie's 
 anxiety would not allow her to remain away 
 longer. She hud to flyback to her "dear, 
 dear papa." Mordaunt seemed somewhat 
 better, in spite of the over-exertion at the 
 wedding. Titero was more strength in his 
 frame, more color in his cheeks. When the 
 bridal pair left, he was unable to stand alone. 
 Now he could walk about the house, and up 
 and down the piazza. 
 
 Sir Gwyn was overjoyed, and Bessie ex- 
 pressed herself in terms of the highest de- 
 light. 
 
 Encouraging as this improvement in Jlor- 
 daunt was, however, it proved but tempo- 
 rary ; and Bessie had scarce resumed her 
 former fond attendance upon her " dearest, 
 darling papa," when the strength that hail 
 begun to return, once more began to leave 
 him. This created the deepest dejection in 
 him. lie had begun to hope. All hope 
 seemed now to be gone. 
 
 Lady Ruthven received the congratulatory 
 visits of the country people, who found her in 
 her new dignity more charming than ev^r. 
 But the universal popularity whie'i she had 
 gained in no way changed the simplicity of 
 her character and mann';r. There was no 
 affectation, nor was there a'ly attempt to lay 
 aside the little peculiarities which had al- 
 ways formed at once her di-itinction and no 
 little of her charm. 
 
 Nor did the new social duties which now 
 devolved upon her draw Lady I'aithven awuy 
 from tliose duties to which Bessie had been 
 so devoted. Mordaunt uaw, with mT* •''ndcr- 
 ness, that her promise to him had not been a 
 vain one; and that the husband had n(!t 
 eclipsed the father. To Mordaunt she al- 
 lotted nmre time than either to her husband 
 or to the world. The attendant physicians 
 thouglit that her unremitting care had pro- 
 long('(l tlie old man's life beyond what would 
 have been its term under other circum- 
 stauees; and society, which already ad- 
 mired her for her beauty and amiability, now 
 adored her for her tendiT devotion and her 
 filial piety. Gwyn, also, in winning the 
 daughter, had not forgotten the father; but, 
 as the lover had been, so was the husband, 
 :ind he fimiKl the society of his wife none the 
 
pxliausted 
 
 rent on a 
 
 but wore 
 
 I3essie'3 
 
 lain nway 
 
 fer "dear, 
 
 somewhat 
 
 |on nt tho 
 
 :th in Jiia 
 
 JWIicn the 
 
 land alone. 
 
 fee, and up 
 
 SELF-SACRIFICE. 
 
 119 
 
 less pleasant in Mordauni'.s cliambci" tlian else- 
 where. 
 
 But Monlaunt's day^ wero numbered. 
 This was evident. IIo knew it himself. 
 Owyn knew it. Bessie tried to reject the 
 belief, but it could be seen tliat she dreaded 
 tiie worst. There was about her, at times, 
 a hurried nervousness, a dreamy abstraction, 
 a fearful, furtive glance, unlike any thing that 
 had ever before been seen in her by her 
 friends. Gwyn noticed this, and urged her 
 in his loving way to take more rest, but Bes- 
 sie turned it off with a smile and a sigh. 
 
 llordaunt's days were numbered. Since 
 the return of tho newly-married pair, his 
 strength began to fail him, and he descended 
 by ever-accelerated degrees down toward tho 
 last verge of life. But, with each succeeding 
 stage of weakness, Bessie's caro grew more 
 and more unremitting. At length she had to 
 deny herself to all visitors, and confine her- 
 self to Mordaunt's chamber. 
 
 As the old man descended deeper and 
 deeper into tho dark waters of death, his 
 heart still turned with yearning affection and 
 inexpressible gratitude to tliis bright young 
 being whoso love had so glorified the last 
 days of his life. lie had come home, as he 
 now saW; to die ; but how sweet it was to de- 
 scend to death in such society ; to feel her 
 soft touch, to hear her voice of love, her 
 low-breathed tones of tender affection, all 
 tho way ! To the worn-out man death that 
 came in this way could scarce bo deemed 
 unwelcome. Could any death bo better or 
 brighter ? 
 
 It was Bessie who thus cheered his last 
 hours. She read to him when iio wished it. 
 She Bung to him the hymns or the chants 
 which he loved — hymns and chants which she 
 had already learned for liis sake. He loved 
 to listen to licr voice as she thus sung, clasp- 
 ing licr hand tho while as though he gathered 
 strength from her. She also, as always be- 
 fore, poured out all his draughts, ond admin- 
 istered to him all his medicines. This was a 
 privilege which she had claimed from the 
 first, and the old man expected it ; and, dur- 
 ing her absence on the bridal tour, he missed 
 this tender attention, even iliough his health 
 had been better without it. 
 
 So the days passed, and Bessie showed her 
 tender and solicitous love. 
 
 Thus the last hour drew near. 
 
 For a whole day ho had been at the verge 
 
 cf dissolution. Bessie had refused to leave 
 his bedside. She Sat there, holding his hand, 
 and wiping the cold dews of death from his 
 brow. In that same room was Gwyn, watch- 
 ing tho dying face of Mordaunt ; watching 
 iilso the pale face of his devoted wife, who in 
 her deep love for a father thought nothing of 
 herself. He was afraid of tho reaction from 
 all this ; yet he did not know what to do. Bes- 
 sie refused to leave the room till all was over ; 
 and he knew not what arguments to bring 
 forward at ouch a time. Tho family physi- 
 cian was also there, counting the moments 
 that might elapse till all should be over, and 
 looking wilh unfeigned emotion upon the 
 scene before him, where tho daughter clung 
 so to the dying father, as though she would 
 drag him back from death unto life. 
 
 Suddenly the dying man opened his eyes, 
 and fixed them on Bessie. His lipa moved. 
 She bent down low to listen. 
 
 " Inez," said ho. 
 
 " Yes, papa dearest," said Bessie. , 
 
 Mordaunt stared at her. 
 
 " You are not Inez!" said he, in a voice 
 which was audible to all in the room. 
 
 Bessie shook her head mournfully, and 
 looked at her husband. 
 
 " His mind is wandering still, poor papa! 
 lie is thinking of poor, dear, darling mamma, 
 so he is. Her name was Inez, too, the same 
 as mine." 
 
 Mordaunt's eyes closed. 
 
 After about an hour he opened them 
 oneo more, and again they rested on Bessie. 
 Those who looked at his face now sa .hat 
 the last great change had come over it. Death- 
 struck was that face now, yet the eyes were 
 full of intelligence, and beamed with inex- 
 pressible tenderness as they rested on Bessie. 
 
 " Inez — dearest — best — daughter!" he 
 said. 
 
 Bessie bent down low over him. 
 
 " Kiss — me — Inez ! " 
 
 Bessie pressed her lips to hia cold fore- 
 head. 
 
 Such were the last words of Bernai Mor- 
 daunt. He was buried in a manner worthy 
 of the great house of which he was the last 
 representative. 
 
 Lady Ruthven was great!;' prostrated by 
 this last blow, yet she rallied from it with un- 
 expected rapidity. But the melancholy CTcnt 
 that had just occurred made Mordaunt Manor 
 distasteful to her now ; and so she yielded to 
 
m 
 
 AN OPEN' QUESTION. 
 
 her husband's earnest solicitations, and went 
 with liim to take up her permanent abode at 
 Ruthvcn Towers. 
 
 1 
 
 
 fi 
 
 CIIArTER XXIX. 
 
 A STRANGE MEETING. 
 
 The letter which Blake had written was 
 dplivcrcd to Kane Ilellmuth on the following 
 day. It excited much surprise on the part 
 of the latter, and for a twofold reason : first, 
 because his friend's departure was so sud- 
 den ; and, secondly, because the letter itself 
 was so incoherent and unsatisfactory. The 
 construction of the sentences was most con- 
 fused and awkward ; and it was impossible to 
 find out where he had gone, and what he had 
 gone for. Kane Ilellmuth could not suspect 
 so frank a nature as t'-at of Blake of any 
 thing like deceit ; .and, if the letter was am- 
 biguous or unintelligible, he chose rather to 
 attribute it to haste, or sleepiness, on the 
 part of the writer. He had seen him on the 
 previous day, and Blake had made no men- 
 tion of any thing of the hind ; nor did he 
 seem to have any idea of going on a journey. 
 He was certainly a little abstracted in his 
 manner, for Kane Ilellmuth's own cares had 
 not altogether prevented him from noticing 
 that ; but this may have arisen from his anx- 
 iety about his mother, from whom, as he him- 
 self had said, he had not heard for some time. 
 lie could only understand this mysterious let- 
 ter by supposing that some friend of Blake's 
 had written to him, or come to him, and given 
 him information of some sudden opening 
 which he had to accept at once. Thinking, 
 therefore, that Blako would either be back, 
 or write more fully before long, he put the 
 letter away, and waited in the expectation of 
 hearing more. 
 
 Days passed, however, and weeks also, 
 and even months, without any further com- 
 munication. This surprised Kane Hellmuth, 
 for he had expected dillorcnt things ; and, 
 taken in connection with the inoolit'cnt let- 
 ter, it gave him some anxiety. He also felt 
 this another way, for hn had conceived a 
 Strong regard for his friend, and liked to run 
 in to see him, f"' liave him drop in to his own 
 apartmentn. The matter, therefore, took up 
 a good uiiare of his thoughts, and he could 
 not help the suspicion that there was some 
 
 evil involved in this sudden and mysterious 
 flight. Whal it could be ho did not know, 
 I'jr he was not aware of any circumstances 
 which migtit inspire any one with evil de8i;:ns 
 against him; and so, in default of other 
 things, his mind dwelt upon that strange in- 
 tercourse which Blake had held with Mr. Wy- 
 verne, which was terminated by the wonder- 
 ful declaration of the latter, and his death. 
 Although he had heard Father JIagrath's ex- 
 planation of that affair, and fully believed it, 
 yet still, in spite of this, he could not help 
 connecting it in some way with Blake'., pres- 
 ent disappearance, and the thought occurred 
 to him often and often that if, after all, it 
 were true, Blake might have enemies ; though 
 who they could be, and what motive for en- 
 mity they could possibly have, was utterly be- 
 yond his comprehension. 
 
 Thus the time passed, and as the months 
 went by without any news from his filcnd, ho 
 began to fear the worst, thougii such was his 
 ignorance of Blake's movements that he did 
 not know what to do to search him out. The 
 eoncierffe of the house where Blake had 
 stopped could tell him nothing except that on 
 a certain morning he had gone in company 
 with another person, and had left directions 
 that his trunk should b? taken care of. He 
 did not know wlio the other person was, and 
 the description which he gave of him afforded 
 no intelligence to Kane Hellmuth. To the 
 police it was, of course, useless to apply, for 
 the meagre information which he could sup- 
 ply them with would not be enough to yield 
 them any clew by which they might be guided 
 to a search. His lielplcssucss in this matter 
 was therefore complete, and that very help- 
 lessness made the whole affair more painful 
 to him. 
 
 Before this he had been the prey of one 
 great and ciigrosslng trouble, which aro.^o 
 from that mysterious and inexplienblo appa- 
 rition whose visitations he had described to 
 Blake. Now this new trouble had taken up 
 his thoughts more and more, until at lengtji 
 his own affair had come to occupy but a 
 small portion of his attention. It .vas not 
 forgotten by any means ; it was only pushed 
 over into a subordinate i)lace, and ceased to 
 be a supremo core. The possible evil im- 
 pending over Blako seomod to him more for- 
 midable than any thing that could arise from 
 his own experiences ; and so it was that, in 
 the mystery which had gathered around Hlake, 
 
A STRANGE MKHTIXG. 
 
 131 
 
 jystcrloiis 
 not know, 
 imstances 
 il de8i;2iia 
 of otlicr 
 range in- 
 Mr. Wy. 
 won do r- 
 i.s (U'.-itli. 
 ratli's cx- 
 ievcd it, 
 nof lie)]) 
 kc'„ prc?- 
 occurred 
 rter all, it 
 thoiigli 
 vc for cii- 
 ittci'lv be- 
 
 his own peculiar mystery had grown to be a 
 matter of minor importance. 
 
 Such was the state of Kane Ilcllmuth's 
 mind, when one day lie was wandering through 
 the streets on the way to hi3 rooms. IIo was 
 approaching the street up which he intended 
 to turn, a:\il was about six feet from the cor- 
 ner, when suddenly at the opposite corner ho 
 caught sight of a figure which at once drove 
 from bis mind all thoughts of Blake, and re- 
 stored in its fullest intensity all those myste- 
 rious feelings which he had described in nar- 
 rating his story of the apparition. It was a 
 female figure. The face was thin, and pallid, 
 and careworn ; the eyes were large and dark, 
 and rested for a mor it upon him. The 
 very first glance showed nim that this was 
 the face of his " apparition " in very truth, 
 and beyond a doubt ; and so profound was 
 the shock that, for a moment, as he stared 
 back, he felt rooted to the spot. 
 
 But about this apparition there were cer- 
 tain peculiarities of an important kind. The 
 face was precisely the same — the same pallor 
 — the same deep, dark eyes — the same fixed, 
 unfathomable gaze ; yet in other things a 
 change was observable. The expression was 
 no longer one of reproach ; it was rather one 
 of sudden terror — a terror like his own ; the 
 glance was not long and s\istai.ied — it was 
 rather furtive and hasty. Moreover, tliough 
 this apparition was dressed in black, it was 
 not the costume of a nun ; it was simple and 
 sober, yet it was the fashion of the day ; and 
 this change from the weird and unfamiliar, to 
 the commonplace and familiar, of itself wont 
 far to steady Kane IlcUmuth's nerves, and 
 prevent him from sinking into that lament- 
 able weakness which liad characterized his 
 former meetings vdth this mysterious boini;. 
 
 lie stopped there for a moiront, rooteu to 
 the spot, with his brain in a wh;vi, and oil Vcs 
 former feelings overwhelming hir.i; ' ., the 
 cn?otiou was more short-lived tha;' before, 
 since these changes in the form and fi'shion 
 and expression of the figure were notiood at 
 once, and went far to reassure him. Tlio 
 figure threw one hasty, furtive look at him, 
 aud then, sharply turning the opposite corner, 
 walked q\iickly up the street. 
 
 In an instant Kane Ildlmuth started in pur- 
 suit. It was an irresistible fascination that drew 
 Lim on. He was resolved now to do what he 
 could to fathom tliis mystery that so long had 
 troubled him. Every step that he took seemed 
 
 to bring back his presence of mind, and drive 
 away those feelings of superstitious terror 
 that had at firnt been thrown over his soul. 
 Every step that he took seemed to show him 
 that he was the stronger, and that the other 
 was the weaker. Every thing was now 
 on his side. Surrounding ciicumstances 
 favored him. It was broad day. It was a 
 public street, on which people were passing 
 to and fro, and the ordinary every-day traffic 
 was going on. There was no chance here for 
 any of that jugglery which might deceive the 
 senses ; or any of those associations of night, 
 and gloom, and solemnity, which on the last 
 memorable meeting had baffled his search. 
 Moreover, the face of the Figure was turned 
 away. It was Its back that he saw. Tho 
 Figure moved rapidly on, yet not so rapid- 
 ly but that he could keep up with It, or even 
 overtake It. It seemed to him that ho was 
 the pursuer, and the Figure tho pursued, and 
 that now, if he followed vigorously, all might 
 be at last revealed. 
 
 Kane Ilellmuth thus followed from one cor- 
 ner to the next. Then the Figure crossed the 
 street to the opposite corner. He followed. 
 Then tho Figure turned, and fixed its eyes 
 again on Kane Hellmutli. It was the same 
 glance as before, intensified. It was a sud- 
 den glance, and one, too, which showed signs 
 of unmistakable fear. Yet tho face was the 
 same — it was the face of his apparition — the 
 face that had haunted him for years — the face 
 that was associated with tho brightest and 
 tho darkest hom-" o*" all Ms life. The look of 
 fea*" was something new, yet it seemed to 
 heighten his own rosjlulion and strengthen 
 his o>vn heart ; for now it seemed as though 
 the tables had been turned, and all the fear 
 which onco Jiad been felt by him had passed 
 over to the other. 
 
 Tho Figure now walked on faster. Evi- 
 dently It was trying to fly from him. Ho 
 himself increased his pace. Easy enough was 
 it for him to keep up even with this utmost 
 exertion of the other. In a race like this ho 
 was the superior. He sa'., li ; he felt if. 
 There was nothing of the supernatural here. 
 Could it indeed be ? Was she, then, alive ? 
 But, if so, why did she fly ? 'What did she 
 mean ? It was a living wnm.an that was 
 before his eyes, fearing him, flying from him, 
 overcome wiih human terror. 
 
 Tho woman hurried on. Kane Hellmuth 
 hurried after. Suddenly she hailed a passing 
 
in 
 
 AX OPEN' QUESTION'. 
 
 i 
 
 call. TIio ciil) drew up at tlio sidewalk. Tlio 
 o;ibmaii got do^vn to open tlie door. Already 
 the woman's liand was on the door, and lier 
 foot was on the curb, when Kane HoUrauth 
 rcaehed the fpofcv lie did not stand on eere- 
 niony. Too deep was his anxiety to learn 
 the tnitli of this matter for hirn to observe 
 any of the pet:y eourtesics of life, lie was 
 not rude or rough ; ho was simply earnest, 
 and in hlg desperate earnestness, awl in his 
 deep longing to know all, he laid his hand 
 suddenly and sharply upon the woman's 
 arm. 
 
 She turned hastily and stared at him, 
 showing a face that was filled with an an- 
 guish of terror. ller lips moved, but no 
 sound escaped them. Tiien, while Kane 
 llellmuth's hand still clutehed her arm, a 
 low moan escaped her, she reeled, and would 
 have fallen if ho had not caught her in his 
 arms. 
 
 The cabman stood by obi'erving this 
 scene calmly. It was no business of his. He 
 did not understand it, of course, but then it 
 ■was often his fortune to be a witncs.s of unin- 
 telligible scenes lilce this. 
 
 Meanwhile, the woman hinig stuseless on 
 Kane llellmuth's arms. For a tnoment he 
 was puzzled what to do. AVhere was her 
 residence? lie did not know. "SVherc should 
 he take her ? No apparition was this — this 
 being of flesh and blood of whose weight he 
 ■was sensible ; but rather a living hunum be- 
 ing. But oh ! wiio — and why had she sought 
 him out ? 
 
 Ho did not hesitate long. lie lilted her 
 into the cab, and then, getting in himself, he 
 gave the cabman his own address. Tlie eab- 
 niau drove there at once, and, as it was 
 not far away, they soon reached the place. 
 Kane llcllmutli then took the woman in his 
 arms, and carried her up to his own apart- 
 nient.-i. Then he sent up the women of the 
 houpe, and waited the result. 
 
 The usual restoratives were applied, and 
 the woman eame out of her senselessness. 
 Fhe looked wildly around, and for some time 
 was unable to comprehend her situation. 
 Then a sudden look of terror came over her 
 face, and she began to implore the women to 
 let her go. 
 
 The women did not know what (o say. 
 Kane Ilollmuth had hurriedly informed tiiem 
 that he had found her fainting in the street, 
 and this Ihev told her. 
 
 " Then I am not a prisoner here ? " said' 
 the woman, eagerly. 
 
 " .V prisoner ! " exclaimed one of the at- 
 tendanis ; " mon Dicu ! no, madame. How 
 is that ]iossible ? Ton may go when and 
 where you please ; only you must rest a few 
 moments. It was a very kind gentleman 
 who brought you here, and sent us up." 
 
 The woman gave a low sigh of relief, and 
 sunk back again. !-'hc had been placed on 
 the sola in Kane llellmuth's room. She was 
 young, and seemed to have sull'ercd much. 
 She v.as evidently a lady. 
 
 Sudilenly she roused herself. 
 
 " Who brought me here 'i " she asked, 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Monsieur Hellmuth,'' said tiie attendant, 
 pronouneiug the name as well as slie could. 
 
 " ITailmeet,'' repeated the lady, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 " Would you like to see him — perhaps he 
 can explain — that there is nothing to 
 fear." 
 
 " I am not a prisoner, then ? " said the 
 lady, eamesth'. 
 
 "Oh, no — a pvi.-oner? Mon Dieu ! im- 
 possible ! " 
 
 " And you are not employed to detain 
 mo ? " " 
 
 " Mon Dicu ! but mademoiselle is rav- 
 ing — that is a thing altogether impossible. 
 I'ut you must see the good Monsieur Hell- 
 mulli. 
 
 With these words the woman who had 
 spoken left the room, and informed Kane 
 Hellmuth that t!ic young lady had come to 
 her senses ; telling him also, what she had 
 said. Her words excited surprise in llell- 
 muth's mind, but he was eager to know all, 
 and so ho at once entered the room. The 
 woman tollowed him, and waited there, to- 
 gether with the other attendant. 
 
 Kane Hellnuith looked earnestly at the 
 pale face before him, and the lady raised her 
 large, dark, melancholy ryes to his face, and 
 regarded 'lim with equal earnestness, though 
 in her look there was an anxious scrutiny 
 and timid inquiry. 15ut the face that she saw 
 seemed to have no terror for her now, and the 
 first look of fear gave place to one of mourn- 
 ful entreaty. 
 
 "Oh, sir," said she, in English, "you arc 
 an Englishman j yoti cannot be capable of in- 
 juring one who never harmed you ! I have 
 sulTi'red enough, and why I do not know.'' 
 

 said 
 
A STRANGE MEETIXG. 
 
 DM 
 
 At this, Kane llelliuuth felt bewildered. 
 This was, indeed, a striingo address from her. 
 lie Raid nothing for n few moments, but re- 
 garded her with a solemn face, and a look in 
 which tliero was nothing; save tenderness and 
 longing. 
 
 "You do not seem to know me," said he, 
 at length, in a mournful tone. 
 
 " I do not," said the lady. " I never saw 
 you before to-day." 
 
 " Are you not Clara Iluthycn ? " asked 
 Kane Ilcllrauth, in a tremulous voiee. 
 
 The lady shook her head. 
 
 "Is it all a mistake, then?" cried Kane 
 Hellmuth, in a voice that was a wail of de- 
 spair. "Are you not my Clara ? Arc you not 
 Clara Mordaunt, who — " 
 
 IIo was interrupted by the lady. At the 
 mention of tlio name of Clara Mordaunt she 
 Btartcil from the sofa to her feet, and stared 
 at him in amazement. 
 
 " Clara Mordaunt ! " she exclaimed. " Clara 
 Mordaunt ! Who are you V What do you 
 know about Clara Mordaunt? Clara Mor- 
 daunt!" she repeated, and again the fright- 
 ened look eame to her face. " Oh, sir, if you 
 are in league with those who have so cruelly 
 wronged me, have pity on me! I'o not, oh, 
 do not detain me ! Let me go. My life is 
 wretched enough, ami my only hope is to 
 have my freedom till I die." 
 
 "Answer mo this," said Kane Ilellniuth, 
 in a hoarse voice, which was tremulous still 
 with deepest emotion. "I am no enemy; I 
 have no evil designs; if you are a strange.', 
 after all, you have nothing to fear from me; 
 If you are in trouble, I swear I will do what I 
 can to help you, but only answer me. If you 
 arc not Clara Kuthven, she who was born 
 Clara Mordaunt, in Heaven's name who arc 
 you, and why have you appeared before mc 
 in so many places ? " 
 
 " I have never appeared before yon," said 
 the lady. " I never saw you before. You ask 
 after Clara Mordaunt. I am not Clara Mor- 
 daunt. Clara Mordaunt is dead. ?lie died 
 ten years ago. Why do you ask me if I am 
 Clara Mordaunt ? " 
 
 " Dead ! " repeated Kane Hellmuth, in a 
 hollow voice. " Well, that is what every one 
 gays, but I swear I never saw in any human 
 face such a resemblance to any other human 
 faeo as there is in yours to the face of Clara 
 Mordaunt ! I5ut what do you mean by saying 
 that you never aj)peared to me before V 
 
 Were you not at Pcre-la- Chaise Ceme- 
 tery ? " 
 
 "Never," said the lady. "I never Ba\f 
 you before." 
 
 " What ! were not you the one that I saw 
 at Xotre-Dame, in the rail-cars, in the Boule- 
 vard where — " 
 
 "You arc utterly mistaken," said tho 
 lady ; " I never saw you before." 
 
 "ITavo you not been here all these years, 
 appearing and disappearing like a phan- 
 tom, reminding mo of one who you say is 
 dead ? " 
 
 " Years ! " said the lady. " I don't un- 
 derstand you. I have been in Paris only 
 three months, though they seem like many, 
 many years. I!ut oh, sir ! you look like otio 
 who would not willingly do a wrong. Your 
 face cannot belie you. Will you tell me what 
 you mean by asking after Clara Mordaunt ? 
 — what you mean by calling her Clara Ruth- 
 ven, and tell mo what she is to you ? " 
 
 " To me ? Heavens ! " said Kane Ilell- 
 muth, " she was so much to me that now it 
 is better not to talk about it. But did you 
 know her ? Will you tell me how it is that 
 you have such an extraordinary likeness to 
 her? If you are not Clara Mordaunt, who 
 are you ? " 
 
 " My fright must have been a mistake," 
 said the lady, looking at Kane Hellmuth with 
 greater interest, "and I can only hope that it 
 has been so. I will tell you who I am, for 
 oh, sir, I think I may trust you. This Clara 
 Mordaunt that you speak of was my own sis- 
 ter, and my name is Inez Mordaunt." 
 
 " Her sister ! Inez Mordaunt ! " cried Kane 
 Hellmuth, in amazement. " Why, she said 
 that her sister Inez was dead ! " 
 
 The lady stared at him. 
 
 "Dead? Did she say that? Then she 
 must have been deceived, like me, all her 
 life. For I, too, lived a life that was all sur- 
 rounded by deceit, and it was only an acci- 
 dent that revealed to me the truth. I was 
 brought «p to believe that my name was Wy- 
 verne, and — " 
 
 But here Kane Hellmuth interrupted 
 her. 
 
 " Wyvcrne ! " he cried. " Wyveme ! 
 Inez Wyverne ! Are you Inez Wyverne ? 
 Oh, Heavens ! what is the meaning of all 
 this ? 
 
 Ho stopped, overwhelmed by a rush of 
 emotion conscriuent upon the mention of that 
 
 \'M 
 
lU 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION'. 
 
 nnine. IIo recalled tlic story of Ulnko, and 
 Diakc's love for tliia girl, wlio had thus so 
 strangely come across his way. lie recalled 
 his conversation with Father Mngrath. lie 
 had heard from him that Inez Wyvernc hud 
 been left penniless, but how had she come 
 liere ? AVhy did she take tlio name of Mor- 
 daunt? How was i; that siie called herself 
 the sister of Clara Mordaunt, his wife ? Who 
 was tlic other Miss ilordaiint whom he had 
 gone to London to see? Was she, too, a sis- 
 ter of his lost Clara f Tliat this Inez was 
 her sister might be proved by her extraor- 
 dinary resemblance, which had led Lira to 
 identify her with the apparition ; and yet it 
 was impossible that she could be identical 
 with that otlior nivHtcrious one, for she had 
 disclaimed it. What was the meaning of 
 this? 
 
 Such were the thoughts of Kane llcUmuth 
 as he stood there staring at this lady whom 
 he had brought here, and who, whether Inez 
 Wyverne or Inez Mordaunt, was equally 
 inexplicable in that bewilderment of Lis 
 thoughts. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE .STOUT OK INKZ. 
 
 Tiii: presence of the attendants acted as a 
 check upon Kane Ilellmuth, and he was quick 
 to perceive that this was neither tlie time nor 
 the place for that full explanation which he 
 wished to liave. There was much to be said 
 on both sides, and he longed to hear her 
 story, both for his own sake, and also for the 
 sake of his friend to whom this Inez was so 
 dear. Such a thing would, however, have to 
 be postponed until another occasion. 
 
 Instead, therefore, of pouring forth that 
 volley of ([uestions which his first impulse 
 prompted him to do, he checked himself, and 
 began to apologize for bringing her to his room, 
 on the ground that it was an utter mistake, 
 which would have to be explained elsewhere. 
 lie informed her that the cab was still wait- 
 ing, and would take her to her lodgings when- 
 ever she wished it. Inez at once accepted 
 the offer with evident gratitude; the fear that 
 Kane Ilellmuth had but recently inspired was 
 nil gone, and she seemed to regard him as one 
 who might be a friend. With her foar much 
 of her weakness had passed, and she was able 
 to walk to the cab without assistance. 
 
 Kano Ilellmuth accompanied Lcr, and 
 Inez seemed to acquiesce in Lis oiler of com- 
 panionship with evident sutisfactiun. As the 
 cab drove olf, notliing was said for a few miu- 
 utes, when at length Kano Ilelluiuth burst 
 forth abruptly with — 
 
 " All this is the most astonisliing thing to 
 nic that can be imagined. When you men- 
 tioned tlio name of Wyvcrne just now, I at 
 once recognized you as one of whom I had 
 heard very much from an intimate friend of 
 mine, who also, I think, is a fiiend of yours — 
 Ur. Uasil Illake." 
 
 " Dr. I'asil lUake ! " exclainipd Inez, eager- 
 ly. " Do you know him ¥ " 
 
 She spoke eagerly and with agitation, and 
 her whole manner showed that Ulako was not 
 without interest in her eyes. 
 
 " liasil IJlakc," said he, " is my intimate 
 friend. On his return from Villeneuve, he in- 
 formed me of what occurred there." 
 
 Inez looked at him earnestly. 
 
 " Are you his friend ? Then, perhaps, ho 
 mentioned your name to me. He used to talk 
 about his friend Kane Ilellmuth.'' 
 
 "I am Kane Ilellmuth." 
 
 At this, Inez looked at liim more earnestly 
 than ever, and her face was overspread wiUi 
 a sudden expression of inexpressible relief. 
 
 " Oh, how glad I am I " she said, simply 
 and innocently. " Oh, I cannot till you, Mr. 
 Ilellmulh, how very, very glad I am. Oh, 
 how fortunate for me this uiccting is ! You 
 cannot imagine what I have sulTered. This 
 very day I have lieon in the darkest despair. 
 Oh, how glad, how glad I am I — And is Dr. 
 Blake here too ? " 
 
 " Well, no — not just now," said Kane Hell- 
 muth.'with some hesitation. "Ho left hero 
 a while ago for the south, on business." 
 
 " Oh, how glad I am ! " said Inez again, 
 speaking half to herself, and in a tone of such 
 innocent and unfeigned joy that Kane Hell- 
 nmth felt touched to the heart ; and it seemed 
 to suggest to him long and severe suffering 
 on her part, out of which she now saw sonic 
 means of escape by his assistanco. 
 
 This a^sistL.ice Lc hastened to promise 
 her, and not Ion;; after they reached their des- 
 tination. The lodgings of Inez were not very 
 far from the pKace where he had first seen 
 her, and were of a kind that seemed suitable 
 to genteel poverty. The room into which ho 
 followed her seemed like a general parlor, 
 and formed one of a suite on the second 
 
lier, and 
 
 flcr of coni- 
 
 oti. As tlio 
 
 a few mill- 
 
 iiiuth burst 
 
 iiiir tiling to 
 ■II vou tncn- 
 •t now, I at 
 
 lioni 1 iiad 
 te friend of 
 
 of yoiii's — 
 
 Inez. 
 
 cngcr. 
 
 itation, and 
 ilvo was uot 
 
 ly intimate 
 ciivc, Le in- 
 
 Jeiliaps, lio 
 • •^ed to talli 
 
 c earnest ijr 
 prcad Willi 
 
 10 relief, 
 liil, simply 
 
 11 J-ou, Mr. 
 am. Oh, 
 
 ; in ! You 
 red. TliiH 
 St despair. 
 iVud is Dr. 
 
 Kane IIcll. 
 I left licro 
 •sa." 
 
 icz again, 
 iioof sueli 
 :iino Hell- 
 it .seemed 
 siifTering 
 saw some 
 
 promi.so 
 tlicirdes- 
 ' not very 
 first seen 
 
 suitable 
 ivhieli ho 
 1 parlor, 
 ! Second 
 
 TlIK CluliX 01' INF.Z. 
 
 r>5 
 
 fldor, hire*], ns she infurined him, by the ludy 
 Vihh whom alio was lodging. 
 
 Situated as these two were with regard to 
 one another, there was very much to be asked 
 and to bo answered on both sides ; nor was 
 it until several interviews that each became 
 aequ;\intcd with the position of the other. 
 The position of Inez was one of so painful a 
 character, that she was eager to tell it all to 
 Kano Ilellmutli, so as to get his assistance ; 
 and lie on his part was eriually an.^ious to tell 
 her his story, partly to explain his late con- 
 duct, and partly from the hope that she might 
 give him some information about the myste- 
 rious apparition which had so troubled Mm. 
 As far as that was concerned, however, Inez 
 was not able to throw any light on it what- 
 ever, and indeed .<he knew less of that " Clara 
 .Mordaunt,'' who'ri she considered her sLstcr, 
 than Kane Ilellmuth himself. There was no 
 way in which Inez could accoimt for the ap- 
 ])arition. If it was ever explained, the expla- 
 nation would have to bo made in soiiio way 
 finite irrespective of her ; and her story showed 
 that she could not have been in Paris at all 
 while those mysterious visitations were oc- 
 curring. 
 
 Ilcr own story, however, was one of 'inch 
 an extraordinary eharaetcr, that it at once 
 aroused his warmest sympathies, and occu- 
 pied most of his thoughts. It was not all 
 told at once, but in the course of various in- 
 terviews; and, without reporting any conver- 
 sation vcrbaliiii, ic may be best fo narrate that 
 htory now : 
 
 ■\Vhen Inez landed in France, she took 
 the first train for Paris, and for some time 
 had no otlicr thought thin to hurry on with- 
 out delay, so as to sec her father as soon as 
 possible. At length she began to feel troub- 
 led about the meeting that was before her, 
 ond wondered how, in the confusion of a rail- 
 waj'-3tation, she could recognize her father's 
 messengers, or be recognized by them. Her 
 anxiety to reach her father increased her anx- 
 iety in this respect, and at Icn'xth she had to 
 tell her troubles to her maid Saunders. She 
 herself could not speak French very well, but 
 Saunders could speak it as well as English, 
 and no sooner had she learned the anxiety of 
 her mistress, than she hastened to soothe 
 her. She proraised to speak to tlic guard, and 
 did so ' such good purpose that this func- 
 tionary came in person to Inez, and with inany 
 gesticulations assured her that he himself 
 
 would look out for her friemls, and see that 
 they should find her. Ucassured by this, 
 Jaez got the better of her anxiety in this re- 
 spect, and at length reached Paris. 
 
 As the train stopped, Inez felt a strango 
 sense of desolation in her heart. Sho was 
 weak, too, and weary, for she had travelled 
 all night, and it was a raw, gray, dismal 
 morning. Sho looked out into the station- 
 house, and saw the twinkling lights, and tho 
 crowd moving to and fro. Tho conseiousness 
 that she was in a foreign country, without a 
 home, came to her with oppressive power; ni-r 
 could even the thought of her father, with 
 Avhich sho tried to console herself, enable her 
 to overmaster this sense of loneliness. There 
 was also a time of waiting whicli seemed uii- 
 usually long. She had anticipated an earnest 
 Welcome, but she was allowed to wait with- 
 out any, and thus at the very outset her heart 
 sank, nnd she felt herself a prey to strange, 
 dark fears and forebodings. 
 
 At length, Saunders directc<l her atten- 
 tion to an advancing figure. This one was 
 preceded by the guard, and looked as though 
 he might bo the messenger sent to reeeivo 
 her. As he drew near, Inez could see his 
 face quite plainly; for it wan turned tow- 
 ard the cars, over wliieh his eyes wandered 
 as though in search of some one. The ap- 
 proach of this messenger might at another 
 time have quelled her rising fears ; but tho 
 aspect of this man had in it something which 
 Inez did not find at all reassuring; and thu 
 face on which she expected to see an air of 
 respectful, if not eager, welcome, had in it 
 now nothing which was not repellent. It was 
 a commonplace face — a coarse and vulgar face 
 — not the face of a man who miglit be a friend' 
 of Uernal Jlordaunt. It did not seem bad or 
 vicious ; it was simply coarse and commonplace. 
 Xor was the man a servant or a footman, for 
 he was dressed as a priest, and looked liko 
 one who might claim the right to associate 
 with Bornal Mordaunt on equal terms. But, 
 though his garb was clerical, there was noth- 
 ing of the priest cither in his face, or atti- 
 tude, or m.inner ; and the cloth had in this in- 
 stance failed most completely to contribute 
 its usual professional air to the wearer. Such, 
 then, was the man who came here to receive 
 Inez. 
 
 Saunders had already risen, and went out- 
 side to speak to tho priest. Inez followed 
 shortly after. Tho priest introduced himself 
 
! 
 
 I 
 
 120 
 
 AN OrE.V QUESTION'. 
 
 5 Ji 
 
 :: 
 
 1 ; 
 
 as Poro Gouuod, and spoke a few words of 
 conventional welcome. Inez was not suffi- 
 ciently familiar with FrencV to j'-vlge whether 
 he was a man of cJucation or not; but there 
 was a certain clumsiness iu his manner, and 
 coarseness of intonutiou, which made her 
 think that he could not be ; yet how could 
 she Judge? Still, this was a thing of no mo- 
 ment, and her thoughts soon reverted to the 
 one uppermost idea of her mind — her father ; 
 and all the deep anxiety which she felt was 
 manifest in her voice as she asked after him. 
 
 The priest looked at her with a quick, 
 furtive glance, and then looked away. 
 
 " He is very low," said he, slowly. 
 
 There was something in his face which 
 frightened Inez. .She would have asked more, 
 but could not. She was afraid of hearing the 
 worst. The priest said no more, but turned, 
 and, with a silent gcstuio, led the way to the 
 carriage. Inez followed. Saunders also fol- 
 lowed. On reaching the carriage, Inez saw 
 that it was a close cab. The priest held 
 the door open. Kho got in, and was followed 
 by Saunders. The priest then went to see 
 about the luggage, and, after a short ab- 
 sence, • returned, lie ihcn got on tlie box 
 with the driver. 
 
 After about half an hour's drive, the cab 
 stopped. On getting out, Inez found herself 
 in front of a large and gloomy edilice. She 
 followed the priest, who led the way iu through 
 a ,'<mall door, and up a (light of stops, and 
 alc;i?; a gallery which looked out into a court- 
 yard, lie then opened a door which led into 
 a room. It was meagrely funii.shed, the floor 
 wag tiled, and there was a depressing gloom 
 about it whicli deepened the melancholy de- 
 spondency that Inez had all along experi- 
 enced. 
 
 The priest motioned toward a sofa, and 
 asked Inez to sit down. 
 
 " Uut I wish to see papa," said she, anx- 
 iously. 
 
 "I will |;o and see," said ilio priest. 
 " You must wait." 
 
 Soying th'S, ho loft the room. This 
 strange proceeding seemed unaccountable to 
 Inez, and only ine'c^aBcd her fears. Ho was 
 not Ion," gone ; jut tho time of his absence 
 r-acmed long indeed to her. She did rot sit 
 down, but stood, where he had left her, mo- 
 tionlesB and terrified, ai there ho found lier 
 OD hit return. 
 
 " Will 'ou .lot (it c ' '" he asked. 
 
 " But I want to sec papa," said Inez. 
 
 " One moment," said the priest. " Sit 
 down — I have something to say." 
 
 At this strange delay Inez grew more agi- 
 tated than ever. The priest seated himself. 
 She could not move. She stood thus, palo 
 and trembling, and looked at him fixedly. 
 
 " I have something to say," repeated the 
 priest, " and I am very sorry to have to say 
 it." 
 
 lie paused, and leaned his elbow on his 
 knee, bending forward as he did so, with his 
 eyes on tho floor. Thus Inez no longer saw 
 hie face, b it only the top of his head. Now, 
 in moments of the deepest anxiety, and even 
 anguish, it is strange how often the attention 
 is attracted by even trivial circumstances. It 
 was so with Inez at this time. Full of an- 
 guish, with her soul racked by suspense, a 
 prey to the gloomiest forebodings, waiting 
 with something like despair the communica- 
 tion of tho priest, her eyes, as they rested 
 upon him, noticed this one thing in the midst 
 of all her af^itation and her despair, and that 
 was that this priest had no tonsure. Ilis hair 
 was a thick, bushy mass all over his head ; 
 and the characteristic mark of his sacred of- 
 fice was altogetl-.er wanting. She noticed 
 this, and it was with an additional shock that 
 she did so. Yet it was not till afterward that 
 she learned to place any stress on this one 
 fact, nnd see it in its full Eignificancc. At 
 that tim3 the shock passiul awuy, .".nd yiel'ied 
 to her uncontrollable anxiety about her fa- 
 ther. 
 
 " Why don't you sny what you have to 
 say ? " cried Inez at length. " I want to see 
 papa." 
 
 Tl>8 priest raised his head. 
 
 'I wish," said he, in a h. .t voice, and 
 sp.'aking very slowly, " to break it as gently 
 as possible." 
 
 Every one of these words was terrible to 
 Inez. To such a saying as this, following af- 
 ter such strange actions, there could bo but 
 one meaning, and that one meaning must bo 
 the worst. Yet, so great was her terror at 
 hearing this, thai she dared not ask another 
 ((uestion. She stood as before, with her cycA 
 fixed on him, while he kept his cyoB averted. 
 
 " I did not tell you before," said the 
 priest. " I wished to prepare you. I wished 
 to do it gradually. I must prepare you for 
 the worjt — the very worst." 
 
 He paused. 
 
THE STORY OF INEZ. 
 
 m 
 
 d Inez. 
 riost. " Sit 
 
 w more agi- 
 tcd himself, 
 tbua, pulo 
 lixedly. 
 cpcatcd tlie 
 Lave to say 
 
 bow on liis 
 80, with Lis 
 longer saw 
 cad. Now, 
 y, and even 
 he attention 
 istances. It 
 Full of an- 
 suspense, a 
 ngg, Tt ailing 
 coramunica- 
 they rested 
 in tlie midst 
 air, and that 
 c. His hair 
 'r his he;i(i ; 
 is sacred of- 
 Siie noticed 
 Ll shock that 
 fterward that 
 on tliis ono 
 licancc. At 
 , .".nd viehk'd 
 jout her fa- 
 ton have to 
 wnnt to SCO 
 
 r voice, and 
 it a.s gently 
 
 i terrible to 
 following af- 
 ould bo but 
 ng must bo 
 or terror at 
 a^k another 
 ith her eye.i 
 ves averted. 
 ," said the 
 I. I wished 
 ^arc you for 
 
 Inez stared at him. 
 
 " He — is — dead ! " she faUcrcd, in a scarce 
 t'uliblc voice. 
 
 The priest looked at her with a siguiCcant 
 glance, and in silence. 
 
 "When? "asked Inez, spcakhi^ with a 
 great cilbrt, but in a faint voice. 
 
 " Three days ago," said the priest. 
 
 Inez gavo a low moan, and staggered tow- 
 ard the Eofa. Saunders sprang up and as- 
 sisted her. iSlio sank down upon it, and, 
 burying her face in Lcr hands, remained si- 
 lent and motionless, yet an occasional shud- 
 der showed tlii3 sulferiug of Iier mind. Nor 
 was this BulTcving without a cduse. True, it 
 was not like losing a father whose love she had 
 always known ; but still, ever since the dis- 
 covery of the portraits, slie had thought much 
 of Bcrnal Mordauut, and had conceived for 
 him all a daughter's feelings. t<he had re- 
 called Diany of tiie reminiscences of early 
 ohildhoid. Above all, his last letter to her 
 had thrown around these feelings additional 
 strength and tender ss. During her jour- 
 ney these feelings had increased, and all her 
 life and all her hope seemed to refer to the 
 meeting with him which she was seeking. 
 Kow, in an instant, nil this tender love was 
 blighted, and all this eager hope made for- 
 ever vain. The blow was a severe one, and 
 Iner. wclhiigh saak under it. 
 
 The priest looked at her with clo.se obser- 
 vition, but with no particular sympathy Thus 
 fur he had been somewhat embarrassed while 
 subject to the Bearehing gaze of luez. Now, 
 when that gaze was removed, and her head 
 buried in her hands, he was able to speak 
 with Ireedoni. 
 
 " lie died three days ago," said the priest, 
 speaking somewhat less slowly than before, 
 and in what may be described as a wary and 
 vigilant manner; watching Inez all the while 
 most ottentively — " three days ago, lie wrote 
 a long letter — a very long letter — too long a 
 letter, indeed — to you, asking you to come 
 licrc. Well, after that he fainted. It was an 
 liour beloro ho revived. Then we knew — and 
 he knew, too — that he was — dying I Hut 
 there was nothing to be done, for he was be- 
 yond hope. . . . Well " continued the priest, 
 after a pause, in which liis eyes never re- 
 moved themselves from Inez, who still re- 
 mained with her head bowed down and buried 
 in her hands — " well, then the poor man 
 called for writing-materials again. We t^up- 
 
 plied him with tli-'in. ^Ve r-iai.'d him upon 
 his bed, so that he might be iu a position to 
 write. He took the pen, and at first could 
 hardly hold it. Uut at length he made a 
 great elfort, and wrote about a page. That 
 was all that he was able to do, and, in my 
 opinion, it was just one page too much; but 
 we had to indulge him, for he was so eager 
 about it — and what can yoa do with a dying 
 man? Well, that was too much. He fell 
 back exhausted, and -lever Fpoke one word 
 more. In two hours oil was over, and he had 
 haroly life and sense enough to receive the 
 vhiticnni Tliat was tliree du\3 ago. You re- 
 ceived his letter, and waited till you could 
 leave, and have spent this third day in travel- 
 ling here. This brings you hero at the ch/so 
 of the third day. It is a pity that you 'lad 
 not come before, for he loved you dea'ly. 
 But sliU his last thmights were of you, a'ul 
 Ills l.i " words, t.j,», r the letter that ha 
 wrote was for you." 
 
 At this Inez started up. 
 
 " I'tr me ! "' siie exclaimed. " Is there — 
 did he Ir-.ve any message for mc? " 
 
 " The letter that I have boon telling you 
 about was for you." 
 
 " Have you got it ? " cried Inez, c.igcrly. 
 
 " It is hero — for you — if you wish to seo 
 it," said the priest. 
 
 "Oh, let ni'! have it — let mc see it!" 
 said Inez, in a tone of mournful entreaty. 
 
 " You shall see it, of course," said tho 
 priest. "It is for you, and it is waiting for 
 you. It is a pity that you have not come in 
 time for somclhing better than a letter. Tho 
 poor Abbe Mordaunt would have been greatly 
 cheered, ^\'o urged him to send for you be- 
 fore, but he was full of hoiio that he would 
 rceoverand bo able to go to you. lie was un 
 willing to put you to the trouble of a journey. 
 He never knew how ill he w.is till ihe last, 
 and then it was too lute. He came iiomo from 
 his mission with broken health. lie allowed 
 himself no vest. An affair at Villeneuve agi. 
 tatcd him greatly, and preyed on his mind. 
 It was something that occurred there, and 
 other things that he heard of after his ar- 
 rival here. He sank quite rapidly, poor man ! 
 And all the time he pcriisicd in the hope that 
 he woi M recover. A;. !v\st the doctor told 
 him th. 'r '.Ih, and th^in he w.-olo for yru. 
 IJul it was too late. Tlie effort of wriiing 
 hastened tho end, and so, t.r 1 said, he did not 
 live out that dav. Still ho left bia last In- 
 
128 
 
 Ax\ Ul'EX QUESTION. 
 
 Itt 
 
 
 I 
 
 \ 
 
 
 [ \\. 
 
 Etructions for you, and I Lave kept that letter 
 to be given into your own liands. And here it 
 is- I tooli it from his own hands, and put it 
 in this envelop, and wrote your name on it." 
 Saying this, the priest drew forth a letter 
 from his pocket and handed it to Inez. She 
 took it with a quick, nervous, eager gi-asp. 
 Tho cavelop bore the address in a strange 
 hand, simply — 
 
 " Inez Jlordaunt." 
 
 This the priest had explained. Hut this 
 she did not notice. All her thoughts were 
 turned to the letter itself — the last words of 
 her father, now lost forever — her father, 
 found so strangely, lost so suddenly. With a 
 trembling hand she tore open the envelop, 
 and the last words of that father lay before 
 her eves. 
 
 CnAPTER XXXI. 
 
 IX rnisos. 
 
 Isrz tore open the letter and read the fol- 
 lowing : 
 
 *' Mr DEAREST Daughter : 1 have just writ- 
 ten to you to come to mc. It is too late. I 
 am dying. I should have gone on to you. I 
 have scarcely strength enough loft to write 
 this. There arc many things which I wish to 
 explain. But this explanation cannot now 
 bo given by mo. My beloved child, I leave 
 you, and forever, but I de not leave you friend- 
 less, I have one good and tried friend — tho 
 friend of a life ; and, though I must leave 
 you, I am able to console myself with the 
 thought that you will be cared for. My dear 
 friend, true auJ tried, Kevin Ma^ratli, I ap- 
 point as your guardian. He will be to you, 
 my daughter, another guardian. He will !ove 
 tho child of his friend as his own child. 
 Trust in him. Love him as your father. lie 
 will do for you all tlii.t I could have done. 
 He will tfU you all about mo, and about tiiat 
 past which has been so dark to you. You 
 will have a great grief, but do not give way 
 to it, my child. Trust in Heaven and in my 
 friend Kevin Magratli — father to fatherless- 
 go long journey — never a<;^iti which — I have 
 — formerly — in vain — mother — just the — last 
 ■vords — not at all — mission — broken — faint — 
 wishes — love — Kevin — Kevin Magrath — for- 
 ever — father — " 
 
 There was no signature. The letter ended 
 with several lines of undecipherable writing, 
 in which a few Avords were here and thero 
 discernible — words without connection and 
 without meaning. 
 
 Inez read it all over many time, and was 
 troubled in soul. It was not what she had 
 expected. It was a letter that excited dark 
 fears and anxieties. The eircuinstanllal ac- 
 count which the priest had given her did not 
 at all reassure her. For sonic time past she 
 had been living in an atmosphere of mystery, 
 and had learned to indulge in a suspicioud 
 habit of mind ; and so it was that this letter 
 added vague and alarming su.spieioiiS to tho 
 anxieties which it caused. 
 
 All those fears, anxieties, and suspicions, 
 derived their origin from one name mentioned 
 there. It was a name that was meulioued 
 with emphasis — tlie name of a man that she 
 had learned to regard as an enemy — and yet 
 this man was indicated to her by this letter 
 as her father's true and tried friend, and 
 urged upon her trust and all'ection. He wai 
 to be her guardian. How was it possible for 
 her to read such a letter as this without the 
 darkest suspicions ? 
 
 For the present, however, the.sc gave way 
 to a yearning desire to see, if possible, all 
 that was left of tho man whom slio had re- 
 garded as her fi.ther-— her father discovered 
 so strangely, yet lost so suddenly. Was it 
 too late for that ? She turned once more to 
 the priest : 
 
 " May I not see him * " she asked, iu a 
 tremulous voiie. 
 
 " See him ? " repeated the priest. 
 
 "Yes," said Inez, "my papa. If I could 
 only see him — one last look — " 
 
 " See him ! " repealed the priest, in a 
 strange lone — " see him ! " 
 
 He hesitated and looked away. 
 
 " If I only could," said Inez, " if it is not 
 too late." 
 
 "Too late?" said tho priest, shaking his 
 head. "Alas I it's too late — too kite. You've 
 said it. That's whit it is. Too late — yes, too 
 late — too late." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Inez, do- 
 apairingly. " Can 1 not have at least tho 
 sad satisfaction of seeing Lim as he is 
 now ? " 
 
 Tho priest looked at lior with Lis usual 
 furtive glance. 
 
 " liut he's gone ! " said he. 
 
Litter eudcd 
 
 jlu writing, 
 
 aud tliuro 
 
 icctiou and 
 
 esj, and was 
 ut she biul 
 suited dark 
 stanlial ae- 
 iier did not 
 :ic past she 
 of mystery, 
 , suspicioud 
 t tliis letter 
 ioiiS to the 
 
 suspicions, 
 3 muiitioncd 
 , mculioued 
 lan that slie 
 ly — and yet 
 y this letter 
 
 friend, anil 
 )n. lie wai 
 
 possible for 
 without the 
 
 sc gave way 
 possible, all 
 she bad rc- 
 r discovered 
 ily. M'as it 
 nee more to 
 
 asked, in a 
 
 est. 
 Jf I could 
 
 priest, in a 
 
 y. 
 
 " if it is not 
 
 , sbakin<; bis 
 late. You've 
 late — yes, too 
 
 kcd Inez, de- 
 al least tho 
 im as ho is 
 
 ith Lis usual 
 
i 5 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 y 
 
 
IN PRISOX. 
 
 129 
 
 
 ^^. 
 
 L-J^•.■ 
 
 
 if " ■■ 
 
 "Gone!" repeated Inez, in a bewilJcrcd 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, gone," said the priest. 
 
 " But how ? " said Inez. " What do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " Buried ! " said tho priest, in a solemn 
 voice. 
 
 " Buried ! " 
 
 Inez repeated tho word, but was so over- 
 whelmed by the thought that she did not 
 seem to l;now what it meant. " Buried 1 " 
 she said again, in a low voice, as if to her- 
 self, and, as she said this, she shranlc buck 
 witli a frightened look. 
 
 Buried ! 
 
 "It was three days ago that ho died," 
 said the priest. "lie was buried this morn- 
 ing. You can never see him again." 
 
 At this overwhelming intelligence Inez 
 stared at the priest with an expression in her 
 face that seemed like horror. Then she looked 
 wildly around. Then she once more bowed 
 her head, and this time she burst into a torrent 
 of tears. She had readied tho lowest point in 
 that abyss of sorroTr which she had been de- 
 scending, and there she found that tho last 
 fnint consolation was denied her. The faith- 
 ful Saunders rushed to her aid. Tho priest 
 sat motionless watching her. But to Inez 
 the faithful Saunders and the priest were 
 both alike objects of indifference, for all her 
 thoughts were now turned toward the sharp- 
 ness of this sudden bereavement and the des- 
 olation of her present state. 
 
 For a long time Inez remained in that 
 rondition, overwhelmed by grief and racked 
 by convulsive sobs that shook her frame. 
 Tho priest watched her still with that vigi- 
 lant gaze which he directed toward her when- 
 ever her eyes wore not turned toward him. 
 Sometimes ho looked towrrd the faithful 
 Saunders, and the eyes of the faithful Saunders 
 met his ; and, as the eyes of tho good priest 
 and of the faithful Saunders met, there seemed 
 to be some kind of intelligence between them. 
 But, if tiicrc was any such intelligence, it sat- 
 isfied itself just then with a silent glance, 
 and deferred any expression in words until a 
 more convenient opportunity. 
 
 The blow which had thus fallen upon Inez 
 was one from which she could not readily re- 
 cover, Housing herself at length from her 
 first prostration, her only desire was for se- 
 clusion, where slie might give herself up more 
 entirely to her gloomy thoughts. The faith- 
 
 ful Saunders accompanied her to the place, 
 which was pointed out to them by an old 
 woman whom the priest sent, and who ap- 
 peared to be a combination of char-woman, 
 chamber-maid, and lady's-maid. The room 
 to which Tnez was thus shown had a greater 
 air of comfort than the other, yet still it was 
 furnished in a scanty manner, and the tiled 
 floor, with one or two small rugs here and there, 
 had a cheerless air. Hero Inez found her 
 luggage, and the faithful Saunders proceeded 
 to open her trunks and arrange her things. 
 But Inez paid no attention to her. Sheilung 
 herself upon a couch, and the faithful Saun- 
 ders, finding that she was not needed, finished 
 her task, and silently withdrew. 
 
 Inez ate nothing that day, and slept nono 
 on the following night. In truth, her posi- 
 tion was one which might have seemed gloom v 
 indeed, even to a more sanguine temper. 
 There was about it a dreadful sense of deso- 
 lation, from which she could not escape. It 
 seemed to her that she had lost her father, 
 her home, her country, and every friend that 
 she ever had. In her father's last letter sho 
 had read that which seemed to her to put a, 
 climax upon all her woes. Before tliat sho 
 had been simply friendless and in exile, but 
 now she found herself handed over to tho 
 guardianship of one of whom she had learned 
 to think with abhorrence. She could not 
 forget the letter which had struck down Hen- 
 nigar Wyverne at Villcneuve, and that this 
 letter had been written by Kevin Magrath. 
 
 For several days she gave herself up 
 completely to deep despondency ; and, so 
 strongly did it prey upon her spirits, that 
 at length she became quite ill. In this con- 
 dition she remained for several weeks, and 
 tho profound dejection into which she had 
 fallen made her "ompletcly indifferent about 
 her recovery. During this time the faithful 
 Saunders nursed her. At length her youth 
 and vigorous constitution triumphed over her 
 illness, and the lapse of time familiarized her 
 mind so much to her new position that, in 
 the ordinary course of things, it began to ap- 
 pear less intolerable. Soon she grew stronger, 
 and the buoyancy of her spirits led her to 
 indulge rather in hopes for tlie best. At 
 lengtti she was able to go out of her room, 
 and walk up and down the apartments and 
 out into the gallery. 
 
 f'le house was old and gloomy. There 
 was a small court-yard enclosed by its walls. 
 
Uj 
 
 130 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION'. 
 
 P 
 
 'I. 
 
 I r 
 
 On the Bide wberc she lived was an open gal- 
 lery, I'rom which her iiuite of rooniB opened. 
 Ho one else seemed to be living in tlie house 
 except the priest and the old woman, with 
 herself and the faithful Saunders. This Inst 
 personage was as devoted as ever. Of the 
 priest she saw but little, and of the old wom- 
 an still less. Siie was thus left very much to 
 herself,. nor did the solitude seem unpleasant. 
 Ou the contrary, it was rather congenial to 
 tliat pene^ive melancholy which bad set in 
 after tlie first outburst of grief and despair, 
 
 At length, one day, while thinking over her 
 lonely condition, she reflected that there was 
 one friend of hers in Paris who might be glad 
 to know that she was here. This was Dr. 
 Blake, whoso place in her regards Lad not 
 grown less prominent, in spite o.'' the mournful 
 events of the time vjat hud elapsed since she 
 left Villcneuve. It came to hei like a very 
 pleasant thought, and the idea occurred that, 
 if she should go out, it might cot bo impos- 
 sible to sec him boraewhere, or be seen by 
 him. Her loneliness made thii one friend 
 Bccm now more valuable than t'c had seemed 
 .before ; and bhe had no sooner thought of 
 this than she at once sought to put it into 
 execution. Accordingly, she dressed herself 
 .for a walk, and was about to go out alone, 
 •wlicu Saunders respectfully interfered, and 
 implo<-cd her not to do so. To the wondering 
 inquiry of Inez, " Why not ? " the faithful 
 Saunders pleaded her weakncs.s, and the dan- 
 gers of the Paris streets. Finullj, Inez con- 
 80Uted to tukc a drive instead of a walk. 
 
 The cairiagc which took her out was net 
 the most cheerful kind of a one. It was the 
 same close cab wliich had brought her from 
 the railway-station. The faithful Saunders 
 •went with her, though Inez at first seemed 
 rather inclined to go alone. But this seemed 
 80 to wound the affectionate heart of the 
 faithful one that Inez, good-naturedly con- 
 Beiited to lot hor go. 
 
 The drive did not result in any thing. On 
 the whole, Inez felt very much disappointed 
 in Parif. She had heard so much about its 
 splendor that she had expected to find some- 
 thing very difl'erunt. Bhe mentioned several 
 places whose names were familiar, to which 
 she wi.shcil to be driven, but, on seeing therar 
 she found that they did not come up to her 
 expectation.''. She was driven through a 
 number of narrow slrcctsi, finally along a 
 wide but bare-looking place, then into the 
 
 narrow streets again ; then out into the wide 
 place, until she was thoroughly r/earied, and 
 did not care to continue her drive any longer. 
 
 After this she went out on almost every 
 fine day, and with the same result. Baimders 
 always went with her ; sh** always saw the 
 same commonplace streets ; she never saw 
 any one who looked like Dr. Blake. 
 
 And this was Park I 
 
 She could not help fueling amazed at tbe 
 reputation of so mean & city ! 
 
 Once or twice she thought of shopping. 
 But from this she was prevented by a circum- 
 stance which was at once paltry and humiliat- 
 ing — she had no money. The letter of Bernal 
 Mordaunt had told her not to bring more 
 than was needed for her trip, and the small 
 amount which she happened to have in her 
 purse had been exhausted. Even had she 
 needed more, she would not have known at 
 that time whom to ask for it. She could not 
 ask Bessie. Mr. Wyvcrne, who bad always 
 before supplied her liberally, was dead ; and 
 she did not know any one else to whom she 
 could apply. For this cause she had left her 
 home thus ill-supplieJ with money, and now 
 she felt, for the first lime in her life, the help- 
 lessness of poverty. 
 
 It was this poverty, together with her 
 loneliness and ftiendlessuesB, that brought the 
 questions before her, over and over. What 
 was she to do ? What would become of her ? 
 IJ w long would this life go ou ? She her- 
 9eit' could do nothing, and did not know how 
 she ever could d" any thing. The world of 
 the past was lost forever to her. 
 
 These drives at length became tedious to 
 Inez. She did cot like to be always accom- 
 panied by Saunders, and the sense of restraint 
 which she felt in the close cab was irksome. 
 She felt strong enough to go alone by herself, 
 and one (lay resolved to do so. >She simply 
 informed the faithful Saunders that she was 
 going out for a short walk, and wished to bo 
 alone. Saunders saw by her manner that she 
 was resolved, and said nothiu|.% but meekly 
 acquiesced. Inez was soon ready, and went 
 out into the gallery on hor way down. 
 
 At the end of the gallery was a door which 
 opened into a stairway. To the surprise of 
 Inez, this door was locked. She had often 
 before noticed that it was closed, but, having 
 not had any reason for trying it, she bad 
 never known that it was locked ; ind, ou tho 
 occasion iif h« r dilvos, it luid always been 
 
LIGHT ox THE SITUATION. 
 
 131 
 
 o the wido 
 ;aried, and 
 iny longer, 
 nost erery 
 Baimdcrs 
 ta saw the 
 never flaw 
 
 izod at the 
 
 f shopping. 
 )y a circum- 
 nd humiliat- 
 cr of Bernal 
 tiring more 
 d the small 
 have in her 
 ;en liud she 
 e known at 
 be could not 
 
 bud always 
 ) dead ; and 
 ,0 whom eho 
 
 had left her 
 ey, and now 
 life, the help- 
 
 ler with her 
 t brought the 
 over, What 
 come of her ? 
 1? She her- 
 ot know how 
 L"he world of 
 
 me tedious to 
 ilwayfi ocoom- 
 8c of restraint 
 wan irksome, 
 nc by herself, 
 She simply 
 
 that she waa 
 wished to bo 
 nnucr that she 
 p, but meekly 
 ally, and went 
 
 down. 
 
 9 a door which 
 he surprise of 
 iho hud often 
 jd, but, having 
 ig it, she had 
 1 ; and, on tho 
 always been 
 
 open. Xow, however, she was vexed to 
 perceive that her plan for going out ulono 
 was attended with difTtcullics, She stood 
 for some time knoeking, but to no pur- 
 pose ; and at length coneluded that it must 
 be accidental, or rather that it rose from an 
 excess of precaution on the part of the stupid 
 old woman. In spite of this simple mode of 
 accounting for such an unpleasant fact, Inez 
 felt not only disappointed but also troubled; 
 and a vague suspicion arose that her sur- 
 roundings were not so satisfactory as they 
 might be. There seemed to be too much 
 surveillance. Some one was always with her. 
 The faithful Saunders was a trifle too faith- 
 ful. Of that personage she knew but little. 
 She had been her maid for not over three 
 months, and Inez had never thought of her 
 personal pcculiaritie.<). She had been satis- 
 fied with tho faithful performance of the du- 
 ties which pertained to tho responsible oflice 
 of S.iunders, and had never had occasion to 
 think about her more deeply. And, though 
 she tried to drive away the thought as un- 
 generous, she could not help fearing that 
 tlie faithful Saunders might be watching over 
 her from other motives than those of aflec- 
 tionate and loyal solicitude. 
 
 Inez waited all day for that door to open, 
 but it did not. She sat with her things on. 
 Saunders prepared lunch at tho usual hour, 
 but Inez was too indignant to touch it. At 
 length, at about six in the evening, the old 
 woman came up with dinner. The first \m- 
 pul.su > C Inez was to give her a sound rating, 
 but this was repressed, and she contented 
 herself with telling her about her disappoint- 
 ment, and directing her to have the door loft 
 open on tliL- following day. At this, tho old 
 woman stared, but said nothing. 
 
 On tiie following day, however, the very 
 same thing occurred, and Inez, who had again 
 drossijd herself for a walk, was unable to go. 
 This lime she could not restrain herself. 
 
 " There's something about this tliat I do 
 not understand," said she to Saunders as she 
 returned to her room. " Do you know what 
 it means, Saunders ? " 
 
 " Oh, no indeed, miss ! " said Saunders ; 
 " me ?— tho idea ! " 
 
 " Perhaps you can get tho door open, or 
 -make them hear you, Saunders; you seem to 
 have some understanding with those people." 
 
 At this Saunders rolled up her eyes. 
 
 " Ue, miss 1 }lo an understanding, that 
 
 never set eyes on them before in all my born 
 day.«, and only follered you hero to this town 
 because you was wantin' me, and homesick 
 now as I be in this gloomy den! Why, what- 
 ever you can mean, miss, bcggin' your par- 
 don, is more'n I can tell, and I only hope you 
 don't see any thing in me that's underhand — 
 for, if 80, I maybe better go away." 
 
 At this Inez was startled. To lose Saun- 
 ders would bo too much. She had spokea 
 too hastily. Her suspicions were wrong. 
 She hiistened, therefore, to smooth over tho 
 rufiled feelings of the faithful one, and Saun- 
 ders subsided into her usual calm. 
 
 That evening at dinner the priest came in. 
 This man had always been distasteful to Inez, 
 but now was all the more so, since she could 
 not understand what he was or what his in- 
 tentions were. She had not forgotten that ho 
 had no tonsure ; she did not believe that he 
 could be u priest at all, and the suspicion that 
 ho was disguised was a most unpleasant one. 
 On this occasion Inez at once informed him 
 about the door, and told him that it must not 
 occur again. Her tone was somewhat haughty, 
 and she unconsciously adopted an air of com- 
 mand in addressing him. 
 
 Tho priest loolced down, avoiding her eyes 
 an usual. 
 
 " You are mistaken," said he ; " you havo 
 gone out whenever you wished. The door is 
 kept locked — on account of thieves — as there 
 arc so few servants — and the woman is so old 
 and stupid." 
 
 "Very well," said Inez; "I wish to go 
 out to-morrow, and I should like you to tell 
 the old woman, so that she nC'-d not make 
 any more of those stupid mistakes." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 LIGHT OS TIC£ SITCATIOM. 
 
 Saunheiis had ahvays been what is called 
 a " faithful creature," and Inez had thus far 
 found her quite invaluable. It was on the 
 morning after her last interview with Gou- 
 nod, however, that Inez mado the discovery 
 that there were limits to the fidelity of her 
 maid. On that morning tho faithful Saun- 
 ders did not mak ; iier appearance ; and Inez, 
 after waiting an unusually long time, con- 
 cluded that she must bo ill. With this idea 
 
 f; 
 
u\ 
 
 I ' 
 
 ; I 
 
 ;l 
 
 H 
 
 13; 
 
 AN' OPEN QUESTION". 
 
 Bho went to soo aftin' licr, but, o« going to 
 hor room, found that no one was thurc. At 
 tliis she ft'lt annoyed ; it looked like neglect, 
 and Bhe went immediately to the parlor in 
 search of her maid, with the intention of ad- 
 ministering a pretty sharp rebuke. Here, 
 however, there were no sign.'? of her ; and a 
 little further search showed her that she must 
 have gone away. A sudden suspicion then 
 darted acros.s her mind. She hurried back to 
 the maid's room. On entering, the suspicion 
 was confirmed. The trunk was not there. 
 Saunders must Lavo left her, for she Lad 
 taken her trunk. 
 
 This discovery was so painful that at first 
 she felt finite stupefied. She could not ima- 
 gine how Saunders could have done it, or 
 how Gounod could have allowed it; but, for 
 the present, her mind was less occupied with 
 Fpcculations about the mode of her departure 
 than with painful efforts to imagine the cause 
 of it. Saunders had always been so profuse 
 in her protestations of fidelity, and so unre- 
 mitting in her services, that this sudden de- 
 parture seemed to give the lie to it all. ]t 
 seemed like treachery, and the case with 
 which she had gone made it appear us though 
 Gounod had connived at it. 
 
 In the midst of these thoughts the old 
 woman an'ived, and began her ordinary rou- 
 tine of duties, which consisted in laying t'.ie 
 breakfast table and making the beds. Inez 
 did not think it worth while to say any thing 
 to her, but waited patiently until she had fin- 
 ished her task, when she asked her to tell 
 Gounod that she wouhl like to see him. In 
 about half an hour, Gounod came. 
 
 To her story about the sudden departure 
 of the maid, Gounod li.'»tened rcspectl'iilly, and 
 nt onco explained. IIo informed Inez that 
 Saunders told him, the evening before, that 
 she had received sudden intelligence of the 
 dangerous illness of her mother, and would 
 have to go and sec her at once ; and that he 
 had got a cab, and taken her to the railway- 
 Btation. The maid, ho added, had told him 
 that siie did no', like to toll her mistress 
 about it; that slic felt very badly at leaving 
 her under such circumstanee.", an<l requested 
 Gounod to make all necessary explanations. 
 Finally, Gounod oflercd to procure her an- 
 other maid, either a J'rcnch or an English 
 one, whichever she preferred. 
 
 Inez thanked him, l)ut replied that for the 
 present fho did not feel hiclincd to have a 
 
 nuiid ; and, after a few more word.-*, Gounod 
 withdrew. 
 
 Gounod's explaiuUion had not altogether 
 satisfied Inez. It was certainly a very natu- 
 ral and a "ory probable cause for the de- 
 parture of .>aundcr3 ; but still Inez coulJ not 
 help thinking that there was something else 
 at the bottom of this. Either Saunders might 
 have grown weary of her lonely life, or else, 
 as she had thought before, she might be iu 
 some mysterious league with (iouuod. The 
 peculiar conduct of that personage had al- 
 ready seemed suspicious, and now it seemed 
 still more so. 
 
 After all, however, in spite of a certain 
 degree of inconvenience which resulted from 
 it, Inez was not altogetlier i-orry to be with- 
 out a maid. She felt somcwiiat vexed at the 
 manner in which S.iundcrs had left her, and 
 there were circumstances connected with her 
 departure which excited vague suspicions in 
 her mind ; yet. on the whole, she was not par- 
 ticularly distressed about it. The fact is, the 
 constant attendance of Saunders during the 
 drives had grown to be excessively irksome, 
 ller plea had been fidelity ; but Inez had be- 
 gun to suspect that it might be, at best, ofTi- 
 ciousness, ond even something worse. At 
 any rate, it had grown to be so unpleasant 
 that Inez had about resolved not to go out 
 again until she could go alone. The de- 
 parture of Saunders seemed to leave her frei' 
 to do tliin. 
 
 Accordingly, to prevent a recurrence of 
 that mistake which had prevented her from 
 going out the laat time that she had tried, she 
 sent for (Jounod in the following morning. 
 He came in a short time. 
 
 " I wish to go out to-day, .it noon," saiil 
 Inez; "and I want you to leave tlio key of 
 that door with me, or, nt least, to leave it 
 open, BO that I may not be prevented again 
 by the stupidity of that old woman." 
 
 " Certaiidy," said Gounod. "At what 
 time shall I have the cab ready ? " 
 
 " I do not want the cab," said Inez. " I 
 wish to go alone." 
 
 "Alone!" exclaimed Gonnod, in sur- 
 prise. " You must, of course, have some 
 attendant." 
 
 " No," said Inez ; " that is the very tiling 
 that I do not wish to have. 1 wish to go 
 tthue." 
 
 "Alone! Hut, Heavens! that is impos- 
 sible. Why, you would be utterly lost. Paris 
 
 li.- 
 
il-i, dounod 
 
 altogctlier 
 very natii- 
 br the du- 
 z foiilJ not 
 filling cl^i^! 
 iilois Illlgllt 
 ill', or clso, 
 light bo ill 
 iiinod. Tho 
 ;e had al- 
 it seemed 
 
 of a certain 
 suited from 
 ' to be witli- 
 vexed at tho 
 loft her, niul 
 ted with her 
 luHpicions in 
 was not par- 
 .0 fact is, the 
 9 dining tbo 
 rely irksonio. 
 Inez bad bo- 
 at best, olli- 
 ■ worse. At 
 io unpleasant 
 not to go out 
 IP. Tho de- 
 leave bor free 
 
 rcurrencc of 
 ited her from 
 had tried, slio 
 ing morning. 
 
 :it noon," saiil 
 the key of 
 it, to leave it 
 evented again 
 nan." 
 
 "At what 
 ?" 
 aid Inez. " I 
 
 mod, in siir- 
 0, have some 
 
 llic very thing 
 I wish to go 
 
 Ibat is inipos- 
 rly lost. Paris 
 
 LKillT ON Tin: SITIATION'. 
 
 189 
 
 is a l.ibyrinth. Yon never were here before. 
 You could never find your way back." 
 
 " Nonsense 1" said Inez. "I shall take 
 tho address of tho house, and, if I lose my 
 way, I can come back in a cab." 
 
 "But, raadomoisellc, you do not know the 
 danger here in Paris to a young girl, a stran- 
 ger, unattended. You do not know, or you 
 would not ask this. It is impossible. Some 
 one must accompany you. IFcre no young 
 girl ever ventures out into tho streets without 
 Lor chaperon." 
 
 At these olijoctions Inez felt irritated and 
 suspicious. There might be greater restraint 
 over girls in France than in England ; but to 
 her the idea of danger in the streets of Paris, 
 in broad day, seemed preposterous. Yet she 
 did not know exactly what to say in answer 
 to Gounod's strong assertions. She felt eager 
 to go, and throw oif this restraint. 
 
 "I must go; I insist upon it," she said. 
 "This imprisonment is too painful. I am 
 always watched. I cannot breatiie freely." 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said Gounod, " this is 
 not England. Do not talk of a prison. It is 
 a home, a French home ; you arc simply liv- 
 ing like a French girl. Ho patient, I pray 
 you. The Abb6 Magrath will soon bo hcie. 
 It is painful to mo to be obliged to refuse the 
 slightest request of yours, but this one is 
 clearly unreasonable — and what can I do?" 
 
 " I cannot understand this at all," said 
 Inez. " This danger is purely imaginary. I 
 shall die if I am shut up this way." 
 
 " Mademoiselle, you need not bo shut up. 
 You may go out with your attendants." 
 
 " My jailors ! " exclaimed Inez, indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 "Pardon, mademoiselle, I must asV you 
 not to use such language; it woun Is me, and 
 I cannot believe that you have that inten- 
 tion." 
 
 "I have no intention of giving pain to 
 any one," snid Inez, " but I must insist on 
 being allowed some slight degree of liberty." 
 
 " Madonioiselle, I dare not," said (iounod. 
 " What answer could I make to the good Al)b6 
 Magralh if any evil sl.ould happen to you V " 
 
 " The Abbo Magrath is nothing to me," 
 said Inez, fretfully. 
 
 " Pardon, mademoiselle. Is he not your 
 guardian ? Even now he is engaged in your 
 aflairs ; ho is endeavoring to procure for you 
 a happy homo, and I dare not let you expose 
 yourself to danger," 
 
 This was Gounod's position, and in this ha 
 was iiiiniovalile. Inez remonstrated, but her 
 remonstrances were in vain, lie od'ered again 
 to find attendants for her, but the olVer was 
 of course rejoelcd ; and, when he at length 
 took his departure, Inez found herself tho 
 lonely occupant of this suite of rooms, which 
 seemed to her already nothing clso than a 
 prison-house. 
 
 In her deep indignation at Gounod's strict- 
 ness, and in the impatience with which sho 
 chafed at those prison-walls, she imagined n 
 deeper purpose beneath all this than thoso 
 commouplaoo precautions which Gounod pro- 
 fessed ; and, in tho elTort to find out what 
 this purpose might be, she found herself look- 
 ing beyond Gounod to that other one who 
 seemed to her to be tho real master hero — 
 the one whom (iounod quoted, and whom ho 
 called tho good Abbu Magrath. 
 
 This Abbo Mau'rath was no other than 
 Kevin Magrath. His name was always asso- 
 ciated in her thoughts with thoso mournful 
 events at Villeneuvc, of which his letter to 
 Ilennigar Wyverne had been tho cause. That 
 letter had ever since been in her possession. 
 Its language was familiar to her memory. 
 Sho know every word. It Roemed singularly 
 ill-omoncd, and gave tho writer tho character 
 of a dark intriguer, to her mind — and a part- 
 ner with Ilennigar Wyverne in his crime, 
 whatever that might have been. This was 
 the opinion whicii she had formed of Kevin 
 Magrath from that letter of his, and she had 
 never ceased to wonder iiow it had happened 
 that h(T dying father had intrusted her to 
 tho care of such a man. Either her father 
 had boon tcrrilily mistaken in his friend, op 
 she hcM'solf must have formed an utterly false 
 opinion with regard to him. 
 
 Thoughts like these led her to cx.imino 
 those letters once more, so as to reassure her- 
 self about tho nature of their contents, and to 
 SCO if there would now appear in the letter of 
 Kevin Magrath to Ilennigar Wyvernc all that 
 dark and baleful meaning which slio had scon 
 in it at Villeneuvc. In her eagerness to as- 
 certain tills, Inez brought forth this letter and 
 tho letters of licrnal Mordaunt from her 
 pocket-book, where she kept them as her 
 most precious possessions, and liitio clso did 
 that pocket-book contain. Those sho laid on 
 the table before her, and then spread thera al. 
 open. 
 
 And now, scarcely had she done this, whca 
 
 |ll|:| 
 
TIJ: 
 
 134 
 
 AN' OPEN' Ql'KSTIOV. 
 
 nn extraordinary thing nttnit'teil licr nttt'ii- 
 tion, and a suspicion dartPil into her mind, 
 80 wild, so terrible, that dho started bock in 
 horror, and for n moment nTortod her cyoi>. 
 Yet the thin5 was there vis^ible enough, and 
 the suspicion was natural enough, for, us her 
 eyes hurried again to the papers, fhe saw it 
 plainly. It was thi.H : 
 
 The writing of these letters was suffiuiently 
 alilvo for them all to hure been written by the 
 same man. 
 
 One of them was from Kevin Magrath to 
 ITennigar Wyreuie. The others purported to 
 be from her father, Rernal Monlaunt, to licr- 
 ijelf, Inez Mordaunt, his child. Yet all these 
 might hare been written by the same man. 
 
 What was the meaning of this ? 
 
 Was it possible that IJernal Mordaunt had 
 been too weait to write, and had employed 
 Kevin Magrath as liis amanuensis y It did 
 not seem possible to Inez, for the writing of 
 these letters evidently purported to be that 
 of Hernal Mordaunt himself, and no other; 
 and the eharacters which grew more and 
 more illegible toward the elo?e were evidently 
 designed to indicate the weakness of a dying 
 man. 
 
 What was the meaning of this? 
 
 With a trembling hand, and a heart that 
 was now throbbing wildly with terrible ex- 
 citement, she placed all the letters side by 
 side, confronted by the frightful fact that the 
 liandwritlng in all three was es.=entially the 
 same. So appalling was this discovery that 
 Inez sat motionless for some time, incapable 
 «)f movement, incapable almost of thought, 
 paralyzed by the tumult of feeling which now 
 agitated her heart. At length she rose to her 
 feet, and, with an unsteady step, and a face 
 more ghastly than it had been ever since the 
 ilrst awful moment of her arrival here, she 
 tottered toward the window, and, sinking 
 down upon a scat there, she looked vacantly 
 and dreamily out. Only one thought was in 
 lier mind, a question which she knew not how 
 to answer. What was the meaning of all 
 this? 
 
 Thus far Inez had allowed herself to be 
 borne onward by circumstances, and had ac- 
 cepted in good faith what others had told her, 
 whether by letter or by word of mouth. Rut 
 this last discovery had destroyed her blind 
 faith. It had roused the worst suspicions. 
 It had thrown her back upon her own reason, 
 even as the tragedy at Villcncuvo had thrown 
 
 her ; and thus, as the lirst shock passed, and 
 she gained more control over herself, she be- 
 gan to collect her thoughts, and to review her 
 whole position. 
 
 Olio of two thtng.i at length seemed <'vi- 
 deiit to her : 
 
 First, the writing of Kevin Magrath and 
 that of Bernal Mordaunt may possibly havo 
 been very much alike. 
 
 Secondly, Kevin Magrath may have forged 
 these letters. 
 
 These were the two alternatives before 
 her, unless imlee I she could suppose that 
 Hernal Mordaunt had himself written that firrit 
 letter to Ileunigar Wyvcrne in Kevin Ma- 
 grath's name — a thing which, from the na- 
 ture of the ease, was of course impossible. 
 
 First, then, was it at all likely that Bernal 
 Mordannt'.s handwriting was like Kevin Ma- 
 grath'.s? It was certainly possible. How 
 could she know? Could she find out what 
 Bernal Mordaunt's handwriting was reoUy 
 like? Scarce had she asked herself this ques- 
 tion when the answer came. She coidd. In 
 an instant she recollected that little note ac- 
 companying the portraits addressed to Ilenni- 
 gar Wyverno years before. She had it yet. 
 The casket was in her tnmR. She hurried to 
 the trunk and opened it. With a trembling 
 hand she took out the note, and laid it on the 
 table beside the other papers. 
 
 In that moment the answer was given. 
 
 The letter of Bernal Mordaunt to Ilenni- 
 gar Wyvernc was in writing which had noth- 
 ing in commnii with that of the letters pur- 
 porting to havo been written by him to her- 
 self. Years of course might make a differ- 
 ence, but the difference here was not that 
 which is produced by time. The ditl'ereiiee 
 lay in the essential style of writing. Bernal 
 Mordaunt's was roimd, Kevin Magrath's sharp 
 and angular. The one who had written these 
 letters in Bernal Mordaunt's name seeme<l to 
 Inez to have taken it for granted that she 
 knew nothing of Bernal Mordainit's handwrit- 
 ing, and had therefore taken no pains to imi- 
 tate it or to disguise his own. And this one 
 was proved to be Kevin Magrath's by his own 
 letter. 
 
 How he had managed to send these letters 
 at such a time Inez could not imagine. lie 
 must have had some secret knowledge of her 
 movements, and of the state of her mind. Ho 
 must have known that she would be preparcil 
 to receive Bernal Mordaunt's claim to bo her 
 
LI( 'T ON THE SITUATION'. 
 
 sued, and 
 f, sliD bo- 
 cview hiT 
 
 umt'd rvi- 
 
 father. 1 iin whom could he lur btaincd 
 this knowlcrlgo of her tliou;;Iits nn ii'elinf;s» 
 Coiihl Simndcrs have been his spy and agent? 
 She rccilhid the noise wliicli Imd startled her 
 on the night when slic searched tlio cahinct, 
 and wondered now whctlier she had been 
 watched tlien, and if tiie watclior could have 
 been Saunders. It seemed probable. No 
 one wn.J so likely as her own maid to give to 
 Kevin Magr.ith such infurmatioti. 
 
 It seemed to Inez now tliat these letters 
 in riernal Morduunt's hanil were forged. And 
 what followed ? A whole world of results — 
 results so important that her brain reeled 
 under tlic complication of thoughts that 
 arose. If these letters were forged, then lier- 
 nal Mordaunt could not have sent for her. 
 He might never have been in Pari.^. He 
 might even now be searching for her in Eng- 
 land. More ; she might not be his daughter 
 after all. How could she now believe any 
 thing? How coidd she tell who she was? 
 Thus there arose in her mind a doubt as to 
 herself and her personal identity, out of 
 which grew fresh perplexity. But this soon 
 passcil. Deep down in her heart there was 
 an in5<finct, uiidefinablo yet strong, which 
 forced her to believe that she was Inez Mor- 
 daunt, the daughter of IJcrnal Mordaunt. 
 Deep down in her heart tln-re was a ycannng 
 love whioh had quickencJ into active life at | 
 the first sight of those portraits ; strange I 
 feelings and memories had been awakened by ' 
 the sight of those faces; and her heart' 
 claimed them as mother and sifter. j 
 
 The motive that might have animated I 
 Kevin Magrath toward weaving around her 
 this dark plot was an impenetrable mystery 
 to her ; but that he had woven a plot was now j 
 l)ut too painfully evident. His aim seeiried 
 evidently to have been to entrap her into his 
 own power through her own consent and co- 
 operation ; and, to accomplish this, he had 
 been working most subtly and most assid- 
 uously. She recalled the language of his let- 
 ter to Ilennigar Wyverne, with reference to 
 herself, that she (Iner)inust be removed from 
 Hernal Mordaunt's way. She now saw that 
 the death of Wyverne had not chnngod Kevin 
 Mngrath's views, but had only caused him to 
 take the matter into his own hamls. She 
 saw, too, that a plot of this kind, which had 
 been so successful, and had only been dis- 
 covered by an accident, conld not have been 
 carried out at nil without the cniiperntion of 
 
 some of the inmatt's of the house — that one 
 being, as bIh; had already suspected, her maid 
 Sauiuiers. 
 
 In the midst of all this she saw that the 
 death of her father in this house must be aa 
 false as the dyinfr appeal to her. She con-- 
 sidercd the whol hing a deception. Allkirs 
 had been so manage<l that she had not caught 
 one glimpse of her father either alive or dead. 
 He had never been here! He was probably 
 alive and searching for her, and she had fallen 
 into ho trap set for her. And now, since she 
 wag here in this trap, many little circum- 
 stances explained them.sclvcs — the stealthy 
 journey from the railway-station, the strange 
 behavior of the man (iounod, whom she had 
 detected aa not being really a priest, but only 
 some common man in a priest's dress ; the 
 cautious drives out in a close cab ; the locked 
 iloors ; tlio constant w,i tell — in all this also 
 the faithful Saunders was inipli'utcd, for she, 
 under the mask ol levot.ion, had contrived to 
 bo with her always. And now here she was, 
 in this deserted building, alone, a prisoner, 
 under lock and key, with the; man Gounod 
 and tlie old woman as her jailers. 
 
 What could she do ? Could she hope ever 
 to escape ? 
 
 Dark, indeed, the prospect seemed ; nor 
 could she, with all h(<rmo9t anxious tho\ighta, 
 discern any way by which escape miirht bo 
 cfTectcd. This she would have to leave ttr 
 circumstances in the future. Perhaps she 
 might be removed from this to some other 
 place where an opportunity might arise. Sho 
 could not hope for more than this, and she 
 could only make up her mind to be as cau- 
 tious as possible, so as to avoiil suspicion, 
 and throw her enemies off their guard. 
 
 Night came, but it was a 8lcei)lcss one to 
 Inez. These new circuinstanccs kept her in a 
 state of constant excitement. Yet, though 
 the discovery which she had made was in one 
 sense so terrible, it was not without its alle- 
 viations. Out of this discovery followed an 
 assurance to her, or at least a hope, that her 
 father might yet be alive, that ho might bo 
 even now seeking for her, and might at Inst; 
 find her. nossio would si'e him ; sho would 
 tell him all thit sho knew about this journey 
 to Paris. Her father would come here ; he 
 woidd employ the aid of the police ; he would 
 at last rescue her. Thus she tried to hope, 
 "nd this hope was the brightest thing thai 
 had occurrc'l to her since her arrival here. 
 
 
 III 
 
■'ii 
 
 lac 
 
 AN Ol'KN (HKSTION. 
 
 
 11 
 
 ClIArTEll XXXIII. 
 
 A K L 1 (i II T V O 11 
 
 , 1 1 e . 
 
 Inez had now but one tlioiiglit, niiil tliiit 
 wi\8 escape. Ilcr ^iittlation was one wliich, in 
 spite of its dilTicultica, did not prevent hope 
 nltoRctlier. Slie was a prisoner, it is true, 
 Imt tlie departure of .'^aunders deprived hor 
 <)f wliat slio now felt to be the most danger- 
 ous of all tlic Rpics around licr. (iounod and 
 the old woman remained, but neither of these 
 (■ecnicd capable of kcepin;; up any very cll'cc- 
 tive or very vigilant system of spying. Kevin 
 Magrath was not here, and he bad jirobably 
 been so confident in the security of this pris- 
 on that ho had sent Saunders away, or taken 
 her away elsewhere. 
 
 All the thoughts of Inez for the next few 
 flays were directed toward her surroundings, 
 in the endeavor to discover Borac way by 
 which she might carry into execution her 
 jdan of escape. This endeavor, however, was 
 >u)t very successful. The house was unin- 
 habited except by herself and her jailers, 
 llor apartments were on one side; the win- 
 dows of her rooms opened upon the gallery, 
 and not upon any street. This gallery was 
 also shut ofT from the rest of the house ; and 
 the door by which cscapd could be made from 
 it was kept locked always. Twice a dry the 
 old woman unlocked it and made her appcar- 
 tincc: once with breakfast, and also to make 
 the beds and cle.ir up the rooms ; and a 
 second time with dinner. Sometimes Gounod 
 would look in during the day. His calls 
 were, however, irregular, and Inez never took 
 any notice of him. 
 
 Now, the policy of Inez was very simple, 
 and at once tlie best and the easiest for her 
 under the circumstances. She appeared quite 
 content. She was wrapped up in herself. 
 She never spoke one word, good or bad, to 
 the old woman or Gounod. She ate her 
 meals, slept at night, ond, during the day, sat 
 patiently in her room. Neither Gounod nor 
 the old woman ever saw any sign of impa- 
 tience in her. To neither of them did she 
 ever liint that she was discontented or un- 
 happy. She never asked to go out, or to 
 drive out. As far as they could judge by 
 outward appearances, she was content. They 
 liad every reason 'o believe that she had ac- 
 quiesced in the plan of Kevin Magrath, and 
 was now placidly waiting for his return so as 
 
 to accoiii|iany him to Home. C!rudually tliis 
 conviction became Htrcnulhcnod in the minds 
 of her jailers. The old woman, who at first 
 used to look at her anxiously every time she 
 came in, grew at length to accept her calm 
 and i)eaceful face as a matter of course. Gou- 
 nod became less vigilant, and bis visits l)e- 
 camc more and more infrcfi'iciit. Many little 
 things, inilced, gliowc<l a nlaxation of the 
 .«trictnc93 of their watch. 
 
 Meanwhile, though Inez thus succccilcd 
 in maintaining an outward calm po perfectly 
 as to imi)oso u] on her watchful jailers, she 
 herself was by ni> rneans free from agitation 
 and fuinulluous U'clings. It was one long 
 state of suspense, and all the harassing con- 
 ditions of suspense were experienced by Iiit 
 to the uttermost. Yet, Inez came to this task 
 not without preparation. She had already 
 endured much ; already had she learned to 
 subduo her emotions, and exercise self-coii- 
 trol. This new task was, therefore, tho 
 easier to lier from the preparation which (^lie 
 had undergone. I'nder cover, then, of pro- 
 found calm and placid content, tdie carried an 
 incessant watchlulness, an eager, sleepless 
 outlook, a vigilant attention to all that went 
 on around her. Not a change took place in 
 the action or demeanor of licr jailers whiih 
 sho failed to notice ; and these changes 
 seemed to promise something. 
 
 Already sho had placed all her hope in 
 the door at the end of the gallery. Through 
 that oidy could she hope to escape. Her 
 gallery was too high above the court-yard for 
 her to let herself down. There were no oth- 
 er ways by which she could leave this story 
 on which she was, cither to go up or down. 
 Since, then, this door was the only pathway 
 to liberty, it became the centre of all her 
 thoughts and watchfulness. 
 
 It was with reference to this, then, that 
 certain things were noticed by her. 
 
 The old woman came, as has been said, 
 regularly twice a day. At first she was most 
 painfully careful and guarded in all her ac- 
 tions. Upon passing through the gallery- 
 door, she always spent obout a quarter of an 
 hour in locking it, putting the key in her 
 pocket, and in trying the lock over and over, 
 to see whether it was really locked or not. 
 Then she would come to the parlor, and look 
 in with painful and eager inquiry. 
 
 But tho cool and patient indiflerenco of 
 Inez aflccted the old woman in spite of her* 
 
 k. 
 
TiiK I'MciiT von Liri:. 
 
 137 
 
 
 Fcir. (ii'oJuully, slic spent Icsit and loss time 
 at tlic door. Thin Inez noticed as clio Kiit in 
 the parlor. Tills parlor was near the door, 
 and tlirou;^li the win 'ow, wliioh opened out 
 into tlio gallery, she could see it very plainly. 
 Tho old woman would bring in lircakfast, and 
 tiien, while Inez was catin;;, rIio would go to 
 her bedroom, at the other end ol' the gallery, 
 to attend to her duties there. 
 
 Now, tho decreasing vi^^ilaneo of the old 
 woman became a matter of immcnso impor- 
 tance to Inez, especially with regard to tho 
 gallery-door. Upon this all her attention be- 
 came exclusively centred. Every day made 
 fiomo trilling change which was in her favor. 
 Tho old woman at length turned the key in 
 the lock quite carelessly, and once even left 
 it in the lock and walked into the [larhir, leav- 
 ing it there. Hoinething, however, put her in 
 uiind of it, and bIic returned and took it out. 
 
 A few days pa'jsod, and tho sarao thing 
 occurred again. This was the thing for 
 which Inez had been waiting. This wad the 
 thing for which .she hud been preparing. The 
 old woman spread the breakfast, and never 
 remembered about the key, and then, as 
 usual, turned toward tho bedroom. Aa she 
 left the parlor, Inez started up, and, at the 
 very moment when t^hc disappeared ''^"ough 
 her bedroom-door, she stole with a ^ ift yet 
 stealthy step to the gallery-door. In on in- 
 stant she \inlocked it, snatched out tho key, 
 transferred it to the other side, and locked it 
 there. 
 
 Thus the old woman herself was impris- 
 oned. 
 
 But for Inez there was no time to lose. 
 The old woman might discover what had hap- 
 pened at any moment; and, if (lounod was in 
 tho house, he would hear her cries. Inez, 
 therefore, hurried along down a flight of 
 bteps that was before her swiftly, yet cau- 
 liously, and thus she reached the story below. 
 N'ow there was a narrow corridor that ran 
 for some distance, and at the end of this a 
 (light of steps. Down this she also went in 
 the same way. Reaching tho bottom, she 
 found herself on the ground-floor, insido a 
 liall that ran across tho building. At tho 
 bottom of this stairway there was a door that 
 opened into tho court-yard, and this lower 
 hall ran back from this door to tho front of 
 the house, where there was another door. 
 
 Inez stopped at the foot of the stairs close 
 by this back-i jor, and peeped cautiously forth 
 
 at the front-door. In un instant iho drew 
 b.uk. It Was the iohi'h r</cnV. There was a 
 man there. It w.is (iDunod. Tho front-door 
 was open, but (iounod sat there, smoking, 
 reailing a morning paper, barring her way to 
 liberty. 
 
 Tor a niotnent nlie stood still, ovcrconio 
 by dc^|lai^, but in another moment it jiassed. 
 Then, with tho same swift rcKoluti«>n and 
 presence of mind which hail marked all her 
 acts thus far, fiho stepped noLselcs.sly out 
 through tho door into the court-yard. Tho 
 stairway concealed her from (lounoil, and bIio 
 made no noise to bciray her movement. 
 
 This back-door was double ; there was an 
 inner and an outer one. The outer one was 
 of massive construction ; the inner one was 
 ligiiter, and had windows in the sides. 
 
 Ono look around tho courtyard showed 
 that tliero was no avenue of escape there. 
 Tho main portal was closed and locked. 
 There was only ono hope, and that was 
 through tho concinyeric. Perhaps (iounod 
 would move. Tcrhaps ho would go up-stairs, 
 or out into tho street, or into the court-yard ; 
 perhaps ho might full asleep ; perhaps, if all 
 else failed, she might make a mad rush for 
 liberty. 
 
 One of these things might happen. It 
 was necessary for her to hold herself in 
 readinesit. The space between tho two doors 
 seemed adapted lor a hiding-place. Through 
 tlio glass of the inner door she could watch 
 the movements of Gounod; while tho mas- 
 sive outer door, as it swung back, would shut 
 her in and save her from detection. Tho 
 moment that this thought suggested itself 
 she acted upon it. Quietly pulling back tho 
 door, she slipped into the place, and then 
 drew the door so as to shut herself in. Tho 
 glass was dusty, but, by breathing upon it 
 and rubbing it gently, ihe was able to watch 
 tho couciergerie, and see Gounod with suQl- 
 cient distinction. 
 
 There she waited — watchful, niOtionles.s, 
 scarce daring to breathe, looking with all her 
 eyes, and listening -rith all her cars. Rlie 
 was straining her eyes to see if Gounod would 
 move, or if any favorable change would take 
 place in liis position. But Gounod made no 
 change for the better. lie smoked on, and 
 shifted and changed his position, and leaned 
 at times back in his chair, and yawned, and 
 read his paper, and smoked again, and so on, 
 till Inez thought that hours must have passed, 
 
 ! 
 
f ■ 
 
 I 
 
 t : 
 
 138 
 
 AX OPEN yUESTK).\. 
 
 and wondered irliut sort of a papor this could 
 be wliich could thus tako eo long a time to 
 read. 
 
 Giie had been listening' all this time — lis- 
 tenin), to hcai' wlicther tlio old woman had 
 discovered her flif^lit. Tldd discovery might 
 take place at any moment. A long time had 
 pnftged, nnd it seemed fur longer thin it really 
 was ; and, as it pn^-cl, the atcnlion of Inez 
 only grew the more eager, 
 
 Suddenly it came. 
 
 She heard it. 
 
 The cry ! 
 
 Hor flight was dibcovered. The old wom- 
 an had found it out. 
 
 There was a wild, shrill, piercing yell from 
 the upper part of the houst — a yell fo clear 
 end pcnetr.'-.dug that Inez actually felt it thrill 
 through nil her frame, and (ioiinod pprnng to 
 his feet, .villi" the p.ipcr fell from liia hands 
 and tlie pipe i'.-om Iim moulli, !Ie Htood lis- 
 tening. 
 
 Tlioro came another yell — a yell of wild 
 lament, iiilcrfi'in '»d with word.", which, how- 
 over, were quite uidntelligihlo. doiinod threw 
 n <,iiicl. lo:. s around him, r<nd then darted 
 (VoiM the enncierf/nie, and ran linRtlly toward 
 fli- back-door. He advanced straight 'owanl 
 the hidi'ig-placo wlu'i-o Inez was standing, and 
 then, r<'nching the foot ot t'lO slai;-s, stood Wa. 
 toning once more. At that moment ho was 
 not more than twelve inches from Inez. 
 
 Horror piiriilyzcd her. She could not even 
 breathe. It was terrible, beyond expression, 
 to be so near lo escape, and yet to havi? so 
 near her the relentless jailer. Hut her sus- 
 pense did not la.-it long, (ioiinod waited, nnd 
 then another yell, more inipaliont, more pro- 
 longed, nnd more eager, came down to his 
 ears. U|)on this he started, and, npritiging 
 fr^rward, ni)>hcd up the stairs, taking thrco 
 stepn at a time. 
 
 Now was the moment ! Heforo Oonnnd 
 had gained the top of that stairway, Inez had 
 slipped out from her hiding-place ; and, as he 
 was nmning along the upper gallery, she waa 
 hurrying towanl the roufifrprrie. Here a 
 Hii'iilen impulse seized her to take some ^ind 
 of A disguise, so as to prevent observation. 
 In her prvsent dross hlio '•ould look straiigtf 
 in the streets, without Jacket or bonnet. One 
 quick look around the cowWrri/mc was enouuli. 
 There was an old water-proof cloak there niid 
 a hat, ovidoiitly the property .! the old wom- 
 an. IncB fult some reluct nrr about using 
 
 these things, especially the hat, 'mt there 
 was no help for it. She cjuld not stop to 
 reason. She seizc-l the Moak, flung it over 
 her, thrust tlir. hat on her head, and then 
 sprang out through the open door into tb? 
 street. 
 
 Away and away 1 She was afraid to run, 
 but she walked as rapidly as possible. At 
 length iliis street ran ii.to anotV.or which raa 
 more crv>wded. Hero ."lie mingled with i'.;o 
 throng of people and soon lost herself. Out 
 it wu.s not easy for her to feel safe. So terri- 
 ble was her sense of pursuit nnd kcr dread 
 of capture that siie walked on h'.kI on, turning 
 into one street alter another, rounding coi- 
 ners, walking up lanes, ami losing hetself 
 inextricably. Tho streetH, as she went, grew 
 more and more populous, the lioiyes grew 
 handsomer, the public buildings more stately. 
 At length she caino to a river, over which 
 there were thrown numerous nmgiiiOcv-*nt 
 bridges, -and beyond there arose the lordly 
 ouiIIqc of splendid pal.ices and noblu monu- 
 ments. In these she beheld, at letigth rc- 
 vciiLmI, all tho glories of I'nris ; and, in spite 
 of the terrors of pursuit and the agitation of 
 her flight, she could not help accepting this 
 as a fresh proof of the vigilance of her jailer* 
 and tho treachery of Saunders, who had never 
 driven her near tliLs part of Paris, but had 
 tliligenily kcin iier in streets whore she could 
 see noth'.ig of the splendor of the great city. 
 
 Hi'.i there wart no ti'nc now either to recall 
 pa. ; trenjhery or to admire the splendors of 
 the surrounding scene. Escape was her only 
 thought — security in some place of refuge, 
 where s'.o might collect b-ir thoughts nnd 
 eorisidcr her future. On, then, she went, and 
 still or. She crossed a bridge that was neiir- 
 est, and then once more plunged into a crowd 
 of streets. 
 
 At length, her att(;ntion was arrested by it 
 notice on the window of a house. It looked 
 like a place suited to one of moderate means. 
 It was a notice to lodgers. She entered here, 
 and made inquiries. !-'<o was pleased with 
 the look of iIk! place, and also with the ap- 
 pearance, the tone, and tho manner of tlio 
 lan'll.idy. Here, tlien, t'lie took lodgings. 
 
 Her first thoughts now were abo>it regain- 
 ing her friends. She had no money, and 
 therefore eonl'l not travel. She could think 
 of iiiilv one thing to do, and that was to writa 
 *..- ll.-^ssie. ncBi<io would feel for her, and 
 either «. 'd her money or Uy to her relief. 
 
 i. I 
 

 A rilKSll 1NVK.ST1GAT10.V. 
 
 i;{9- 
 
 ')ut there 
 ut Rtop to 
 ip; it over 
 nnd thrn 
 r into tb? 
 
 id to run, 
 <Bil)le. At 
 wliich tna 
 d with I'.'.e 
 rstlf. But 
 So tcrri- 
 Ucr dread 
 on, tuniinR 
 inding cor- 
 ii"; lieisclf 
 went, grew 
 juics pri'W 
 lOre statoly. 
 over wliicli 
 ninpiific'ont 
 • I he lordly 
 olilu nionu- 
 . KTigth re- 
 nd, in ppito 
 (jritation of 
 [•('pting this 
 M licr jailers 
 10 Imd never 
 Tin, but hnd 
 re she could 
 c Rveut city, 
 her to recall 
 pli'ndors of 
 was her on!y 
 ! of refuge, 
 loughtH and 
 10 vent, nnd 
 at was ncRr- 
 into a crowd 
 
 iTPSted by it 
 It looked 
 L-mte moans. 
 >nterod here, 
 )lensed with 
 'illi the np- 
 nner of llio 
 lodgings, 
 iboiit regain- 
 money, nnd 
 rould thinic 
 wa« to write 
 or licr, nnd 
 i> her relief. 
 
 Dosic al.10 might know about her fithcr by I 
 this time, nnd would send him. So afraid, 
 liowc'cr, was Iner of letting her secret be 
 kncwn Ihnt she did not give Bessie the ad- 
 drcHS of her lodgings, but simply told her to 
 address the letter posle rfstante at Paris. In 
 her letter she informed Bessie that she had 
 come to Paris owing to false inforniati n 
 wliich she had rcecived, that she had b. 'i. 
 in great distress ; and, after a brief outiir.c 
 of her siitforings, implored her to send her nt 
 once as much money us would be siidicient to 
 take her to Knglai I. 
 
 Having written this, she waited impatiently 
 for nn answer. Afraid to go to tlio pojt-ofHc^ 
 horself, for fear of being discoverei and re- 
 cvptured by some ngent of Magrnth's, Inez 
 nj jvnled to the landlady, who sent her dau^di- 
 ter there. Tliere was no niiswer. 
 
 Several days passed. 
 
 Every day some one went there, cither 
 the landlady or the landlady's daughter, pr 
 some 'jtlier member of the family. All wer;' 
 full of sympathy for the benutifid Knglish 
 girl who war so lonely nnd 80 snd. But the 
 days passed, iiuu siill no answer came. 
 
 Then Iiie?: wrote ngnin. Her letter was 
 more urgent nnd mnie lull of entreaty tl.an 
 before. She drev/ n picture of her past suf- 
 ferings nnd nfnsent desolation that would 
 have ni'i'ed t!. • most callous heart, and im- 
 jdored 'Jessie n'.i to del.iy in sending her ns- 
 Kisf,..iee 
 
 .'.'■(er this she again waited in a fever of 
 iinpalicnce. Day after day passed, and week 
 after week. No answer came. .\t length, so 
 great was the nnsiety of Inez that it sur- 
 mounted even the haunting dread of pursuit 
 and recapture; and, fearing that the landlady 
 might have made a mistoko of some sort, she 
 venture 1 forth to the post-ofllco herself. But 
 she met with no better "ueeess. 
 
 llien> was no letter at nil for anv fueh 
 persrin as Inez Mordaunt. There was no let- 
 ter for any such person as Ino« Wyverne — 
 nor for Miss Mordaunt, nor for Atiss Wyverne. 
 Inez named herself in every possible way; 
 btit the end of it nil wns, flint no answer ct 
 nil had been sent to cither of her letters, 
 
 Upon this she lost nil hope, and ♦ho only 
 conclusion that she could come to wns, that 
 Bessie hciself had p' isps been foullv dealt 
 with by Kevin Magrath. This fear seemed 
 BO jiisliMahle that it preyed more niul nuire 
 upon her ndnd, nnd finally became n convie. 
 
 tion. The picture which her ima^in.ition 
 formed of the ehildish nnd light-hearted Bes- 
 sie, drawn helplessly into the power of tho 
 unscrupulous Magrath, w;'9 too terrible to be 
 endiired. The sulFerings through wliioh she 
 had passed since her llight reached a climax. 
 This last disappointment brol-e down all her 
 fortitude. .'Strength ami hope alike gave way, 
 and a severe attack of illness followed, in 
 which :ho once more went dowa to the ex- 
 treme verge cif life. But the kind care of the 
 landlady watched over her, nnd those good 
 [icopli! showi'd waiT.i and loving hearts. Their 
 care saved her, aud Inez was once more broufhl 
 back to life. 
 
 As she found horself convalescent, she be- 
 came every day more and more aware of llie 
 necessity that there was to get money in some 
 wny. Iler debt to the landlady was heavy 
 already; nnd, more than this, she was eager 
 to return to England. 
 
 Uow could she do this ? 
 
 There was only one way possible. 
 
 That piild coss which she had found nt 
 Villencuvc sl"> had ever siiiee worn around 
 her neck, and hnd it still. ThiTe was no other 
 wny to save herself than by the sacrifice of 
 this. It was a bitter thing, but it had to bo 
 done. It was necessary to pawn it, and thus 
 get thnt money which alone could save het 
 now. 
 
 Wie had, therefore, nerved herself up to 
 this. She had set forth in search of n pawn- 
 broker or Sv/nicthii.g equivalent, nnd was on 
 this en and at the time she met Kane Ilell- 
 muth. Full of terror, fearing pursuit nnd 
 recapture, every one seenu'd a possible ene- 
 my ; nnd t',o earnest stnre of Kane Hellmuth 
 •.'•'•'" .'■..itfieicnt to rouse all her fears. Ho 
 seemed some agent of her enemy, nnd, when 
 she know that she wns l)e'ng pursued by him, 
 she lost all hope. As a last resource, she 
 sought to take a cab, but at thnt instant her 
 strength gave way. 
 
 ciuriKR X.XXIV. 
 
 .V FUF. sir INVKSTIOATIOM. 
 
 TiiK story of Ines hnd been communicated 
 to K:ino Hellmuth in the course of several 
 inferv ews. The confiilenco which thus began 
 between them, smm became ol" the most famil- 
 iar If'nd. From tho first, the sore necessities 
 
 i\-'f 
 
 \ 
 
 u 
 
m 
 
 140 
 
 AN OTKN (JLE^TIOX. 
 
 
 of Inez made Lcr cling to tliitt stmngo Eiig- 
 li.sliniiiu upon whom blic had huv.n tliconii, 
 iiiid wlio hud been so ri-udy in tlie oH'tT of his 
 ii8sistancc ; but, after slie learned who he was, 
 her trust in him became boundless. Tlio con- 
 tidcncc which she put in him was met with 
 llie fullest return on lii.s part ; and Inez, who 
 had trusted in him, wl\en fehe discovered that 
 he was the friend of Dr. IJlake, at length 
 learned, to her amazement, that ho was the 
 husband of her elder sifter Clara This din- 
 eovcry she hailed with the utmost joy. This 
 <ino fact gave her n. friend and protector. 
 Jlorc, it gave her a relative. Kane Ucllniuth 
 was thus her brother, sinoe he was her f ister's 
 Imsband. Could any thing be more consoling 
 than this ? To this man, then, the friend of 
 her lover, and the iiusbaiid of her sister, she 
 gave all her trust and tonljdence. 
 
 A3 brotiicr of Inez, Kuno Ikllmuth took 
 licr at once under ' "s protection. lie re- 
 deemed her from her didiculiie.s, and let her 
 have suflleicnt money to extricate herself 
 from her endjarrassments without the sacri- 
 tice of the precious relic of her father. As 
 her ' other, ho visited her at the house, aul 
 was rccei^'i'd with Fmiios of welcome by the 
 liiiid-hearied landlady and her daughter, who 
 were filled with joy ut this siiddcn iniprove- 
 n.ent in the fortunes of the sweet young Liig- 
 lish lady that had become sn dear to them. 
 
 In the course of their coevcrsallons Ki.ne 
 Ilellnnilh had mentioned to her what he 
 knew of Dr. lilake, but did not siiow her his 
 letter. It was so in''ohercnt that ho -.vas 
 afraid that it miglu ivcv tfo her anxieties if, 
 as he strongly r.uspectcii, aUc eared niiieh for 
 him. Ills own anxieties about IJhike he kept 
 to himself; and, indeed, tliesc were now com- 
 plctely eclipsed by his anxieties about Inez. 
 
 The story of Inez had excited wiiliin him 
 an extraordinary tumult of cdiitcnding emo- 
 tion. The new position in which it placed 
 Kevin Magrath, was the most astonl.shlng 
 thiiig to him. He iiad a very viviil remem- 
 brance of that man, of his rollicking Irish ex- 
 travagance, and his bitter dcnunciatii^n of 
 the " destroyer of Clara Mordaiint."' lie hail 
 been aceustomod to flunk of him as a so; t 
 «)f accu.'ing witness against liimself; but now 
 this accuftiiig witness was transformed into a 
 remorseless villain, who hnd been the fratncr 
 of an infamous plot against a defeneele.iR 
 girl. A new motive for act!.„i was roused 
 within him : to meet this mnu again, to CX' 
 
 tort from him some eatisfaction for his mis* 
 deeds, or bring him to punishment. 
 
 Apart from the vili.;ny of Magrath, there 
 stood forward, prominently, the contradiction 
 between what he said to himself and what he 
 communicated to Inez, To lumself he had 
 said that Inez was In^ • ' .'yvernc ; that hi i 
 father, llennigar Wyvcrnc, h.»d left her pen- 
 niless, and thai slie would be dependent. To 
 Inez he had plainly declared, by his letters, 
 that she was the daughter of Uernal Mor- 
 daunt. 
 
 To liimself ho had said that llennigar 
 Wyvernc owed Ilernal Mordaunt money; to 
 Inez ho had told a story of the most absurd 
 and extravagant kisid. 
 
 In short, all that Magrath had said to him 
 was utterly opposed in eviry rcpec' 'lut 
 
 he hnd said to Inez. 
 
 As he had thus lied about Inez, Uiij,... he 
 not also have lied about Clara V 
 
 Tliis thought started up in Kane lleli- 
 mutli's mind, »nd at once roused his "aper 
 desire to make new Inrjuiries about the death 
 of ills lost wife. The theory that Dr. Bhikc 
 had suggested had once before deeply im- 
 pressed hini ; the statements of Magrath 
 seemed to have destroyed that theory ; but 
 now, since Magrath had been proved to be a 
 villain and a liar, his old feelings rose up, 
 and, for his own sake, as well as for the sake 
 of Inez, he resolved to enter upon a fresh 
 search iiilo the whole of this dark mystery. 
 
 It was a mystery before which ho was 
 completely baflled. It seemed to be a fact, 
 after all, that llennigar Wyvcrne's dying 
 declaration was true. Inez was ilearly the 
 daughter of Ileriial Mordaunt. Wo\ild it be 
 eipially true that Dr. Itlake was the soii of 
 llennigar Wyvernc? lie remendjered how 
 strongly Blake himself had at one time been 
 ineliiu'd to this belief, and for whose sake ho 
 had refrained from enleriuK upon a search. 
 It wos the statement of Magrath which had 
 driven this belief out of lilakc's mind, but 
 now this statement iiad turned out to be a 
 lii>. More than thi.s, Magrath himself had 
 been shown to have a deep inte:est in this 
 lie; he hud come forward as an active perse- 
 cutor, and, in intention, a destroyer of Inez. 
 Would he have the same motive to act against 
 Blake ? Could Blake's extraordinary disap- 
 pearance, and Btil! more extraordinary silence, 
 bo due to the same subtle agency ♦ Could 
 the man who hnd beguiled Inez to Taris and 
 
|)r Lis iuis> 
 
 rrntl), tliero 
 Intradictioii 
 Intl nliiit lio 
 fcK be liud 
 tbat bcr 
 lit her pcn- 
 lendeiit. To 
 his letter.", 
 iJiTual llor- 
 
 t Ilcnnigar 
 
 money; to 
 
 |iiiost absurd 
 
 said to bim 
 hfc: 'lilt 
 
 fz, nii(,... iic 
 
 Kane Ileli- 
 cd Ilia ''apcr 
 )iit tlie death 
 lit Dr. Wake 
 B deeply im- 
 ol' Uagratb 
 theory ; but 
 roved to be a 
 iip;s rose up, 
 I for tlie fake 
 upon a fresh 
 k inyptcry. 
 hich ho was 
 10 be a fact, 
 .'rne's dyiiij-^ 
 8 ilcnrly tin- 
 Would it be 
 I tlic foil (if 
 
 iiibered how 
 110 time been 
 liose (>akc hu 
 nil a search, 
 h nhieh had 
 H mind, but 
 out to bo a 
 himself had 
 le-est in thin 
 active pcric- 
 )yer of Inez, 
 oact nffainst 
 inary disnp- 
 tiary silence, 
 uy » Could 
 lo I'aris and 
 
 A FUI«II IXrESTIUATlU.V. 
 
 141 
 
 entrapped her, luvc bc;ruilod DIake aho lo 
 some place wiieic he mi^^ht work his will up- 
 on bini ? Ulakc, in his letter, spokL of going 
 "south " with a friend. Could this friend bo 
 Magrath ? Could tisat " south " be Homo ? 
 
 .Such were tlie thoughts that filled Kane 
 llellmulh's niiud. Tlie \»liolo situation lie- 
 came a djrk and insorutablo problem. It 
 was irapo.s.*iblc to solve it while resting inac- 
 tive at Paris. It was necea:*ary for him to 
 net, and to act immediately, both for the sake 
 of Inez and ulr-o for the sake of Blake. 
 
 Another also appeared to Inez to be in- 
 volved in this mystery, and that was liessic. 
 About Bessie, Kane Ilellmulh was greatly 
 trOiibled. Inez had informed him of Bes.sic's 
 own account of herself, and her belief that 
 siio was the daughter of Bernal Mordaunt. 
 The name Mordaunt had str ick him very for- 
 cibly once before, and now it afl'orded equal 
 iiiaticr for conjecture. Ilr was puzzled, but 
 he could not help thinkuK; thi't, as Inez knew 
 her best, her conjectures about her were more 
 just than his. The fact that she, too, was 
 involved in thi.s wide-cpreading difliculty, only 
 atrorded a fresh reason for instant action on 
 his part. 
 
 fhis decision he .iniiounced to Inez, who 
 ot once begged that, he would take her to 
 I'liigland. 
 
 To this, howeviT, Kan(> Ilellmuth ob- 
 jected. 
 
 " My dear Inez," said he, addicssing her 
 in that familiar manner which was justified 
 by his near relationship, "you are really safer 
 here than anywhco else. There arc niony 
 reasons why you had better not go. Your 
 enemies will think that you are in Kiiglaiid 
 even now, and will search after you there. 
 In travelling there ^ith me you would be cer- 
 tain to be discovered, and I also would be 
 ki.')wn as your friend '.nd companion. They 
 would know that I had found out all — our re- 
 lationship, also — and would be in a position 
 to baffle me in my search. '"• , too, would 
 bo watched ; and, as I should liuvo to leave 
 you, I couM never feel comfortable about 
 you." 
 
 "But isn't this place far more danger- 
 ous V " 
 
 " Xo," said Kane Hellmuth; "on the con- 
 trary, it's the safest place in the world. They 
 will never look for you in I'ari.s. Then, again, 
 ••ven if they were to find you, they could do 
 nothing. I'aris i.s the best-goveriicil city in 
 
 the world. The police here are omniscient ; 
 no one could be illegally carried oH". You arc 
 absolutely safe. The moment )oii left that 
 house, you were safe. If the old woman and 
 Gounod had both chased and captured you, 
 they would not have dareil 'o take you back, 
 unless you yourself wished. Any remon- 
 strance of yours would Inve drawn the atten- 
 tion of the police, (iounou and the old woman 
 would have been arrested and examined ; and 
 that, I imagine, is about the la.t tiling that 
 they would wi:ih to happen to the n. .Men of 
 (Jounod's order are particularly anxious not 
 to get into the hands of the pidiec. The fact 
 is, there is no place in the world where you 
 are so ab -olutcly Pafc as you are here. In 
 Loudon you would be in danger. In any small 
 town anywhere you might be in da.'ger. Here, 
 however, no danger can befall you. I assure 
 you fcolemnly, my dear Inez, it is absolutely 
 impossible for you to pet into the hands of 
 that miscreant again, unless you yourself 
 voluntarily go there." 
 
 At this Inez smiled. Kane Ilellmuth's 
 tone completely reassured her. The idea of 
 putting herself voluntarily into the hands 
 of Kevin Magrath was, however, excessively 
 aniu.^ing to her. 
 
 " You may laugli," said Kane Ilellmuth, 
 " but that is a real danger. I5o on your 
 guard. Don't let him tnlrap you again." 
 
 "I shouldn't go with him," said Inez, 
 " not even if he should declare that my papa 
 was dying, as he did before." 
 
 " CHi, well, he wouldn't use ,liat traj; 
 agaii ; he would have something ciso the 
 next time." 
 
 "There is nothing else," said Inez; "there 
 is no other living bci'ig through whom he could 
 work upon me." 
 
 Kane Ilellinutli looked at her earnest- 
 ly. 
 
 " r am very much mistaken, my poor 
 Inez, ' ^aid he, "if there is not. There is, I 
 think, one other human being. Be on your 
 guard, dear ; don't allow yourself to bo dc- 
 ccired. You know whom I mean. Now, if 
 it should happen that you should hear of him 
 in B'.y way that is not perfectly free from 
 susp eion, be on your guard." 
 
 nez lool:ed down on the floor with a 
 heightened color, and in scmie surprise. Sho 
 di(. not know about Kar.o Ilellmuth's fcart* 
 lor Bl«!;e, or his suspicions about Magrath'a 
 possible intentions toward hira also. 
 
 ! • 
 
142 
 
 AX OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 Ill 
 
 i 
 
 M -I 
 
 ii <ii 
 
 "I'm sure I don't sec liow that could be," 
 said she. 
 
 " Well, no matter," gaid Kauo llel'mulh. 
 " Only promise me that you will not go any- 
 where without ample protection and bcuu- 
 rity." 
 
 "01'., of course," said Inez; "I'm sure 
 I've Icumcd too Lard a Icdsou to forget it 
 easily." 
 
 " I Lope you may not," said Kaue IIcll- 
 math. 
 
 In view of Uiis proposed journey, Inez 
 would luivo been /;'ad, indeed, if she could 
 Lave given him uny information which might 
 assist him in Uio search. liut this she was 
 ui..i'ulo to do. She knew of no one who was 
 acquaimcd with the past of herself, except, 
 perhaps, old Mrs. Klein. That person had 
 certainly given htr some valuable informa- 
 tion, but she did it incidentally, and in a hnp- 
 Luznrd fashion. An old creature, so sodden 
 with drink as she was, could not be expected 
 to give any coherent answers to a regular 
 series of questions. Of this she informed Kane 
 Ilellmulh, who took down her name ami ad- 
 dress, and thought tliat it might be worth 
 while to pay the old woman a visit. 
 
 When he bade her good-by that evening, 
 it was with a certain solemn foreboding of 
 iudeQuablc evil that was possible — some evil 
 that might happen to her or to himself, be- 
 fore they mi^lit meet again. 
 
 " Good-by, Inez, dear sister 1 Remember 
 what you promised." 
 
 " Good-by, Kaue ! " said Inez, in a voice 
 full of emotion. 
 
 She felt us though she was losing her only 
 friend. A tear stood in her eye. Kane Ilell- 
 n.uth held her Lund in liis, and looked nt her 
 with tt softened expression on his stern 
 face. 
 
 Then he stooped, and kissed her. 
 
 Then he turned, and left the house. 
 
 On the following morning he left for Lon- 
 don, and arrived there in due time. He bad 
 not been there for years, and had no ac- 
 queinianccs in particular. The soliciiors of 
 his father were tlic ones from whom he hop»d 
 to find out something, ihougli whut that ^<>ine 
 thing might be he hardly knew. lie did not 
 know what course of action might be required 
 on his own part. He did not know nhelhcr 
 it would be bc<t to carry on the work which 
 he Lad before him in secret, or to l)roak 
 through that law of sileuco which he had im- 
 
 I posed on himself since his wife's death. IIo 
 held himself in readiness to adopt whatever 
 course might be best for the fullilmeut of tho 
 work in which ho was engaged. 
 
 His first act was to go to tho house in 
 which Mr. Wyverne had lived. Upon reach- 
 ing it, he found it closed. It was evident, 
 ihercfcirc, that Iks.sie MorJaiiut must bo 
 sought fo"" elscivhcre. 
 
 He ''.en thought of Mrs. Klein, and at 
 once drove off to visit her, Tho address 
 which Inez had given him enabled him to 
 lind her without diflicuhy, as she was still 
 living in the same place. 
 
 Although Inez had given him a vcrj' good 
 idea of her interview with Mr.''. Klein, still 
 the sight of tho «ld woman was somewhat 
 disheartening to one who came, like Kane 
 Ilellmuth, in the character of an investigator 
 after truth, and nn eager questioner. It was 
 not the bottle at her elbow, nor her blesry 
 eyes, nor her confused manner, that troubled 
 him. I<'or this ho was prepared. It wa.<» 
 rather the altitude which Mrs. Klein chose to 
 take up toward him. She threw at him one 
 look of sharp, cunning suspicion, as he an- 
 nounced to lior that he had come to ask her 
 a few questioiip, and then obstinately refused 
 to answer a single wo"d. 
 
 The fact is, Kant Ilellmuth was a bad 
 diplomntist, and soon perceived that he had 
 mane a mistake. This lie liastencd to rectify 
 in a way which seemed to liim best adapted 
 to mollify one of Mrs. Klein's appearance, 
 which was the somewhat coarse but at the 
 same tim-; very elficiicious offer of a sover- 
 eign. 
 
 The cITcct was magical. 
 
 Her fat, flabby fingers clo-icd lovingly 
 around it; and she surveyi.'d Kane Ilellmuth 
 with a mild, maternal look, which beamed 
 benevolently ujion him from her watery 
 eyes, 
 
 " Deary me I " she said ; " and you such r 
 'andsome young gentleman, ns is eomin' to 
 visit a poor old creetiir as is deserted by nil 
 kith and kin, which it's truly lavish and boun- 
 tiful you are as over *as, and him ns gives to 
 the poor l.iids to the Lord, ami may it bo 
 restored 'o you a 'undredfoM, with my 'umblo 
 dooly,nnd prayer that your days may be long 
 in the hind, for cverinoie, and me a 'om.m as 
 lios feen better days, whicl: I'm now brought, 
 down to this; and m ny Ihnnks, my kind, 
 kind gfiitleman.for ali your kui'iness shown." 
 
A FRESH 1NVESTU7ATI0.V. 
 
 143 
 
 Iciith. Ho 
 t whatover 
 icut of tiio 
 
 house in 
 pon rcach- 
 
 IS CVillRIlt, 
 
 tiiiist bo 
 
 .'in, and at 
 )c uddfcs!) 
 'il liim to 
 was atill 
 
 vip; good 
 \.ii'in, slill 
 somcwlint 
 lil(c Kane 
 nvcstigator 
 cr. It waa 
 lirr bleary 
 It troubled 
 It was 
 ;in chose to 
 at liiin one 
 03 lie un- 
 to ask her 
 tfly refused 
 
 was a bad 
 hat he hail 
 kI to rectify 
 Dst adapted 
 appearance, 
 
 but at the 
 of a Bovor- 
 
 id lovingly 
 B Ilrllmutli 
 icli beamed 
 ler watery 
 
 you «uch a 
 I comin' to 
 jrtcd by all 
 I 11 nd boun- 
 ns gives to 
 may it bo 
 my 'umi)lo 
 nay be Ion;* 
 a 'oni.m as 
 ow brought. 
 , my Itind, 
 »S9 shown." 
 
 "Sco here, now, Mrs. Klein," said Kaue 
 Ilellmuth, sharply — "gather up your wits, if 
 you can. I want you to answer one or two 
 questions. You know ail about Ucunigur 
 Wyverne's family." 
 
 Mrs. Klein gave a sigh : 
 
 " Whiuh 'im as is dead and gone, and was 
 the kindcBt and mildest-mannered gentleman 
 as ever I sot heycs on, and alius treated me 
 that generous that I could have blacked liis 
 boots for very love, and his — " 
 
 " All right. Now, sec here. There was 
 Inez Mordaunt, that lived iu his house — " 
 
 " Miss lliny — my own sweet child alive — 
 and me that loved her like — " 
 
 " Oil, of course. You see 1 know all about 
 her. But I want to osk you about another. 
 Who is this other girl that lived at Mr. 
 Wyveme's, and called Lei'self licssio Mor- 
 daunt?" 
 
 " Which there never was no girl called 
 Bessie, and she didn't live there. She waa 
 sent oiT to France, and her a young thing as 
 had just lost her mother. For my part, I al- 
 ius says to Mr. Wy vcruo— says I, ' Sir,' says 
 I, ' Miss Clara's too young to — ' " 
 
 " Clara ! " exclaimed Ilellmnth, with • 
 strange intonaiion. " What bccdinc of Ler f 
 Tell me— tell me— tell me ! " 
 
 Mrs. Klein gave a doleful sigh, and shook 
 her head solemnly. 
 
 " V.'iiiuh she's dead and gone, and ib a 
 blessed angel these many years, kind air ; and 
 bognin' yer humble pardon, but it's better for 
 her as is far awiy from a world of sin &n<l 
 woe, and all tiic chances end clmnjues of this 
 mortial spcre. And I alius. said as — " 
 
 " Yes, yc," said Ilellmuth, with some im- 
 potionoe, hastily changing the conversation. 
 "But this one I mean called bcraolf Bo«- 
 Bie." 
 
 Mrs. Klein shook her hca I. 
 
 " Hhe was named Clara — J don't know any 
 fiessic — and I take my IJiblr oath— and never 
 fear— " 
 
 " She may have come tu the house after 
 yon left." 
 
 "And very likely, an<l me 'as alius, kind 
 sir, kcp' that house that orderly ax wos beau- 
 tiful to be'old; but what goiu'a on there was 
 there after I left, Lord only knows, an' Mr. 
 Wyveme that mild that anybody could im- 
 pose on 'im same ua if ho was a new-bom 
 babo— " 
 
 "Dovouknowa man nnnxMi K<>vtn Ma- 
 
 grath ? " said Kane Ilellrauth, ligidly holding 
 her to the points about whicli he wished to 
 question her, oud checking her headlong gar- 
 rulity. 
 
 Mrs. Klein looked at him with a bleary 
 gaze, and again wagged licr fat old head. 
 
 " Won't you tak>' somethin' warm, kind 
 air ? " she asked. 
 
 " Xo," said Kane IlcUmulh. " Uut about 
 Kevin Ma;,-rath — can you tell me any thing? " 
 
 Mr<- Klein poured out a g'ass of iKiuor, 
 and slowly swallowed it. Then she Kmauked 
 her lips. Then she drew a long breath. 
 
 " 'Im," said she, " as was the scipcnt that 
 stolu into that lledcu, and me alius lellin' Mr. 
 Wyverue. Says I, 'Sir, beware; 'c'U put 
 your neck inside the gallus'-nooso.' And 
 where ho came and where ho v.'cnt I do not 
 know, nor can tell, savir.' an' except as ho 
 wos a willain — a out-an'-outer — and mc as 
 knows no more about him than that" 
 
 Mrs. Klein evidently coidd say nothing 
 about Magrath more deliniic than this. Kane 
 Ilellmuth questioned her u^ain and again, but 
 the answer was always of the aamn kind, llis 
 vi.sit here secniud, therefore, a failure, and he 
 felt inclined to retire and leave Mrs. Klein 
 alone with the beloved society of her buttle, 
 liut he hud one qucaliou yet to ask, and upon 
 her answer to this very much depended. 
 
 " See here," said he. "Can you tell nu; 
 any thing more about Bornal Mordaunt 'f 
 Where did he come iVom ? Wlio was he ? " 
 
 Mrs. Klein seemed to rouse herself at this 
 last ({ueslion. Slie looked at liim with Ic.'s 
 stupidity in her sodden, boozy lace. 
 
 " Which as hevery one knows,"' said she, 
 " and I wonders much as 'ow hevcr a fine 
 gentleman like you turns \ip and 'us never 
 'card of Ilernal Murdauut. They kept it close 
 from Clara, and made .out us 'ow it was 'er 
 huncle's 'ome, or second cousin, and hit 'er 
 father's hnwn piaec, and one of the grandest 
 and gorceouscMt in the kin;;doin; for, as I 
 alius auv.i. tisn't hevery girl as baa a in'cr- 
 itanoe like Mordaunt Manor." 
 
 " Mordaunt Manor I " oried Kane IIcll- 
 nutli. 
 
 He shrunk away from the old woman, and 
 snt looking at her with a pale face and §jmm- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 " Mordaunt Manor, ua hcver was," said 
 Mrs. Klein, " which I knnwed it nil nhiiip, 
 and pore Mr. Wyverne, as is dead and gone, 
 knowcd as I knowed it, though ihoin children 
 
■•: 
 
 14+ 
 
 AN orivN yiKSTlON. 
 
 Hi 
 
 m 
 
 I 4 ^ 
 
 \i 
 
 were that lied to timt thoy dulii'i know tl)t'ir 
 own ('iithcr's 'ouse." 
 
 " Moi'daunt Manor ! " exclaimed Kane IIcU- 
 niuth again, upon whom thiH inibrmatiDii hud 
 produced a most extraordinary cfleet, "In 
 what county ? " 
 
 " Mordaunt Manor as i-i in Cunilicrlanii 
 Count.v — whicli there never was but one Mor- 
 daunt Manor, as anybody hever 'canl hon." 
 
 Kani" lU'lhnuth started ' Lis feet. lie 
 had heard enoufrh. Ilia niiud was ■'wide up 
 to some Hudden coursii , . •'. . t lod b. thin new 
 inrorinatiun. J(o hit abruptly, and hurried 
 buck to bin hotel. 
 
 That evo'iini; he was hurryinf^ on by ex- 
 press out (if Loudon toward the nortli. 
 
 CH.VPTKU X.KXV. 
 THE T w o n !: o T n K n .-^ . 
 
 TiiK sudden resolution which Kane IIcll- 
 niutli hail taken wai* noc without a siilTleient 
 cause. The eonnectinn which Jlra. Klein's 
 ir.roriiiation had established brtween the chil- 
 dren of liernal Murdaunt and Mordaunt Manor 
 pave rise to uunieruus suspicions iii his niitiil. 
 I f they were the heiresses of Mordaunt Manor, 
 then there was supplied that which his mind 
 had long souj^ht after — namely, a motive for 
 the plot n^iainst Inez, and fur that plot in 
 whicli it now appeared tliat Clara had been 
 involved. Yet, if thii wen; so, why had not 
 (.'lara known it? If Mordaunt Manor was 
 her home, why had she never Baid >'() ? The 
 only aii'-wtr to this lay in Mrs. KK'in'.s inco- 
 herent remarks about " lies " which were told 
 her, 80 that she diiln't know her own faiber's 
 house. She may have left it at so early an 
 npe that she had no certainty about its beint' 
 her home, and afterward iiiay have been nuule 
 to believe tiiat it belonged to sonic one 
 else. 
 
 In any case, however, it now seemed tit 
 Kane llellMiulh that Mordaunt .Manor it- 
 self was the best place for biui to (,'o to. If 
 it belonged to liernal Mordaunt, he liiinsclf 
 would be mora likely to bo the 'c tlinn uny- 
 wheru else; and, if he was hot there, lie 
 Mli^;ht find out where he really w a ^. If Kevin 
 Magrath's plot really had reference to this, 
 he iidglii possibly find out tlieiu Bomrtliini; 
 about him. Or, if neither of tlicHc could be 
 found, there was a remote probftbillty that ho 
 
 might hear something about Ues.sie. Tor all 
 these reasons, then, und for others which will 
 afterward appear, Slordaunt Slanor seemed to 
 him to bo by far the best place that could bu 
 found for u centre of operations. 
 
 On reaching Keswick he stopped at the 
 inn, when- he obtained answers to all the 
 questions that he chose to ask ; nnd these 
 answers filled him with amazement. In 
 these answers there was eommuuieated to 
 him a nundter of facts which were incompre- 
 hensible, bewildering, overwhelming ! 
 
 The first thing that he learned was that 
 FJcmai Mordaunt had returned home alter uii 
 absence of years, and, after a brief decline, 
 had died there. 
 
 Moreover, ho hod been welcomed homo 
 by his daughter. 
 
 This daughter had herself come home but 
 a short time before, after an absence of 
 years. 
 
 This d.iughter had cheered the declining 
 days of the feeble old man, had given her- 
 self up to him with u devotion ond a tender 
 love that was almost superhuman. In that 
 love the old man had solaced himself, and ht) 
 had died in her loving arms. 
 
 Moreover, the liumc of this daughter was 
 Inez Mordaunt ! 
 
 This Inez Mordaunt h.ul filled men of 
 every degree with adn.i ation for her beaut_ , 
 her fascinating grace, her accessibility, her 
 generosity, and, above all, for her tender love 
 and unparallelci! devotion to her aged fa- 
 ther. 
 
 This Inez Mordaunt ah-o liad married a 
 man who was worthier of her than any other ; 
 be was also a resident of the county, and thus 
 she would not be lost to the Hoeioty which 
 admired her so greatly and so justly. Her 
 father had haxteiied on the nnii riiige before 
 his death, so that he should not leave her 
 alone in the world. Kven after her marringo 
 this noble daughter showed the same death- 
 less devotion to that falher for whom >iie hud 
 done so much. 
 
 The liuppy man who had won «o noble a 
 woman fo.' his wile tt.i'-; Kir Gwyn Itiithven, 
 of Uulhvcn Towers. 
 
 All this is familiar to the reader, but all 
 was not familiar to K. me llelbiiuih. 4>ne by 
 one these facts came to him like si> many sut:- 
 cessivc blows — blows of treimndoiis power — 
 blows resistless, bewildering, overwhelming, 
 falling upon his soul in ever accumulating 
 
 
For nil 
 
 which will 
 
 socnied to 
 
 could bu 
 
 prd nt llio 
 to all tho 
 iMul thcso 
 iicnt. In 
 lioatod to 
 iiicoinpri;- 
 
 d wns that 
 ne after un 
 L'f tlccline, 
 
 iiiiid homo 
 
 (■ home but 
 ibi^enco d' 
 
 10 declining 
 I Riven her- 
 lid a, fender 
 n. In that 
 self, and ho 
 
 aughter was 
 
 lied men of 
 ' her beftu'.. , 
 isibility, her 
 : tender love 
 ler ngid fa- 
 it nmrvied a 
 n any other ; 
 ity, and thus 
 Dciety whioh 
 justly. Her 
 riage before 
 ot Kavo her 
 ler ninrringo 
 saiiio dcath- 
 honi ^hn had 
 
 1 so noble a 
 yn Itiithven, 
 
 >flder, but nil 
 mil. (>ne liy 
 ««■> many suu- 
 loiis power— 
 vcrnhi'linlnf;, 
 neciimuliitlng 
 
 
 
 TJIK TWO DKOTllEUS. 
 
 145 
 
 force, until the last one descended and left 
 him in a state of utter confusion and help, 
 lees uncertainty. 
 
 With the Drat fact he was able to grapple. 
 It was intelligible that Hernal Mordaunt had, 
 after all, coiuu home, here, to Mordaunt 
 Manor. It \va» intelligible that he had roached 
 his homo weak and worn out ; and that ho 
 had died. It was intelligible and probable 
 that Dernal Mordaunt was now dead, and 
 buried, and that liia remains were actually in 
 the family vaults of Mordaunt Manor. 
 
 So far, 80 good; but now, when Kane 
 Ilellinuth advanctrd thus far on this solid 
 ';iOund, and looked out beyond, he found 
 every thing misty, gloomy, uncertain, chaotic, 
 and unintelligible. 
 
 What was the meaning of this daughter? 
 She had reached homo not long before her 
 father. He had recognized her. Ho had 
 found happiness in her. Her love and devo- 
 tion for him was spoken of as something 
 nearly superhuman. Had Berual Mordaunt, 
 then, another daughter? 
 
 The name of this daughter was Inez Mor- 
 daunt. 
 
 Inez Mordaunt ! Hut ho had left Inez 
 Mordaunt in I'uris, where she had been de- 
 coyed by letters forged in the name of her 
 father, Uernr! Mordaunt. What Inez Mor- 
 daunt wa.t this ? 
 
 Could his Inez — his sister Inez — be mis- 
 taken ? Impossible. His Inez was the sis- 
 ter of his Clara. The likenc?s between thera 
 was so entraoriliiiary that he had stopped her 
 in the •Ircet, and carried her senseless to his 
 lodgings. Since then he had heard her whole 
 story. Ho had tho testimony of Mrs. Klein 
 to the identity of his Inez with lier who was 
 once called Inez Wyverne. His Inez was the 
 sister of his lost Clara beyond a doubt. 
 
 Were they, or were they not, the children 
 of Birnal Morlaunt? Ho know that they 
 must be. His Clara was, ho knew ; and that 
 Inez was, he also knew. 
 
 Could there be two IJerna! Mordiunts ? 
 One, the father of his Inez; tho other, the 
 father of this strange Inez here? Impossi- 
 ble. Mr:*. Klein's testimony pointrl to Mor- 
 daunt Manor as tin- home of Clara and of 
 I lie/.. Iliit, if so, why had not his (Mara 
 '..uown this in her life ? Or was a creature 
 liko Mrs. Klein to bo trusted iu any thing 
 whati'ver? Might he not have come here on 
 a fool's errand ? 
 10 
 
 No. 
 
 Tho answer to this lay in Kevin Ma- 
 grath's plots, and in the fact that Mordaunt 
 Manor alone formed a sufficient cause and 
 motive for them. Without Mordaunt Manor 
 ho was an insane seliemer ; with Mordaunt 
 Manor ho was a villain aiming at a magniticcnt 
 prize. 
 
 Hut, if this was so, what part had he in 
 the inngiiilicent prize ? Was it not already 
 held by this other Inez, this wonder among 
 women, this pious daui:hter, this paragon? 
 And wliut was there in common between her 
 and oiu- like Kevin Magrath? Yet Ilernal 
 Mordaunt had come homo, from his years of 
 exile and sorrow, to Mordaunt Manor, and 
 there was his daughter Inez to welcome him, 
 his daughter whom he loved, and in whoso 
 arms he died. 
 
 Hut beyond nil these bewildering and con* 
 trailietory facts lay another which p.oduceJ 
 upon Kane HcUmuth's mind an eflcet so 
 strong that it may be called tho climax of 
 them all. 
 
 This Inez Mordaunt had married Owyn 
 Hulhvcn. They were living now at Ituthven 
 Towers. 
 
 Over this, Kane Ilellrauth brooded lonf; 
 and solemnly. In this last fact ho saw that 
 which would open to him a way by which 
 all the others would be made plain. Yet tho 
 way was not one which he would have chosen. 
 He would rather have tried any other way. 
 It came in opposition to his self-inflicted 
 punishment. It would terminate tho silcneo 
 of years. It would put an end to that seclu- 
 sion ill which ho had thrust him.'<clf, and 
 draw upon him tho glare of day. Thus far 
 he had been, as he called himself, a dead man 
 — this would force him to rise from the dead. 
 This was not what Ik wished. Hut it was 
 too late to go back. He had set forth in this 
 path. The way now lay straight before him 
 to Kuthven Towers, to (iwyn Kuthven and his 
 wife, wiio had called herself 'nez Mordaunt. 
 Could ho now turn back ? Dare he do it? 
 
 He dare not. For the sake of Inez, whoso 
 wrongs were still in his mind, for the sake of 
 his lost wife, who alsr bnd suffered wrongA 
 that seemed to have come from tho samo 
 source from which had (lowed the wrongs of 
 Inez ; for his own take, too ; for every reasou 
 that can animate a man to action ho felt 
 himself impelled to go onward, and to peno* 
 trate thia mystery. 
 
TJi 
 
 146 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 
 
 ir -it 
 
 Nuw, Kano IlcUmuth was a man who, 
 when ho had onco resolved on any coiiisc, 
 bad no other idea in liia mind llian a Bimpio, 
 8truif;litl'orwHrd, and tenaciouH pursuit of it 
 till his purpu.su might be accumpliiilu'd. 
 
 Had tiiis otlicr Inez Morduuut siill been 
 unmarried, ho would havo avoided (iwyn 
 Rniliveii. lie woulil have gone to her. lie 
 Would have seen her, and (|uestioncd her, and 
 thu.s have satislied himself, if satisfaction had 
 been possible. liut she was now the wife of 
 Owyn Uuthven. iler id''ntity was merged in 
 his. He eould not go and interrogate the 
 wile apart from the husband. The only way 
 to the wife lay through the husband. To the 
 husband, therefore, he mu.st go; and so Kane 
 Ilellmutli, on this day, set forth for Rutlivcn 
 Towers and (Iwyn Kuthven. 
 
 Ho rode on horscbnek. 
 
 Ho was searee conscii-us of tho scenery 
 around him us he rode along, though that 
 scenery wus wondrously beautiful. He was 
 GonHtdering what might be the best course of 
 action. 
 
 lly tho time that he reached tho gate of 
 Ruthven Towers he had decided. After this, 
 he was less preoccupied. He passed '."irough 
 the gates. Ho looked all around with strnngc 
 feelings. He rode up tho long avenue. Ho 
 dismounted. He entered It 'thven Towers. 
 
 On iu(|uiry, he learned that Sir (iwyn 
 Ruthven was at liome. He gave his name, 
 and was shown to a large room on the right. 
 IIo entered and wailed. 
 
 He did not have to wait Ion;;. Sir (Jwyn 
 was prompt, and soon came down to see his 
 visitor. 
 
 Kane Ilellmuth was itandiug in the mid- 
 dli of the room, .''ir Gwvn, on entering, 
 bowed courtooucly. Kane bowed also. Then 
 Sir Ciwyu seemed to be struck by something 
 in the appearance of his vi:'itor. He looked 
 hard at him for a moment, then he looked 
 away, then he looked again, this time with 
 an :iir of perplexity. Kano, on his part, 
 looked at t>ir (twyii, and his stern face soft- 
 ened. Indeed, .Sir tlwyn was one upon whom 
 no one eoutd look without u sense of pleas- 
 ure. It wflg not because ho was what is 
 called handsome-, not on account of any mere 
 regularity of leatiire, but rather on account 
 of a certain fresh, honest, frank expression 
 that reigned there; because of the clear, 
 open ga7.p, tho broad, white brow, tho air 
 of high breeding mingled also with a boyish 
 
 heartiness and simplicity. Sir Gwyn, in 
 short, hud that air which is eo attractive in a 
 higli-bred boy of tho best type — tho air of 
 naturalness, of frankness, of guilelessnese, 
 and generobitr. Vnr this reason, tho hard look 
 died out of Kunc Ilcllmuth's eyes, ar.d a 
 gentler and softer light shone in them as they 
 rested on Sir Uwyn. 
 
 " I hope you will excuse mo for troubling 
 you. Sir (iwyn," said Kane Ilellmuth, at 
 length, ''but i have come a great distance 
 for the pur|)ose of making some inquiries at 
 Mordaunt Manor. I bad no idea that Mr. 
 Mord.iunt was dead until my arrival here; 
 ond, as my buhiness is of the utmost impor- 
 tance, I have thought it probable that I 
 might obtain the inforn)ation that I wish 
 from yourself, or from Lady Uuthven." 
 
 At tho sound of Kane Ilellmuth's voico, 
 Sir (Iwyn gave a start and frowned, and lis- 
 tened with a puzzled expression. Ho was 
 evidently much perpleiid about something, 
 and he himself could scarcely tell what that 
 I something was 
 
 I "I'm sure," said ho, "that both Lady 
 1 Ruthven and myself will be hnppy to give 
 you any information that we can." 
 
 "It all refer."," continued Kane Ilellmuth, 
 "to the life of Mr. Mordaunt ofter his return 
 lumie. I om well aware of liis long absence. 
 Since his return, however, it is very probable 
 tluit he has spoken of these tiungs about 
 which I u i.^h to ask." 
 
 " Very probably," said Sir (Jwyn, slowly, 
 with perplexity siill in his face. "Ho was 
 very cunmiunicative to me." 
 
 "What I should like to ask first," said 
 Kano Ilellmuth, " refers to an affair at Villo- 
 ueuve. Did Mr. Mordaunt ever mention to 
 you any thing about the death of Mr. Wyverne 
 at that place V" 
 
 " Oh, yes, he told me all about it." 
 
 "Tlianks," said Kane Ilellmuth. "What 
 I wished to know was whether it was tho 
 same Mr. Mordaunt. I did not know but 
 that it might have been another person. IIo 
 did not piv ■ his name, ^"'d it was only my 
 conjecture tiiat it was he." 
 
 " It was Mr. Mordaunt himself," said Sir 
 (iwyn. " Ho told mo all about that occur- 
 rence, and also all about his past connection 
 with Mr. Wyverne." 
 
 This reply settled one thing ; namely, tho 
 identity of this Bernal Mordaunt with the fa- 
 ther of !iis Inez. 
 
TIIK TWO lllloTIIKKS. 
 
 147 
 
 tiwyn, in 
 active in a 
 the air of 
 ilclcusncsfi, 
 Imnl iouk 
 yep, ar.d a 
 lem as they 
 
 r trouLlins 
 
 llniiith, at 
 
 at (liiitanco 
 
 iU|iiirii'S lit 
 
 ;i tliat Mr. 
 
 rival licro; 
 
 most impor- 
 
 bic that I 
 
 at I wish 
 
 ivcn." 
 
 nuth'B voico, 
 
 ncd, and lis- 
 
 )n. He was 
 
 something, 
 
 II what thut 
 
 t both Lady 
 api'y to give 
 1." 
 
 no Ikllmuth, 
 or hi« return 
 h)iig absence, 
 very probable 
 thinga obout 
 
 (iwyn, slowly, 
 :e. "Ho was 
 
 k first," said 
 ilTair nt Villc- 
 T uiciition to 
 fMr. Wyverne 
 
 out it." 
 
 »uth. " What 
 er it was the 
 lot know but 
 r person. IIo 
 , was only my 
 
 self," (tnld Sir 
 lit that occur, 
 ast connection 
 
 T ; namely, tho 
 nl with the fa- 
 
 "Thanks," Bivid Kunc Hollmuth; "and 
 now I uifih to ask one or two otiior things. 
 They i-cfcr to his family. They conoorn niy- 
 8oli' very nearly, or I should not ask them. 
 They are only of a geuoral character. Would 
 you have any objoctioiis tu toll mo how many 
 children Mr. .Morduunt had V " 
 
 "Certainly nat," said Sir Gwyn. "He 
 had two daughters, that is ull. The nunio of 
 the oldoiil was Clara." 
 
 " Clara 1" said Kane llcllmuth, iu u 
 strange voice. 
 
 " Tho oiher one," continued Sir Gwyn, 
 " was named Inez." 
 
 '•Is — Clara — alive yet?" asked Kone 
 Ilellniuth, in a tremulous voice. 
 
 "No," said Sir Uwyn, "she died ten 
 yeora ago." 
 
 " Ah ! and the younger one, I presume, is 
 slill alive?" 
 
 '' Yes, t\io younger one is Lady Uuthvcn, 
 my wile." 
 
 "Ak!" said Kane Hollmuth. 
 
 He had heard this bel'oro. It was now 
 confirmed. The problem remained a prob- 
 lem still, but he had advanced somewhat 
 nearer lo a solution, lor the very reason that 
 he had approached so much nearer to the 
 one who had called herself Inez Mordaunt. 
 This was licr husband. He hud no doubt 
 whatever of tho truth of the intelligeuco 
 which he was giving to his visitor 
 
 "One thing more. Sir Gwyn," said Kane 
 Ilellmuth, "I callymust apolugi/.c for tho 
 trouble that I am giving you, and 1 hope you 
 will not suppose that I am asking out of 
 nothing belter than idle eurio.'-iiy. What I 
 now wish to ask refers to your own family — 
 your own brothers." 
 
 Kane Ilellmuih paused. Again Sir Gwyn 
 looked at him with th.it perplexity on his 
 face which had already appeared there. The 
 two thus looked at one another earnestly. 
 Kane Hellmuth fell a pang of sadness as he 
 looked at that noble anil generous face, rud 
 thought that he might be tlie means of n- 
 flicting pain upon one who did not merit it; 
 but Ids task had to bo done, and went on: 
 
 "There were throe of you, I think," said 
 he; " Bruce, Kane, and yourself." 
 
 Si" (iwyu bowed iu silence. The perplex- 
 ity of his face was now greater than over. 
 
 " Bruce died at home, I believe," con- 
 tinued Kane Hellmuth, "and Kane died in 
 Paris." 
 
 " No," said Sir (Iw^n. 
 
 " I have undcnitood so." 
 
 "Mr. — ah— llilhuuih," said Sii Gwyn, 
 earnestly. '■ Tell mo truly, wore you ever ac- 
 ((uaintod with my brother Kane?" 
 
 Kane Hollmuth hesitated. 
 
 " Yes," said ho, slowly, '' I was, about 
 ten years ago, in I'oris." 
 
 " Do you bolievo that he is dead ? " asked 
 Sir (iwyn, sharply and eagoily. " I ilon't. 
 I never did," ho continuod. "I t(;ll )<)u I 
 have tried everywhere to find him. L(;()k 
 here, there's something confoundedly queer 
 about yon, do you know? odd, isn't it? but 
 it seems lo me that we've mot before, but 
 hang mo if I can remember whore. I tell you 
 I've done every thing to find my brother 
 Kane. I've advertised. I've sent out agents. 
 I don't believe he's dead, and I hope to meet 
 him yet. By Jove! And, see hero, if you 
 should ever got on his track, tell him ihis from 
 me: Thut I am waitii'g for him, that I am 
 holding this plao(! for him, that I'd give it all 
 up— estate, title, all, for tho sake of seoing 
 him once more. Yes, by Heaven! I would; 
 and il' I only knew where he was now I'd go 
 to fir.d him if I had to risk my life. I s^y 
 this to you because, do you know, somehow 
 you've got a confoundedly quocr look about 
 you, and, by Jove ! you remind mo of him 
 somehow. You don't happen to bo a rchilivu 
 of the family in ony way, I suppose." 
 
 The tone in which Sir Gwyn spoke was 
 tho tone of a big, honest, warm-hearted boy. 
 Every word went to tho very heart of Kano 
 Hellmuth. He was not prepared for this. 
 In the course of his life he had lost much of 
 his fiuth in man, and had accustomed himself 
 to think of his brother as one who would be 
 plad to hear of his death. He had been try- 
 ing to make himself known in a gradual way, 
 so as to ease the blow which he supposed 
 would full on his brother. Lo ! now, to his 
 amazement and confusion, his brother stood 
 there olfering to give up all — estates, title, 
 yes, even life itself, if ho could find him. 
 
 His head saidt upon his breast. Ho 
 struggled to keep down the emotion that had 
 arisen in his soul. It was hard to restrain 
 himself. Sir (iwyn looked at him in wonder. 
 .\t len;;ih Kane Hellmuth raised his head. 
 He fixed his eyes on (5wyn with a strange 
 meaning. Then he spoke. 
 "Gwyn!" said he. 
 That was all. 
 
 :f 
 
148 
 
 AN OI'E.V QUESTIO.V. 
 
 Rir Owyn utartcd. Tlii.>n all the truth in 
 a moment burst upon him. 
 
 " Oh, by HraTCM8 ! " he ciicd. " Hcav. 
 rns I Kane I Kane I Kmio t By Ilviiveiifi ! 
 Kane hiraeclf I You glorious old l)oy ! Didn't 
 I know you ? didu't I feci tliut it wan 
 you?" 
 
 IIo graopcd both of Kunii'a hnndH in IiIh, 
 and clung to them with a fervid, enthusiu.siic 
 grcctini;, wringing them, and nhuking them 
 over and over. 
 
 " Kane, you dear, glorioua old boy, where 
 have you been wandering? and why have you 
 Ktiiycd away so long? Haven't you seen my 
 frantic advcrtiseraouts, imploring you to come 
 and get your own ? Haven't I felt like a thief 
 for years, holding nil this when you miglit be 
 wanting it? Ah, dear old boy! 1 know 
 wluit you once had to sulTer. And you might 
 liave let me had a wonl from you. You once 
 used to think something of me when I was a 
 youngrtter. Don't you remember how I used 
 to look up to you as the pride, and glory, and 
 boast, of Ihc whole race of Huthvens ? You 
 mu.it remember enough about the youngster 
 (iwyn to know that, wiintcver his faults wore, 
 he'd be as true as steel to you. Uruce treated 
 you like a devil, too, and I cursed him for it 
 to his face; and didn't you get my letter, 
 Kane ? I was only a boy at school, and I 
 sent all I had to you— my two sovereigns — 
 all I had, Kane. It wasn't much, but I'd 
 have laid down my life for you." 
 
 So Sir (Jwyn went on. Ho appeared to be 
 half crying, half laugliing. Ho still clung to 
 his brother. It was Iho cnthu.'tiaatic, the 
 wild delight of a warm-hearted boy. As for 
 Kane, he stood overwhelmed, lie trciiil>lcd 
 from head to foot, lie tore one hand away, 
 and dashed it across his oyo8. 
 
 CIUrTEU XXXVI. 
 
 aUTUVKH. 
 
 Tncs, then, it was that Kano Ruthven 
 came back to the homo of his fathers — to 
 Kulhven Towers. He was a dead man no 
 longer. Ho was no more Ilellmuth, but 
 Kulhven. 
 
 Me hnd not anticipated such a reception. 
 He was not prepared for such truth and 
 fideUty — such an example of a brother'n love. 
 lie was unmanned. IIo utood and wept. 
 
 Yet life sccnicJ sweeter now to hlra through 
 those tears. 
 
 " Dear boy," said he at loi^t, as soon as 
 lie had recovered himself somewhat, " don't 
 talk to me about the c^ttate, or tho title. 
 They are yourn. Do you think I camo bock 
 for them ? They are yourH, ami they shall be 
 yours. I gave them up years ago. I saw 
 your notices, but I was not going to como 
 buck here. Tilings had happened which 
 made wealth and rank of no importance, I 
 have as much money as I want. I don't care 
 about a tide. You shall remain as you aro 
 now, and so will I." 
 
 "I'll bo hanged if I will!" cried Gwyn. 
 " I tell you, this estate atui title have beoa 
 bothering me out of my life." 
 
 " Well, then, I'll make out a paper tntDi* 
 ferring every thing to you." 
 
 " You shall do nothing of the sort." 
 
 " I will. Y'ou don't know how 1 am Bitu< 
 ated." 
 
 " I swear you shan't. You aro tho head 
 of tho Ruthven.s, and I glory in you, and I 
 long to see you in your place, old boy." 
 
 "No, (iwyn — my own place is a very dif- 
 ferent one. I have lived my life. I didn't 
 conic back to interfere with yours." 
 
 " It's no interference. Como now, Kane, 
 don't be absurd. It's all yours, you know," 
 
 " Very well, and I hereby make it all over 
 to you." 
 
 " I won't take it." 
 
 " You must. I'll make out the neccs.'ary 
 papers, and then go back to my lair that I've 
 just come out of" 
 
 "What's that? What!" cried Gwyn. 
 " Go back ! Why, you won't go back ? You 
 have come home now for {.-ooil, Kane — haven't 
 you? Go back? No, never! You aro here 
 now, nni' here you must stay." 
 
 " Oh, you may bo sure, dear boy, we'll sea 
 one another often after this; '.ml, for my part, 
 I have a work to accom|)li»u which will re. 
 quire all my care for some timo to come, and, 
 at present, I'm still Kane Hellmuth." 
 
 " Ilellmuth ! what prepo.sterous nonsense I 
 You're Sir Kane Kiithven of Kuthven Tower-, 
 and you shall remain so." 
 
 " No, Gwyn, my purpose is fixed and un- 
 alterable. I care nothing for sucli things. 
 You can enjoy them. I have as much money 
 04 I wish. I need nothing more. You bavo 
 your position, and there is your wife." 
 
 "My wife!" ezoUlmed Gwyn. •• Ab, 
 
tu through 
 
 xs goon as 
 lat, "don't 
 
 tlio tillf. 
 
 camo back 
 icy Bbnll be 
 j;o. I saw 
 ig to oonio 
 neil which 
 ortancc. I 
 I don't ctire 
 aa you arc 
 
 ;iicU Gwyn. 
 I have buca 
 
 paper trans- 
 sort." 
 ,w I am situ- 
 
 iiro the hcail 
 
 n you, and I 
 
 J boy." 
 
 is a very dif- 
 
 ro. I didn't 
 
 rs." 
 
 9 now, Kane, 
 
 , you know," 
 
 iko it all over 
 
 the necc8!<nry 
 lair that I've 
 
 criod Owyn. 
 ) buck ? You 
 Cnnc — haven't 
 
 You are here 
 
 boy, we'll »e« 
 It, for my part, 
 which will ro- 
 I to come, and, 
 nuth." 
 
 rniiH nonsense I 
 ilhven Tower-. 
 
 ii 
 
 I fixed and un- 
 r such thiuRH. 
 \n much money 
 ire. Vou have 
 ir wife." 
 Gwyn. "AU, 
 
^J. 
 
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 RUTUVEX. 
 
 149 
 
 Kano, you little know licr. OIi, kow she will 
 rejoice over this ! Oh, she knows all about 
 it! I've told her all. Oh, how ghul Bessie 
 will be ! Oh, how Bessie will rejoice I " 
 
 "Bessie!" 
 
 This exclamation burst forth from Kane 
 involuntarily. His voice was harsh and grat- 
 ing, lie stood with staring ryes and averted 
 face. The utterance of that one name — 
 " Bessie" — had been sufficient to overturn all 
 bis thoughts, and thrust him back into his 
 old bewilderment and gloom. Like lightning, 
 a thousand thouglits swept through his mind, 
 quickened into instant life by that one name. 
 
 This revealed all. 
 
 " The false Inez who had married his brother 
 was Bessie. Bessie who ? Bessie Mordamit 
 — the friend — of the true Inez; the Bessie to 
 whom she had written, but who had refused 
 to answer those letters of despair — Bessie ! " 
 
 Gwyn noticed the change. 
 
 " What's the matter, Kane ? " he asked, 
 anxiously. 
 
 Kane drew a long breath. 
 
 " Oh, nothing I " said he. " By tlic way — 
 what do you mean by 'Bessie.' I thought 
 your wife's name was Inez." 
 
 " So it is, but it is Bessie also. Her full 
 name is Inez Elizabeth Mordaunt. She was 
 living with the Wyverncs, however, at Lon- 
 don, you know, where I first became acquaint- 
 ed with her, and they all called her Bessie to 
 prevent confusion, for there was another Inez 
 — Inez Wyvcrne — a distant relative of hers. 
 So, I knew her as Bessie, and I've called 
 her Bessie ever since. Inez is a pretty name, 
 but it seema unfamiliar to me." 
 
 All this was terrible to Kano. It con- 
 firmed what had been told him. Inez Wy- 
 verne was Inez Mordaunt. Bessie had takea 
 her place. Had Bessie betrayed her ? Inez 
 loved her still, and trusted in her. Was it pos- 
 sible that Bessie was a traitor, or had she only 
 been mistaken? But, then, Bernul Mordaunt 
 must Lin",clf have received Bessie as his 
 daughtc' . 
 
 Kane Ruthvon feared the worst. And 
 there came to his heart a sharp and sudden 
 pang. If Bessie should prove iv) bo the trai- 
 tor, the impostor, whicli he now imagined 
 her to be, then what wrong would have been 
 done to this noble, this generous heart ! 
 Hero was this true and loyal 8(ml, this match- 
 less brother, with his faithful love, his un- 
 Hulliud nature, his young, pure life, linked 
 
 to one whose character must be terrible. 
 Could he go on further when his path would 
 only serve to darken this brother's life ? IIo 
 shuddered, he half recoiled. How could ho 
 dare ? His brother had taken a serpent to 
 his bosom. Could he open his brother's eyes, 
 and sliow him all ? 
 
 Just at that moment, in the midst of such 
 gloomy and such terrible thouglits as thebo, 
 there came a sound v/hich penetrated like sud- 
 den sunshine through all the clouds of sus- 
 picion and terror that were lowering over tho 
 soul of Kane Ruthven, a sudden sound, sweet, 
 silvery, musical — a sound of laughter that 
 was childish in its intonations — a peal of 
 laughter - was full of innocence, and gay- 
 ety, and mirth. 
 
 Then followed a voice — 
 
 "Aha, you runaway! So, here you at-e! 
 and it's meself that's been the heart-broken 
 wife. Really, I began to think that you'd 
 deserted me, so I did. Come, sir, give an ac- 
 count of yourself. How dare you leave mo 
 for a whole half-hour ! " 
 
 The new-comer suddenly stopped. She 
 saw a stranger there. 
 
 At tho first sound of her silvery, musical 
 laugh, Kane Ruthven started, and looked 
 up. 
 
 He saw before him a vision of exquisite 
 loveliness. It was a young lady — who looked 
 like a very young girl, a blonde, with largo 
 eyes of a wonderful blue, with a face of in- 
 describable piquancy, with golden hair, flow- 
 ing in rich masses over her shoulders, with a 
 dress of some material as light as gossamer. 
 This was the one whose laugh had penetrated 
 to his ears, who now came lightly forward 
 with these words addressed to Gwyn. 
 
 Gwyn, too, had started at her entrance. 
 At the sight of her the cloud that had come 
 over his face, thrown there by tho strange 
 gloom of Kane, was instantly banished, and a 
 joyous light succeeded. Ho took the lady's 
 hand, and led her forward. 
 
 " Kane," said he, " here she is — my own 
 Bessie. Bessie! who do you think this 
 is? You'd never guess. It's my dear, long- 
 lost old boy — my brother Kane.'' 
 
 The hand that Gwyn held suddenly closed 
 convulsively around his; over tho fair face 
 there shot, for an instant, an expression of 
 pain. Hos^ie shrank back involuntarily, and 
 half raised her nihcr hand, as if to her heart. 
 Yet this was only for an inslaiit. It passed 
 
s 
 
 f ii 
 
 I 
 
 V I 
 t' i 
 
 1 ? 
 
 Mi 
 
 il . 
 
 150 
 
 AN OPEX QUESTION, 
 
 as suddculy as it l-.aJ come. Kane did not 
 notice it, nor did Gwyn. 
 
 " Kane ! " exclaimed Bessie, in a sweet 
 and gentle voice; "snrc then it's me own 
 brother he is too, and oh, how glad I am ! " 
 
 She held out her hand with a sweet smile. 
 Kane took it, and the smile on her face drove 
 away the last vestige of his gloomy fears. 
 All evil suspicions passed awuy. lie saw 
 oidy that perfect loveliness and that bewitch- 
 ing smile; he saw only licr charming grace 
 and captivating beauty ; he saw only the wife 
 of Owyn, and the friend of Inez. 
 
 He pressed her hand fervently, and in si- 
 lence. 
 
 " Really," said Bessie, " do you know, 
 Gwynnie, dearest, you gave nic an awful 
 shock, and I haven't got over it yet. I was 
 BO awfully glad, you know, but it was at the 
 same time so awfully sudden, you know ; and 
 oh, bow we've talked about this. I'm sure I 
 can hardly believe it is so, and I'm sure it's 
 awfully funny to find a brother so suddenly, 
 when you never expected such a thing at all 
 at all. And oh, but it's the blessed thing to 
 think that our brother Kane should turn up 
 after all, so it is." 
 
 Bhe looked at Kane as she said this with 
 a sweet smile on her face. Kane noticed this, 
 and was charmed. IIo noticed, also, the 
 slight "brogue" that was in her tone, whicli, 
 intermingled as it was with the idiom pecu- 
 liar to young ladies, seemed to him to be very 
 charming. He believed in her at once. Tlie 
 sight of that face was enough. With such a 
 being suspicion had simply nothing to do. 
 Slie herself was beyond all suspicion. In her 
 face, her manner, her tone, he could see in- 
 finite possibilities for love, for loyalty, for 
 sociability, for friendship, for fun, for droll- 
 ery, for kindliness, and for gracious self- 
 Burrcndor ; such a one seemed a fit compan- 
 ion for Inez or for Gwyn ; but to associate 
 her, even in thought, with such foul natures 
 as Kevin Magrath, seemed an unholy thing. 
 
 And so it was that Kane Kuthven lirt^t 
 met Bessie. 
 
 The expression of Kane's face was usually 
 an austere one. His dense growth of crisp 
 hair, his bushy eyebrows, his heavy and 
 somewhat neglected beard, his piercing eyes, 
 liis tcirugated brow, and, added to all these, 
 the hard outline of his features, all combined 
 to give him a certain saturnine grinmess, 
 trhich wo\dd have been repellent had it not 
 
 been for the lurking tcnderiicss that shono 
 in his glance — a tenderness which was per- 
 ccptible enough to any one who took Tiinro 
 than a superficial observation. On the pres- 
 ent occasion, the look with which he regarded 
 Bessie had all of this tenderness, and noth- 
 ing of this grinmess and austerity; it was a 
 look such as an auehoiite might give to 
 some child visitor straying near his cell, 
 whose approach might have broken in upon 
 his solenju meditations. To Kane Ruthven 
 there seemed about Bessie a sweetness, and 
 light, and sunshine, which forced him for a 
 time to come forth out of his usual gloom. 
 
 " Sure, and it's quite like the parable of 
 the prodigal son entirely," said Bessie; " only 
 of course, you know, I don't mean to say that 
 you were a prodigal son, brother Kane; and 
 then, too, in the parable, it was the younger 
 son that was the prodigal, but you're the 
 older, so you are ; now isn't he, Gwynnie, 
 dearest ? But, 'deed, and it's no matter which, 
 for it's only the joy over the return that I 
 was thinking of, so it was, and sure we'll kill 
 the fatted calf and be merry, as they did in 
 the parable. 1 feel." she added, with an 
 absurd look of perplexity, " that my compar- 
 ison is hopelessly ndxcd up, but then my in- 
 tentio ) are honorable, you know." 
 
 As Bessie said this, she stole her hand 
 toward that of Gwyn, and inserted it con- 
 fidingly in his, quite in the manner of a fond 
 young bride, who is confident of the attach- 
 ment of her husband, and upon whose mar- 
 riage still exists siunething of the bloom of 
 the honeymoon. Gwyn, on his part, did not 
 fail to reciprocate this tender advance, aiul 
 his hand clasped hers lovingly, and the two 
 stood thus opposite Kane, indulging in this 
 pardonable little bit of sentimentality, or 
 spooneyisra, or whatever else the reader may 
 choose to call it, quite regnrdless of his pres- 
 cnec. Upon Kane, however, this littl.? ac- 
 tion, which was not unobserved by him, did 
 not produce any unpleasant cfi'ect, but rather 
 the opposite. It seemed to him to be a 
 beautiful picture — the young husband, with 
 his frank, open, gentle, and noble face; the 
 fair young bride, with her fragile beauty, and 
 the golden glory of her flowing hair — these 
 two thus standing side by si<le, with hands 
 clasped in holy love and tenderness. 
 
 Kane felt softened more and more, and 
 this scene roused within his mind memories 
 drawn from his own past ; memories of a 
 
 i 1 
 
RUTHVEN. 
 
 151 
 
 mt shono 
 
 waa ppr- 
 
 ook more 
 
 the prcs- 
 
 c regarded 
 
 mid notli- 
 
 it was a 
 
 It give to 
 
 r his cell, 
 
 en in upon 
 
 Rut liven 
 
 etni'ss, and 
 
 him lor a 
 
 gloom. 
 
 parable of 
 
 sic; "only 
 
 to say that 
 
 Kane: and 
 
 he younger 
 
 you're the 
 
 , Gwynnie, 
 
 attcr which, 
 
 'turn that I 
 
 ire we'll kill 
 
 they did in 
 
 id, with an 
 
 my conipar- 
 
 then my in- 
 
 lie her hand 
 ■rted it con- 
 icr of a fond 
 ' the attaeh- 
 
 who.-=e mar- 
 he bloom of 
 part, did not 
 [idvanco, and 
 
 and the two 
 Iging in this 
 mentality, or 
 e render may 
 s of his pres- 
 hia littlj ac- 
 l by him, did 
 et, but rather 
 lim to be a 
 msband, with 
 blc face; the 
 e be;iuty, and 
 ^ hair — thcso 
 ;, with hands 
 icsp. 
 
 nd more, and 
 ind memories 
 eraorics of a 
 
 time when he, too, like Gwyn, had one who 
 was as dear to hira as this fair young creature 
 was to his brother; memories of a time when 
 the touch of a gentle hand stealing toward 
 his would quicken his heart's pulsation, and 
 send through hira a thrill of rapture. Those 
 memories had never been lost, they liad lived 
 through all the wjary years, they formed a 
 torment to him in • is desolation ; but never 
 had they been roufad to such life, and with 
 such vividness, as at this moment, when Bes- 
 sie made this half-unconscious movement of 
 confiding tenderness. The happiness of Gwyn 
 only served to remind him more poignantly 
 than usual of all that he had lost, and a 
 drear sense of solitude came across his soul — 
 
 " Oh, for the touch of a crenUe haiul, 
 And the sound of a voice that is still." 
 
 The sight of his brother's happiness also 
 had another effect. It elicited not envy, for 
 envy was a stranger to his heart, but rather 
 a generous sympathy, and a more tender re- 
 gard both for this brother and this new- found 
 sister. Inez was one sister, and here stood 
 another as fair as she, and, to all outward 
 seeming, as gentle, as pure, and as good. 
 The sight of these two only served t strength- 
 en his firm resolve already made, to leave his 
 brother hero in possession of that estate and 
 title for which he, in his present mode of life, 
 had no need, and of which his nature would 
 not permit him to deprive him. 
 
 Tiie loving and tender reception of Kane 
 by these two was met on his part by a grate- 
 ful reciprocity of feeling; the hearts of .all of 
 them were opened to one another; and an in- 
 terchange of confidences took place, which was 
 unreserved on the part of Gwyn, and only 
 limited on the part of Kane by the nature of 
 those griefs which he sufTercd, and which 
 could not be lightly spoken of. lie laid great 
 stress on his wanderings, and particularly on 
 his adventures in South Afriea in search of 
 diamonds. His allusions to this were made 
 with the intention of letting Gwyn sec that 
 he had ample means of his own, and of com- 
 municating to him, in a delicate way, the fact 
 that he had no intention whatever of taking 
 any steps to deprive him of the estate. 
 
 But the chief topic of conversation re- 
 ferred to times far beyond this, and to things 
 which they had in common, (iwyn had much 
 to say about his early boyhood and his re- 
 membrances of Kane. He brought forward a 
 thousand things which had faded out of his 
 
 I brother's recollection, but were recognized aa 
 Gwyn mentioned them. About these (Jwyn 
 talked with a zest, and a simple, honest de- 
 light, which was very touching. His whole 
 tone showed that, in the days of his early 
 life, he had looked up to this brother Kane 
 with all the enthusiastic admiration of a gen- 
 erous boy. It was also quite evident that 
 this enthusiastic admiration had lasted be- 
 yond his boyhood and into his maturcr years. 
 He seemed to have considered his brother 
 Kane the hcau ideal of perfect manhood, and 
 one who was the best model for his own imi- 
 tation. At the same time he regarded his 
 own efforts to imitate him as usele«s, and the 
 honest humility of his allusions to his own 
 inferiority was almost pathetic, especially 
 when his noble face and his chivahic senti- 
 ments were so manifest, and seemed (o speak 
 so plainly of a character and a nature which 
 could not suffer from a comparison with even 
 that idealized Kane which ho had in his 
 mind. 
 
 The minuteness and the accuracy of Gwyn's 
 recollections surprised Kane, who had forgot- 
 ten many of the occurrences mentioned. They 
 referred chiefly to Kane's last year at home, 
 when Gwyn was a little fellow and Kane a 
 young man. The incidents were very trifling 
 in themselves, but at the time they had ap- 
 peared wonderful to the boy ; and now, even 
 when he had become a man, they seemed the 
 most important events of his life. It was not 
 long afterward that Kane's misfortunes had 
 occurred, and Gwyn showed, without going 
 into particulars, but merely by a few eloquent 
 statements of facts, that, at the time when 
 Kane was so desolate, there was one loving 
 heart that was sore wrung foi' him, and one 
 loyal soul that would have faced even death 
 itself if it could have done him good. 
 
 Bessie bore herself admirably d-ring the 
 conversation. She did not thrust .k. sell' for- 
 ward too much ; nor did she, on the other 
 hand, subside into silence. A few, well-chosen 
 remarks, now and then thrown in, served to 
 show that she was full of the deepest interest 
 in all that was said, and occasional timely 
 questions to one or the other of the brothers 
 served to driiw forth a fuller explanation of 
 the subject to which the question referred. 
 Moreover, all the time there was in her ex- 
 pressive face such eager curiosity, such pr >■ 
 found interest, such total surrender of self to 
 the one who might be speaking, that her very 
 
152 
 
 AN OPEX QUESTION. 
 
 ^ !|i 
 
 
 ■ n: 
 
 silence was more eloquent than any words 
 could have been. 
 
 Bossie was also gentle and aflectionate. 
 Kane was her brother now. With a frank- 
 ness that was charming she at once began to 
 put herself on the footing of a sister toward 
 liim ; and proeeede'l, not abruptly, Ijut deli- 
 cately and by degr"cs, to insinuate herself 
 further into confidential terms of intercourse. 
 At first it was Brother Kane, occasionally 
 dropped as if by accident ; then the familiar 
 name was repeated more frequently. Then 
 she called him simply Kane. Once, when her 
 sympathies seemed unusually strong, she ex- 
 claimed, " dear brother Kane ! it's heart- 
 broke you must have been about that same ! " 
 Finally, when they bade one another good- 
 night, she held forth her cheek in the most 
 childish and innocent and sisterly manner in 
 the world, and, as he kis.sed her, she said : 
 
 " Good-night, dear Kane ; good-night, and 
 pleasant dreams." 
 
 *l I', 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 I 
 
 HUSDAKD AND WIFE, 
 
 Kane Ruthven had come here to Ruthven 
 Towers on an errand. That errand was two- 
 fold : It referred, first, to his lost wife Clara ; 
 and, secondly, to his injured sister Inez. He 
 had come here with these things foremost in 
 his mind, and all his thoughts turned toward 
 a dark mystery. But his arrival here had 
 produced a change. The unexpected recep- 
 tion by Gwyn, the meeting with Bessie, the 
 discovery of this loyal, true, and noble-hearted 
 brother, with his fair, and gentle, and tender 
 wife, all tended to expel the darker feelings 
 from his soul. The first sound of Bessie's 
 laugh had been to him what the harp-notes 
 of David had once been to Saul ; and, though 
 the dark clouds might again roll over him, 
 yet he none the less enjoyed this brief sun- 
 shine. For that day, at any rate, he did not 
 choose to introduce the subject of Inez, and 
 he gave himself up to the spirit of the occa- 
 sion. Once more he came back to the old 
 world which he had left ; and, on becoming a 
 Ruthven again, he allowed his mind to dwell 
 upon the distant past. That night ho took 
 up his abode in the home of his fathers, and 
 slept at Ruthven Towers. 
 
 The honest and unaffected joy of Gwyn 
 over his brother's return could not be re- 
 pressed, but was manifest after they had 
 parted for the night, and while he and Bessie 
 But talking over the wonderful events of the 
 day. 
 
 "Isn't it the most wonderful and the 
 jollicst thing you ever heard of, Bessie, 
 dear?" he said; "but, oli, you haven't the 
 faintest idea of what he used to be ! He was 
 the most magnificent swell — the bravest, 
 boldest, handsomest, most glorious man I 
 ever saw. He neglects himself, and is reck- 
 less about Ilia life ; but you can easily judge 
 yet, from his present appearance, what he 
 may once have been. As it was, he was a 
 great, bright vision in my life, that I've never 
 forgotten. His ruin was a great, dark thun- 
 der-cloud, and I swear I've never got over 
 that ! I almost broke my heart about it, and 
 I used to imagine a thousand things that I 
 would do for him when I got older. And 
 then I've never given him up, you know that ; 
 I told your poor father that. I always hoped 
 he would turn up, and here he is at last. But 
 he's an odd sort of a fellow. He a' ways was 
 the soul of honor and generosity ; and in this 
 he is the same still, only perhaps even more 
 so. I've already told him how I searched for 
 him, and how bad I had felt all along at keep- 
 ing the title and estates while they were his. 
 Whereupon, what do you think he said? 
 Why, he declared that he wouldn't have any 
 thing to do with them; but, of course, he'll 
 have to. I'll make him. lie's suffered 
 enough, poor old boy ! from his family. All 
 I want is to see him have his own. He'll 
 have to take Ruthven Towers, and bo Sir 
 Kane. Plain Gwyn Ruthven's enough for me, 
 especially so long as I have my little Bcfsie 
 with me." 
 
 During these last words a cloud had come 
 over Bessie's brow, which, however, Gwyn 
 did not perceive. As he ended, he turned 
 fondly toward her, and kissed her lovingly. 
 
 Bessie smiled. 
 
 "So he's going to be Sir Kane Ruthven, 
 and you're only Mr. Ruthven, after this," said 
 Bessie, slowly; "and he's going to ti.ke up 
 his abode here on his own estates, and Ruth- 
 ven Towers is all his own entirely, and we're 
 intruders, so we are. Well — well, but it's a 
 queer world we live in, so "s." 
 
 As Bessie said this, ine forced smile 
 passed off, and the cloud came back to her 
 
 L .It 
 
of Gwyn 
 
 ot bo rc- 
 
 tliey had 
 
 ind nessio 
 
 nts of the 
 
 and iho 
 
 :)f, Bessie, 
 
 aveii't the 
 
 lie was 
 
 bravest, 
 
 )us man I 
 
 d is rec'k- 
 
 ■asily judge 
 
 what ho 
 
 he was a 
 
 t I've never 
 
 dark thun- 
 
 cr got over 
 
 bout if, and 
 
 ings that I 
 
 )lder. And 
 
 Icnow that ; 
 
 Iways hoped 
 
 It last. But 
 
 cUvays was 
 
 and in this 
 
 p even more 
 
 scarciied for 
 
 long at keep- 
 
 icy were his. 
 
 k he said? 
 
 u't have any 
 
 course, he'll 
 
 [e's suffered 
 
 family. All 
 
 own. He'll 
 
 and be Sir 
 
 longh for nie, 
 
 little Befsie 
 
 ud had come 
 tvever, Gwyn 
 3, he turned 
 r lovingly. 
 
 [ine Ruthvcn, 
 er this," said 
 ; to tiiko up 
 19, and lluth- 
 ly, and we're 
 ill, but it's a 
 
 forced pmile 
 back to her 
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 L53 
 
 
 face. But (!wyu was taken up with his Oivu 
 pleasant thoughts, and did not notice her. 
 
 "Yes," ho exclaimed, "'the king shall 
 come to his own again.' Hurrah! Kane 
 swears he won't take it, b-.t I swear ho shall. 
 And now we'll see who'll win." 
 
 "Oh, sure, he'll take it fast enough," s.iid 
 Bessie, gloomily. " Xo man ever lived that 
 would refuse it — and if it's his — it's his, so it 
 is." 
 
 "Yes; but you know he really wouldn't 
 take it if I didn't make him," said Gwyn; 
 " and I'm going to make him." 
 
 Bessie was silent for some time. This 
 was so unusual a thing with her that Gwyn 
 at length noticed it, and looked at her smil- 
 ingly and pleasantly. Her head was half 
 turned, so that he could not see her face, and 
 therefore did not observe the slight frown of 
 her usually serene brow, or the compressed 
 lips, that generally were fixed in so sweet a 
 "?mile. But serenity and smiles were gone 
 now 
 
 "Isn't it awfully jolly ? " cried Gwyn, en- 
 thusiastically. 
 
 "Awfully," said Bessie, while her little 
 hands clutched each other convulsively, and 
 a deeper frown came over her brow. 
 
 " It's almost too good, to get old Kane 
 back," said Gwyn, in the same voice. "I 
 Bwear I can hard'y believe it yet ! " 
 
 Bessie made no reply for some time. A 
 severe struggle was going on within her. At 
 length she regained her self-control altogether, 
 and turned her face around. Once more her 
 brow was serene, and the old familiar stamp 
 of her sweet smile was on her curved lips. 
 
 "Oh, yes, Gwyimie, darling," said Bessie; 
 " it's the awfullest jolliest thing I ever heard 
 of, so it is ; and that dear, darling, old Kane, 
 so splendid a man! really, he's just like 
 Olympian Jove, entirely, so he is ; and so he's 
 Kir Kane, is he? and you're only Mr. Ruth- 
 vcn, and I'm not Lady Ruthvcn at all, but 
 only plain Mrs. Ruthvcn. How very, very 
 funny, is it not, Gwynnie, darling? " 
 
 Gwyn lAughed aloud; not so much at the 
 funny idea that Bessie had pointed out to 
 him, but rather out of the joy of his heart 
 over his brother's return. 
 
 " Oh, it is very, very funny, it is, entirely," 
 said Bessie ; " and so we'll have to quit Ruth- 
 vcn Towers, and Sir Kane will remain in pos- 
 session." 
 
 "Oh, yes," cried Gwyn, "he'll have to do 
 
 it ; of course, the dear old boj". He'll make 
 no end of a row about it, you know ; but he'll 
 huve to do it. Ua, ha! isn't it jolly? But 
 we'll be close by one another always, that's 
 one comfort." 
 
 "How is that, Gwynnie, darling?" asked 
 Bessie, in her softest tone. " How can we 
 always be close by one another if we have to 
 leave Ruthvcn Towers ? Sorrow a one of me 
 knows at all, at all." 
 
 " Why, of course, yen know, you little 
 goose, we'll go and live at Mordaunt Manor." 
 
 "0 Gwynnie !" exclaimed Bessie, fixing 
 her eyes mournfully upon her husband, and 
 speaking in tones of the utmost reproach — 
 " Gwynnie ! Mordaunt Manor." 
 
 " By Jove ! " exclaimed Gwyn, " my own 
 little pet, I really forgot your — your dislike, 
 and all that." 
 
 " And pup — pup — poor — did — did — did — 
 dear pup — pup — pup — pa ! scarce cold in his 
 grave. How can I go back ? " sobbed Bes- 
 sie ; " and you know how sad it was, and how 
 hard it is to avoid giving way. Gwynnie! 
 how could I ever expect such a thing from 
 you ! " 
 
 At th's Gwyn looked unutterably shocked 
 and distressed. He folded her in his arms 
 — he swore and vowed that he did not mean 
 what she supposed ; that there was no neces- 
 sity to leave Ruthvcn Towers yet, for a long 
 time, and, even when they did, they need not 
 go to Mordaunt Manor. They could live in 
 London, Paris, anywhere, in a hundred other 
 places. Bessie gradually allowed herself to 
 become mollifiea and at length seemed qiiitc 
 herself iigain. 
 
 "But won't it be awfully funny, Gwynnie 
 dear ? " she said. " I'll have to support you, 
 won't I? Sure it's turn and turn about it'll 
 be, so it will." 
 
 Gwyn laughed at this in his usual up- 
 roarious fashion. 
 
 " Sure," said Bessie, thoughtfully, " all 
 this reminds me of a thing that I've some- 
 times thought of. It used to seem impossi- 
 ble, but now sure there's no knowing, and I 
 don't know but that it'll be the next thing 
 that'll happen, so it will ; and, if so, then 
 good-by, say I, not only to Ruthveu Towers, 
 but also to Mordaunt Manor." 
 
 At this Gwyn started and stared at Bessie 
 in amazement. 
 
 " What do Tou mean ? " he asked, 
 
 " Sure I ..in what I say." 
 
HI 
 
 154 
 
 AX OI'EX QUKSTIO.N" 
 
 1 I 
 
 mm 
 
 i \ 
 
 ij 
 
 M 
 
 ( 
 
 jVli 
 
 r 
 
 
 1 
 
 1! 
 
 
 .1 
 
 4 
 
 1 
 
 
 i; il 
 ■ ;l 
 \ 1 
 
 ;. .j 
 
 " How call wc bid gooil by to Moiil.'tunt 
 Miinor ? " 
 
 " Why, the pump way that we're going to 
 bid good-by to RiitlivcMi Towers." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense! Wiiy, iny elder brother 
 has conic home. You havoii'i any elder broth- 
 er, you know, you little goose." 
 
 " No, bat what prevents mo from having 
 nn elder sister? " said Rossie, looking earnest- 
 ly at her husband. 
 
 "An elder sister !" cried Piwyn, in new 
 amazement. 
 
 " .Just that ; it's that entirely what I mean, 
 EO it is," said Bessie, "and sorrow the thing 
 else it is, at all at all ; and there you have it. 
 Oh, really, Owynnie darling, you needn't be- 
 gin to smile. You've done enough laughing 
 for to-day ; an ', tliis'll liclp you to feel a little 
 more serious, so it will. 1 suppose poor, dear 
 papa could never have mentioned it to you," 
 continued Bessie, with a sigh, " but, no won- 
 der, when he was so very, very ill." 
 
 "Ton my life I" exclaimed (Iwyn, "I 
 haven't the faintest idea what you're driving 
 at. You have to explain yourself more, Bes- 
 sie dearest, only you mustn't make your poor 
 little head ache about nothing." 
 
 " Oh, never mind my poor little head," said 
 Bessie ; " there's cnougli in this to make more 
 heads ache than mine. Only I do wish poor, 
 dear piipa had explained it all to you. I hate 
 80 to make explanations. But there's no 
 help for it. Well, you know, (Iwynnie dear- 
 est, poor, dear papa had two dangliters — one 
 Clara and the other Inez." 
 
 " But Clara's dead," cried Gwyn. 
 
 Bessie shook her head. 
 
 " Nobody over knew about her lieath, at 
 any rate; she's dead in just the same way 
 that your brotlier Kane was dead." 
 
 "What!" cried Gwyn — " wljat makes 
 everybody say so, then? And your fatlier, 
 he gave her up as dead, I've heard him 
 speak about the dear child that he had lost." 
 
 "Sure enough," said Bessie, "he did 
 that same. Tliis sister Clara disappe:ired 
 when I was a bit of a cliild, and, of course, 
 you know, Gwyimic, it certainly is pos- 
 sible, and perhaps even likely, that she is 
 dead; but, at the same time, there is no cer- 
 tainty of that, at all at all, not the least in 
 life. You sec, she was sent off to a school in 
 France, and while there she made n runaway 
 match with some adventurer ; and that's how 
 it was. Well, there was a will, ami there was 
 
 a guardian, and the will arranged that, if ever 
 citlier of the dauglitcs married without the 
 consent of the guardian, she could be dis- 
 owned, or something. Well, poor papa was 
 supposed to be dead, and poor, dear guar- 
 dy didn't like the match, and so, I sup. 
 pose, ho treated them rather cruelly, for she 
 disappeared, and was given out as dead, and 
 that's all I know about it, you know. So, 
 you know, I've often thought that poor, dear, 
 darling Clara might yet be alive — and oh, how 
 nicfully glad I should bo to see her ! — and she 
 may come and claim Mordaunt Hall, you 
 know ; and then, you see, Gwyniiie darling, 
 we'll be left to our own resources entirely." 
 
 " Oh, really now, Bessii^ see here, now," 
 said Gwyn, " this is all very difloicut, you 
 know — a dinVreut thing entirely. Oh, she's 
 not alive — no — no — depend upon it, she's not 
 alive — no, nothing of the kind — why, it's all 
 nonsense, yo\i know." 
 
 " But wouldn't it bo awfully funny if she 
 were to turn up, after all, alive and well, and 
 come to take possession of Mordaunt Man- 
 or?" 
 
 " Preposterous ! " exclaimed Gwyn. "Why, 
 Bessie love, you haven't got a ghost of a 
 foundation for all this." 
 
 "No, darling, nor had you any foundation 
 more than this for your belief in the life of 
 dear Kane, yet you always believed he would 
 eonie — didn't you, dailing?" 
 
 (jwyn was silent. 
 
 " And so, do you know, Gwynnie, I really 
 have always had a firm belief that some day 
 my poor, dear, darling sister would turn up — 
 and wouldn't that bo funny?" 
 
 " Oil, but, you know, Bessie, you see this 
 is a different sort of thing altogether. Oh, 
 qi.ite!" 
 
 " But isn't it awfully fimny, now ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 "And now, Gwynnie, I've got another 
 thing to tell you, and it's very, very funny, 
 too — sure and it's getting to be the funniest 
 thing I ever knew — all this is — it is entirely." 
 
 " What do you mean now ? " asked Gwyn, 
 curiously, wondering what new revelation 
 Bessie might make. 
 
 "Sure and it's this," said Bessie " Your 
 brother Kane was married, you know." 
 
 " Oh, yes; I know that, of course." 
 
 " Did you ever hear the name of the 
 lady ? " 
 
 " Never." 
 
 
IIUSBAN'D AND WIFE. 
 
 155 
 
 Imt, if ever 
 
 ■illiout the 
 
 iilil be d'lM- 
 
 pnpii wns 
 
 (ii'iu- Ruar- 
 
 so, I sup- 
 
 lly, for slu> 
 
 3 (lead, anil 
 
 know. So, 
 
 p'lor, dear, 
 
 (nd oil, how 
 
 ! — .11 id she 
 
 IIsiU, you 
 
 lie diiirmir, 
 
 entirely." 
 
 liin-e, now," 
 
 ifiereiit, you 
 
 y. Oh, ulie'a 
 
 I it, pile's not 
 
 -why, it's all 
 
 funny if she 
 
 lid well, and 
 
 )rdiiunt Miiii- 
 
 HJwyn. "Why, 
 ghost of a 
 
 ny foundation 
 n the life of 
 jved he would 
 
 yiinie, I really 
 hat some day 
 )uld turn up — 
 
 I, you see this 
 ;ogethcr. Oh, 
 
 ; got another 
 ry, very funny, 
 e the funniest 
 -it is entirely." 
 " asked Owyn, 
 lew revelation 
 
 iessie " Your 
 I know." 
 course." 
 iianio of tho 
 
 " Well, then, I'll tell you who eho was, 
 and you must bo iireparcd for a surprise, so 
 you must. The lady that your brother Kane 
 lluthvcn marric.l was my own elder sister, 
 Clara Jlordauiit ! " 
 
 At this Gwyn aetually bounded from his 
 chair. 
 
 " I don't believe it I " he eried. 
 
 " It's the truth I'm telling," said Hcssio, 
 plaeidly. " My dear guardy was hers also ; 
 it was Mr. Wyvcnic that you've heard me 
 talk about, and he told me all about it. And 
 oh, but tho dear man had the sore heart af- 
 terward ; really it was very, very sad, Gwynnie 
 dear, to see how he tried to find poor, dear 
 Clara, so as to make amends. He made that 
 last journey to Franco for the purpose of 
 making a final seareli." 
 
 Some more conversation followed about 
 this. (Jwyii liad many inquiries to make 
 about Mr. Wyveriie and Clara before he could 
 feel satisfied. But Bessie's answers were so 
 clear th;it there was no room for doubt left 
 in his mind. 
 
 " And so, Gwynnie dearest," said Bessie, 
 laying her hand lovingly upon that of her 
 li;!sband, and bending her golden head near 
 to his till her forehead rested on his shoulder, 
 "you see, Clara was really dear Kane's wife, 
 and I dare say she is still alive, and wouldn't 
 it bo funny if it should turn out that dear 
 Kane had come here on lier business as well 
 as his own? " 
 
 (iwyn had begun to caress the lovely head 
 that was leaning on his shoulder, but at this 
 he stopped, and a sudden look of pain flashed 
 across his face. But it passed away instant- 
 
 "Pooh!" said he. "Kane hasn't any 
 secrets from me. If his wife was living, 
 he'd have told me." 
 
 " (>h, of course, but you see, dear, he's 
 hardly had time yet. I dare say he'll tell you 
 to-morrow, or next week. He'll break it very, 
 very gradually, of course. Besides, he wouldn't 
 like to mention it before me." 
 
 At this, the gloom came over Gwyn'a face 
 once more. 
 
 " By Jove ! Bessie," said he, " you don't 
 know what you're saying," 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know why this should 
 not be 80," said Bessie. 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! it makes him seem like — 
 like— like an underhanded sort of a fellow." 
 
 "Well, I'm sure I didn't mean to hint at 
 
 any thing of that sort about dear Kano. It's 
 your own fancy, Gwynnie dear." 
 
 Gwyn frowned, and sat in thought. 
 
 " Well, at any rate," said Bessie, " you 
 can't deny that we're both likely to be pau- 
 pers." 
 
 Gwyn drew a long breath, and was silent. 
 
 " By paupers I mean, of course, depend- 
 ants on others, and that I hate, even when 
 it's my own sister. If I were not married, it 
 would bo dift'erent, but a married woman 
 ought to depend on her husband." 
 
 "Oil, nonsense, you little goose!" said 
 Gwyn, hurriedly; "this is all nonsense; but, 
 even if it were so, I can take care of you, 
 you poor, little, precious darling." 
 
 " I'm sure I don't see how." 
 
 " Why, I'll— I'll— I'll go into the array, of 
 course." 
 
 " I never could bear that, dear," said Bes- 
 sie, with a shudder. " It's too — too danger- 
 ous. Besides, darling, do you think the pay 
 of an officer is enough to support a wife ? 
 They say not." 
 
 " Oil, well," said Gwyn, in nn attempt at 
 his old cheerfulness, " I'm young. There's 
 lots of young fellows that fight their way 
 through life." 
 
 " Sure, and there are," said Bessie, pleas- 
 antly ; " but you know, Gwynnie dear, you 
 haven't been brought up to fight your own 
 way — no more have I." 
 
 "Ton my soul, Bessie," said Gwyn, with 
 a short laugh, " you're developing an amount 
 of prudence that I never gave you credit 
 for." 
 
 " Sure, and it'.s the bitter, black prospect 
 before us that's enough to make a fool wise. 
 I'll have to give up being a butterfly, Gwyn- 
 nie darling, so I will, and turn into a busy 
 bee. It's not prudence, so it isn't. It's fear, 
 for I'm frightened out of my wits. And oh ! 
 don't— don't be so hasty, Gwynnie, don't give 
 up all, don't, don't, darling, darling Gwyn- 
 nie!" 
 
 With these words Bessie burst into tears, 
 flung her arms about her husband, and sobbed 
 upon hi.s breast. 
 
 " Oh, come, now," said Gwyn, but he 
 could say no more. He was troubled. Bes- 
 sie held him thus, and entreated him as be- 
 fore. 
 
 " I must," said Gwyn, " my own darling. 
 It's dishonor not to — " 
 
 " Oh, sure, and what's dishonor compared 
 
15G 
 
 AX Ol'EN (iUEssTlOX. 
 
 I' ii 
 
 1 ! 
 
 to bluck, biting poverty ? Sorrow tlie bit do 
 I care for dishonor, and tlicre you liavc it." 
 
 At this, Gwyn sliranlc back a little. The 
 hand which was fondling her and soothin;; 
 licr again, as before, ceased ns if paralyzed. 
 IIo looked at the golden head and the Blen- 
 der form. 
 
 " Well, licssie," said he, at length, " a 
 lady once told nie, iu confidence, that women 
 never have any sense of true honor. I was 
 horrified, nt the time, at such a sentiment, 
 from a. lady too ; but, after wiiat you've just 
 said, I'll be hanged if I don't begin to think 
 there must be some truth in it." 
 
 "I don't care," said Bessie. "What's 
 sentiment? What's honor? It's only j/om I 
 care for in all the world, only i/ou — only i/ou 
 — and this will bring darkness and sorrow 
 down on you, Gwynuie. Gwynnie! 
 Gwynnie ! darling, darling Gwynnie ! what 
 will become of you ? " 
 
 At such fond words as these, Gwyn's heart 
 overflowed with tenderness. The poor, little, 
 weak, loving creature, thus clinging to him, 
 with her timid, tender, loving heart, how 
 could she be responsible for any sentiments 
 that did not happen to come up to a man's 
 code of honor? It was enough for him that 
 she loved him so. lie kissed her therefore 
 tenderly, and soothed her fears. 
 
 "This man," said Bessie — "this man 
 comes like a serpent, to ruin us.' 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! nonsense ! Bessie, dar- 
 ling, you mustn't talk so." 
 
 Bessie clung more closely to him. 
 
 " 1 wi^■h he had never, never come ! " she 
 eaid, passionately. 
 
 "0 Bessie!" 
 
 " I wish he had died when they thought 
 he had." 
 
 " Darling, don't t.alk so, you don't know 
 how you wring my heart." 
 
 " I don't care. I wish he was dead ! " 
 cried Bessie, fiercely and bitterly. 
 
 "Bessie," said Gwyn, "you must stop." 
 
 lie spoke sternly. Bessie gave a sob, and 
 clung more closely to him. Ilcr arms were 
 around him. lie loved her better than life. 
 lie thought her not responsible for these 
 passionate words, and, in the circling clasp 
 of those loving arms, how could lie feel an- 
 ger? 
 
 CUAl'TEn XXXVIII. 
 
 IlKVIVIxa OLD ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 IIowkvkh excited Bessie's feelings may 
 have been, they left no trace behind, for an 
 the following day she greeted " dear brother 
 Kaue"witii the same cordiality, the same 
 innocent alfeelion, and the same sisterly fa- 
 miliarity which had distinguished their adieux 
 of the evening before. As for Gwyn, there 
 was no change iu him, except that he was, if 
 possible, even more cordial than ever. Kane 
 on his part was in no haste to put an end to 
 the happiness which he felt at thus finding 
 himself again the centre of atfectionate atten- 
 tions ; he felt as thougli his business hud somc- 
 tliingin it which would iu some way interfere 
 with the sunshine of tlie present, and there- 
 fore was iu no immediate haste to introduce 
 it. 
 
 That day they passed in vi.«iting the 
 places within and without in which Kane took 
 an interest. 
 
 AV^hen he was a boy, the Ruthvens had 
 lived in London principally, ind had come 
 to this place but seldom. On one of these 
 occasions, Kane had remained several weeks ; 
 and all his memories of Ruthvea Towers were 
 crowded into this space of time. lie was then 
 a boy of fourteen, active, eager, daring, and 
 during this visit had made himself thoroughly 
 familiar with all the past history of liuthven 
 Towers, with every legend connected witli 
 this place or with the surrounding country. 
 IIo had never been here since, but so vivid 
 was the impression which this visit had made 
 upon his mind, and fo retentive was his mem- 
 ory, that every thing almost that ho saw 
 served to recall some incident in that bright 
 time of boyish vigor and enjoyment. 
 
 To all the rcmituscences of tliat briglit 
 past, Gwyn listened with his usual relish and 
 absorbed interest, questioning his brother 
 incessantly, and hanging upon his words with 
 that fond admiration which ever since Kane's 
 arrival liad marked his altitude toward hiui. 
 Kane found it pleasant lo talk of this paet — 
 which lay beyond the time of his calamity; 
 and all the more so, since he had such listen- 
 ers. Tor he had not only Gwyn, but Bessie 
 also; and she, too, showed something of the 
 same feelings which Gwyn evinced — the same 
 attitude of eager attention, the same look of 
 intense interest, of utter and complete self- 
 
KKVIVINO ()I,D ASSOCIATIUXS. 
 
 157 
 
 clings may 
 ind, for on 
 ar brother 
 tlio Bamc 
 sisterly fa- 
 tlicir adicux 
 Ciwyii, there 
 t In; was, if 
 VL-r. Kane 
 t an end to 
 thus finding 
 onate utteu- 
 S3 had soino- 
 vay interfoie 
 t, and there- 
 to iutroUuco 
 
 viiiiting the 
 2h Kane took 
 
 iilhvens Lad 
 id had come 
 
 one of these 
 2voral weeks ; 
 I Towers were 
 
 lie was then 
 , daring, and 
 ilf thoroughly 
 y of Kuthveu 
 nnected with 
 iding country. 
 I, but so vivid 
 isit liad made 
 was his mem. 
 that ho saw 
 in that bright 
 ncnt. 
 
 'f that bright 
 lal relish and 
 ; his brother 
 lis words with 
 ' since Kane's 
 '. toward him. 
 if this past — 
 his calamity ; 
 id such listen- 
 n, but Bessie 
 lething of the 
 ;ed — the same 
 same look of 
 3ompIete self- 
 
 absorption in the narrative of the speaker. 
 She had sliown all this on the previous day ; 
 and now she showed it still more strongly. 
 
 In the morning they strolled about the 
 grounds, and, after this, went out for a drive. 
 Kane sat with Bessie in tiie back-seat, (!wyn 
 in the front-seat. As they had found in the 
 house and about the park many objects 
 which called up old associations in Kane's 
 mind, 80 did they also find, beyond thegrouiul.'<, 
 places that lived in his recolleetion, and which 
 were associated with the events of that halcyon 
 time when he made his boyish visit to Kuth- 
 ven Towers. 
 
 Beyond the liniits of the park the eouniry 
 became hilly, and among these eminences 
 was one which was very conspieuou-i from 
 the road as they drove along. It was a pre- 
 cipice about two hundred and fifty feet high, 
 whose dark, rocky sides presented a gloomy 
 contrast to the rich vegetation all around, 
 and the waving trees and grassy slopes be- 
 yond thi.'?. The moment Kane caught sight 
 of this he seemed unusually excited. 
 
 "There," said he, " is a place where I did 
 one of the pluckiest things I ever did in my 
 life." 
 
 " Oh, do, dear brother Kane, tell us all 
 about it, if you please, brother Kane. I do 
 to love to hear about these adventures of 
 yours, so I do. Do, please — won't you, broth- 
 er Kane ? " 
 
 Kane looked with a smile at tlie beautiful 
 face, whose eyes were fixed on his with an ex- 
 pression of the most anxious entreaty, and 
 whose tone was one of the most coaxing and 
 irresistible. 
 
 " Well, really, Bessie," said he, " it seems 
 absurd for me to be talking so much about 
 myself" 
 
 " Oh, but you know we do so love to hear 
 nil about what you used to be, and to do ! — 
 don't we, Gwynnie darling? — and wc haven't 
 seen you all these years — now, have we, Gwyn- 
 nie darling ? " 
 
 Gwyn lent his solicitations to those of 
 Bessie, and Kane went on to tell about a 
 boyish exploit, which was really very cred- 
 itable. 
 
 "You still call that place the 'Witch's 
 Rock ? ' " said Kane, inquiringly. 
 
 "Yes," said Gwyn. 
 
 " Well," said Kane, " when I was here, I 
 no sooner heard that name than 1 was wild to 
 visit it, and to hear the story, if there was 
 
 any story, that wa.s connected with so strange 
 a name. It was some story about a witch 
 that lived in a cave on the side of that clifl' 
 ever so long ago, and kept the whole country 
 at defiance, though they all turned out to 
 hunt her. No one could got at her, though, 
 and she remained there. How she lived, no 
 one knew; but the legend had it that she 
 never died, but was living there yet. Now, 
 you see, that was just the thing to set mo 
 wild with curiosity. In the first place, the 
 existence of a cave in the face of the clilf 
 was a temptation in itself; and then, again, 
 the idea that the witch might be living there 
 yet was a still stronger one. I didn't believe 
 in the witch, but I did believe in the cave, 
 and, as no one had ever got into it, I thought 
 I'd try for myself. Well, I got some roi)eH, 
 and, without saying a word to any one, went 
 to the place, and let myself down from the 
 top. It was about the most risky thing I 
 ever tried. The cave was sunk in, and it 
 wasn't possible to get a foothold in it at all, 
 without swinging backward and forward. 
 However, I sticcceded in the attempt, and 
 actually penetrated into it. It was not much 
 of a place. It was about ten feet wide in- 
 side, and twenty deep, and I dare say had 
 often sheltered fugitives in the stormy times 
 of the past. I cut my name there, and, I re- 
 member now, I forgot my knife, which is there 
 yet, unless some one has visited the place and 
 picked it up." 
 
 " By Jove !" said Gwyn, " I don't believe 
 I should have the nerve for that sort of thing, 
 old boy. I sliouldn't mind so much lowering 
 myself down, but it's the swinging part of 
 the business that would upset me." 
 
 "Yes, that was the hardest part of it," 
 said Kane. 
 
 " But, oh, how perfectly awful ! " cried 
 Bessie. " Why, it makes me positively dizzy 
 even to think of it, so it does. And how you 
 ever dared to do such a thing I can't imagine 
 at all, at all. — Now, can you, Gwynnie dear? " 
 
 " I wonder whether I could do such a 
 thing as that now ? " said Kane, gazing 
 thoughtfully at the precipice. The carriage 
 bad stopped. They all looked there. 
 
 " Why, what a perfectly horrible idea ! " 
 cried Bessie. " Why, I'm sure you'd bo 
 dashed to pieces, so you would." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Kane, with a smile, " there's 
 no danger of that. The only question is, 
 whether I could do the swinging part of it." 
 
158 
 
 AN OPKN QUKSTIOX. 
 
 I 'I 
 
 
 
 "Ob, Low awfully funny 1" saiil Bessie. 
 "Sure but 1 almost wish yuu would, Kane 
 dear." 
 
 "By Jovo 1" fluid Kane, " J feel very much 
 like it. I'd like lo try whether a mau'a 
 iicrvcB arc as steady as those of a boy." 
 
 "And then there's your knife," said Bcs- 
 eio. "Oh, but wouldn't it be the fine thing 
 tutircly If you should get in there again, and 
 find that nobody had ever been there since 
 yourself, at all ut all, and wouldn't you be 
 the proud man 1 " 
 
 "The knife?" .'•aid Kane. " Uy Jove 1 
 wouldn't 1 like lo get that knife a;:ain 1 Ttie 
 knife? why it woull be like getting back 
 part of my boyhood. I should take it as an 
 onic';, if ! found it — an onicn for good in the 
 future — thai things arc going to turn out for 
 me all right in the end." 
 
 "Sure but you never could get down 
 there," said Iicssie ; " never at all at all. 
 Oh, no, you wouldn't have the nerve now. 
 It's loo terrib'e. Why, really it makes nie 
 quite dizzy to think of it. — Doesn't it make 
 you dizzy, G .vynnic dear ? " 
 
 " Dizzy ? pooh ! " said Kane, whose eyes 
 were fi.\cd upon the elilf, as if by some strong 
 fascination. "Dizzy? why, no man that has 
 a man's head on his shoulders need think 
 any thing of that. I couhl easily go down 
 and back again, but I might not bo so agile 
 as I then was, and might not be able to get a 
 foothold." 
 
 "But, oh, what a triumph it would be! 
 and, oh, but it's the proud man you'd be if 
 you were to find the knife!" 
 
 " Look here, Bessie," said Gwyn, sudden- 
 ly, " 'pon my word, this is liardly the thing, 
 you know ; you seem to be actually templing 
 Kane to a dangerous adventure, when you 
 ought to be trying to prevent him." 
 
 " .Me tempt him ? " said Bessie, reproach- 
 fully. "He? sure it's only encouraging him 
 that I was, and I'm really frightened out of 
 my wits at the very idea, and I'm sure I don't 
 believe that he'd dare to do it, and that's the 
 only comfort I have, so it is." 
 
 " Dare ? That's the wrong word to use, 
 Bessie. You'll only make Kane the more 
 determined."' 
 
 Kane laughed merrily. In his laugh there 
 ■was a ring and a gusto that had not been 
 known in any laugh of his for years. He was 
 for the moment like a boy again. The pros- 
 pect of renewing his old enterprise and re- 
 
 pealing his boyish fiMt, of itself seemed to 
 have rijuvenated him. 
 
 " Dare ? ha, hu ! " he said. " When a lady 
 dares a man lo do any thing, tliere's nothing 
 left but to do it. But, at any rate, I feel con- 
 foundedly like going; and, by Jove! I will 
 go." 
 
 Be.-sie smiled radiantly at him, and threw, 
 immediately afterward, a deprecatory glaneo 
 at (!wyn. 
 
 "Nonsense, Kane! don't think of such a 
 thing ; it's oangerous." 
 
 " Dangerous ? jiooh ! " said Kane. " I tell 
 you the night of this rock has made mo a boy 
 again. I want to find my knife. (Jwyn, my 
 boy, you don't know how I cling to that gl 
 rious boyhood, and you'll never linow till 
 you've had a manhood like niin id I'rom 
 that may Heaven preserve you 1" 
 
 These last (c\v words were spoken wiih 
 sad and solemn intonations. These words 
 Gwyn had occasion altcrward lo recall — 
 al'terward, when they seemed to liim lo have 
 a prophetic meaning. 
 
 For the presi nt, at any rate, Kane had 
 made n\) his mind, and for the rest of the 
 day was full of tliis new i<!oa. His old grim- 
 ncss departed utterly, and u boyish culliu- 
 siusm about his coming attempt took the 
 place of it. (iwyu made a few feeble attempts 
 lo dissuade him from it. He felt some strange, 
 indefinable presentiments of evil, but did not 
 know how lo express these in words, and so 
 his attempts to dissuade Kane were only 
 laughed at. But Bessie cheered him on. 
 Bessie talked about it incessantly, Bessie 
 laughed about it, and made merry about it; 
 and even if Kane had been inclined lo give 
 it up, he could scarcely have done so under 
 such circumslanees. But Kane was not in- 
 clined to give it up. The idea had taken 
 complete pos.scssion of him, and nothing now 
 could have prevented his putting it inlo ex- 
 ecution. He spent some time that day in 
 making preparations for his adventure. These 
 preparations were not at all elaborate. Tliey 
 consisted simply in procuring a rope of sufli- 
 cient length and strength, and tying a series 
 of alternate knots and loops. This was llio 
 mode which lie had adopted when a boy, and 
 its complete success at that time recom- 
 mended it as the best thing which he could 
 do now ; beside*, in thin recent revival of 
 boyish feeling, any thing that could connect 
 him more closely with those early days was 
 
 'Ik 
 
UKVIVINO OLD ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 160 
 
 seemed to 
 
 leu a lady 
 'a notliliig 
 
 1 feci con- 
 )ve ! I will 
 
 anil llirew, 
 Uny gluiico 
 
 of sucli a 
 
 inc. " I tell 
 lu me a boy 
 (iwyn, my 
 ;o that k'' 
 r know till 
 \d lioin 
 
 pokcn with 
 
 licae Moi'ds 
 
 to recall — 
 
 iiiiu to have 
 
 .', Kano had 
 I rest of the 
 M old gfim- 
 uyisli euthu- 
 pt took the 
 ;ble attc'inpta 
 ionie strange, 
 , but did not 
 Olds, and so 
 B were only 
 •cd him on. 
 itly. Dcssio 
 ny about it ; 
 ined to give 
 ine 80 under 
 was not in- 
 a had taken 
 nothing now 
 !5 it into ex- 
 lliat day in 
 iituie. These 
 orate. They 
 -ope of sudi- 
 ying a series 
 This was the 
 m a boy, and 
 time recom- 
 lich he could 
 it revival of 
 ould connect 
 u'ly days was 
 
 
 welcome, and nothing seemed pleasantcr to 
 him than to repeat, even to the minutest do- 
 taihs, the [dan which had formerly been so 
 successful. 
 
 Another evening came — the second even- 
 ing at Uuthven Towers for Kane. IJy this 
 time ho and Ucssie were on terms that were 
 most cordial, most fraternal, and most confi- 
 dential, lie had thus far refrained from nien- 
 tioning the real object of his jouriu'v here, 
 from the fear that the mention of this rai^ht 
 mar the joy of this intcrcour.se. Yet ihrou,','; 
 this day he had thought much of this, an(' il.c 
 more he thought of it the more b' '.rd did 
 such hesitation seem. Here wa? noble- 
 
 hearted brother and this gentle nnd lovir ^ 
 wile — his brother nnd sister —wliy Bliduhl lie 
 hesitate any longer to tell tliem '■•' .t ho 
 M-islicd to tell? Not the story vi Clan — 
 that was tio sad, too tragic, too icrrible, for 
 Buch innocent ears as Bessie's to hear — but 
 rather the story of Inez. Was not Ilcssic the 
 friend of Inez ? Did not Inez s-till love her 
 and trust in her ? Why dilay to make 
 known to the only friend that Inez hid the 
 terrible loneliness of her position ? What 
 could be better for the poor, lonely girl than 
 to be able to join her friend once more ? i 
 Once together, all could be explained ; or 
 even if any mystery remained they could 
 wait, secure in one another's love, until light 
 should be thrown upon it. 
 
 Kane's confidence in Bessie was complete. 
 It had grown rapidly, but he had come to her 
 .13 a brother, and she had met him as a sis- 
 ter. Under these circumstances there had 
 been none of that reserve which otherwise 
 might have existed. 
 
 Accordingly, that evening he told them 
 about Inez, lie told the story to both of 
 them, for they were both one now, and he 
 never dreamed of telling Bessie any thing 
 which Gwyn might not also hear. It was 
 his confidence in j'-'ssie's gentle and noble 
 character, her loyalty, and her innate worth, 
 that led him to this. He did not tell, how- 
 ever, the whole story as Inez had .old it to 
 him. The perplexing mystery of her claim to 
 be the daughter of Bcrnal Mordaunt, when 
 Bessie had been acknowledged as that very 
 daughter, prevented him from touching upon 
 the subject, and from even mentioning the 
 name. He merely mentioned that Inez had 
 received a letter from one who professed to 
 have been appointed by her father as lier 
 
 guardian ; that Inez had believed the letter, 
 and, with the utmost reeklcssncss, had com- 
 plied with his reipiest to come to him at 
 I'aris. When there she had Ibund out that 
 this man was not what he professed to bo, 
 and that, for some unknown reason, he wished 
 to kjcp her in his power. S!;e was subjeetcJ 
 to restraint for a time, but mana^'cd finally to 
 eseape. f^lie had written twice to Bessie, but 
 had received no answer. 
 
 In this guarded way Kane told the story 
 of Inez, and in this way he avoided altogeth- 
 er that painful and diiUrcssing conlasion of 
 names, elinni:', and rights, which the full 
 staten.eut of the truth would have brought 
 foi'ivard. He did not mention even the name 
 of Kevin Magrath for fear of distressing Bes- 
 sie, but contented fimself with the name of 
 (loiinod. It was enough for him just then 
 to reveal the condition of Inez, and he was 
 willing to leave all the rest to the future. He 
 thought tlia: I'le best thing for him to do would 
 be to bring Inez and Bissie together on the 
 old footing; and then Inez might tell, uf her 
 own accord, as nuieh or as little as she c'lose 
 about her story. Ho could not help feeling 
 thit much had yet to be discovered belbro 
 the conllicting claims of these two, who wcro 
 so innocent and so dear, could in any way be 
 harmonized. 
 
 If there had remained in the mind of 
 Kar.e any vestige of a doubt in Bessie, her 
 reception of his story would have removed it. 
 
 Astonishment, grief, sympathy, joy, ail 
 seemed to struggle together in the expression 
 of Bessie's face and in the tones of her voice. 
 The start of horror at the wiekednosa of 
 those who made this plot; the cry ol fear at 
 the danger of Inez; the exclainalion of joy 
 at her escape and safety ; of all that in look, 
 or word, or tone, or gesture, could indicate 
 the deepest and sincercst sympathy, not one 
 thing was wanting. 
 
 " Oh, but isn't this the blessed day," she ex- 
 claimed, at last ; " and oh, but wasn't I the heart- 
 broken girl ! For, you see, Kane dear, it was the 
 death of her poor papa — poor, dear, old Ciuardy 
 Wy verne — that upset her altogether. And not 
 one word, good or bad, would she speak to 
 me, and me fretting my heart out, and trying 
 to get from her even a look. It's maJ she 
 was entirely. Insane, and out of her head, 
 and no mistake. And me that used to lie 
 awake all night long crying my eyes out about 
 her. I was looking forward to her coming 
 
i ] : 
 
 160 
 
 AX Ol'E.V QUESTION'. 
 
 hero with mc to Mordaunt Manor, where slie'd 
 get over her grief. But never a word eould I 
 get from her. Oh, it's mad she was — mad, 
 and nothing else, from grief and trouble. 
 There's a vein of madness in the Wyverne 
 family, Kane dear, and she's got a touch of 
 the family complaint, and that's all about it, 
 and there you have it. And that's how it wus 
 with poor, dear, old Guardy Wyverne, that 
 for the last two or three months of his life 
 was positively out of his mind all the time. 
 It was really awful. And only think, at the 
 last, he really mistook poor, dear, darling 
 Inez for mc, and told her she wasn't his 
 daughter, and that excited the poor darling 
 60 that her own mind gave way. Oh, I saw 
 it. I often thought about that. But I 
 thought the best way was to leave her alone, 
 and not worry her, or bother her, and all that, 
 and she'd soon come around. Oh, why 
 couldn't she have been more frank with me ? 
 If she had only shown me that letter 1 And 
 who is this Gounod? What an awful name! 
 And only think of her running away on a 
 wild errand after a periect stranger who writes 
 her a crazy letter ! Oh, sure but it's mad she 
 was — poor, dear, darling, old Inez. Kcally it 
 makes me shudder when I think of it. To 
 rim away so, you know. I was frightened 
 out of my wits all the time, and 1 should 
 have gone all the way there with her, but I 
 went as far as Southampton, and my courage 
 failed. She was so perfectly aw ful, you know, 
 Kane dear; and do you know, Kane dear, 
 she didn't speak a word all the way there, 
 and .aeemed really angry that I'd come ? 
 
 "And then, you know, Kane dear, I went 
 back — and oh, but it was me that had the 
 sore heart, and then I had to go to Mordaunt 
 Manor at once, for they were doing something 
 about poor, dear Guardy AVyverne's estate, 
 and they said they'll have to shut up his 
 house and sell every thing. So I had to come 
 here to Mordaunt Manor, and then carac poor, 
 dear, darling papa — and oil, he was so very, 
 very ill! and — and you know what happened." 
 
 Hero Bessie's emotion made her break 
 down ; and, burying her face in her hands, 
 she sobbed pitcously. It was very sad, and 
 Kane's eyes moistened as ho saw the beauti- 
 ful golden head bowed down, and the slender 
 frame shaken by sobs, Gwyn, too, was over, 
 come, and in his despair tried all the caresses 
 of which he was capable to soothe Bessie's 
 agitated feelings. 
 
 At length she revived and raised her head, 
 but kept her eyes fixed mournfully on the floor. 
 
 " It's easy to see how her letters missed 
 mc," said she, sadly. "She had directed 
 them to London, and they never reached me. 
 I left no directions about forwarding letters, 
 for I never expected to get any, and didn't 
 give it a thought. Its heart-broke I was 
 about dear, darling Inez, and I never thought 
 of any thing. How could her letters ever get 
 to me ? And so there she was, and there she 
 is now — and oh, my darling, darling Iny ! my 
 sweet, sweet sister ! what a power of suffer- 
 ing you've had to bear ! " 
 
 Kane's eyes now overflowed. He was a 
 brave, strong, resolute man, but he was very 
 tender-hearted, and the sight of Bessie's grief 
 was too much. Gwyn, also, was overcome. 
 
 " And oh, Kane dear, why didn't you tell 
 me last night? I'll go to her at once. We 
 must all go." 
 
 At this Kane smiled. It was just what h« 
 most longed for. 
 
 " But I'll write her too,'' said Bessie, 
 "first of all, in case of any delay on our 
 part. I'll write her this night, for I can't 
 leave at once, not for a day or two, and if she 
 only gets a letter to know I'm coming, it'll 
 cheer her a little, and she'll wait patiently, 
 the poor, sweet darling! St you'll give mo 
 her address now, Kane dear." 
 
 As Bessie said this she drew a tablet from 
 her pocket, and, taking out the pencil, handed 
 it to Kane. 
 
 Kane took the pencil and tablet, and wrote 
 the address of Inez. 
 
 Then they talked long and tenderly of 
 their absent friend, and wlicn at last the time 
 came for Bessie to retire, she held her cheek 
 for Kane to kiss, and said : 
 
 " Good-night, Kane dear, and pleasant 
 dreams to you ! " 
 
 CHArTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE TEMPTKR. 
 
 Kane was joyous over the prospect of 
 Bessie's journey to Inez, and still , ore bo at 
 her eagerncas and her promptness. On the 
 folionirT ilVj. Bessie informed him that she 
 had written and scut her letter, and that she 
 would not be able to set out herself for two 
 or three days yet. Such a delay did not seem 
 
TUE TEMPTER. 
 
 161 
 
 her head, 
 the floor. 
 cr3 missed 
 directed 
 ached me. 
 ng letters, 
 and didn't 
 okc I was 
 er thought 
 IS ever get 
 there she 
 giny! my 
 of suffer- 
 
 Ile was a 
 was very 
 esfie'a grieC 
 avercoine. 
 n't you tell 
 I once. We 
 
 just what ho 
 
 said Bessie, 
 elay on our 
 for I can't 
 0, and if sho 
 coming, it'll 
 lit patiently, 
 )u'll give mo 
 
 a tablet from 
 icncil, banded 
 
 let, and wrote 
 
 tenderly of 
 , last the time 
 eld ber cheek 
 
 and pleasant 
 
 ! prospect of 
 till i ore 80 at 
 ncsa. On the 
 him that she 
 , and that she 
 erself for two 
 y did not seem 
 
 long to Kane, who now, that the future of 
 Inez seemed secure, felt less baste to see 
 her again. lie could well afford to stay 
 here a little longer, where all was so pleas- 
 ant ; and now that this troublesome mat- 
 ter had been arranged, the enjo3-ment which 
 he found in his vi.sit was more pure and un- 
 alloyed than it bad tlius far been. Gwyn 
 seconded Bessie's proposal with the earnest- 
 ness that might have been expected of him, 
 and it was arranged tliat in three days tboy 
 should all set out together. In tlie mean 
 time, the active nature of Kane required em- 
 ployment, and the Witch's Rock once more 
 recurred to his mind more attractively than 
 ever. Bessie was the first to mention it. 
 Slie did it, in a laugliing way, by asking him 
 if bo still intended to get his knife before he 
 left. The question was met by an eager dec- 
 laration, on Kane's part, that be would make 
 an attempt on the cliff that very day. His 
 simple preparations had already been made, 
 and it only roraained to set I'ortli fur the 
 scene of action. 
 
 On tlie way there, Bessie was more lively, 
 more radiant, and move charming, than ever. 
 Witli Kane, wlio was full of his enterprise, 
 she kept up an incessant conversation of the 
 most animated character, principally about 
 tlie Witcli's Rock. She made him tell the 
 story of his old exploit all over. She was 
 particular as to the sliape and size of the 
 cave, and the way in which be had swung 
 himself l)aekward and forward. And, as she 
 listened, she laughed and shuddered by turns, 
 till, in her excitement, slie seemed almost 
 hysterical. Kane was too much engrossed 
 with his plan and purpose, and, as yet, too 
 little acquainted with her, to notice any thing 
 unusual iu ber manner, but Gwyn was very 
 forcibly impressed by it. Gwyn, indeed, was 
 himself unusually silent, and seemed some- 
 what depressed. This mny have been on ac- 
 count of some forebodings of indefinable ca- 
 lamity in his own mind ; or it may have been 
 anxiety on account of the unusual and un- 
 healthy excitement of Bessie ; or it may liave 
 been, after all, merely the natural silence and 
 obscurity which befalls one who makes a 
 third party wliere the otlier two are uncom- 
 monly talkative and lively. 
 
 In this way tliey reached the place. The 
 
 clifT was on the side of a hill, which was 
 
 easily climbed by a moderate acclivity about 
 
 half a mile off. By ascending this they were 
 
 11 
 
 able to reach the edge of the clilT without 
 dilHculty, and here Kane flung down his ropo 
 and began to make the necessary preparations 
 for his descent. 
 
 The hill was a long one, of moderate ele- 
 vation, being a spur thrown out from Skid- 
 daw; and the cliff was formed by its abrupt 
 termination on one side. It was, as has beeu 
 said, about two hundred and fifty feet iu 
 height. The top overhung slightly, and at 
 the bottom was a wilderness of sharp rocks, 
 the dibris of the cliff, which had been dis- 
 lodged in the course of centuries by frost and 
 storm, and had fallen here. 
 
 The charges which had taken place here 
 since Kane was a boy were not very exten- 
 sive. On looking about him, he recognized 
 several landmarks without difficulty. In par- 
 ticular, he noticed a large oak-tree, around 
 whose trunk be bad then fastened his line; 
 and around tlie same tree he proposed to 
 fasten it again. This tree, fortunately, stood 
 over the very place wliere the cavern was, 
 and consequently was by far the best point 
 from which to start on an attempt of this 
 nature. 
 
 Kane bound his rope about this tree with 
 a security and a dexterity which indicated a 
 practised hand. After this he flung the re- 
 mainder of the rope over the cliff, and looked 
 over to see how far it reached. It went down 
 more tlian half the way. Then be took a 
 carriage-rug, which he had brought with him, 
 and put it under the rope where it ran over 
 tlie edge of the cliif, so as to prevent any 
 danger tliat might arise from the grinding of 
 tlie rope against the rock. 
 
 As ho made these preparations, he kept 
 up an incessant flow of lively and joyous re- 
 marks ; and jesteil about the witch, who, ac- 
 cording to tradition, ought still to be tliero, 
 and who, he maintained, was bound to punish 
 him in some way for his former intrusion into 
 ber abode. With this Bessie chimed in, and 
 was very merry over an absurd picture whicli 
 slie suggested of a fight between Kane and 
 the witcli in mid-air, tlie one swinging from a 
 rope, and the other flying on her broom- 
 stick. 
 
 This conversation, absurd tlunigh it might 
 be, was yet destined to be memorable to one 
 of these two speakers. 
 
 It was in the midst of this laugliter and 
 merriment, that Kane advanced to tlie edge 
 of tlie cliff, and prepared to descend. 
 

 u% 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTIOX. 
 
 " Oood-by, Kane dear, and take care of 
 yourself," said Bessie, witli a smile. 
 
 " Good-by," said Kane ; " never fear. I'll 
 get that knife." 
 
 ■ The next moment he had descended over 
 the edge, and was out of sight. 
 
 All this time Gwju had said not a word, 
 lie stood with a clouded brow, and looked on 
 abstractedly. There was trouble in his mind. 
 Kane, however, had not noticed this ; for his 
 attention was aUogi:tlier engrossed by his 
 preparations, and by Ik-ssie. Thus Gwyn had 
 watched Kane in silence while he bound the 
 rope about the tree, while he wrapped the 
 carriage-rug around it, and while he went 
 over the edge of tlic clilf. Then he walked 
 slowly forward and knelt down. 
 
 lie looked over. 
 
 The knotted rope hung far down, and 
 lliere below him w,is Kane clinging to it with 
 liis muscular grii)C, and letting himself down 
 farther and farther. As he went farther 
 down, and increased the distance between 
 himself and tlie top of the cliff, there began a 
 vibration of tlie ro])e, and Gwyn could see 
 his brotlier slowly swinging to and fro with a 
 movement that increased as he descended. 
 The sight had something in it which to Gwyn 
 was intolerable, and, turning away, he stood up. 
 
 As he did so, he felt a slight touch on his 
 arm. He turned with a sharp and sudden 
 movement. There seemed something in that 
 touch which w.is strangely startling to him. 
 Yet, wlien he turned, ho saw only Bessie. 
 Unusual, indeed, was it for the touch of the 
 gentle hand of this young wife to give such a 
 shock to so loving a husband. But Gwyn 
 had not been himself all this day. There had 
 been something on his mind ; and this some- 
 thing had transformed him. 
 
 So now he turned, and saw Bessie. Iler 
 face was perfectly calm and placid, and her 
 large, soft, deep-blue eyes were fixed u|)oii his 
 with that open, childlike gaze which formed 
 the sweetest and most attractive peculiarity 
 of Bessie's face. For, when Bessie looked 
 full upon any other person, there always 
 seemed in her face such a suggestion of youth 
 and iniioconce tiiat the one who encountered 
 it never failed to feel attracted. Never be- 
 fore had Gwyn failed to bo alfected by her 
 Bweet glance, but now, as he encountered it, 
 there was no response on his part ; nor did 
 liis brow relax in the slightest degree from 
 that gloom into which it had settled. 
 
 Put Gwyn's look produced no effect what- 
 ever upon Bessie. AVhether she noticed it or 
 not, did not appear. Perhaps she did ob- 
 serve it, but attached no importance to it; or 
 perhaps she was too much taken up with her 
 own thoughts to regard any thing external. 
 She, therefore, looked at him with her usual 
 expression, and with that same good-natured 
 and fascimiting smile upon her lips which she 
 always wore, and, with a tender, confiding 
 gesture, she stole her little hand toward that 
 of Gwyn. 
 
 As her hand touched tha of her husband, 
 he shrank back and turned away his head. 
 This movement was too apparent to be unno- 
 ticed, and Bessie stood with her hand still 
 stretched out, looking at licr husband in si- 
 lence for a few moments. The smile did not 
 } pass from her face, nor did she appear to bo 
 in the least degree ofi'enled or hurt. On the 
 contrary, after a slight hesitation, she re- 
 newed her advances in such a way that they 
 admitted of no rejection, for she stepped tow- 
 ard him and quietly took his arm. 
 
 "Sure, Gwynnie dear," said she, "you're 
 not yourself at nil at all this day. Not one 
 word have you spoken, good or bad, since 
 last night. And I'm sure I think you're 
 really unkind. Haven't you ever a word at 
 all at nil to throw to a poor little girl that's 
 fairly heart-broken with such coldness and 
 neglect?" 
 
 Bessie, as she said this, leaned tenderly, 
 lovingly, and confidingly, upon her husband's 
 arm, and looked up into his face with her 
 sunniest smile. But Gwyn stood with his 
 face averted, and his eyes looking far olf at 
 vacancy, and the cloud, still dirk and gloomy, 
 over his brow, The broad, seienc trar.quil- 
 lity that once had reigned there — the frank, 
 ojien, boyish look that had once distinguished 
 him was gone, and in its place there had come 
 the shadow of some stern, dark, unhallowed 
 thought, such as had never before been known 
 to his honest soul. And it was the spell of 
 this thought that at this moment held him 
 bound, so that lie remained inaccessible to 
 Bessie's witchery, to her smile of sweetness, 
 her glance of tenderness, and lier words of 
 love. There was a change in him beyond ii 
 doubt, and, whether that change should bo 
 transient or penuanent, depended very much 
 upon the issues of this lioiir. 
 
 After wailing jiatiently fiu- some time, 
 Bessie '"ouiid that G«yu would not look ( 
 
THE TEMPTER. 
 
 1G3 
 
 ect wliat- 
 iced it or 
 did ob- 
 
 e to it; or 
 
 -> witli her 
 external, 
 her usual 
 
 )d-natureu 
 which she 
 confiding 
 
 award that 
 
 r husband, 
 hia head. 
 be unno- 
 hand still 
 hand in Bi- 
 ilo did not 
 )pcar to be 
 rt. On the 
 on, she re- 
 y that they 
 topped tow- 
 he, " you're 
 .'. Not one 
 V bad, since 
 hiuk you're 
 r a ^^orll at 
 e girl tliat'.-i 
 oldness and 
 
 led tenderly, 
 er husband's 
 CO with lier 
 od nith his 
 ig far off at 
 and gloomy, 
 ne traiupiil- 
 ' — the frank, 
 listinguished 
 ;re had come 
 , uidiallowed 
 ( been known 
 the spell of 
 nt held him 
 iccessiblo to 
 f .sweetness, 
 icr words of 
 m beyond u 
 [(' should be 
 d very nnicli 
 
 .sonio time, 
 not look r 
 
 her ; so, with a little sigh, she looked away, 
 and at the same time nestled more closely to 
 him, clasping his arm iu both of hers. 
 
 " Sure and he must have the steady nerves, 
 60 he must — mustn't ho, Gwynnie dear ? " 
 
 To this Gwyn murmured something which 
 was apparently intended for a reply, but was 
 quite unintelligible. It seemed to encourage 
 Ucssie, however. She pressed his arm closer, 
 and one of her hands sought out bis, and this 
 time succeeded iu finding a place where it lay 
 nestling. 
 
 " And he must be down an awful distance, 
 so he must — mustn't ho, Tlwynnie dear?" 
 continued Bessie, after a few moments, mak- 
 ing another venture to mollify Gwyn, and 
 draw him into a conversation. 
 
 To this Gwyn once more replied as before, 
 in an inarticulate, unintelligible wa}'. 
 
 "And oh, but it's the heavy man he must 
 be, and a heavy weight on the end of that bit 
 of string," continued Bessie, who seemed to 
 be cautiously feeling her way onward into a 
 conversation about whose reception she felt 
 doubtful. 
 
 Gwyn drew a long breath, and said noth- 
 ing. 
 
 Bessie stole a look up at his face. It was 
 still averted. It was averted purposely. He 
 was forcing himself to look away for some 
 reason or other, and this Bessie could easily see. 
 
 " It's awfully dangerous, so it is — isn't it, 
 then, (Jwynnie darling ? " said she again, in a 
 low voice. Gwyn said nothing. 
 
 " Gwynnie," said Bessie, pressing his arm 
 — " Gwynnie, why won't you speak ? " 
 
 Gwyn drew a long breath. 
 
 " I think," said he, " we are standing too 
 near the edge." 
 
 " Sure and what danger is there ? " said 
 Bessie. " It's? like a rock you are, so it is, 
 Gwynnie dear, and, when you are with me, 
 never a fear have I." 
 
 She said these words tenderly and loving- 
 ly, and pressed his arm again. J'ora moment 
 the cloud on Gwyn's brow seemed to bo dis- 
 pelled at the softer emotion which Bessie's 
 caress had caused, out, in another moment, 
 the tenderness had passed, and the stern look 
 came back. 
 
 " Wo must not stand so near it," said he, 
 in a harsh voice. " It's too dangerous." 
 
 With these words he stepped back about 
 half a dozen paces, while Bessie accompanied 
 Lim, still clinging to his arm. Here they 
 
 both stood iu the same attitude in which they 
 had been before, Bessie still clasping his arm. 
 A short silence followed. Bessie looked at 
 the ground ; Gwyn, as before, stood looking 
 far away at vacancy. 
 
 All around them lay a beautiful scene; 
 beneath the brow of the cliff was the valley, 
 and beyond rose wooded heiglits. The pass- 
 ing breeze sighed and murmured through the 
 trees, aud the twitter of sparrows arose 
 through the air. But nothing in this scene 
 was perceived by Gwyn, in that deep abstrac- 
 tion of soul into which he had been plunged. 
 But Bessie's eyes rested upon the rope which 
 rau along the ground before her, holding 
 suspended in mid-air the precious burdea 
 of a human life. 
 
 " It would be a shocking thing, so it 
 would," said she, at length, "if any thing 
 were to happen to him, and it's not unlikely. 
 Stranger things than that have happened, 
 and it's a highly-dangerous venture." 
 
 At these words Gwyn frowned more dark- 
 ly, and, with a quick gesture, withdrew his 
 arm from Bessie's clasp, and, stepping away 
 a foot or two, he stood in gloomy silence. 
 
 " What made you let him go down, Gwyn- 
 nie dear ? " asked Bessie, in a low voice, af- 
 ter watching him in silence for a few mo- 
 ments. 
 
 Gwyn made no reply. 
 
 " It's a small, thin rope, and might grind 
 itself away easy enough, so it might," con- 
 tinued Bessie, who, as she spoke, watched 
 Gwyn's face closely, as though wishing to see 
 in what way her remarks would be received ; 
 " and sure,'' she continued, after a pause, 
 " if it wasn't for the bit of a rug that's under 
 it, the rope would have ground itself out by 
 this time. And oh, but wouldn't it be tlio 
 strange thing, Gwynnie dear, if any thing 
 should happen, and him coming here on such 
 an errand ? It would be so very — very — sad, 
 wouldn't it, Gwynnie darling? " 
 
 Bessie did not seem now to expect any 
 reply to her remarks in words, but contented 
 herself with watching Gwyn's face. That 
 face changed not, except, if possible, to grow 
 more ar.d more stern and dark at every new 
 word of hers. Was there a struggle going on 
 witliin him at that hour ? Was his evil ge- 
 nius struggling with his better self? lie said 
 nothing, nor did he try to distract his thoughts 
 by any converse with the bright and pleasant 
 being at his sid'* who still showed the sama 
 
m\ 
 
 164 
 
 AX OPEX QUESTION'. 
 
 Bunliglit in lier eyes, auJ the same smile ou 
 her face. 
 
 " It's so very, very small a thing," she 
 continued, " that saves him. It's the bit of 
 a rug, so it is — nothing more. It'.s the rug 
 that — that keeps dear dai-ling Kane from — 
 from being talien from us, isn't it, (iwynuio 
 darling?" 
 
 " I wonder how far he is down," she con- 
 tinued; " sure, but wasn't it mad in liiin to 
 go, and the rope so tliin? Sure, and if it 
 wasn't for the bit of a rug, where'd he be 
 now ? So thin it is, and so small, and so 
 easily cut — " 
 
 As Bessie said this, Gwyn turned his face 
 and looked at her with a terrible glance. His 
 face was ghastly pale, and big drops of per- 
 spiration covered his brow. 15essie looked at 
 him with her usual calm, clear gaze, and with 
 the same pleasant smile. 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't look at me so, 
 Gwynnie dearest," said she, at length ; " you 
 really make me feel quite nervous. Come 
 and let us take a peep down and see where 
 poor, dear Kane is. Come." 
 
 She started off toward the edge of the cliff 
 where the rope went over. For a iTioment 
 Owyn gasped for breath. Then he said, in a 
 harsh, hoarse voice : 
 
 " Don't go ! " 
 
 " Oh, but I just will then," said Bessie, 
 with a laugh. " Sure, I'm not a bit afraid, 
 though you socrn to be. Do you know, 
 Gwynnie dear, I begin to think you're a sad 
 coward, so I do ? " 
 
 ■VVith these words she tripped lightly tow- 
 ard the rope. 
 
 " Bessie, come back ! " cr'ed Gwj"n, stern- 
 
 ly. 
 
 " Sure, I'll go back to you in a minuto, so 
 I will. I just want to take one peep, and I'll 
 show that I'm braver than you, so I will." 
 
 With these words she stooped down, and 
 knelt by tlie rope, just at the edge of tlio 
 cliff, and bent her head down low. Iler left 
 hand rested on the rug, her right on the rock. 
 
 Gwyn stood like one paralyzed ; there was 
 a terrible thouglit in his mind ; he looked at 
 her with a wild, glassy stare of hormr. 
 
 After a few moments Bessie drew back 
 licr head, and turned and looked at Gwyn 
 with a bright smile. Then, still holding her 
 loft hand on the rug, she put her right hand 
 into her pocket, as though she intended to 
 draw out something. 
 
 'What that something might be had in an 
 instant suggested itself to Gwyn's wild fancy. 
 A groan burst from him. 
 
 He sprang toward her, and, before she 
 could be aware of liis intention, before she 
 could even shrink back, there was a wild and 
 terrible cry in her cars. She felt herself 
 seized in a fierce and resistless grasp, and 
 torn from the ground. It was Gwyn's hand, 
 the hand which never before had touehec her 
 save in love and tenderness, that now grasped 
 her with the fury of despair. He seized her 
 in his arms. For a moment he hold lier up- 
 lifted from the ground, and Bessie could sec 
 his face, and she saw in it that which made 
 her think that ho was about to fling her over 
 the precipice. For a moment he held her 
 there, and a shriek burst from her wliicli was 
 wrung out by pain and by terror. For a mo- 
 ment he held her — one single moment — and 
 then he hurled her violently away from him. 
 
 She fell to the ground headlong and heav- 
 ily. She lay senseless. 
 
 Iler beautiful face, marble white, lay with 
 her check on the hard ground ; and her little 
 hand, tlie right hand, which she had inserted 
 in her pocket, still held in its grasp a simple 
 handkcrcliicf. 
 
 For a moment Gwyn stood horror-struck, 
 then he staggered toward her and raised her 
 up. The handkerchief in licr haiul had in it 
 something piteous ; lie had imagined some- 
 thing else tliero. He had imagined horror.s 
 unspeakable. And this was all. Trembling 
 from head to foot, lie gently laid her down 
 again, and kissed her pale face fondly, and 
 tenderly examinod her to see if had re- 
 ceived any injury. But, even at th'\t dread 
 moment, there was in his mind the presence 
 of the evil thought which all day long hai! 
 darkened his soul ; and, obeying a sudden 
 impulse, he rushed once more to the edge of 
 the cliff and looked down. 
 
 cnArTr;R xi,. 
 
 [itEXEWlNO IIIJ VOITH. 
 
 MKAXWiiir.K Kane had gone steadily down 
 on his adventurous descent. The rope liad 
 been formed on the model of the one which 
 he had used when a boy, and was very well 
 adapted for such a purpose. The knots and 
 loops which occurred at intervals enabled him 
 
 !l ! 
 
mil in an 
 ild fancy. 
 
 loro she 
 
 « 
 
 lore she 
 
 wild and 
 t liei'Sc'U' 
 rasp, mid 
 
 n's hand, 
 uclici lier 
 w grasped 
 
 eized her 
 Id her u|i- 
 
 could see 
 
 ich made 
 g her over 
 I held her 
 which was 
 
 VoT a mo- 
 ment — and 
 i'rom him. 
 5 and heav- 
 
 te, lay with 
 id her little 
 lad iu.=nrtcd 
 3p a simple 
 
 )rror-struck, 
 
 li raised her 
 
 nd had in it 
 
 Joined sonie- 
 
 ned horror.s 
 
 Trembling 
 
 d her down 
 
 fondly, and 
 
 had re- 
 
 L tlifxt dread 
 
 the presence 
 
 lay long haii 
 
 ig a sudden 
 
 I the edge of 
 
 RKNEWIXG ms YOUTH. 
 
 165 
 
 teadily down 
 he rope had 
 lie one whicii 
 ras very well 
 le knots and 
 s enabled him 
 
 to maintain a firmer hold than would other- 
 wise have been possible, and to secure an oc- 
 casional rest even for his feet. Gradually, as 
 he went down, he became aware of one cir- 
 cumstance which troubled him not a little. 
 This was the vibration of the rope. With 
 his weight at the end, he found himself vi- 
 brating to and fro like the pendulum of a 
 clock, and the farther he descended the lon- 
 ger did these vibrations grow. But he was 
 not one who could easily give up any under- 
 taking upon which he had once fairly entered, 
 and so, in spite of this, he still continued to 
 descend. Fortunate was it for him that he 
 had guarded against the twisting or untwist- 
 ing of the rope, by which a rotatory motion 
 might have been given to him, in which case 
 he could scarcely have saved himself from 
 dizziness, but .Iiis he had contrived to pre- 
 vent by doubling and knotting the rope. 
 
 lie continued, therefore, without stopping, 
 though, at length, tlie long vibrations of the 
 rope grew somewhat troublesome. At first, 
 these oscillations had taken place in a line 
 which was parallel to the face of the cliff, but, 
 as he went farther down, this line of motion 
 gradually changed to one which drew in more 
 toward the clill'; and finally, as he swung in, 
 liis feet touched the rock. An oscillation in 
 this direction favored his purpose, and he 
 sought to preserve it for the remainder of the 
 ■way. Ke continued descending, therefce, 
 until at length he found himself opposite the 
 famous place known as the Witch's Hole. 
 
 This place was very peculiarly situated. 
 It was a recess in the face of the cliff, to 
 which there was no access whatever except 
 in some such way as this. Tlie sides receded 
 all around the cave for some eight or ten feet, 
 and there was no foothold except on the floor 
 of the cave at its mouth. This was only a 
 small space about six feet wide, and was so 
 difficult of access that one single occupant 
 could easily have defended himself against 
 any number of assailants. As Kane reached 
 a point opposite this place, the vibrations of 
 the line backward and forward brought him 
 altornntely to and from the cave. This oscil- 
 lation he increaecd by working his body in 
 tliat fashion which is used on a swing, and 
 thus he swung himself nearer and nearer. At 
 length his feet touched the rock on one side, 
 and he was able to kick himself ofl' in such a 
 way as to direct the next movement toward 
 the cave. In this lie was successful, and the 
 
 next inward swing brought his feet to the 
 cave floor. Still this was not enough, for the 
 impetus had not been sufficient to give him ii 
 foothold. lie therefore kicked himself ofT 
 once more with all hia strength. lie swung 
 far out, and then, as he swung back again, ho 
 watched closely, and held himself all gathered 
 up to take advantage of any opportunity of 
 landing on the floor of the cave. This time 
 he was swung inside, within reach of a rough 
 rock on one side of the mouth of the cave. 
 This rock he caught at with bis feet. For a 
 moment ho held himself there, and then grad- 
 ually let himself down, until at length he 
 reached the floor of the cave. He then care- 
 fully pulled in the rope, and fastened it about 
 this very rock. 
 
 lie had reached it at last, but the effort 
 had been an exhaustive one, especially these 
 last exertions in swinging himself into the 
 cave. He sat down for a short time and 
 rested, and looked all around. 
 
 The cave was not large. In fact it was 
 rather a recess than a cave, and was merely a 
 fissure in the cliff, the bottom of which had 
 filled up with rubbish sufficient to form a 
 floor. Above, its sides ran up till they met 
 one another at a sharp angle. The depth of 
 the fissure was about twenty-five or thirty 
 feet, and its width some eight or ten feet. 
 There was nothing more to see than this, and 
 it was hardly worth the risk of a life. 
 
 Ferhaps, if the history of this cave could 
 have beeu told, the story would have been 
 one quite as interesting as any of the legends 
 about the witch which had grown up around 
 it. Its very inaccessibility had probably 
 caused it to be the lurking-place of fugitives 
 in ages of the past. It required only the res- 
 olution to descend as Kane had done, and 
 then they were safe. Still better would it 
 have been for any fugitive here to keep a rope 
 hanging down to the ground below, and come 
 and go in that way. It was not impossible, 
 therefore, or even unlikely, that this cave had 
 been the scene of extraordinary events in the 
 past, and that this floor, if it were dug up, 
 might disclose articles of human workman- 
 ship — arrow-heads, stone weapons, earthen 
 pottery — or any other things which may bo 
 left to mark the place where man has once 
 been. Celts may have fled here from Saxons, 
 Saxon.s from Normans. This may have been 
 the refuge of fugitives in the Wars of the 
 Hoses, or in the wars of the Parliament. 
 
;!<■•' 
 
 ¥9 
 
 ■?ll 
 
 u 
 
 see 
 
 AX OrEX QUESTION'. 
 
 Protestant or Ciitholic might have found here 
 a safe hiding-place from religious persecu- 
 tion ; here the hermit of the middle ages, the 
 witch of the Stuart period, and the outlaw 
 of a later age, may all have succeeded to one 
 another. 
 
 Kane, however, had not come as an ex- 
 plorer, nor as an archicologist. lie had not 
 come even' out of bravado, though it might 
 have seemed so. He had come to reach out 
 a hand to his lost boyhood ; to bring back a 
 vanished past. lie had come to renew his 
 youth, to repeat his boyish exploit — above all, 
 to get his knife, left here long years before. 
 He did not allow himself much time for rest- 
 ing. A few minutes suiRced, after which he 
 rose and walked farther in. 
 
 He went to the farthest end of the cave, 
 and then scanned the rocky wall carefully. 
 He was anxious to see ■whether that memo- 
 rial of his former visit which he had left here 
 was still visible. His curiosity was rewarded. 
 There on the dark rock, cut in largo, bold 
 letters, he read that memorial — his own 
 name: 
 
 " KANE RUTIIVEN"." 
 
 He stood looking at it for some time with 
 varying emotions, while all that past came 
 back before him — that briglit past, which 
 Bessie had been assisting him, or rather en- 
 couraging him, to recall. Tlio sight of this 
 name suggested that other object of his search 
 — the knife. He looked down. For some 
 time he saw no signs of any thing ; but, at 
 length, an object met his sight, lying close 
 against the rock, and looking like a stone. 
 He picked this up. 
 
 It was his knife. 
 
 Dust and mud had caked about it, and 
 tho blades and springs were all rui!ted to- 
 gether; but, nevertheless, it was his own 
 knife — the very knife which ho had carried 
 down here as a boy, and with which ho had 
 carved that name. He looked at it with a 
 pensive gaze, and then slowly returned to the 
 mout'' of the cave. Hero he sat for some 
 time, looking out. But it was not the scene 
 outside, magnificent though it was, whi.-'h met 
 his eyes. His gaze was fixed upon vacancy, 
 and, if he saw any thing, it was the forms 
 and scenes of the past which his memory 
 brought up before him. 
 
 At length, he started up. There was 
 nothing more to be done here, or to be seen. 
 
 He had exhausted the possibilities of tho 
 place, and had gained the object of his daring 
 exploit. Nothing remained now but to re- 
 turn. This was far less difficult than tno 
 descent. He had no trouble now about di- 
 recting his course. At first, as he let him- 
 self out, the long swing of the rope was troub- 
 lesome, , ii! 'fs rf^turn swing threatened to 
 drive him t '. h somewhat too great force 
 against tl.j ocl.s; but this ho guarded 
 against, and, as ho steadily ascended, the 
 oscillations grow gr.'ulually less. 
 
 At length, he reached the top -jf the 
 cliff. 
 
 As his heal ro?c above it, he expected to 
 see Gwyn and Bessie; he expected to feel 
 their eager Lands pulling at him to help him ; 
 to hear their words of encouragement, of 
 wonder, of congratulation ; to see their faces 
 full of sympathy and delight, Bessie with her 
 gentle and merry glance, (!wyn with his broad, 
 fVank face and hearty, loving ways. All this 
 he expected to see. 
 
 But there was no voice sent down as ho 
 nearcd the summit; no hands were out- 
 stretched ; no faces full of welcome smiles 
 were there. Tiicrc was silence, and it was 
 not until he had clambered up and looked 
 around that ho saw what scene had been 
 awaiting him here on the top of the cliff. 
 
 This is what he .«aw : 
 
 A prostrate female form, and, kneeling by 
 her side, a man with a ghastly face and u 
 look of horror. Kane saw that this man was 
 Gwyn; yet so appalling was the change which 
 had taken place in him that he stood dumb 
 with amazement. For Gwyn seemed ten 
 years, or twenty years, older than when 
 Kane had loft him. To his fresh, boyish 
 look had succeeded a grim, austere face — a 
 face that had a grayish tinge over its pallor; 
 and over it there was spread an exiuession 
 that was not like any thing which Kane had 
 ever before «een in any hui lan face. And, as 
 he looked, there came across him, like a sud- 
 den flash, the thought that it looked like the 
 face of a man who had been tempted of the 
 devil, and had seen him face to face. 
 
 Thus, then, it was that Kane came back to 
 Gwyn und liossie. 
 
 Kane walked slowly toward his brother. 
 Thus far Gwyn had stared at him with a 
 dazed look ; but now, as he approached, he 
 jumped up hastily from Bessie's siile, and 
 hurrieil to meet him. There was a piteous 
 
 :: 
 
 1 
 
of tlio 
 
 5 dariiif; 
 it to rv- 
 tlian tiie 
 about di- 
 
 lot him- 
 •as troub- 
 itcneil to 
 cat force 
 
 f^uardoil 
 nded, the 
 
 p .jf tlie 
 
 poctcd to 
 ed to feel 
 
 liclp him ; 
 ciiient, of 
 their fiicea 
 ic witli her 
 1 his broad, 
 All this 
 
 own as he 
 wore out- 
 omc smiles 
 and it was 
 and looked 
 c had been 
 he clifT. 
 
 kneeling by 
 
 face and a 
 Ids man was 
 hanpc which 
 stood duml) 
 Boomed ten 
 
 tlian when 
 resh, boyish 
 itere face — a 
 r its pallor; 
 1 expression 
 h Kane had 
 cc. And, as 
 I, like a sud- 
 kcd like the 
 iptcd of the 
 ice. 
 amo back to 
 
 Ills brother, 
 him witli a 
 proachod, he 
 ■'s side, and 
 as a piteous 
 
REXEWIXG HIS YOUTH. 
 
 187 
 
 expression now on his face — one of cag.'r 
 welcome tliat seemed stnifrRling to surmount 
 his despair. He grasped Kane's hand con- 
 vulsively in both of his, and gazed at him 
 with an indescribable look. Kano felt be- 
 wildered. AH this was incomprehensible. 
 llo could only sec that some disaster had 
 happened. The prostrate form of Bessie 
 Bhowed that she was concerned in this, and 
 the anguish of Gwyn was intelligible enough 
 on that ground ; yet he could not help feeling 
 astonished that <!wyn could have the heart, 
 under such circumstances, to think of him, 
 much loss to come and welcome him back so 
 eagerly. He could not possibly know what 
 liad occurred, nor could he even conjocturo 
 the inconceivable importance which his re- 
 appearance had in Gwyn's eyes. 
 
 "Heavens!" ciicd Kane. "What's all 
 this ? AVhat has happened to her ? " 
 
 Ho thought only of ]5essie now. With 
 this thought, he wondered at (iwyn's apparent 
 forgctfulness of her ; and so he tore his hand 
 from his brother's grasp, somewhat impa- 
 tiently, and hurried over to the prostrate form, 
 
 Bessie was lying on her back, with her 
 face upturned. Her 03x8 were closed ; her 
 lips were slightly parted ; the roseate hue of 
 her cheeks had given place to a waxen pal- 
 lor; and her waving hair flowed like a flood 
 of golilcn glory about her forehead and neck 
 and shoulders. She was motionless ; she was 
 senseless. It was a piteous spcctaelo. 
 
 Piteous, indeed, it seemed to Kano, who 
 bent over her with his mind full of remem- 
 brances of her last appearance, and thoughts 
 of the contrast between that and this — the 
 glow of health, the blue eyes fixed on him in 
 their mirthful innocence, the red lips curved 
 into merry smiles, the dimpled, rosy eliccks, 
 the laughter, the jestings — above all, the ten- 
 der, loving way of referring all her thoughts 
 and all her joys to that husband whom she 
 loved so devotedly. And here she was now ! 
 What was the meaning of it ? Here was 
 Gwyn, crushed. Well he might be. Yet, what 
 did it all mean ? 
 
 These thoughts fdled hi^ mind as he knelt 
 by Bessie's side and chafed her hands. But, 
 though Gwyn also united his efforts with those 
 of Kane, there did not appear any signs of 
 returning animation; and, at length, Kano 
 advised an immediiito return to IJuthven 
 Towers, carrying her with them as best they 
 could ; for there restoratives could be ob- 
 
 tained which were not to bo found elsewhere. 
 To this Gwyn at once acceded. Kane was 
 about to help him carry Bessio down to tho 
 carriage; but this Gwyn would not allow. 
 The proposal seemed to excite in him n re- 
 pugnance so strong that it amounted to noth- 
 ing less than horror; and Kane, who could 
 not help noticing it, was filled with new as- 
 tonishment. Gwyn, however, said nothing; 
 and, indeed, ho had not spoken a'word all 
 this time. Stolidly and silently he bent down, 
 and, ciicircling the slender form of bis sense- 
 less wife in his strong arms, liftea her lightly 
 and easily, and then carried her to the car- 
 riage at the foot of the hill, 
 
 Buthven T'lwers was not very far away, 
 and the carriage drove there rapidlj*. Gwyn 
 held Bessie in his arms all the way, and 
 looked at her with a mixture of helplessness 
 and agony. On reaching their destination ho 
 earricil her himself up to her own room, and 
 connnitted her to the care of her attendants. 
 A doctor was hastily sent for, and Gwyn 
 waited in despair for the result. 
 
 Meanwhile, Kano was waiting below in a 
 state of the deepest anxiety and suspense. 
 Dinner came and went, and Kane was alone 
 at that repast. Xot long after, Gwyn made 
 his appearance. He informed Kane gravely 
 that the doctor had come and hail found Bos- 
 sie recovered from her swoon; he had given 
 her a sleeping-draught, and she had been 
 sleeping ever since. The doctor did not an- 
 ticipate any serious results, and hoped that 
 in two or three days she would be herself 
 again. 
 
 To Kane's anxious inquiries as to the 
 cause of the accident, Gwyn replied in some- 
 what vague and incoherent terms, for he was 
 very awkward at evading the +v','.*h, and un- 
 skilled in deceit of any kind. From what he 
 did say, however, Kane gathered the informa- 
 tion that she had stumbled somehow against 
 the rope, and in lulling had struck her head. 
 Of the part that Gwyn had taken in this affair 
 he had not the remotest idea. 
 
 All that night (iwyn remained awake, 
 hovering about "^ the neighborhood of Bes- 
 sie's room, and anxiously watching the prog- 
 ress of affairs. Every thing went on well, 
 Bessie slept soundly. Her face had regained 
 its usual color, and she showed no trace of 
 injury. At length he felt so hopeful about 
 her that he went to bed. It was about dawn 
 v.hen he retired, and he slept until late in tho 
 
 i^ 
 
■F 
 
 ; 
 
 I i 
 
 iS \\ 
 
 : ■ ■ 
 
 ! ; '^^ 
 
 It > . ' I 
 
 168 
 
 AX OPEX QUESTIOX. 
 
 following iliiy. Ilia first tlioiightH wore about 
 Bessie, nnd, hastily dressing, he liunieJ iit 
 onec to licr room. 
 
 Jiut there awaited hiiu a great surprise. 
 On reaching the room tlie Iiouse-ivceper 
 met him and handed him a note. At the 
 8amc time stic informed him that Lady Ruth- 
 ven liad passed a very coinlbrtablo night, and 
 Imd awaliened early, feeling so well tliiit she 
 had gone out for a drive, and liad not re- 
 turned. 
 
 Ciwyn was conii)leteIy overwhelmed by 
 this intelligence. Jle took tlie letter, and, 
 looking at his watch, found that it was two 
 o'clock. On inquiring about tlio time when 
 Bessie had left, he learned that it was about 
 si.K o'clock in the morning. So long an ab- 
 Bencc, under such circumstances, excited his 
 worst fears, and the despairing thouglit arose 
 that Bessie had punished him lor hi.s violence 
 by deserting him forever. lie hurried to his 
 room witli the letter, and for some time was 
 afraid to open it, for fear that he sliould read 
 his doom. At length he could no longer en- 
 dure the suspense, and, tearing it open, he 
 read the following ; 
 
 "I'm quite myself again, Gwynnie dear- 
 est, so tliere's no use in life for you to be 
 vorrying about me. I'm going out for a 
 drive, and may not bo back for a few days. 
 Tlie fact is, after wliat has happened, I liave 
 come to the conclusion that a sliort separa- 
 tion will be best for botli of us. Do you 
 know, Gwynnie darling, I really tiiiuk you 
 must have been insane, and your liead was full 
 of horrid fancies. You had some awful idea 
 about uie which I do not like to think of. It 
 was a terrible mistake, so it was. I hope 
 that, if you are by yourself for a little while, 
 you will see how very, very wrong you were, 
 aud how fearfully you have misunderstood your 
 poor Bessie. Adieu, then, Gwynnie dearest, 
 aud an rcvoir. I forgive all, and love you 
 with all my heart, dear. Don't forget, 
 " Your own loving 
 
 " Bessie." 
 
 This letter drove away the worst part of 
 Gwyn's distress, but still there remained the 
 deepest longing to see her, and the strongest 
 anxiety about her health. The very forgive- 
 ness which she granted him increased these 
 desires after her, and he hurried at once to 
 the stables. Here, to his intense joy, he 
 found that the carriage had returned in which 
 
 Bessie had gone, and that it had only taken 
 her to Mordaunt Manor, whereupon he mount- 
 ed a horse and rode theie with the utmost 
 speed. 
 
 On reaching Mordaunt Manor tlie porter 
 handed him a letter, and informed hiiu that 
 Lady Ruthven had gone away along with Mrs. 
 Lugrin, leaving tills for him. It was only witii 
 a violent efl'ort that Gwyn concealed the emo- 
 tion which ho felt at this intelligence, and, 
 taking the letter in silence, ho turned away, 
 full of wonder and apprehension. He had 
 come, full of love and longing, to hear Bes- 
 sie's words of forgiveness, and to bring her 
 back. But sliewas gone, and ho turned away 
 with an appalling sense of desolation. AVliat 
 did this mean ? Had she cone back from 
 her word ? Had Mrs. Lugrin persuaded her 
 to retract her forgiveness and punish him 
 more severely ? This looked like it. 
 
 But sjicculation was idle. Hero was her 
 letter in his hand, and she herself spoke 
 tlieie. 
 
 He tore it open aud read : 
 
 "Gwynnie darling: Wlien you get this 
 I shall be on my way to Paris. Do not 'be at 
 all uneasy about me, darling, for I assure you 
 I am quite myself again. If you liad been 
 awake this morning I would have explained, 
 but you were asleep, and I kissed you for 
 good-by, dearest. 
 
 " You see, I feel awfully uneasy about 
 poor, dear, darling Inez, and I am frantic to 
 see her ; and, when I came here, I found Mrs. 
 Lugrin willing to accompany me, so I decided 
 to go. You and dear Kane will conic on im- 
 mediately, of course, for I know, (Jwynnie 
 dearest, you will be quite unable to live more 
 than two or three days without me ; so, when 
 you come, you will find me with my mamma's 
 papa, dear Grandpa Magrath, at tlie Hotel 
 Gascoigne, 1'25 Rue de la Ferroniere. And 
 now, once more, good-by, darling, and don't 
 forget, Your own loving 
 
 " Bessie, 
 
 " P. S. — You may as well show this to dear 
 old Kane, Gwynnie darling, for it will explain 
 my somewhat abrupt departure. Once more, 
 good-by. Bessie," 
 
 -A. 
 
RKrEXTANCE. 
 
 109 
 
 only taken 
 
 n he mount- 
 
 t1m utmost 
 
 r the povlor 
 ;d him that 
 ig with Mrs. 
 as only with 
 lod the eino- 
 ligencc, and, 
 urned away, 
 n. He had 
 to hear Hcs- 
 o bring her 
 turned away 
 ition. AVluit 
 t l)ack from 
 TSiiaded her 
 punish him 
 it. 
 
 Icrc was her 
 erself spoke 
 
 you get this 
 I)o not 1)6 at 
 I assure you 
 ou had been 
 c explained, 
 sscd you foi" 
 
 noasy about 
 iin frantic to 
 
 I found Mrp. 
 
 so I decided 
 
 come on im- 
 3W, Cwynnie 
 
 to live more 
 
 [ic ; so, when 
 
 my mamma's 
 
 the Hotel 
 
 DUiere. And 
 
 g, and don't 
 
 CIIAl'TER XLI. 
 
 llEPENTANCi:. 
 
 Bessie. 
 
 V this to dear 
 t will explain 
 
 Once more, 
 
 Bessie." 
 
 On turning away from Mordaunt Manor, 
 Owyn was quite unconscious of the way in 
 which ho was going; and, if his horse di- 
 rected his steps homeward, it was more from 
 his own inclination tlian from any direction 
 of his rider. As for Cwyn, his thoughts were 
 busy with the events and experiences of the 
 previous da}'. Ho went over all that ho had 
 thought, and said, and done ; he recalled all 
 Bessie's words, and acts, and looks; he ar- 
 raigned himself and her before the bar of his 
 conscience, and passed every thing in review 
 up to that culuiinaling scene on the preci- 
 pice. 
 
 A dark thought had been suggested to 
 liira. It had come first from Bessie, when 
 she lamented the prospect that was now be- 
 fore them, when she recoiled from the thought 
 of poverty, and preferred that evil should hap- 
 pen to Kane rather than to them. This thought 
 had passed into Gwyn's mind, and had taken 
 root there. Thus far he had been an honor- 
 able gentleman, with an u|)riglit and loyal 
 soul ; but all men liave tlieir peculiar temp- 
 tations, and this proved to lie the very one 
 which was most dangerous to liim. It came 
 so insidiously, it came from her whom ho 
 adored and idolized, it was enforced by her 
 grief, her tears, and her loving caresses. In 
 the midst of their liappiness one had come 
 who was to expel them from their ])aradisc, 
 and Bessie's nature could not endure the 
 thought. So this temptation had come most 
 insidiously, most powerfully; and, having 
 once entered into his mind, it had taken root, 
 and grown, strengthened, and fostered, and 
 developed, by events and by words in which 
 both Kane and Bessie had borne a part. 
 
 Tlius the thought, " If ho had never come," 
 became a wish : " Oh, that he had never 
 come!" "Oh, that ho had been dead 
 when we supposed him to be ! " " Oh, that 
 he wei'c dead now ! " It thus grew and en- 
 larged itself, until Gwyn found Mriself at 
 last wishing for the death of that very broth- 
 er over whose return he had but lately re- 
 joiced with sincere and enthusiastic Joy. 
 
 It was Bessie who shaped his thoughts to 
 this ; it was Bessie who was the cause of this 
 wish, who alone gave it any point or mean- 
 ing. He could not bear to see ber tears. He 
 
 could not bear the tlionght of any misfortune 
 befalling her. He had bri)iighl her hero to a 
 home which kIk; Iov(hI, and he could not bear 
 to see her expelled. 
 
 Then caino circumstances which d.anged 
 the secret wish into a temptation to act. 
 There was, above all, the proposal to go over 
 the clilf. Had it not been for this, Cwyn's 
 wish might have eventually died a natural 
 deith from lack of opportunity. But the 
 temptation came as it conies to many a man, 
 and, following close upon the temptation, 
 theio came also the opportunity. 
 
 That opportunity reached its height on 
 the top of the cliff when Kane's head disap- 
 peared from view as he descended on his 
 perilous journey. As Gwyn stood there in 
 gloomy silence, he was wrestling with the 
 Temi)ter, who now, in his utmost power, was 
 urging him to act. This was the conflict in 
 which he was engaged, and at this moment 
 it was Bessie herself who interposed and 
 lent her aid, not to the tempted, but to the 
 Tempter. 
 
 It had been her misfortune all along to 
 aid the Tempter and to weaken her husband. 
 She it was who earnestly urged Kane to his 
 adventure when she should have dissuaded 
 him ; she it was who encouraged him, and 
 jested with him up to the last moment, all 
 immindful of her husband's anguish ; and 
 she it was who now, at this supreme mo- 
 ment. Came forth to deal a final blow upon 
 his fainting resolution. It was as though the 
 Tempter had suddenly assumed form; as 
 though the devil had appeared in the shape 
 of an angel ; and not only an angel, but more, 
 the one whom he loved better than life, and 
 better than his own soul — his beautiful young 
 bride. 
 
 What was it that she had said ? She had 
 said all that was worst at such a moment. 
 Every word tl'.at she uttered was a sugges- 
 tion of this opportunity ; every word was an 
 expression of that dark temptation whose ac- 
 complishment was now so easy. Each word 
 that she spoke was worse than its predcecK- 
 sor ; and, finally, at the close of this great 
 agony of soul, the climax was reached, when 
 she stepped to the rope with the intention, as 
 he thought, of doing the deed herself. She 
 called him "coward" as she turned away, 
 and, as she stooped to the rope, it seemed to 
 him that her gentle smile concealed a terrible 
 purpose, and that her hand sought her pock- 
 
 ■tr 
 
u 
 
 •. 
 
 
 
 . i 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 i ! ■ 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 
 i :ii 
 
 , 
 
 i -l 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 i 
 
 -1i> 
 
 ^ ^r 
 
 170 
 
 AX OPEX QUESTION'. 
 
 rt to (liiiw foitli a kiiifo. Tlion it was that 
 the spell WHS broken, tlic teinptatioii passed, 
 nnd lio tore her from the phice and fluiiR hor 
 hcadlon;;. 
 
 Siii'li was tlie history of tliis toinptntion. 
 And wliat tiion V Was this po ? Was lies- 
 sio indi'i'J a Lady Macbeth of more delicate 
 mould, leadinp; on her husband to crime? 
 Was all this froiitlo pracc, and li^dit-hearted 
 mirthfulness, and ehildlike innocence, but a 
 mask? Heaven seemed to have poured its 
 own sunlight over her brow, and into her 
 eyes, and throuf,'li her Iieart ; was all this but 
 a mockery ? 
 
 X(i — a thou?nnd times no ! The moment 
 that this thouf;ht presented itself, that mo- 
 ment it was cast out utterly. It was not 
 worth reasoning about. Even if his love had 
 not assured him of her innocence and trutli, 
 he could find countless ways of assuring him- 
 self of this, and of cxpliiiniii<:f all. 
 
 She guilty? As well call Kane himself 
 puilty. Her first words, which had sujjrcsted 
 the dark temi)t;ition, he now considered the 
 thoughtless and natural utterances of a na- 
 ture too innocent to conceal any feelinp; which 
 it has. yiie recoiled, as was natural, from so 
 great a sacrifico. She was mournful, pettish, 
 unreasonable, like a child in the presence of 
 some task too hard for its accomplishment. 
 Rhe had no concealment of any thing from 
 her husband, and these transient feelings 
 were thus disclosed in the fond intimacy of 
 love. They passed away, for on the next day 
 there was not a cloud on her brow, and her 
 manner toward Kane was as frank and cor- 
 dial as before. If the effect on him was more 
 permanent, it was not her fault. 
 
 Then came Kane's proposal to scale the 
 clilT', which Btssie warmly encouraged. ]!ut 
 this was Kane's doing principally, and, if 
 IJessio favored the plan, it could hardly be 
 considered as a sign of a guilty purpose. So, 
 too, when Kane went down the clifT, Bessie 
 remained and indulged in remarks which 
 Gwyn now considered to have been thought- 
 less and random, without the slightest idea 
 of any deeper meaning. She was playful and 
 quiet all the time ; and, if any doubt remained 
 as to her own utter freedom from guilt, it ex- 
 isted in that final proof which showed itself 
 before his eyes so pitcously when Bessie lay 
 senseless on the rock, and the deadly knife, 
 which ho believed to be in her hand, turned 
 out to be nothing more than a handkerchief. 
 
 Between the deadly knife and that soft, 
 white, harmless handkerchief, (Iwyn now sa\r 
 a din'ercnco corresponding with that whieli 
 existed between the tempting devil of his 
 fancy and the soft, innocent being whom he 
 had so terribly wronged. 
 
 Bessie guilty? ^Vhat nuiduess! Then, 
 Kane was guilty too. Kane had as much 
 guilt as Bessie. The suggestion had come, 
 and iho opportunity, from both; but both 
 were innocent, nor eoulil they be blamed if 
 his own mind had developed these things into 
 criminal thoughts. 
 
 Consequent upon sueli thoughts as these 
 came eiuUcss self-rtproaeli, which had never 
 ceased to torment him since he hail hurled 
 Bcf>-io senseless to the rock. Ho shuddered 
 no' it his owni madness. A thrill of horror 
 p: 1 through every nerve as he thought 
 ho\, narrowly he had escaped being the nnir- 
 derer, not of Kane, but of Bessie hersrH", 
 There lived in his memory a terrible pictui — 
 that scene on the top of the clifl', where Bes- 
 sie lay, pallid as death, her beautiful face on 
 the hard ground, her lifeless hand outstretched 
 and displaying in mute appeal that while ker- 
 chief — fit en 'deraof her innocence — a piteous 
 sight, ft sight of infinite pathos, one which 
 could never bo forgotten. 
 
 Thoughts like these were terrible, but 
 Owyn could not banish them. All his blame 
 was for himself; nil his love, and pity, and 
 fond excuses, were for his injured wife. He 
 could not blame her for her departure. She 
 had wished it. Let it be. He would submit. 
 He read her letter over and over. It was a 
 sweet consolation to his bleeding heart that 
 she had given him that kiss of farewell. It 
 was sweet, also, that she looked forward to 
 his joining her at once. This now was his 
 one hope, and he could scarcely control the 
 impatient desire which he had to follow her. 
 His feelings prompted him to sot out for Paris 
 at once, but a moment's reflection showed that 
 he could not leave Kane so abruptly ; so he 
 had reluctantly to continue on the course 
 which his horse had already taken for him to 
 Ruthven Towers. 
 
 He now began to feel embarrassed about 
 meeting with Kane, for an explanation of 
 some kind would bo necessary in order to 
 account for the utter abruptness of Bessie's 
 departure ; and he did not at first see how 
 such an cxp'.ination couUl be given without 
 disclosing things that he very much preferred 
 
RRI'KNTaNCE. 
 
 171 
 
 11(1 tlmt soft, 
 wjn now saw 
 li tlmt which 
 devil of liis 
 iiiij» wliom 111! 
 
 lurss! Then, 
 had ns much 
 
 111 liiul Odiiie, 
 til ; lull liotli 
 lie liliiiucd if 
 ;sc things iuto 
 
 plits ns llieso 
 leli hail never 
 ic hail liuilcil 
 IIo KluuUlereil 
 irill of horror 
 IS he thoupht. 
 tieiiig the niiir- 
 U'fsic herself, 
 rihlo pictiif' — 
 ill', nliere llcs- 
 lutil'ul face on 
 id outstretched 
 that while ker- 
 •ncc — a piteons 
 09, one which 
 
 tcrrililo, but 
 All his blame 
 
 and pity, and 
 ired wife. He 
 epartnre. She 
 would submit. 
 )vcr. It was a 
 np; heart that 
 f farewell. It 
 ed forward to 
 M now was his 
 ely control the 
 1 to follow her. 
 :ct out for Paris 
 on showed that 
 bruptly ; so he 
 on the course 
 keu for hiin to 
 
 arrapscd about 
 explanation of 
 ry in order to 
 less of liessie's 
 t first Bee how 
 ! given without 
 much preferred 
 
 to keep iccrot. Out, at ionptli, a very natu- 
 ral way siipfjestcd itself, by which he nii;,'ht 
 aicoiiiit for it all; and lliis was Dossio's own 
 hitter to himself. In this last letter she had 
 not referred in the faintest way to the all'air 
 on the cliir, nor had she again ^M any thing 
 about forgiveness. It was a letter full of 
 loving words, ascribing her depart iire solely 
 to her anxiety about Inez, and her eager de- 
 lire to sec her. Most keenly was (iwyn con- 
 sciou.^ of the delicacy of feeling which had 
 inspired this ; for, though ho was convinced 
 that the real cause of her departure lay in 
 his own treatincnt of her, yet he perceived 
 that she had adopted this alleclion of hera 
 for Inez as the real pretext ; and as her affec- 
 tion for Inez was undoubted, and Inez was in 
 ■I po.sitiou of actual peril, the pretext was 
 I ?ry way plausible. Ho therefore concluded 
 to show the letter to Kane, and add any fur- 
 tlier explanation which might be needed, in 
 accordance with its tone. It was evident to 
 liiin that Ilessio had this in her mind, and had 
 written tliis second letter, not only to coiisolo 
 him, but also to smooth his path toward ex- 
 plaining it to Kane. Hy the time that ho had 
 reached the gates of Ituthven Towers, (inyn 
 had settled this in his mind, and was there- 
 fore in a position to meet Kane without em- 
 barrassment. 
 
 Uleanwhilo, Kano had found himself in a 
 most peqilcxing situation. On w.iking in the 
 morning, ho had iiKiuirod afti t Lady Eutli- 
 ven's health, and had been informed that she 
 was quite well again. Several hours passed, 
 anil ho learned that Sir Gwyn was still sleep- 
 ing. Upon this, he went off on a long stroll, 
 from which he did not return till about four. 
 On coining back to the house, there was a 
 general air of confusion, which excited his 
 attention. On inquiring whether Sir Gwyn 
 was up, the servant whom he asked informed 
 liiin that Sir Gwyn had gone hurriedly to Mor- 
 dannt Manor. Tlie manner of the servant 
 was so singular that Kano asked some more 
 <|uestions, and at length learned the astonish- 
 ing news, which was now whispered all througli 
 the house, that Lady Ruthven hail gone away 
 at daybreak, very hurriedly, and that her hus- 
 band, on hearing about it, had set out in pur- 
 suit of her in the greatest possible haste. All 
 this was to Kane utterly unintelligible, and, 
 though the servants' gossip gave this story 
 the vcrv worst coloring possible, he refused 
 to believe it. Still the fact remained that 
 
 both had gone away most obruptly, without 
 a word to him; and this was the thing tliat 
 perplexed him. 
 
 The relurn <d' Gwyn [nit an end to this. 
 Kane walked down to nice' liiiii, as ho saw 
 him come up, and could not help noticing tlio 
 great change that had come over his lirotlier'.s 
 face. At lirst, ho felt siiiicked, and autici- 
 pated the worst; but, as soon as Gwyn saw 
 him, he put ail these feelings to lliglit by the 
 first words that he uttered. 
 
 'MVell, Kane," said he, with an attempt, 
 that was not altogetlier successful, at his old 
 ease and cordiality of manner, ''you must 
 have felt awfully puzzled at our disa|ipearance 
 in this fashion. liiit tho fact is, Ilcasic was 
 so wild to see Inez that she couldn't wait for 
 us, and so she has gone oil' to I'aris. Slio 
 was all right this morning, just as well as 
 ever; and as I had been up all night, and 
 wasn't awake, she quietly trotted off by her- 
 self, went to Monlaiint Mancir, took Mrs. 
 Lugrin, and is now ni route for Paris. Sec — 
 hero is her letter. I went olf after her, but 
 was too late. We'll have to si^t out at 
 once." 
 
 As Gwyn saiil this, he dismounted, and 
 produced a letter from his jioeket. What ho 
 had said was spoken, not only for Kane's 
 benefit, but also for the benefit of the ser- 
 vants, some of whom ■were within hearing. 
 IIo wished to give to Bessie's departure a 
 matter-of-fact character, so as to prevent any 
 scandal. In this lie succeeded perfectly, for 
 those who heard it nnderstood by his words 
 that Lady Ruthvcn's departure was quite nat- 
 ural, and that her husband was going to join 
 her at once. So this much of Gwyii's pur- 
 pose was accomplished. 
 
 To Kano, however, these words only af- 
 forded fresh perplexity. When lie had seen 
 IJessie last, she was senseless; and now ho 
 learned that she was on her way to Paris. 
 So sudden a recovery, combined with so sud- 
 den a departure, was to him unaceountal)le. 
 Why could she not have waited ? lie said 
 nothing — he was too bewildered — but waited 
 to hear Gwyn's further explanations. 
 
 Gwyn now led the way into tlie house. 
 
 " I'll show you her letter," ho said. " It 
 explains all. It was a sudden whim, or some 
 sudden fear about Inez, yon know ; and she 
 was awfully fond of her, you know ; they were 
 like sisters, and all that — couldn't wait for 
 us — had to go the first moment she felt strong 
 
". uir 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 % 
 
 
 1 ■ 
 
 
 f" 
 
 
 h 
 
 
 |l 
 
 
 !' 
 
 
 
 
 
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 i 
 
 :;i 
 
 } 
 
 U ■ 'i 
 
 5 i 
 
 il! 
 
 e i: 
 
 173 
 
 AX OPEX QCESTIOX. 
 
 cnoupli. Toll you wliiit — wo had bi'ttcr stiirt 
 oil" nt once." 
 
 ■\Vith remarks like Ihoso, of a docMdcdly 
 jerky clinrncter, (iwyn aocomiiauicd bis brotli- 
 er into the liouso, ,ud then showed liim Bes- 
 sie's letter. Kane i-ead it nil through most 
 oarefully. To him it seemed evident that 
 Bessie's wliole motive I'or this sudden de- 
 parture ^^as her uneasiness about Inez, and 
 her longing desire lo see her. Her departure 
 was sudden, yet the motive that liad prompted 
 it seemed to Kane only an additional proof 
 of the noble, the loyal, tlie affeeliouate, and 
 the seK-saeridcing frienusiiip of Bessie for 
 Inez. And this only heightened the warm 
 admiration whieh he aheady felt for Bessie. 
 He could not help feeling touehed by this 
 sudden impulse, in obedienee to whieh she 
 had hurried olT to seek and to save her 
 friend. 
 
 But with the admiration which ho felt for 
 Bessie's loyal afl'ection for Inez, there was 
 mingled another and a very ditferent feeling, 
 excited by the mention of one name in her 
 letter. This was the name of the man to 
 whom she was going — him whom she claimed 
 as a loved relative — Kevin M.'.grath. 
 
 Xow to Kane Kutiiven this man had al- 
 ready appeared in a twofold and altogether 
 contradictory character — first, as a sort of 
 accusing witness ; secondly, as a remorseless 
 villain. Latterly he had adopted that vietv 
 of the man which he had received from Inez, 
 whose whole story he had heard, and whose 
 sentiments toward Kevin Magrath ho had 
 embraced. He low thought of him as the 
 confederate of the guilty Wyvcrne, as the in- 
 stigator of dark crimes, as the plotter against 
 Inez. Yet it was to this very man that Bes- 
 sie was now going. She would tell hiui, in 
 her innocence and her unsuspecting trust, 
 about Inez. She, out of her very love, might 
 thus prove the worst enemy that Inez could 
 have, and would, perhaps, be the means of 
 bringing the helpless fugitive once more un- 
 der the power of her roniorselens persecutor. 
 
 Such thoughts and fears ns these filled 
 Kane's whole mind, to the exclusion of every 
 thing else. It was a new and most unex- 
 pected change in the curicnt of uTairs — a 
 change for which ho was altogether unpre- 
 pared, and which he hardly knew how to 
 meet. In Bessie 'le believed implicitly ns 
 ho believed in Inez. One of these regard- 
 ed Kevin Magrath ns her dearest friend, 
 
 while the other regar:'-' hira as her worst, 
 enemy. Of his cruel treatment of Inez there 
 could be do doubt. She had been enticed 
 into his power by the most shameful deceit; 
 she had been allured to what she supposed 
 to be her father's bedside, and had been ca- 
 joled with n story of his death, and misled 
 by forged letters. After this she had been 
 kept in stiiet imprisonment. Of nil tins 
 there was no doubt, and all this had been the 
 work of Kevin Magrath. Yet this was the 
 man whom Bessie loved, and under whose 
 power she was about to bring Inez once 
 more. 
 
 Kane read this letter in silence, and was 
 absorbed in such thoughts as these. Gwya 
 had expected a severe course of questioning, 
 aud had tried to prepare himself for it, but, 
 to his great relief, no questions were asked. 
 Kline had too much to think of. In addition 
 to the thoughts just narrated, ho had others 
 of equal importance, and prominent among 
 these was the question whether he ought or 
 ought not to tell Gwyn the whole truth about 
 Kevin Magrath. Thus far, for reasons al- 
 ready mentioned, ho had not divulged that 
 name. Eut now circumstances had changed. 
 There was danger ahead, nud Gwyn ought to 
 know what that danger was. Perhaps Bes- 
 sie, as well as Inez, might fall into the ha/Js 
 of this nn'ciupulous villain, and the measure 
 that he had already meted to the one he might 
 deal out to the other also. 
 
 The question was a difTicult one, and at 
 length Kane decided to allow things to re- 
 main ns they "vere, and not to mention to 
 Gwyn any thing about what he conceived to 
 be the true character of Kevin Magrath, but 
 only to suggest, in a general way, his appre- 
 hensions of danger. 
 
 "1 don't like this," said he, at length. 
 "I don't like it at all." 
 
 " Oh," said Gwyn, with an attempt at in- 
 difference, " she was so awfully fond of Inez, 
 you know, she had to go." 
 
 "Oh, I know all that," said Kane, "and I 
 admire her foi such a generous impulse ; but, 
 nt the same time, it would have been a great 
 deal better if she had waited. AVe ought to 
 have gone together. There is too much dan- 
 ger-" 
 
 "Danger?" 
 
 " Yes, danger, for licr and for Inez. You 
 see, Inez hns jiowcrful enemies, and th^'^y are, 
 no doubt, on the lookout for her. If Bes- 
 
THE TWO FRIEXDS. 
 
 173 
 
 IS her worst 
 )f Inez there 
 )C'en enticed 
 icful deceit ; 
 ho supposed 
 lad been ca- 
 , and misled 
 lie liad been 
 Of nil thiH 
 liad been tlio 
 this was tlic 
 under whose 
 g Inez once 
 
 nee, and was 
 heso. Gwyu 
 qucstioninfr, 
 If for it, but, 
 I were asltcd. 
 In addition 
 c had others 
 linent amonp; 
 he ought or 
 e truth about 
 r reasons al- 
 ilivulged that 
 had changed, 
 wyn ought to 
 'erhaps I5cs- 
 ito the ha, Js 
 1 the measure 
 one be might 
 
 ; one, and at 
 things to re- 
 I mention to 
 conceived to 
 Magrath, but 
 ay, his appre- 
 
 ic, at length. 
 
 attempt at in- 
 I'ond of Inez, 
 
 Kane, " and I 
 impulse ; but, 
 been a great 
 Wo ought to 
 00 much dan- 
 
 or Inez. You 
 and tli'^^y are, 
 her. If BcB- 
 
 pie's movements should be made known to 
 them — a very possible thing — they might 
 track her, and get her into their power as 
 well as Inez. It seems to mc that the c.e- 
 mies of one arc the enemies of the other, 
 and that the dnr'ger that threatens one may 
 threaten botli." 
 
 This sugirestion of possible danger to 
 Bessie at once roused a new feeling in 
 Gwyn'a heart. Already he longed to fly to 
 her, out of his deep, yearning love ; but now 
 tlie possibility of danger fo./ ed a new mo- 
 tive, anil one, too, which \''^ed instant r.nd 
 immediate departure. 
 
 "Do you really think so?" he asljcd, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " I do," said Kano, seriously. 
 
 "Tiien we had better go at once. If this 
 is so, I cannot stay here another liour. I shall 
 have to go, and you will iiavo to excuse me, 
 Kano." 
 
 " Excuse you, dear boy ? I'll do nothing 
 ( f the kind, for I will go myself. I only 
 came hero fur the sake of Inez, and I am 
 anxious, above all things, for Bessie to find 
 her. Since Bessie has gone, I will go too." 
 
 That very evening Kane and Gwyii left 
 Huthvcn Towers. They might just as welt 
 have remained all night, for they gained 
 nothing, and had to wait at Keswick ; yet 
 t.till tl'.ey both felt less impatience and more 
 s.'-^isfaction in doing so, since it seemed to 
 the;n that they were at least on the way to 
 their destination. Tliey ■were as much as 
 twenty-four hours behind Bessie, but they 
 both hoped that this might make no material 
 difference. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 TlIK TWO FIUKXDS. 
 
 Bkssie's accident appeared to have left 
 no evil results behind, for she found herself 
 well enough on the following morning to form 
 the resolution of going to Paris, and to carry 
 it out successfully. On the morning after 
 she reached her destination, and drove at 
 onco to the Hotel Gascoigne, where she r" 
 maincd a few hours. She then took a cab to 
 the address of Inez, wliicli had been given 
 her by Kane Iluthvcn. 
 
 Siie found the place without much dilli- 
 culty, and, telling the C!il)maa to wait, she en- 
 tered and asked for Inez. She did not have 
 
 to wait long. A hurried step, a cry of joy, 
 and Inez flung herself into Bessie's arms, and 
 the two friends embraced one another long 
 and fervently. In the first delight of that 
 meeting but little was said on cither side, a- J 
 it was a long time before cither appeared to 
 be able to make any coherent remark of any 
 kind whatever. 
 
 " I knew you would come," cried Inez, as 
 aoou as slic could speak. " I knew you would 
 come as soon as you heard. I knew jon 
 would come, you darling — you darling! And 
 did you see Kane? and did he tell you all ? 
 Oh, I think my heart will almost break with 
 utter joy ! " 
 
 "Sure but it's the cruel girl you were to 
 me, and it's tjio sore liciirt I had," cried Bes- 
 sie, reproachfully. " Wasn't I hoping to hear 
 from you day after day, until at last I came 
 to the conclusion tiiat you'd given me up for 
 good and all." 
 
 " Rut I couldn't — I couldn't, dear. Didn't 
 Kane tell you about me? " 
 
 " Sure and he did — the wliole story, en- 
 tirely — and, of course, darling, I was able to 
 account for what had seemed your very mys- 
 terous silence. Oli, my own poor, dear, dar- 
 ling Inez! how my lieait bled for yours I — 
 and I couldn't wait one single moment longer; 
 but, as soon as I heard about you, I left 
 every thing — yes, every thing — and hurried 
 here!" 
 
 At this proof of Bessie's loyalty and 
 truth, Inez was affected to tears. She could 
 not say any thing, but once more pressed her 
 friend in her arms. 
 
 "But how did it happen, Bessie dearest," 
 asked Inez, after a time, '• that my letters 
 never reached you ? " 
 
 " Oh, sure but that's very easily explained, 
 Inez darling," said Bessie. " You see, I had 
 to leave poor papa's house — they were going 
 to sell every thing; and, as you had left mc, 
 there was no help for it but for me to go, too. 
 So I went away to my own liome in Cumber- 
 land; and, by the same token, my otiier 
 guardian c:inie to take me away at that same 
 tinic, having heard, you know, about poor, 
 dear Guardy Wyverne's death. So yon know, 
 Inez dearest, you addressed your letters to 
 me at London, I suppose, while I -vas away in 
 Cumberhuid all the time; so, of course, I 
 never received them." 
 
 Tliis explanation fully aceountt'il for what 
 had seemed like Bessie's neglect, and vindi- 
 
 i: 
 
LWT 
 
 1 
 
 ' 
 
 7' 
 
 'V' 
 
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 j , 
 
 1 
 
 
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 hi 
 
 H 
 
 f 
 
 r ! 
 
 J. 
 
 1 1 
 
 If 
 
 3^ ' 1 
 
 f 
 
 I 
 
 i': 
 
 : H 
 
 K, 
 
 11 
 
 
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 '^i 
 
 ■ :| 
 
 
 
 • 
 
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 1 
 
 .; 1 
 
 •^ 
 
 
 
 ^ ^ 
 
 iri 
 
 1:1 i 
 
 m^ 
 
 AN OPEX QUESTIOX. 
 
 catcd Lcr faithful fiifudship. Bessie's allu- 
 siou to Mr. Wyverne as her " papa " struclf 
 Inez rather unpleasantly, and she now thc'ight 
 that between her and Bessie there was ctill 
 that terrible secret which had already been 
 so disastrous to her. That secret put her in 
 opposition to Bessie — it gave her claims 
 wliich were antagonistic to claims of Bessie's ; 
 and, if Bessie were to know of it, Inez saw 
 that she would lose that sweet friendship 
 v.'hich was now her dearest consolation. At 
 this very first meeting with Bessie, therefore, 
 she saw the necessity of being on her guard, 
 and maintaining as much reserve as possible 
 about the mystery of Bcrnal Mordaunt. The 
 great difficulty here, however, was her igno- 
 rance as to how much Kane may have told 
 Bessie. 
 
 "While she wijs trying to think of some 
 way by wliich she might find this out, Bessie 
 herself volunteered to give her the informa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Oh, my own darling ! " exclaimed Bessie, 
 " how very, very rash it was in you, you 
 know, so it was ! And I'm sure I don't see 
 why you couldn't have sent some a,;out on to 
 this fearful place, instead of coming yourself. 
 Your poor, dear papa's business couldn't have 
 been so very, very pressing. And then think 
 of the sufl'ering ycu have caused me." 
 
 "T was very •ash," said Inez, " very rabh 
 indeed." 
 
 "■ Ai\i.i you must never do so again," said 
 Bessie, earnestly ; " now promise." 
 
 " \o, never," said Inez. 
 
 " Promise that you will never run off this 
 way without telling me." 
 
 " I do i)romiso," said Inez. " I do, dear 
 Bessie. I shall not leave you till you wish 
 me to." 
 
 Bessie laughed joyously. 
 
 " Then that means forever, so !t docs ! " 
 she cried ; '' and sure it's myself that'll keep 
 you with me as long as I live, so I will." 
 
 " Did Kane come with you ? " asked Inez, 
 after a pause. 
 
 "No," said Bcs.^^ie; "sure I just ran 
 avay, leaving thera by themselves. And I 
 suppose they'll bo coming in in hot haste 
 after me. They'll both bo here by to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 "Both?" repeated Inez. "Both who? 
 Is there any other but Kane ? Do you mean 
 your guardian ! " 
 
 "Well, yes; that's what he just is," said 
 
 Bessie, with a merry smile. " He's my guar- 
 dian." 
 
 " What's his name ? " 
 
 " His name is Sir Gwyn Ruthvcn. He is 
 Kane's brother, you know." 
 
 At this astounding intelligence Inez started 
 back, and, for a few moments, stared at Bes- 
 sie in the deepest astonishment. Kane had 
 told her his true name, but she was not aware 
 that any brother of his was alive ; and, though 
 she was acquainted with Sir Gwyn Ruthven, 
 yet she did not imagine for a moment that ho 
 was Kane's brother. 
 
 " Sure and I've pot another surprise for 
 you," said Bessie, regarding Inez with a sly 
 and mischievous smile. 
 
 " Another surprise ? " repeated Inez. " This 
 is surprise enough for one day. Oh, how 
 glad I am — how glad I am ! Kane is reunited 
 with his friends, then ? " 
 
 "I should think he is," said Be.«sie. " Sir 
 Gwyn is Sir Gwyn no longer. It is Sir Kane 
 Ruthven now, and Ruthven Towers goes to 
 him also. But that isn't the surprise I mean 
 for you, at all at all. It's about myself, so it 
 is, Inez darling." 
 
 " Yourself, Bessie ? what is it ? " asked 
 Inez, full of interest. 
 
 " Well, you know, dear, I said that Sir 
 Gwyn Ruthven, or Mr. Gwyn Ruthven, is my 
 guardian." 
 
 " Yes — how strange, too ! I never knew 
 that before." 
 
 " Xo — ]io more you did. lie hasn't filled 
 that office long. It's a very pecuUar sort of 
 guardianship, too." 
 
 "But isn't he rather young and inexperi- 
 enced for so important and responsible a posi- 
 tion ? " asked Inez, in a solemn tone. 
 
 Bessie laughed gayly. 
 
 "Oh, sure," said she, "this is a kind of 
 guardianship, Inez darling, that makes youth 
 all the more appropriate. It's guardian of 
 mo for life that he is." 
 
 And Bessie looked with such a peculiar 
 smile at Inez, that the latter began to catch 
 her meaning at last. 
 
 " AVhy, Bessie," she exclaimed, In amaze- 
 ment, " you look as though you moan 
 that—" 
 
 " That he's my husband," said Bessie, tri- 
 umphnntly, " and I'm Mrs. Ruthven, so I am 
 — a bride of a few weeks' standing, that 
 hasn't ceased to bo a friend cither, so I 
 haven't ; for didn't I run away froui my own 
 
c s my giuir- 
 
 liven. He is 
 
 c Inez started 
 ;ared at Bes- 
 c. Kane Lad 
 ras not aware 
 ; and, though 
 vyn Ruthvcn, 
 jmcnt that he 
 
 p surprise for 
 cz with a sly 
 
 idlncz. "This 
 ay. Oh, bow 
 lue is reunited 
 
 Bessie. "Sir 
 It is Sir Kane 
 owcrs goes to 
 irprisc I mean 
 it myself, so it 
 
 i3 it?" asked 
 
 said that Sir 
 luthvcn, is my 
 
 I never knew 
 
 [e hasn't filled 
 eculiar sort of 
 
 ; and iucxperi- 
 lonsiblc aposi- 
 1 tone. 
 
 i is a kind of 
 t makes youth 
 's guardian of 
 
 uch a peculiar 
 jcgan to catch 
 
 meJ, in amaze- 
 jh you moan 
 
 said Bessie, tri- 
 Jtiivcn, BO I am 
 standing, that 
 d cither, so I 
 y froui my own 
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 176 
 
 husband to conje to the help of my darling 
 Inez ? " 
 
 With these words Bessie flung her arms 
 around Inez, and kissed her fondly ; while 
 Inez, who was perfectly thunderstruck at the 
 news of Bessie's marriage, and did not know 
 what to say, was so aU'ected by this additional 
 proof of Bessie's love for her that she could 
 only murmur a few incoherent words of all'cc- 
 tion and gratitude. 
 
 "You ooe, Inez dearest," continued Bes- 
 sie. " Gywn and I had an understanding in 
 London, though nobody knew it, and, when 1 
 went home, he came after me, and he was so 
 urgent, and I was so lonely, and he loved me 
 so, that— that, in fact, I liadn't one single 
 reason for refusing him, and a great many for 
 accepting him, and there you have it. But 
 oh, it's the loving heart and the noble nature 
 he has, so it is, and you know you always 
 liked him yourself — now didn't you, Inc. dar- 
 hng?" 
 
 " It's enough for luc," said Inez, " ihat he 
 is Kane's brother. I consider Kane one of 
 the most noble-hearted men I ever saw." 
 
 " True for you," said Hessie, " and, as for 
 (Iwyn, why, sure it's enough to say that he's 
 Kane's own brother. And oh, but it was the 
 beautiful siglit to see the meeting between 
 the two of them. They went on to make 
 idols of one another, so they did. I didn't 
 like to interfere with tlieir enjoyment, and I 
 was cra/y to see yon, and so I thought I'd 
 satisfy niysL'lf, and you, and tiwyn, and Kane, 
 and everybody, by slipi)ing away, and leaving 
 tlicm to come after me. And they'll be com- 
 ing along at once, and'U be here to-morrow, 
 no doubt." 
 
 It was with very diversified feelings tliat 
 Inez listened to Bessie as she communicated 
 this information. She felt sincere and un- 
 feigned joy that lier true friend had won a 
 man whom she loved, and a man, too, who 
 was so worthy of her ; but yet it jarred 
 somewhat upon her to hear Bessie speak of 
 Kane in this way, and to think that Kane was 
 her l>rothcr-in-law. It had come to this, now 
 that Kane was brother-in-law to each of tliem. 
 Now, there was nothing in this fact itself for 
 Inez to object to, but the thing that excited a 
 sense of unpleasantness, or uneasiness, was 
 the additionul closeness with which Bessie's 
 fortunes were interweaving themselves with 
 her own. Already there was the mystery of 
 Bessie's name and claim, conliicting so utterly 
 
 with her own. This of itself brought about 
 between them a conflict of interests, about 
 which Inez did not like to think ; but now this 
 new relationship to Kane promised to bring 
 forward new antagonisms, and seemed to be- 
 token evil in the future. There were a thou- 
 sand things which she wished to ask Bessie, 
 but dared not touch upon. Bessie still re- 
 garded her as InezWyverne; Bessie regardcu 
 herself as the daughter of Bcrual Mordaunt ; 
 she must also regard Kane lluthven as the 
 man who married Clara Mordaunt, whom she 
 believed to be her own elder sister. All 
 these things constituted elements of disturb- 
 ance, and made Inez watchful and cautious in 
 her words. Upon these subjects it would not 
 do to venture. To do so would be to en- 
 danger this sweet friendship which had come 
 like a gleam of sunshine into the darkness 
 of her life. She did not even venture to ask 
 after Bernal Mordaunt, for fear lest this 
 might bring forward the dreaded subject. 
 But her desire to enjoy Bessie's lov^. was 
 stronger than her curiosity about her own 
 circumstances, or even than her filial anxiety 
 about Bernal Mordaunt ; and, therefore, she 
 willingly put away for the present every 
 thought about these forbidden nuitters. 
 
 As for Bessie, she was perfectly unembar- 
 rassed, and showed all that warm-hearted and 
 demonstrative affection, all that frank cor- 
 diality and playful drollery which constituted 
 so great a charm in her manner. She made 
 no allusion whatever to the return of Bernal 
 Mordaunt, to his fondness for Gwyn, and to 
 his death. Whether this arose fro'n any sus- 
 picion of the belief that Inez had in her re- 
 liition to him, and from a des\re to avoid 
 what, would necessarily be a paniful subject; 
 or, on the other hand, whether she avoided 
 this subject simply from an unn<llinf;ues3 to 
 touch upon a matter which w.s so sad to 
 herself, did not appear. 
 
 After a prolonged conversat'on, Bessie at 
 length proposed that Inez should go v.ith her 
 at once. Inez was not at all unwilling; and, 
 as her luggage was slender, indeed, no great 
 time was taken up in making preparations. 
 But Inez could not leave without ac<iuainting 
 the kind landlady and her family with her 
 good fortune, and bidding them good-by. The 
 good people rejoiced with unfeigned joy, and 
 exhibited a delight at the changed fortunes 
 of Inez which was c.itremcly toncfjing ; 
 while, by the admiring glnnces which they 
 
176 
 
 AX OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 .v^ 
 
 turned upon Bessie, they evulcntl}' thought 
 that the lovely English girl was being re- 
 stored to friiMids who were worthy of her. 
 After an affectionate farewell, and amid fer- 
 vent good wishes for her future happiness, 
 Inez took hor departure, and drove oil' with 
 Bessie to the Hotel Gascoigne. 
 
 acre Inez was delighted to find that the 
 '., I'ing forethought of Bessie had caused all 
 uecessary preparations to be made for lier 
 comfort. There was a suite of rooms for the 
 two friends, and Inez had a room to herself, 
 with a dressing-room adjoining. In addition 
 to this, Bessie had contrived to bring on lug- 
 gage enough to supply all the wants of Inez 
 in the way of apparel. In fact, there was 
 nothing wanting of all that careful fore- 
 thought and considerate affection could sug- 
 gest. Here Inez, for the first time in many 
 weeks, felt that perfect peace and comfort 
 which arises from the sense of safety, and 
 protection, and the neighborhood of loving 
 friends. All this was given to her by these 
 surroundings, and by Bessie's presence. 
 
 Yet out of this sweet security and perfect 
 peace Inez had a sudden and most unpleasant 
 start, which occurred just at the beginning 
 of this new enjoyment, and for a time seemed 
 to her to threaten the ruin of every hope. It 
 was caused by a casual rcuiaik of Bessie's, 
 made in all innocence, and in perfect uneon- 
 sciousiess of the effect which it was to pro- 
 duce. 
 
 "And now, Inez darling," said she, after 
 the close of a prolonged conversation about 
 Kane and Gwyn — "and now I have one of 
 my very dearest friends here, and, if it 
 hadn't been for him, I couldn't have come on 
 so quick, darliu;.; — it's me dear mamma's 
 papa — and you must sec him this day. You'll 
 love him as I do, I know." 
 
 Bessie suddenly stopped, astonished at 
 the change which came over Inez. For, no 
 sooner had Inez heard these words, and this 
 allusion to Bessie's "nuimma's papa," tiian 
 she turned as pale as death, and started to 
 her feet with an expression of deadly 
 fear. 
 
 " Wliat's all this ? " cried Bessie ; " what's 
 the matter, Inez ? Inez darling ! " 
 
 " Is that man — iicre ? " gasped Inez. 
 
 " That man ! What man ? " cried Bessie. 
 
 " Kevin Xiagrath," said Inez, in a scarcn 
 audible voice. 
 
 "Kevin Magrath," said Bessie: "wliv, 
 
 that's my mamma's papa. Why, wasn't I 
 saying that he is here, but — " 
 
 " I'll go away," said Inez, with a terrified 
 look. " Let me go, Bessie dearest. Let me 
 
 go 
 
 I" 
 
 "What! Is it mad ye arc ?" cried Bes- 
 sie, clinging to Inez. " What in the wide 
 world has come over ye then ? Sure, I don't 
 undei stand this, at all, at all! Is it my 
 grandpa that you're afraid of? Sure, and it 
 looks like it, so it does ! " 
 
 " I'll go. I will not stay. Bessie, if you 
 love me, don't stop me. Bessie, dearest Bes- 
 sie, let mo go. O Bessie ! that man, that 
 man — Kevin Magrath — he is the one that has 
 caused all my sufferings. Bessie, darling, 
 friend, let me go. If he gets me in his power 
 again, I shall die." 
 
 And Inez tore herself away, and hurried 
 to her room, where she began to put on her 
 hat. Bessie hastened after her. 
 
 "Inez!" she cried, vehemently. "Inez, 
 darling InCo, will ye trust me then ? Am I 
 nothing to you'? Is it nothing for me to have 
 done what I did, and quit my own husband 
 to sec you? AVill you run away from me for 
 a wild, fantastic freak? Is it mad ye are, 
 then ? Oh, my poor, darling Inez ! how very, 
 very cruel this is of you ! " 
 
 "O Bessie!" said Inez, mournfully, "you 
 do not know what I have suffered, and that 
 man is the cause, Bessie. Let me go now, 
 dear, or — " 
 
 " No," said Bessie, firmly, coming up and 
 taking Inez in her arms. "No, dear, I will 
 not let you go — never — or, if you do go, I 
 will go with you. I will not leave you. I 
 have found you, and I will follow you. But, 
 listen to reason for a moment, will you? 
 Inez darling, there's some mystery about you 
 that I don't understand at all, at all — and 
 Kane didn't explain much after all — perhaps 
 because he didn't understand any more'n I 
 do — and for my jiart I don't want to think of 
 it at all, for it makes my poor little head acho 
 — and I don't want to talk about it, for it'.s 
 painful, so it is, both, to mo and to you. 
 Don't I know it? Am I an owl ? Not me, 
 Inez darling. Let's lury it all out of sight. 
 Let's forgot all abo'.c it, dear, and be our own 
 selves again, bu.u aa we used to bo before 
 your pon-, dear papa died. But, aa to my 
 mamnui's papa, if it's him you're afraid of, I 
 tell you it's all a mistake you're under. Ife 
 must 111', so it must. He harm you ! He ira'- 
 
 ar 
 T( 
 ch 
 nt 
 
 hii 
 
 hit 
 
 cv 
 an 
 
 l' -i, 
 
A REVKLATIOX. 
 
 177 
 
 ,-, wasn't I 
 
 a torrifieil 
 St. Let me 
 
 " cried Bps- 
 n the wide 
 lure, I don't 
 Is it my 
 Sure, ami it 
 
 c?sie, if you 
 dearest Ik'S- 
 t man, tliat 
 one that lias 
 ssie, darlin?;. 
 iu his power 
 
 and hurried 
 ;o put on her 
 
 rttly. " Inez, 
 hen? Am I 
 jr me to have 
 own husband 
 • from me for 
 mad ye are, 
 oz ! how very, 
 
 rnfuUy, " you 
 i;red, and that 
 t me go now, 
 
 omiug up an<l 
 o, dear, I will 
 you do go, 1 
 leave you. I 
 ow you. I?ut, 
 nt, will you? 
 ;cry about you 
 II, at all — an<l 
 r all — perhaps 
 any moro'n I 
 int to think of 
 ittle head ache 
 bout It, for it'ii 
 > and to you. 
 owl ? Not me, 
 11 out of sight, 
 ind be our own 
 J to be before 
 But, as to my 
 u're afraid of, I 
 )u're under. It 
 u vout He ira- 
 
 pri.son you! 'Why, it's mad you are to think 
 of such a thing. There never breathed a no- 
 bler, truer, more tender-hearted mau than 
 that same Kevin Miigrath. Don't I know 
 him? Mo own grandpa, too, the darling! 
 cjuro I do. It's all a mistake, whatever it is 
 — a mistake, Inez darling, no matter what it 
 is — and there you have it." 
 
 Bessie's velienienco impressed Inez in 
 spite of herself, and she found her terrors 
 fading away iu the presence of such asser- 
 tions as these. She could not help thinking 
 that the man whom Bessie so loved, and in 
 whom she so thoroughly believed, could not 
 be altogether the villain that she had sup- 
 posed him to be. 
 
 " Have you ever seen him, Inez darling? " 
 continued Bessie. " Tell mo, have you ever 
 seen him then, or have you ever spoken with 
 him ? " 
 
 "Xevcr," said Inez, hesitatingly. 
 
 It was a fact. She had never actually 
 seen him. 
 
 " Sure, thou, it's a mad fancy of yours, so 
 it is. Won't you believe me when I tell you 
 that he's one of the best and noblest of men, 
 and, if you were only to see him and know 
 him, you'd feel toward him as I do, so you 
 would ? Sure, how do I know, Inez darling, 
 what wild fancy you've got into your head? 
 but it is a wild, mad fiincy; of that I'm sure, 
 so I am. So come, sit down again. Sure, 
 you haven't any cause to fear while you're 
 with mo, and whore in the wide world can you 
 go to?" 
 
 This was a question which Inez could not 
 answer. AVhero, indeed, could she go now ? 
 To find Bessie had for a long time been the 
 chief desire of her heart. How could she 
 now fly from her ? 
 
 Besides, here was Bessie urging her most 
 vehemently to dismiss those suspicions which 
 she had been entertaining about Kevin Ma- 
 grath. Bessie trusted in him. Bessie loved 
 him. Might not Bessie's trust and love be 
 justifiable? After all, she had never seen 
 him. She had judged from circumstantial 
 evidence. Might not all this be explained 
 awoy? AVas she so sure that she was righ*, 
 that she could put her opinion ngjinst that 
 of Bessie ? 
 
 But more than thi.s — here was Bessie, and 
 
 what harm could now befall her ? t'ould she 
 
 dread imprisonment now — with Bessie ? Tiiat 
 
 would bo absurd, Besides, in the space of 
 
 12 
 
 one more day, Kane would bo here, and with 
 him his brother Gwyn, who was also Bessie's 
 husband. There would then be three upon 
 whom she could rely. Even if Kevin JIugrath 
 should be .all that she had believed him to be, 
 what could he do when she had the support 
 of Bessie and her husband and Kane? 
 
 Finally, in spite of all that Inez had suf- 
 fered, she found herself in a strange state of 
 doubt as to the truth of her own belief about 
 Kevin Magrath. Here was Bessie who as- 
 sured her that this belief was false. Kano 
 also, who had just been with Bessie, and had 
 talked with her about these matters, might 
 possibly have learned enough about him to 
 change the opinion that he had formed ; and, 
 indeed, it seemed as though it must be so, 
 since Bessie had left her husband, and Kano 
 also, with the express purpose of going on to 
 join Kevin Magrath, and find herself. Kevin 
 Magrath, then, seemed to Inez to lose his ter- 
 rors, since Kane had allowed Bessie to go 
 forward on this errand. 
 
 She therefore allowed herself to be per- 
 suaded and soothed and quieted by Bessie's 
 words, and, at length, not only gave up all 
 thoughts of flight, but allowed herself to con- 
 sent to an interview with this once-dreaded 
 Kevin Magrath that very evening. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 A IlKVKLATIOX. 
 
 The ap[)rehension with which Inez looked 
 forward to a meeting with Kevin Magrath 
 did not last over the first few momenta of 
 that interview. Ho was dressed in black, 
 rather after the fashion in vogue among Eng- 
 lish priests, than among those on the Con- 
 tinent. As he looked at Inez, there was on 
 his face something so mild and paternal that 
 her fears departed, and she began to think 
 that she had been mistaken iu him all along. 
 Ho addressed to her a few affectionate words, 
 mingled with playful allusions to Bessie's 
 rumiing away from her husband for her sake, 
 and then proceeded to express the deepest 
 sympathy for lier, and the ntrongest con- 
 demnation of Gounod. lie declared that it 
 was all a most lamentable mistake, arising 
 from the miserable stupidity of "that old 
 fool, (Jounod.'- Ho had directed him merely 
 to take the greatest possible care of her, 
 
I l "M ill 
 
 BBBBBS 
 
 178 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 I; 
 
 : ^ 
 
 fit! 
 
 'I 
 - \ 
 
 i 
 
 vhich direction he had understood, or mis- 
 understood, so as to concoivo hid duties to 
 be those of a jailer. lie alluded, in touching 
 language, to his own deep grief when he 
 learned that she had gone, and to hia fear 
 even to search after lier, lest she might sup- 
 pose that she was pursued. 
 
 After these preliminaries, he went on to 
 say that the time had now come, which he 
 had 50 long wished to see, when he could 
 explain every thing to her, and to Bessie 
 also. 
 
 " I mean both of you," said he, " for 
 you're both involved in this, and oh, but it's 
 the shupremo momint of my life, so it is. 
 Gyerruls — Inez Mordaunt, Bessie Mordaunt — 
 listen to me. Ye both love one another liiie 
 sisters, so yo do. Inez darlin', haven' >, ^c 
 ever suspected what's mint by Bessie's 
 name ? Bessie jool, don't ye suspect some- 
 thin' when ye uear me callin' her Inez Mor- 
 daunt ? " 
 
 And with these words Kevin Magrath 
 looked first at one and then at the other 
 with a beaming smile of joyous expectation. 
 
 At such a singular address as this both 
 Inez and Bessie looked puzzled. Inez looked 
 at the speaker with earnest, solemn scrutiny; 
 ■while Bessie looked first af Inez and then at 
 him, and then back again at Inez. 
 
 " Ye love one another like sisters," con- 
 tinued Kevin Magrath — "ye love one an- 
 other like sisters, and why ? Why i:5 it ? 
 Why? Have ye nivcr suspected? Listen, 
 then, I'll tell ye's both why it is. — It's be- 
 cause ye are sisters ! " 
 
 " Sisters I " exclaimed Inez, in utter bewil. 
 derment. " Sisters ! AVhat do you mean ? " 
 And she turned and looked inquiringly at 
 Bessie, who took her hand in one of hers, 
 and, twining her other lovingly around her 
 shoulder, looked eagerly at Kevin Magrath, 
 and said : 
 
 "Sure an' it must be one of your jokes, 
 grandpa darling, so it must. Inez Mordaunt, 
 is it, and sisters, is it ? How very, very fun- 
 ny, and sure it's me that don't understand it 
 at all at all — now do you, Inez darling ? " 
 
 " Be the powers ! but it would be strange 
 if yc did until I've explained myself some- 
 what. You, Bessie jool, have always known 
 that ycr father was Bernal Mordaunt ; and 
 you, Inez, only knowed it after the rivilation 
 of the late Ilennigcr Wyvcrue — peace bo to 
 his sowl!" 
 
 At this Bessie clasped Inez closer in her 
 arms, and murmured : 
 
 "0 Inez! darling, darling Inez, is this 
 really so ? ' 
 
 "I'll explain it all," continued Kevin Ma- 
 grath, while Inez said not a word, but stood 
 motionless from astonishment, with all her 
 gaze fastened upon his face, as though to 
 read there the truth or the falsity of these 
 astounding statements. 
 
 "Bernal Mordaunt, thin, the father of ' 
 both of )'e's, had two daughters — one named 
 Clara, now in glory, the other named Inez, 
 now in this room. Now, whin this Inez 
 was a little over two years old, Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt had a third u.^ughter, who ia this very 
 Bessie, now likewise in this room." 
 
 " And is Inez really my sister, then ? " 
 cried Bessie, with irrepressible enthusiasm, 
 " and older than me, and me always loved 
 her BO ! — Inez ! dear, sweet sister ! Inez ! 
 sure but it's heart-broke with joy I fairly am, 
 and there you have it ! " 
 
 With these words Bessie pressed Inez 
 again and again in her arms ; and Inez, who 
 was still puzzled by various thoughts, which 
 still stood in the way of her full reception of 
 this announcement, was nevertheless so O'cr- 
 whelmed by Bessie's love that she yielded to 
 it utterly, and, returning her embraces and 
 kisses, burst into tec.ra, and wept in her 
 arms. 
 
 " Yo're not the same age, thin," said 
 Kevin Magrath, " for you, Inez, are one year 
 older than ye've been believing; and you, 
 Bes'io, are one year younger. Sure au' 
 there's been onindiug schayming about ye's, 
 and ye've been the jupes of it. But I'm not 
 going now to purshue that same into all its 
 multiehudinous rameefeecations. I'm only 
 intinding to mintion a few plain facts. Well, 
 thin, your poor mother, Bessie, died in giving 
 birth to you. With that death died out all 
 the happiness of Bernal Mordaunt. Sorry 
 am I to say, also, that you, the innocent 
 child, were regarded by the widowed husband 
 with coldness, if not aversion, for that you 
 were the cause, innocent though you were, 
 of the death of his wife, whom ho adored. 
 His other children he had always loved, but 
 you ho nivcr mintioned, nor would he hear 
 about you after the death of bis wife. So 
 Bessie, poor child, you were at the very out- 
 set of life worse thin orphined." 
 
 " I'm sure it — it wasn't my fault ; and 
 
;loscr in her 
 
 ncz, id tb'ia 
 
 (1 Kevin Ma- 
 d, but stood 
 with all lici" 
 13 tliough to 
 Isity of these 
 
 le father of ' 
 —one named 
 named Inez, 
 liu thid Inez 
 Id, MiH. II or^ 
 
 10 is this very 
 m." 
 
 stcr, then?" 
 B entliusiasm, 
 always loved 
 ster ! Inez ! 
 )y I fairly am, 
 
 pressed Inez 
 :ind Irez, who 
 oughts, which 
 
 11 reception of 
 leless so over- 
 she yielded to 
 embraces and 
 
 wept in her 
 
 e, thin," said 
 ;, are one year 
 ing; and you, 
 ;er. Sure an' 
 ng about ye's, 
 But I'm not 
 QIC into all its 
 ns. I'm only 
 in facts. Well, 
 , died in giving 
 Lh died out all 
 :daunt. Sorry 
 I, tho innocent 
 dowed husband 
 n, for that you 
 )ugh you were, 
 om ho adored, 
 ways loved, but 
 would he bear 
 f his wife. So 
 it the very out- 
 l." 
 my fault; and 
 
 A REVELATION. 
 
 179 
 
 I'm sure I — I think it was a great shame so 
 it was," said Bessie, sobbing as she spoke ; 
 and, drawing herself away from Inez, she 
 buried her face in her hands. 
 
 " Well, thin, Bernal Mordaunt, weary of 
 the wurnild as he was, determined to quit it, 
 and spind tlie remainder of his life in the ser- 
 vices of religion. So he wint away and in- 
 tered the Church, and became a priest. Be- 
 fore taking this step ho committed his chil- 
 dren to the gyarjiunship of Ilcnnigar Wy- 
 veiTio, whose wife was the dear friend and 
 rilative of the deceased Mrs. Mordaunt. Xow, 
 here was the injustice which ho did, poor 
 man. His children, in his eyes, were only 
 Clara and Inez ; the young infant he would 
 not acknowledge ; he virtually disouned his 
 own child by neglicting it, by ignoring it. 
 Here it was when I interposed. I remon- 
 strated with him, but he listened with cold 
 impatience. 'Do as you please with her, 
 Kevin,' says ho to me, ' but don't talk about 
 her to me ; but for her my wife would never 
 have died.' Those were his own words, so 
 they were. Cruel they were, and bitter, and 
 most unjust, but he couldn't be moved from 
 them, and he wint away ic the far East, to 
 spind tho remainder of his life as a mission- 
 ary priest. 
 
 " I was saying that I interposed here. 
 Alreddy this ncglicted child had been kept 
 by a nurse, and was now nearly a year old. 
 I came with me sister, and I took ths poor 
 disouned child, and I had her well brought 
 up, and I have sustained meself for years 
 with the hope that Bernal Mordaunt might 
 yet return to receive his injured daughter 
 from my hands." 
 
 " darling grandpa — then you are not 
 my real grandpa, after all? " said Bessie, draw- 
 ing nearer to Kevin Magrath, and taking his 
 Lands fondly in hers; "but, at any rate, I 
 owe you, and you only, a daughter's love and 
 duty, so I do." 
 
 " Sure to glory, thin, Bessie, don't I know 
 it, and isn't it me that's always loved ye as a 
 father, so it was ? " 
 
 "And sure, then," said Bessie, holding 
 Kevin Magrath's hand ia one of hers, and 
 reaching out the other to take that of Inez ; 
 " you, Inez darling, won't disown your sister, 
 even if my cruel father did ao turn away, will 
 you, darling?" 
 
 Inez pressed her hand warmly. Bessie's 
 sad fate touched bcr heart keenly, and this 
 
 new-found sister came to her surrounded with 
 a new and pathetic interest — that sister, cast 
 out so long since, and now so strangely Re- 
 stored. 
 
 " Well, well," said Kevin Magrath, " sure 
 it's best to let by-gones be by-goncs. As I 
 was saying, thin, Bessie was taken by me, 
 and Clara and Inez were handed over to Ilcn- 
 nigar Wyvcrne, who was to be their gyarjian. 
 In a short time a difficulty arose. Ilennigar 
 Wyvcrne sent away (Mara to a school in 
 France, and changed the name of Inez Mor- 
 daunt to Inez Wyvcrne. The fact is, he had 
 a scheme of getting possession of the Mor- 
 daunt property. Bis wife discovered this, 
 and remonstrated. They quarrelled bitterly, 
 and the end of it was that Mrs. Wyvcrne left 
 her husband. Sure it was a hard position for 
 an honest woman to be put in, but she couldn't 
 stand by and see this thing done under her 
 very nose, so she left her husband ; and, for 
 my part, I honor her for doing so, so I do. It 
 was from her that I heard of Ilennigar Wy- 
 vorne's baseness, and I w int and remonstrated 
 with him, and tried all I could to bring him 
 back to tho path of juty. I couldn't do much 
 with him. I couldn't find out where he had 
 sint Clara ; and, whin he found that I was 
 growing troublesome, he sint you away, too, 
 Inez darling. Well, years passed, and at 
 length I heard from him that Clara was dead. 
 I heard that she had married, in Paris, somo 
 adventurer, and was dead and buried. Well, 
 not long after that, you were brought homo 
 by him, and were known as Inez Wyvcrne. I 
 now determined to bring things to a close. I 
 had heard that poor Bernal Slordaunt was 
 dead, and I was determined that whin you 
 came of age, Inez, you should have your name 
 and your rights. In order to do this, I had 
 to go and talk plainly to him. I found that 
 he had forgotten about Bessie, and he saw 
 that all his fine schemes were broken up, and 
 that I hat' him in ray power. Bo had squan- 
 dered so much of the Mordaunt property that 
 he could never repay. He also had suffered 
 much in his conscience, for he had one, tho 
 poor creature, and was a broken-down man. 
 He at length promised to do all that was 
 right, but begged me to give him time. Ho 
 had come to love you, Inez dear ; and he felt 
 a deep repugnance to develop his crimes to 
 you ; he couldn't enjure the thought of con- 
 fossing to you the wrongs he had done. Well, 
 I pitied him, for wo were old fri.ida— and, for 
 
^- I 
 
 t i 
 
 m^ 
 
 
 3: I 
 
 
 
 180 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION'. 
 
 that matter, Bernal IforJaunt wa3 also — and, 
 in spite of Lis roguery, I couldn't help feeling 
 sorry for him. So I gave him time, anil, at 
 the same time, declared that I would hold him 
 to his word. 'Well, thin it was that I sint lies- 
 sio to live with him, or rather with yon, Inez 
 darling, for I wanted the two of ye's to hive 
 one another like sisters, an(' I couldn't wait 
 for Wyveruc to make his confession. ' They'll 
 love one another at first sight,' I thought, ' and 
 -svhin they find out the blessed truth, tliey'U 
 love one another all the better, so they will ; ' 
 and that's what I see fulfilled this day, and 
 sure to glory, but it's mesilf that's the happy 
 man for being spared to see it." 
 
 And Kevin Magrath regarded them both 
 for a few moments with a radiant face, and a 
 benevolent, paternal smile. 
 
 "At lingth," ho continued, "poor Wy- 
 Tcrne's health grew steadily worse. It was 
 remorse that was killing him, so it was, 
 neither more nor less ; and the dread of har 
 ing to tell the truth to you, Inez darling. So 
 he wint once to the Continint, anc' yo both 
 ■wint with him, and ye finally brought up at 
 Villeneuve. All this time wc corresponded, 
 and I was able to follow his trank, either for- 
 tunately or unfortunately, I hardly know 
 which. Xow, yc know, Kome was, as a gin- 
 eral thing, the place that was more like home 
 to me thin any other, especially since I had 
 turruncd over Uessie to poor AVyverne, or 
 rather to you, Inez darling. AVell, one day I 
 ■was overwhellumned at hearing tliat Bernal 
 llordaunt had returruned from the East. I 
 rushed to greet him, and for a time, in the 
 joy I felt at meeting my old frind, I forgot all 
 about the villany of another old frind. At 
 lingth, when he infarrumed me that he was 
 going to London as soon as possible, I be- 
 came filled with anxiety. Circumstances 
 were not in a proper position. Such an ar- 
 rival would have forced on a sudden disclos- 
 ure, and I knew that in Wyverne's weak state 
 the excitement and shame would kill liim. 
 So I did the best I could. I wrote to him 
 that Bernal Mordaunt had come, and advised 
 him to fly for his life, or even to get up a pre- 
 tended death. I towld him to get rid of the 
 Ryerruls, particularly Inez — that's you, dar- 
 ling — for I thought I'd give him a chance to 
 escape, and thin come after ye, and tell ye 
 I'Oth the whole story. I made a few further 
 remarks, blaming him for entangling himsilf 
 with a young doctor — a good enough young 
 
 felluw, but a great chock on his movements — 
 and thin I mailed tlic letter, and tried to hoiie 
 for the best. I felt afraid, though, in spifo 
 of all; a!id whin, a few days afterward, J!cr- 
 nal Mordaunt left, I wint as far as Milan willi 
 him, and bade him good-hy with my heart 
 full of a chumult of continding emotions. 
 
 '•Howandiver, there was nothing more for 
 me to do, so I wint to Churin, and thin iv^i 
 Genoa and Marseilles to Paris. I hadn't been 
 there long before I loarrcncd the worst. I 
 Icarrcned this from the li|)S of Bemal Mor- 
 daunt, who had come to Paris straight from 
 Villeneuve, and was intinding to go lo Eng. 
 land as soon as possible. Some ecclesiastic.il 
 jutics, however, compelled him to remain for 
 a time in Paris, lie it was who infarrumul 
 me about the occurrinccs at Villeneuve ; ami 
 he towld me a thrilling story about being sint 
 for to go to a dying man, and finding this dy- 
 ing man to be Ilennigar AVyverne. I Lad 
 alriddy felt it my juty, as an old frind, to in- 
 farrum Bernal Mordaunt to some ixtint about 
 Wyverne's defalcations, telling him at the 
 same time about his remorse and determina- 
 tion to make amends. I did not tell him 
 where he was, though, and tried to dissuade 
 him from crossing the Alps by the Simplon 
 road. But he wanted to go that way to sco 
 some people at Geneva, and I couldn't prevint 
 him. lie had no idea that you gyerruls were 
 there, as I had refrained from telling him, fur 
 reasons which you understand. Wyverne was 
 almost gone, and but a few words passed be- 
 tween thim. But yer father told me that ho 
 forgave Jiim ivery thing, and told him so to 
 his face." 
 
 " I did not know that any words passed 
 between thorn," said Inez, mournfully, re- 
 membering Blake's account of this scene. 
 
 "'Deed and there did, just as I'm telling 
 ye. Who towld you that no words passed ? " 
 
 " The — the doctor" — said Inez. 
 
 "Dr. Blake, is it? Well, there's some 
 misunderstanding, lie couldn't have known, 
 or ho couldn't have meant it. I had it from 
 Bernal Mordaunt himself; and, of course, 
 there couldn't have been any mistake. And, 
 besides, I'm sure ye must have misunderstooii 
 him, for we've talked of that same several 
 times since — over and over, so we have." 
 
 Inez was struck by thiis allusion to Dr. 
 niake, and could not help trying to find out 
 more about him. 
 
 " I daie say," said she, " that there may 
 
 !>;, 
 
movcmciils — 
 tried to Lopi.' 
 
 )iigh, ill spiJo 
 
 fterwaiil, IJcr- 
 
 113 Milan with 
 
 ith my heart 
 
 emotions. 
 
 hins more for 
 and thin via 
 
 I liadn't been 
 
 tlie worst. I 
 
 f Bcmal Mor- 
 
 Btraiglit from 
 
 to go to Eng. 
 
 e eccleaiastie.xl 
 
 to remain for 
 
 ho infarrumul 
 
 illeneuvc; ami 
 bout being sint 
 finding this dj- 
 
 vcrne. I biul 
 )ld frind, to in- 
 me ixtint about 
 ig him at tlro 
 
 and determinA- 
 1 not tell him 
 ied to dissuade 
 by the Simplon 
 that way to see 
 couldn't prevint 
 lu gyernils wcio 
 
 telling him, fur 
 ,. AVyverne wiis 
 ords passed be- 
 told mo that ho 
 
 told him so to 
 
 ly words passed 
 mournfully, re- 
 f this seeno. 
 3t as I'm telling 
 words passed y" 
 I Inez. 
 
 II, there's some 
 n't have known, 
 ;. I had it from 
 and, of course, 
 mistake. And, 
 ■e misundcrstooii 
 lat same several 
 10 we have." 
 
 allusion to Dr. 
 ryiiig to find out 
 
 " (hat there may 
 
 A REVELATION'. 
 
 181 
 
 have been some misundiTstanding on my part, 
 but I certainly have a (li^tint't remembrance 
 of tho meaning that I gathered from his 
 words, and that wa.«, that Mr. Wyvoruo died 
 without exchanging a word with him," 
 
 Kevin Magrath smiled blandly. 
 
 " Quito the contrary," said he, mournfully ; 
 'it's as I have said, and Ulake has mintioncd 
 it to me over and over. Do you sec, Inez dar- 
 ling, it must be n.-j I have said." 
 
 " I suppose it must," said Inez, " but it 
 is very singular. Is it long since you have 
 seen the doctor ? " 
 
 " Not very long." 
 
 "Is he here yot?" flic nsked, making a 
 further ellbit to learn something about 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, no — he left here some time ago." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Inez. Phe did not like to ex- 
 hibit too much curiosity, especially before 
 Hcssio, and at such a time as this, when the 
 tremendous mysteries that had surrounded 
 their past lives were being slowly unfolded. 
 Hcssie, however, did not ajipcar to take the 
 smallest interest in this, |:^lle was looking 
 pensively at the floor, with a grave expres- 
 sion that was very unusual with her. 
 
 " lie left here some time ago," said Kevin 
 Magrath, pursuing the subject which Inez had 
 started. "lie was a fine young fellow, full 
 of life and energy, and I don't wonder that 
 )ioor AVyverno took a fancy to him ; though I 
 thought at the time that, under the circum- 
 Ftanccs, he was embarrassing his movements. 
 The flight that I intiiiieeted would have been 
 difficult, with Ulake as his medical adviser 
 and general director. Well, well, it's all the 
 same, for Blake knows all about it now, so he 
 docs." 
 
 " Where did ho go to ? " asked Inez, ab- 
 ruptly unable to control her curiosity. 
 
 " Well — he loft here — on an ndvinture, 
 and ho wiut to Italy, so he did — to Rome, in 
 fact." 
 
 " To Rome ? " repeated Inez, in the tone 
 of one who wished to learn more. 
 
 '■ Yis — to Rome — and in Rome ho stayed." 
 
 " How odd ! " said Inez. " Is Rome a good 
 place for a doctor ? " 
 
 ".Sure, it's as good as any place. Why 
 not ? Anyhow, there he stayed, and there he 
 is now." 
 
 Inez made no further remark. Rome 
 seemed a strange jilace for a doctor to go to, 
 yet so it was, and the fact set hor thinking. 
 
 "lie's settled there," continued Kevin JIa. 
 grath after a pause. " lie's settled there, and 
 for good." 
 
 This was not very pleasant, on the whole, 
 to Inez. It looked like neglect and forget- 
 fulncss on IJIake's part, and she had expected 
 something dilVercnt, A sigh escaped lier in 
 spite of herself. But then she reflected upon 
 her own sudden disappearance, and thought 
 that Blako might have made unsuccessful ef- 
 forts to find her, and have given it up at last 
 in despair. 
 
 " Yis," said Kevin Magrath once more, 
 " he's settled there ; and there's no injucement 
 that I know of tliat'd draw him away." 
 
 "Well, grandpa darling," said Bessie at 
 last, " we don't care about this. We want to 
 know more about ourselves, and our poor, dear 
 papa, so we do. You said that ho came as 
 far as Paris. Now, what liappcned immedi. 
 ately after that ? Did you tell him then about 
 it all, and about our darling, precious Inez, 
 my own sweet sister — or did you postpone it 
 —or—?" 
 
 " I'll tell ye all abor.. it, Bessie darling, 
 and you too, Inez, my jool, but not now, not 
 just now. What comes after this is a mour- 
 runful story ; and Bessie, mo darling, I hard- 
 ly know how I'm iver to tell it to you at all 
 at all." 
 
 " To me ! " exclaimed Bessie, in wonder ; 
 " and sure, and why not, thin V " 
 
 " Well, thin, it's jist because it makes me 
 fool badly. There's things to say that I don't 
 like to say to yo, face to face. I'll tell it all 
 to Inez some time, and she can be after tell- 
 ing it to you. In this way, I'll allow tho 
 story to filter, as it were, through her to 
 you." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure, I think it's very strange, 
 so I do, grandpa darling ; but you're the best 
 judge, and, if it is so awfully sad, you know, 
 why, perhaps, I'd better hear it from Inez, or, 
 perhaps, I'd better not liear it at all — that is, 
 if it is really too very awfully sad — for, sure, 
 I was niver the one that was inclined to listen 
 to bad news, unless it was necessary." 
 
 "It depinds on what ye call nieissary. 
 Ilowandiver, ye can judge for yerself after- 
 ward." 
 
 .i 
 

 I 
 
 183 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION'. 
 
 CUAPTER XLIV. 
 
 AtL TUE FAST EXPLAINED. 
 
 Tina was the bappiest day by far tbat 
 Inez had known for a long time. The advent 
 of Bessie, the restoration to her proper posi- 
 tion in life, the society of friends, all these 
 -were unspeakably sweet to one who had suf- 
 fered as she had. But, above all, the discovery 
 that Bessie was her own sister formed the 
 climax of all these joys ; and Inez, after the 
 first natural bewilderment had passed, gave 
 lierself up to the delight of this new relation- 
 Bhip. As for Bessie, she was, if possible, 
 still more excited. Natunv y of a more de- 
 monstrative disposition than Inez, she sur- 
 passed her in her exhibitions of allection and 
 delight, and overwhelmed her with caresses. 
 Such a revelation as this gave them material 
 for endless conversations, exclamations, and 
 explanations. Each one had to tell all about 
 her life and her past reminiscences ; each one 
 had to give a minute account of the state of 
 her affections with regard to the other; and 
 all the past was thus opened up by the two 
 in so far as it might afford interest to one 
 another. Each one, howcve.-, instinctively 
 avoided the more mournful ))eriod3 in that 
 past; and, as Inez said nothing of her im- 
 prisonment, 80 Bessie said nothing of the 
 mournful events at Mordaunt Manor. 
 
 As to the sufferings through which Inez 
 had gone — her journey to Paris, the dis- 
 covery of her father's death, her imprison- 
 ment, the examination of the letters, her sus- 
 picions, her fears, her flight, her illness, and 
 her misery, all these constituted a part of her 
 life upon which no light had yet been thrown. 
 Yet Kevin Magrath had shown all the impres- 
 8ions which phe had formed about him from 
 his letter to Wyverne to be erroneous ; and, 
 from what she had seen of him, she did not 
 doubt that he would account for every other 
 difficult)', and prove to her that she had been 
 in every respect deceived in the opinions 
 ■which she had formed about him. The re- 
 mainder of his story she knew would be as 
 clear, as open, and as natural, as the first 
 part had been ; and he himself would stand 
 completely vindicated. 
 
 On the following morning Kevin Magrath 
 came to breakfast with them, and, after 
 breakfast, Bessie withdrew. 
 
 " I know, grandpa dear," said she, " that 
 
 you'd rather not have me just now, so I'll 
 go, and I'll hear it from Inez, if she chooses 
 to tell me ; and, if she does not choose to 
 tell, why, I'd very much rather not hear. 
 And, what's more, I won't even think about 
 it. Good-by, you two dear jools of life." 
 
 With these words Bessie retired, and Inez 
 waited for the remainder of Kevin Magrath's 
 story. 
 
 Ue regarded her for a few moments in si- 
 lence, with an expression on his face that was 
 at once affectionate and paternal, and with a 
 gentle smile on his lips. 
 
 " Inez, me darling," said he, " yo've suf- 
 fered from me more than I dare to think of, 
 but ye'll see that I wasn't to blame, and that 
 I've really suffered as much as you have out 
 of pure sympathy and vixation. But I'll go 
 on in order, and jist tell a plain, consicutivo 
 story. 
 
 " Well, thin, your poor father, Bemul 
 Mordaimt, came here to Pari?, as I said, and 
 here I found him. It was from me that ho 
 first heard that one of his daughters was 
 dead. This was his eldest, Clara, his favorite. 
 Whin I say she was his favorite, ye'll onder- 
 stand me. Ye see, you were only a littlo 
 thing — a baby, in fact — barely able to prattle, 
 while Clara was many years older, and had 
 been thus the love and joy of her father jears 
 before you were born. Ye'll not be pained 
 whin I say that he could better have spared 
 you than her. Anyhow, so it was, and, con- 
 sequintly, when he heard that Clara was dead, 
 it was a worse blow to him than if a man had 
 knocked him down sinseless. It took all the 
 life and soul out of him. For he had 'ieea 
 broken down out in China, or Japan, orlnjin, 
 by overwork, and, whin he turruncd liis steps 
 homeward, it was his children that he thought 
 of most ; and by his children he meant, most 
 of all, Clara. So, whin he heard that she 
 was dead, it was with him for a time as 
 though he had lost the last tie tliat bound 
 him to this wurruld ; and he couldn't think 
 of any thing but her. He brooded over this. 
 Wc wint out to her grave in Pure-la-Chaise, 
 and thin he forrumed the desigL of convoying 
 her remains away, and depositing thini l>y the 
 side of the remains of his wife. Now she — 
 your poor mother, Inez darling — was buried 
 at Rome." 
 
 " Rome !" exclaimed Inez, in wonder. 
 
 " Yis, at Rome, and to that place your fa. 
 ther determined to convey the remains of 
 
 M.ijii: 
 
 :;i*. 
 
ALL THE PAST EXPLAINED. 
 
 168 
 
 now, so I'll 
 slio cboosc3 
 it cliooso to 
 not hear. 
 
 tliink about 
 of life." 
 red, and Inez 
 in Magrath'3 
 
 oments in si- 
 
 faco tliat was 
 
 and with a 
 
 " ye've suf- 
 to tliink of, 
 nie, and that 
 you have out 
 
 But I'll go 
 1, consicutivo 
 
 ither, Bernal 
 as I said, and 
 \ nic that ho 
 aughters was 
 1, his favorite. 
 B, Tc'll onder- 
 
 only a littlo 
 ible to prattle, 
 ilder, and had 
 ?r father years 
 lot lie pained 
 ■ have spared 
 was, and, con- 
 )lara was dead, 
 n if a man had 
 It took all tho 
 
 Lc had 'lecQ 
 apan, orlnjia, 
 uncd his steps 
 lat he thought 
 10 meant, most 
 eard tiiat she 
 for a time as 
 ie that bound 
 wouldn't think 
 Kled over this. 
 :' (ire-Ia-Chai.se, 
 L of conveying 
 iig thim by tho 
 '. Now plie — 
 I — was buried 
 
 n wonder, 
 place your fa. 
 e remains of 
 
 Clara. lie had gone after your mother's 
 death to Rome to prepare for tho priesthood, 
 and his love for his lost wife had injticed him 
 to bring her body there, ."^o now ho resolved 
 to take Clara's body. IJcsides, ho had to go 
 back to Kome onco more, though ho would 
 liavc had time to go for you before returning 
 there ; and it's a thousand pities he didn't ; 
 and it was meself that was niver tired of 
 urging him to do that same; but no, ho was 
 brooding all the time over his lo?it iliiu!;hter, 
 tho child of his best love, and had thin no 
 thought of you — and oh, but it's tho pity he 
 didn't go for you, Inez darling ! 
 
 " Well, I kept witli him. We had the re- 
 mains of Clara ixhumed, and took thim to 
 Rome, and placed tliiru by the side of her 
 mother's body. Well, after this, I tried to 
 turrun his thoughts to you — to wean hitn 
 from these dead loves, and bring to his heart 
 the warmth of a living love. I told him of 
 you, and I told him of Bessie. Of Bessie he 
 would hear nothing. There was tho same 
 coldness and avirsion wiiich I had noticed 
 years liL-foro, and I could do nothing with 
 him. lie had niver loved her, so I had noth- 
 ing to work on there ; but with you it was 
 different, for ho recollected his little baby 
 Inez, named after his wife. He had her por- 
 trait onco with the portraits of tho others, 
 and spoke of this with much emotion. At 
 lingth his love for you grew strong enough to 
 draw him away from tho dead, and, finally, 
 tho thought of you filled all his mind. 
 
 " So, you see, we set out for England. We 
 reached Marseilles and proceeded to Paris. 
 Tho journey, however, was very fatiguing to 
 him, and by the time we reached here he was 
 nnablo to go one step farther. lie took to 
 his bed, and out of that bed he niver rose. 
 He had overtaxed his strength, and tho sor- 
 row which he had enjured had greatly pros- 
 trated him. For a time ho hoped against 
 hope. He would not sind for you, though I 
 urge<l him, because ho wished to have the 
 pleasure of going on to you, and was afraid 
 of frightening you. But it was not to be; 
 he grew worse and worse, and at last, whin it 
 was almost over, whin he could not write, he 
 Bint for you. 
 
 " Even then ho tried to ease tho blow — 
 poor man — though he only made it worse. 
 Ho did not wish the letter to come from a 
 stranger. He dictated it to me— but did not 
 wish it to seem dictated, for fear of frighten- 
 
 ing you. ' Kevin,' says he — ' she'll be fright- 
 ened,' says he — 'just write it as if I was writ- 
 ing it,' says he — ' let her think it's from mo 
 own hand, and don't say a word about it's be- 
 ing dictated — just take it from mo own lips.' 
 Tiiat's what ho saiii, and that's just what I 
 did — and, for that matter, I don't s\ipposo yo 
 ever thought otherwise than that poor liemal 
 wrote it with his own hand ; but I mintion it 
 now so as to show ye, Inez darling, that yer 
 poor father was very fur gone when that let- 
 ter w.is written. 
 
 " So far gone was he, indeed, that on tho 
 next day all was over. Early that morning 
 he implored me oneo more to write to you. 
 ' Kevin lad,' says he, ' let her think it's from 
 me own hand. It'll comfort her more — if sho 
 loves me — to think sho has something from 
 me. Kevin, I was to blame for not going to 
 her first.' Then he hurried me on, and I 
 wrote word for word just as he spoke — with 
 all his incoherence and disconnected words— 
 and I was pleased with his allusions to my- 
 self — for sure I was the only one left for yo 
 to look to after he had gone. And I tell yoti 
 this now about this letter. The letter itself 
 won't perhaps be so pricious in your eyes, 
 Inez darling — but tho love of that father ought 
 to be still more pricious, who died while lav- 
 ishing upon you the last treasures of his 
 love. 
 
 " Well," continued Kevin Magrath, after a 
 thoughtful pause, " at that hour there was ono 
 to whom he ought to have given a thought — 
 vis — one to whom he ought to have given 
 many thoughts — one who should have had at 
 least a share — yis, equal shares with you, Inez 
 — in his love. I mean my poor Bessie. Niv- 
 er did I cease to try to bring before him that 
 disowned, that injured child — his own child- 
 cast out from the moment of her birth — ig- 
 nored — disliked — hated. Oh, sure, but it was 
 meself that was heart-broken about that 
 s.amc; and me trying all the time to injuco 
 him to show her, if not affection, at least 
 common justice. But my efforts were all in 
 vain. I could not get him to feel the slight- 
 est interest in her. There was coldness, and 
 even aversion, in his manner wheniver I intro- 
 juced that subject. When I spoke about her, 
 he would bo at first fretful ; then, overcoming 
 this, he would take up an attiohude of patient 
 enjurance, like one who was putting a great 
 constraint upon himself. And oh ! but my 
 heart bled for the poor child. I knew what 
 
! I 
 
 t 
 
 s 
 
 
 J. [' i 
 
 i.1 
 
 
 
 I I . 
 
 184 
 
 A\ OrP:\ QIESTIOX. 
 
 Mio was. I felt that, if lie could but see her, 
 he niu.it love Iicr— yet hero he was, turning 
 himself away, witliout one word to send lior, 
 even from hirt dcatli-liod And, Inez daiiiii^', 
 I, who know Hossic, f, who know licr tender, 
 gentle, loving heart, her susceptible iiaturo, 
 lior sweet, innocent, childlike ways — I know 
 this, that, if she was aware of the aversion of 
 lier father for her, her heart would break, so 
 it would — she would die, so she would. I'oor, 
 poor, darlin;^ liessie! disowiUMi iind outcast 
 from lier fatlier's heart, from lier biitli till 
 Lis death ! 
 
 "Ami thi.--," continued Kevin Magrath, 
 vith manliest emotion, "this is what I can 
 never tell her, never I don't even know how 
 to bepin to tell her. I can't begin to ndntion 
 it. And therefore, me chihl, I tell it to you, 
 hoping that you may find some gentle way of 
 letting her know all about it. You may suc- 
 ceed wlierc I would fail." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Inez, mournfully. " Oh, 
 no, I could never, n -er tell it. Tliere is no 
 way by wliicli such a i '"g could In; told. I 
 could not have the he;. ''• liint at it. 1 
 could not even begin to teji -'bout that 
 
 last scene, for fear she would a. 'ue what 
 message ho had left for her. And o.. ' how 
 Fad not to be able to give any message, how- 
 ever formal or commonplace ! Oh, how cruel 
 it was — how cruel ! And, poor, tenilcr-hcart- 
 cJ Bessie, with her affectionate nature and 
 her heart of lov^, ! " 
 
 Kevin Magrrtth v. lied nis eyes. 
 
 " We c.in't iv.r lintlon it," said he, " a.s 
 far as 1 can 8C'\ I*, can't be done, unless you 
 may find i-rmM ivay some day, and tliat I 
 doubt, so I do. We'll have to smother it up, 
 and avoid tlie subject. Hut oh! it was a sin, 
 60 it was, to pass out of the worruld in such 
 a way. And ye don't think, thin, nu; child, 
 that ye could find any way to break it to 
 her?" 
 
 " \o," said Inez ; " impossible. I shall 
 never be able to S|)eak of thin suljject at all, 
 or to allow her to speak of it. It seems to 
 inc that, while she was hearing of his love for 
 Clara and for me, she wovdd feel an intoler- 
 able pang at finding herself cast out. Xo, she 
 ought never to know — never ! " 
 
 Kevin Magrath sighed. 
 
 "Well," continued he, "that letter was 
 the last act of your poor father, for he died 
 not long after; and, for my part, I was over- 
 whellu iCd. 1 knew that vou might be com- 
 
 ing, me child, ami I «as iiliaid to niicl you— 
 afraid to stay and be the witness of your 
 grief. Xow, your poor father had made me 
 promise that I would have him buried by tin? 
 side of his wife and eliild, in Kome; and so, 
 when he was removed from the house, I at 
 once went to fuKil my promise, ami started 
 for Kome with his renuiins, afraid to wait and 
 meet you, and leaving to others the task of 
 breaking to you the awful news. The worst 
 of it was, it was your poor father himself who 
 had put mc in such a position, by obstinately 
 refusing to write, or to let inc write, until it 
 was too late. ... So, me child, I took away 
 the mortal remains of my frind, and of your 
 father, and I conveyed tliiiu to Home — and 
 there I buried tliini, by the side of his wife 
 and his child, your sister Clarn, and there 
 they all are now side by side." 
 
 There was a long silence now. 
 
 " Is there a cemetery, or are tliey b\iried 
 in some church " " askeil Inez, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "There is a ciinetcry in IJome," said Ke- 
 vin Magrath, slowly and solemnly, " the likes 
 of which doesn't exist in all the wide wur- 
 ruld — a cimetery, eighteen hundred years old, 
 filled with the mowldering rimnants of apos- 
 tles, and saints, and martyrs, and coufissors — 
 a cimetery, to lie in which r(d)S death of half 
 its terrors, and there now repose nil that is 
 mortal of your father, your mother, aiid your 
 sister." 
 
 "Ohl" cried Inez, "what place can that 
 bo? Is there such a cemetery? What is 
 its name ? I have never heard of it." 
 
 " The cimetery that I speak of," said 
 Kevin Magrath, solenndy, "is known as — tlie 
 Koman Catacombs." 
 
 "The Houian Catacondis ! " repeated Inez, 
 in tt voice full of awe. 
 
 " The IJoman Catacombs," said Kevin 
 Magrath. " There they lie, side by side — 
 they who loved one another on earth, ami 
 who are thus joined in death, awaiting the 
 resurrection morn." 
 
 Inez made no remark, and a long silence 
 followed. Kevin Magrath was the first to 
 break it, and he went on to continue hi.s 
 story : 
 
 "Whin I left," said he, "I told (iounod 
 that you were coming, and I told him what to 
 do. I told him about the sorrow you'd be 
 in, and urged him to attind upon you, and do 
 all that he could for you. I knew he could 
 
ALL Tin: PAST IlXri.AlNKP. 
 
 185 
 
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 Tiu" worst 
 
 liiiist'll' hIjo 
 
 olistiiiatc'ly 
 
 he, until it 
 
 tiiok nnny 
 
 ml of your 
 
 ItoMio — iiml 
 
 of liis wife 
 
 , mill tluMO 
 
 tin y liuiie'l 
 ill II low 
 
 0," ^a'ul Kc- 
 , " tlio likes 
 wiij(! wur- 
 !(1 years olil, 
 Ilt:4 of apoi- 
 eonfissoi-s — 
 eulU of half 
 e nil that is 
 .'I', niid your 
 
 aee can that 
 ? AVhat is 
 ' it." 
 
 k of," said 
 awn as — the 
 
 pcatetl Inez, 
 
 saiil Kevin 
 
 ! liy side — 
 
 eaith, niid 
 
 iwailiiig the 
 
 long silence 
 the first to 
 ontinnc liis 
 
 old (ioiinod 
 him what to 
 )w you'd be 
 yon, and do 
 ew lie could 
 
 do iiothiii;^ to iiUeviato sueli Borrow xs you 
 would have ; so I laid (Treat stress upon his 
 keepiiij; watch over joii, so ns to lind out 
 your wants. In fuel, I ovprwhelluincd him 
 Willi diiietions. AVell, I wint away, and I 
 stayed ftwny for weeks, waiting iinpatiently 
 till the time whin I inifrht siip|)0se your frrief 
 to be moileralcd ; and thin 1 came buck ; and 
 1 assure ye, me elilld, I was fairly trembling 
 Willi agilution at the thought of meeting you 
 in your bereavemint. And what do you think 
 awaited ine ? AVlnit 1 Sure, you may imagine, 
 (iounod, with his bewildermint, and the owld 
 hag Itrisel, both voluble and eloquint about 
 your iseapc. lsea[K'! As if 1 iver mint any 
 thing else! Iseape! 'Why, it was as if it 
 bad been a prison they had made for you — 
 and so it was, am! nothing else in the wide 
 worruld. The fool! the beast! the idiot! 
 ho had utterly ini?understood nic ; I had en- 
 joined njion him to watch you like a servant, 
 and lie had walclied you like a jailer. I un- 
 derstood well how your nature must have 
 chafed against restraint and surveillance; 
 and thin, wliin I thought of you, all alone 
 after your maid had pone, nie heart fairly 
 ached for you, so it did. My very desire to 
 spare you pain had caused fresh pain to you, 
 Inez darling ; and you were lost to me, for 1 
 dared not search for you. I was afraid that, 
 if I did, you would misunderstand it all, and 
 bo all the more terrified ; and what's more, 
 even if I had fuiind you, I sliould not have 
 been able to look you iii the face. I couldn't 
 have spoken one word. I wrote fianlic let- 
 ters to Bessie, and she wrote back letters full 
 of anxiety, tolling me that she had hoard 
 nothing about yon, and knew nothing. T de- 
 clare to you, mo child, those days were the 
 worst I iver know in all my life. And so it 
 wint on, and I was iu holplessniss and dispair 
 until this blessed time, until yesterday, wlieu 
 I'.essio horsilf came with tlio glad nens about 
 you ; and I hurried her away to meet you, and 
 waited here, with me old heart throbbing cliu- 
 miiltuously while she was gone. But at last 
 she relurruned, and you with licr; and thin I 
 had a chance to explain, in a grailual way, 
 and at least to let you know that, if you had 
 suft'ored, I, at least, was innoccni. And sure 
 to glory, but it's lueself that was the happy 
 man last night." 
 
 So ended Kevin ^fagrath's story, and that 
 story bad sunk deep into the soul of Inez. 
 
 Many conclusions had she gathered from 
 
 that story; and, ns she listenud tu its detuilsi 
 one by one the frightful dangers that seemed 
 to have hovered about her past, or appeared 
 to impend over her f;resent, wer(! di.-pellcd. 
 .Vt length, tliey all seemed no more than the 
 creations of licr own fancy. 
 
 The letter to Wyvcrne, wliieh had been- 
 the first of these troubles, was fully ex- 
 plained. A\'yvorne"s emolion at its nception, 
 his terror of Bernal Jlordaunt, his d\ing dec- 
 laration — all these were made plain, all except 
 his as-ertion that Dr. Blake was his son, and 
 on this she laid but little stress now, since 
 she thought that she could a.-k about th.U at 
 any oilier time. With these were also ex- 
 plained the similarity in the handwriting of 
 the diffi'rcnt letters, the mystery that had 
 overwhelmed her in her prison-house, the 
 ubsence of Kevin Magrath, the espionage and 
 strict guardianship of (Iounod — all these were 
 explained, and the terrors that they had ex- 
 cited vanished like so many dreams. Out of 
 all this there remained ]>rominent ^everal 
 tilings : 
 
 First. Kevin Magrath was a bigli-minded, 
 noble-liearted man — the fiieiul of her father, 
 of Bessie, and of herself. 
 
 Secondly. Bessie was lior own sister. 
 
 Thirdly. Iler father, her mother, and her 
 sister Clam, were all buried at Rome. 
 
 Fourthl)'. Dr. Blake was also at Rome — 
 " sctded there,'' as Kevin ilagrath bad ex- 
 pressed it. 
 
 "Inez darling, nio child," said Kevin 
 Magrath, afver a long silence, " I am very 
 anxious to go to Rome, am', if ye would like 
 to go to see the graves of yer father, yer 
 mother, an! yer sister, I should like to show 
 them to ye; but, at the same time, if ye feel 
 reluctant about going, it's no matter. Bessie 
 is anxious to go and fulfil a daiigliler's juty 
 to those who niver perforrumcd a parent's 
 I)art to her; and I thought that you, the dear 
 child of their care and their love, might have 
 the same feiTings." 
 
 At this proposal Inez at once thought of 
 the far-ott' graves of those dear ones whom 
 she had lost, and ther,- irose a sudden long- 
 ing to visit in death tli >se whom she had 
 failed to meet in life. \Vith these came other 
 thoughts, less holy, yet equally strong— she 
 thought of Bl.ikc. Yes, Rome was a place 
 which in-esonted stronger attractions to her 
 than any other. 
 
 " Rome I " said she. " Oh, how I long to 
 
186 
 
 AN Ol'EX QUESTIOX. 
 
 go there ! 
 me:" 
 
 And will you really take 
 
 " I sbould be glad beyond all things if you 
 would come with us," said Kevin Magrath. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 THE TENDERNESS OF BESSIE. 
 
 Kane and 6wyn hurried on to Paris as 
 soon ns possible, and were not more than 
 twenty-four hours behind Bessie. On the 
 following day they arrived there, and drove 
 first to Kane's lodgings. Then they went to 
 the place where Inez had been, and learned 
 that Bessie had taken lier away, and that 
 they had gone to the Hotel Gascoigne. This 
 news did not in any way lessen the anxiety 
 that Kane had felt ; for it seemed to him that 
 this movement might carry both of them into 
 the very hands of their worst enemy. It 
 seemed to him that there could be no cer- 
 tainty of their safety until ho could see Inez 
 herself, and find out what her circumstances 
 were; when, if there was really any appear- 
 ance of danger, he might warn her, or con- 
 front Magrath himself. So groat were his 
 fears now, that he iiardly expected to find 
 cither of the ladies, but was rather inclined 
 to fear that Kevin 'i.iagrath, the moment that 
 lie found them Loih in his power, liad con- 
 trived some specious pretext for conveying 
 them to some other place, where they would 
 be out of reacli. It was with the dread of 
 this at his heart, that be accompanied Gwyn 
 to the Hotel Gascoigne. 
 
 But the first thing that they heard on 
 asking after tlic ladies drove away all fear. 
 They were both there, and Kevin Magrath 
 was there also. Kane was hardly prepared 
 for such good news ; and for a mom-mt did 
 not know what there was for him to do. He 
 had come here in all haste as the champion 
 of the oppressed, but the comfortable sur- 
 roundings of Inez put the idea of any very 
 imminent danger out of his head. She had 
 Bessie with lier, and here was Gwyn, who 
 could be an additional protector. 
 
 Gwyn hurried up after the gar;on to the 
 apartments whore his wife was, f<,llowed by 
 Kane. On reaching the hinding, t.iero was a 
 sudden cry of joy, and a beautiful being, all 
 in the glory of golden hair and azure eyes, 
 Hung herself into G-vyn's arms. 
 
 " Sure, didn't I know you'd bo here this 
 blessed morning, Gwynnio darling ? " cried 
 Bessie ; " didn't I say you couldn't s ly more 
 than a day without me and be alive ? and bo 
 I've been waiting here in the hall for hours 
 and hours, so I have. But you're here at 
 last, and that's all I want. And oh, ain't you 
 very, very much fatigued, darling? and were 
 you ever quite so happy in your life ? " 
 
 To this torrent of loving words Gwyn said 
 nothing. Such a reception overwhelmed liim. 
 He had expected some coldness — some hang- 
 ing back. He had prepared himself for some 
 humiliation on his own pa-t. But this was 
 the reality that awaited him — the utter for- 
 getfulness of every thing but her love — this 
 perfect forgiveness that did not leave room 
 for any attempt at explanations. He could 
 not utter a word, but pressed her, i.i silence 
 and with moistened eyes, to his heart. 
 
 " And Kane, too ! " cried Bessie, as soon 
 as she could free herself from Gwyn's arms; 
 " sure, but you're welcome, Kane dear, and 
 it's great news that I've got to tell. Inez is 
 here, safe and happy, and you'll want to see 
 her." 
 
 She held out her little hand with a beam- 
 ing sniilo, and Kane pressed it teiuiorly. 
 
 " You'll want to see Inez," said Bessie, 
 as Kane hesitated. 
 
 By this time Kane had folt himself some- 
 what r' trop. The exceeding and unexpected 
 wiirmth of this greeting between husband and 
 wife did rot seem warranted by so short a 
 separation, even on the grounds of their being 
 yet hardly out of their honey.nioon ; but still, 
 there it was, and he saw the intense apitation 
 of Gwyn, and suspected that Bomothing had 
 taken place before Bessie's flight from Iliith- 
 von Towers which had caused that flight and 
 Gwyn's present emotion. Ho saw that some 
 explanations or other wore probably required 
 by those two, and therefore coi'cluL^d to re- 
 tire for the present. 
 
 " Well," said he, at lengt.., • - think I'll 
 look in again. She is well, you say ? " 
 
 '' Bei'er than I ever knew hor. But you'd 
 better come in and see ber. She'll be awful- 
 ly disappointed." 
 
 " (111, I'll come ogain some time to-day," 
 said Kane; "it's — it's — a liUle inconvenient 
 just now — uh, under the circumstances — so 
 I'll only ask you to remenibci me very kindly 
 to her, and toll hor that I hope to sec her thig 
 evening." 
 
 Hi a 
 
THE TENDERNESS OF BESSIE. 
 
 18T 
 
 Bessie urged him a little longer, though 
 rather more faintly, but Kane persisted in 
 his refusal, and at length retreated, leaving 
 the husband and wife to themselves. 
 
 AH this had taken place on the landing 
 of the stairway. As soon as Kane retired, 
 Bessie took Gwyn's arm fondly and led him 
 to her rcGiUS. Inez was not there, and Gwyn 
 was better pleased to be alone with his wife. 
 
 Here they sat down side by side, quite 
 lover-fashion, while Gwyn was so overcome 
 by his unexpected happiness that he had not 
 yet found words, but sat devouring her with 
 his eyes. Bessie looked tenderly at him, and, 
 with one of her characteristic smiles, ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Sure, I oughtn't to be so forgiving, so I 
 oughtn't, and there you have it. But oh, I 
 was so awfully glad to see you, you know, 
 Gwynnie dear." 
 
 "And — do — do you really for — forgive 
 rae ? " faltered Gwyn. 
 
 " Oh, come now, we won't talk about it, 
 sure actions speak louder than words, and 
 my actions have spoken very, very loudly, 
 Gwynnie darling, so they have." 
 
 " darling, I shall never be able to 
 forgive mvself." 
 
 "Oh, como, Gwynnie, sure we won't talk 
 about it at ali, at all. It was only a miser- 
 able fancy of yours, so it was, a wild deluder- 
 ing notion, but, tell me, sure you didn't go 
 and tell Kane auout it then ? " 
 
 ''Tell K.^ne ! Of course not. darling. 
 How could I ? " 
 
 " Of course not How could you ? Sure- 
 ly not." 
 
 " I d'^.re say he's noticed trouble on my 
 face an J in my manner." 
 
 " Like enough, for it was very, r.ry Ptid, 
 and is one of those things, Gwynnie dariing, 
 that one really can't think fibout. >;s jiosi- 
 lively too heart-breaking. And I won't say I 
 didn't feel cut up myself, for I did, but you 
 know I couldn't bring myself to have a scene 
 with you about it, and I ihought, Gwynnie, 
 that the best way to do was to leave you to 
 yourself, when you'd fiiid out your mistake 
 the sooner, so you would ; and my first inten- 
 tion was only to go to Mordaunt Manor; but, 
 on my way there, I thoiiglit of poor, dear, 
 darling Ine:";, and decided t'.iat it would be 
 very much nicer and better for her, and for 
 you, and for myse!-', to come hero and see 
 her. And that's just the very thing I did. 
 
 you know, and so yoi see, Gwynnie darling, 
 it's my opinion that we had better not men- 
 tion it again, for really you know, darling, it 
 isn't a thing that one can very well say much 
 about. Besides, I'm so bursting with the 
 wonderful discovery I've made. And oh, what 
 in the wide world will dear Kane say and 
 think? and oh, Gwynnie darling, how I do wish 
 he had stayed and seen her ! For she's here, 
 you know ; I found her and brought her here, 
 and she's here now, so she is, the jool of 
 life I " 
 
 " You mean Inez ? " asked Gwyn, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 " Inez ? Of course AVho else ? And 
 what do you think ? Oh, you would never 
 guess — never, never! Oh, it's the very 
 strangest thing and the gladdest thing, so it 
 is!" 
 
 " Whnt is it ? " asked Gwyn, who won- 
 dered what that could be which was able to 
 excite Bessie at such a moment as tliis. For 
 his own part, all the rest of the world seemed 
 then a matter of indiiference. 
 
 "You'd never guess, so you wouldn't — 
 never — and so I'll have to tell you," said 
 Bessie, "though I don't tliink you will really 
 believe it, at all at all, that is, not just at 
 first, you know, for it's so awfully funny, 
 Gwynnie dear. It's this : You know my dar- 
 ling Inez, how I love her, and all that sort of 
 thing, and we've always been just like sisters, 
 too, you know — oh, she's such a darling ! — 
 well, do you know, Gwynnie dear, I've just 
 found out that she really is my very own sis- 
 ter." 
 
 " Your what ? Your sister ? Wliy, what 
 do you mean '; Ilow can that be ? " asked 
 G vytij in great amazement, and thoroughly 
 roused now by this startling intelligence. 
 
 "Sure I mean what I say; things have 
 (■'ome to light tliat I never knew before, and 
 there isn't the least doubt in life but it's all 
 gospel truth, so it is ; and only tliink of my 
 own darling Inez being my own sister ! " 
 
 " What 1 is her name Inez Monhiu,,' ? " 
 asked Gwyn, in amazement. 
 
 "Sure and it is, and I got things allmi.^ed 
 up in my mind, so I did. I was told my 
 name was Inez, though they always called 
 me Bessie, but it's my other sister that 
 owned the name, after all ; and don't you 
 think it's all awfully funny, Gwynnie dar- 
 ling ? " 
 
 " Whv, I don't know what to think, for I 
 
 III 
 
 il'i 
 
w 
 
 188 
 
 AX Ol'KX QUESTION. 
 
 i' ;] 
 
 I 
 
 don't uiidci^taiid it at all ; but I'm very glad, 
 indeed, dadhig Uessie, if you are. I care for 
 uo one but you." 
 
 " And sure and I don't care much for any- 
 body but you, Gwynnie, if it comes to that," 
 said Bessie, giving Lira a iook of touching 
 fondness, and trustful, innocent aft'oction, that 
 sent a thrill of rapture through Gwyn's heart. 
 The consequences that might ensue from her 
 thus finding another sister did not occur to 
 him. lie did not think of asking whether 
 this Bister was older or younger. The heri- 
 tage of Mordaunt Manor vas at that moment 
 of no interest to him. The presence of Bes- 
 sie was enough, and the certainty that she 
 loved him still prevented hira from feeling 
 any uneasiness about the future. It was 
 from her, or rather for her sake, that the 
 temptatio'i hud come to him on the top of 
 the hill; md now, for her sake, he had be- 
 come for tlic time indifferent to wealth, to 
 rank, to *io!o, to every tlii::^', except the love 
 that he felt for hor. 
 
 Bessie went on to tell him all that she 
 knew about it — her narrative comprising that 
 which Kevin Magrath had told her and Inez 
 while they were together — but of course not 
 touching upon those disclosures which he had 
 made to Inez alone. 
 
 "So you sec, Gwynnie dearest," said she, 
 as she conelude<l, " Jlordaunt Jfanor isn't 
 mine now, at all at all, so it isn't, no more 
 llinii Ruthvcn Towers ib yours, not a bit; and 
 tlie long and the short of it is, Gwynnie, that 
 you and I are two beggars, and don't you call 
 that awfully funny, now f " 
 
 Gwyn looked at hor with moist cycf, and, 
 drawing her closer to his heart, he kissed her 
 fair brow. 
 
 " Darling ! " said he, fervently, " I never 
 valued your love so nnicli before, and it is so 
 precious to me that, if I lost all the rest that 
 I have in the world, I should not care. Let 
 Ruthven Tower,s go. Let Slordaunt Jfanor 
 go. 1* will be strange if I caimot take care 
 of )ou still. As long as I iiave you I am c.)n- 
 teuf." 
 
 "And Gwynnie," continued Bessie, 
 " wasn't it the wonderful thing that I said — 
 you remember, of course — it was, maybe my 
 sister might be alive and come forward. 1 
 meant my sister Clara, for I thongl.'i I y,h:\ 
 Inez, but Clara, poor darling. !; d'.'ai), glory 
 be with her, and so it's not Clarr., '.i it I;<f/ 
 that has appeared ; and do you know, Gh v.; 
 
 "And I thou; 
 Bessie, " tl.at ' ou' 
 peihaps, af [• ;• - , ; 
 really dead, for >]<. 
 
 nie dear, the more I think of all this the fun- 
 nier it seems — now, doesn't it ? And then, 
 again, it does seem so awfully fu.iny, you 
 know, for you to give up your title, and for 
 me to give up mine, and for both of ut, to be 
 plain Mr. and Mrs., and that, too, afte;- all 
 our splendor, and all the congratulations of 
 the county, and to have to work for our liv- 
 ing. Really, Gwynnie dear, it makes me 
 laugh." 
 
 Gwyn emiied, out of pure delight, to see 
 Bessie taking this approach of adversity so 
 pleasantly. 
 
 ^-) I did," continued 
 ■ig Clara v.as alive, 
 -J, it seems she is 
 ■1 know, Gwynnie dear, 
 poor, dear papa, bci'ore he came to Jlordaunt 
 Manor, visited her grave here, and then he 
 and dear grandpa JIagrath — who really isn't 
 my grandpa, you kn.^vv, after all, but I must 
 call him so still — well, those two had the re- 
 mains of poor, dear Ch'ra exhumed and taken 
 to Rome, whore they buried her again by the 
 side of poor, dear mamma, who, it seems, is 
 buried there also. And oh, it's very sad, so 
 it is, to find out, after all, that really she is 
 so very, very dead, you know ! 
 
 "And you know, Gwynnie dear," con- 
 tinued Bessie, a."ter a few momen..i f^T mourn- 
 ful thought, " dci r Inez is going t-j Lome, for 
 she remembers dear Clan, ar .. li' 'og lost 
 her in life, die longs to go r>- e)ia v..' 's, and 
 pray over her grave. For ?a.' ;,-art i;ja says 
 that poor, dear Clara was i t v "' ( c ■ ted, at 
 all at all, and there was sadnesj -J srnow 
 about her death. 
 
 "And then, again," resui/icd Lossie, 
 " there's another reason why dc r Inez is 
 willing to go, for there's a p>\.at friend of 
 hers — and of dear Kane's. ♦,/o, and of mine, 
 too, for that matter— Lr. Blako, the one that 
 attended poor, dear Guardy Wyverne ; well, 
 dear grandpa sayd that Dr. Blakc is in 
 Rome; that 'he's settled dovni' there, and 
 is likely to remain; aii-i . 'Vink dear Inez is 
 rather in hopes of hi'' !sni suuiewhcrc! 
 about Rome, and so yo>i - •' v.ynnij dear, 
 slie has two very strong i. ,< ons for going, 
 and clear grandi)a is going to take her." 
 
 • I)(>('S she know of her father's death ' " 
 a !vi.'d Givyn. 
 
 •' ire and siic nnist. Grandpa had a 
 long talk alone with her, and told lier all 
 about every tiling, ami things, too, that he 
 
HI 
 
 THE TEXDERXESS OF BESSIE. 
 
 1S9 
 
 Itlic I'un- 
 Id then, 
 Jny, you 
 
 laud for 
 Lsj to be 
 Jifte; nil 
 lions of 
 J our liv- 
 Ikcs nie 
 
 
 didn't want me to hear, about my infancy, I 
 believe, for fear it would make me too sad ; 
 and, after it all was over, she looked at me — 
 Gwynnie ! such a look — so awfully sad and 
 sorrowful 1 And oh, but I had the sore heart 
 for her, poor darling ! and I didn't dare to say 
 a word, for sure it seemed to me just as 
 though I'd been serving her as Jacob did 
 Esau — just for all the wide world as though I 
 had taken her name and place — for poor, dar- 
 ling papa took mo for Inez, and died blessing 
 rae as Inez. But really, Gwynnie darling, it 
 wasn't my fault, so it wasn't — for didn't I 
 think I was Inez ? Sure I did. Still, that 
 doesn't change matters for her, and, however 
 innocent I was about if, the fact remains — 
 and oh, but it must be the sore fact for her I 
 But, if any one's to blame, it's poor Guardy 
 AVyverne, who went and changed her name. 
 And oh, but it was hard on her, so it was, for 
 she's suffered more than her share on accciut 
 of it. And I can't help feeling that I've had 
 a share in the wrong, and that I've been 
 happy at her expense. And I'm anxious to 
 make some amends, and I won't be able to be 
 happy, at all at all, unless I do something to 
 console her. I'm her chief consolation now 
 — and oh, but it's the blessed thing that I 
 liurried on as I did 1 " 
 
 Bessie stopped, and looked with an expres- 
 sion of anxious inquiry at her husband. 
 
 " Gwynnie dearest," said she, in her most 
 winning tone. 
 
 "Well, darling?" 
 
 " I'm going to toll yousomot .ing now that 
 you won't like ; but it must be done, and I 
 won't keep you in suspense about it. I have 
 told Inez that I would devote myself to her 
 for a short time, and that we would be just 
 as we used to be. She objected, poor darling, 
 and said that she would not like to take me 
 from you ; but I laughed, and said that you 
 would not object if I wanted it, and that you 
 would bo willing to do any little thing you 
 could if it would bo for her good. And so 
 you will, Gwynnie dear, for hero is my dear 
 sister Inez, the one that I've wronged so 
 much without knowing it, and she's suffered 
 awfully, and she needs loving care and atten- 
 tion, and I am the only living being that can 
 give her this. So please, Gwynnie dear, dor't 
 bo after looking so dismal, for there arc du- 
 ties that 1 have in the world besides those I 
 owe to yoti, and I'm not the one to stand by 
 and SCO my darling Inet — my new-found sis- 
 
 ter — after suffering so much, loft alone with, 
 out any congenial friends. Of course, dear 
 grandpa would do every thing in the wide 
 world for her, so he would ; but ho is not 
 what she wants, at all at all, nor is Jlrs. Lu- 
 grin. She wants an old friend — an ecp'ial — 
 her sister — myself — and it's myself that's the 
 only one she can get comfort from. And so^ 
 Gwynnie, as I know you have a tender heart, 
 and are not selfish, why, sure you'll quietly 
 let me go for a while, and devote myself to 
 my sweet sister." 
 
 This proposal threw great gloom over 
 Gwyn. Yet the recolleeiion of his own deep 
 olfenco, and the total and complete reconcilia- 
 tion with Bessie, and her sweet and graceful 
 forgiveness, all made it impossible for him to 
 oppose her wishes, especially when expressed 
 for such a purpose. 
 
 " And must I go homo?" he asked, dis- 
 mally. 
 
 ■'Go home, is it? Not you. You must 
 come to Home. Go home I Why, what an 
 awful idea, Gwynnie darling! Oh, no. You 
 must come on to Rome, and perhaps dear 
 Kane may come, too. Bring him; you'll 
 both be the happier for it, and we'll see one 
 another all the time. When I said I was go- 
 ing to devote myself to Inez, I didn't moan 
 that I was going away from you altogether. 
 I want to have you near, Gwynnie darling, 
 and sec you every day." 
 
 Gwyn gave a sigh of relief 
 
 " I'll pretend that I'm a lover again, Bes- 
 sie darling," said ho, sadly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, do — do, dear, darling Gwynnie; 
 it will be so awfully nice, and funny, and all 
 that. And you must bring Kane to Rome 
 for company. He'll want, perhaps, to come 
 with the rest of us, and join iu our prayers 
 over dear Clara's grave. Oh, how awfully 
 nice ! Only think — that is, I don't exactly 
 mean nice — but you understand, dear. I 
 want to ask himself, if I only can. But he'll 
 1)0 here this evening ; ho must coino to seo 
 dear Inez; she talks so much about him. Be- 
 sides, he'il bo glad to know that every thing 
 is explained." 
 
 m 
 
190 
 
 AN OPEX QUESTION. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 BEFOnE niS JUDGE. 
 
 y :i 
 
 ■ ' : 
 
 I ' 
 
 I 
 
 On returning to Kane's apartments, Gwyn 
 told bim all tbat he had heard from Bessie, 
 to which Kane listened in the utmost amaze- 
 ment. Many circumstances were explained, 
 yet many more were inexplicable to him as 
 yet. Above all, he could not understand how 
 if was, if Bernal Mordaunt had died at Jlor- 
 
 int Manor, tbat he could have written from 
 .' death-bed in Paris. These two things 
 . ,'3med irreconcilable, nor could Gwyn give 
 him any satisfaction. Soon, however, there 
 were other things mentioned which drew all 
 Kane's thoughts away from the alfairs of Inez. 
 This was the statement tbat the remains of 
 Clara had been exhumed, and had been taken 
 to Eome for burial ; and also the announce- 
 ment that Blake had gone to Rome, and had 
 " settled down in that place for good." 
 
 Both of these facts were to him of over- 
 whelming importance. In bis friendship for 
 Blake he rejoiced to learn tbat he was well, 
 though he could not help wondering why he 
 had remained so silent. But this was of com- 
 parative unimportance in view of the astound- 
 ing news about the remains of Clara. 
 
 Kane's feelings about his lost wife have 
 been sufficiently described. It was to bo near 
 her loved remains that he bad come to Paris 
 — it was for this sake only tbat he lived here. 
 Other places would have been preferable to 
 him, but the presence here of Clara's remains 
 gave to Paris an interest that no other place 
 could have. It had been his habit to pray at 
 stated times over her grave, and the anni- 
 versary of that awful day when they were 
 separated was always observed by him with 
 fasting and prayer. lie had not been near 
 her grave since that night of the " apparition " 
 at r^re-Ia-Chaise; but the anniversary was 
 not far distant, and ho would have to go there, 
 no matter what might bo his feelings, and ob- 
 Bcrvo the usual solemnities. 
 
 Now ho learned to his amazement what 
 had happened. Tliis fact at once broke into 
 all the even tenor of hi? life, and made it 
 necessary fur him to make some change. The 
 removal of those precious relics destroyed all 
 motives for remaining here. "Where those 
 remains were, there he must go. The state 
 of his feelings was such that life was only 
 tolerable near all that was mortal of her whom 
 
 ho loved, and the first thought that he had 
 when Rome was mentioned was that he must 
 leave Paris and go there. The information 
 that Kevin Magrath, and Inez, and Bessie, 
 were all going there to " pray over that grave," 
 only intensified his desires to do the same, 
 and all other thoughts became indifferent to 
 him. 
 
 What he should do first was now the 
 question. He was anxious to see Kevin Ma- 
 grath. This man's character had undergone 
 a fresh revolution in his mind. AVhen he 
 had first seen him, he had formed of him such 
 an opinion that he seemed a sort of accusing 
 witness, an avenger of blood, a relentless 
 Nemesis. After hearing the story of Inez, he 
 had been changed into a remorseless villain, 
 a dark schemer and intriguer. Now, how- 
 ever, he appeared once more in the former 
 ligiit. Whatever might be the mystery that 
 remained, it seemed evident to Kane, from 
 Bessie's words, and the acts of herself and 
 Inez, that the last judgment about Kevin Ma- 
 grath was wrong. It seemed now as tliough he 
 must have been the faithful friend of Bernal 
 Mordaunt and his children ; a just man ; a 
 tender-hearted guardian ; a loyal friend ; ono 
 who had been the champion of unprotected 
 innocence, and one, too, who had felt merci- 
 ful even to the guilty, whose form... guilt he 
 had resisted and denounced. 
 
 Yet the prospect of meeting with this man 
 had in it something so terrible for Kane tbat 
 he shrunk from it. For Kevin Magrath once 
 more seemed to be the avenger of the injured 
 Clara. lie could not help recalling his look, 
 his attitude, and his words, during that 
 memorable evening in London — those awful 
 words, every one of which Lad pierced like a 
 stab to his heart. To go now to this man 
 would be to expose himself to a repetition of 
 this painful scene, to receive fresh wounds, 
 and encounter fresh sufferings. Yet to do so 
 was necessary. This man had assisted in Iho 
 removal of Clara. lie nimsclf must havo 
 touched the casket that held tbat precious 
 treasure, and from that touch the man him- 
 self seemed now to Kane's imagination to 
 hevo acquired a kind of awful sanctity. To 
 meet him would bo more painful than ever, 
 but it was necessary in order to obtain accu- 
 rate information about the place in which they 
 had laid tho remains of his lost darling. 
 
 Kane therefore yielded to this necessity, 
 and that evening called at tho hotel along 
 
BEFORE niS JUDGE. 
 
 191 
 
 (t he bnd 
 
 : he must 
 formation 
 Bessie, 
 Jit grave," 
 Ihe same, 
 Ifferent to 
 
 ■with Gwyn. Inez and Bessie were both in 
 the room waiting for them. Kane greeted 
 Inez with affectionate cordiality, and congrat- 
 ulated her most sincerely upon the favorable 
 change in her affairs. But his thoughts were 
 80 occupied with the chief purpose of this 
 visit that he did not question her very partic- 
 ularly, and the conversation took a general 
 turn, which was at length interrupted by the 
 entrance of Kevin Magrath. 
 
 lie looked around with a beaming smile, 
 which was at once benevolent and paternal. 
 Bessie introduced him to Gwyn. He shook 
 hands with Lira cordially with some warm 
 words of welcome, and then, catching sight 
 of Kane, advanced toward him. 
 
 " Mr. Ilcllvilie — ah — Ilellmuth, sure it's 
 glad I am to see ye here ! It's sorry I was 
 the last time I saw ye that ye had to make 
 yer ajicus before the evening had begun. I 
 hope we may be able to-night to pass the time 
 in a more shuitable manner." 
 
 Saying this, ho shook hands with Kane 
 very warmly, and went on to chat with Gwyn, 
 and Bessie, and Inez, one by one, in the easi- 
 est and pleasantest way in the world. 
 
 "There's no one going that knows Home 
 better than I do," said he, in reply to some 
 remark of Bessie's about their journey. 
 "Don't I know it? Haven't I lived there, 
 off and on, for years V Meself has. There 
 isn't a cyardinal of the holy conclave that I 
 don't know, in and out. And they're a fine 
 body of min intirely, so they are, but it's a 
 pity they're so many of thim Italians. In a 
 constichutional kingdom, as Italy now is, 
 there's a wonderful chance for the holy father, 
 if he only knowed how to avail himself of it. 
 If they only wint to work the way they do in 
 Ireland and America, thoy could howld the 
 distinies of Italy and of the wurruld in the 
 hollows of their liands. But they don't com- 
 prihind, and they won't, till another ginera- 
 tion comes along that grows into the new or- 
 der of things. Ye see, what I always tell 
 them is this: Ye must conforrum more to the 
 spirit of the age. It's a liberal age and a con- 
 stichutional age. Ye must be liberal aiid con- 
 stichutional. It's no use excommunicating 
 kings and imperora, and prime mmistcrs and 
 siuators. Look at the way they do in Amer- 
 ica. They take possession of the ballot-bos, 
 and thus become shupreme. Go, says I, into 
 politics, bald-headed 1 Direct the votes of the 
 people. They're all yours. Out of twinty 
 
 millions of Italians Low many d'ye think yo 
 have on yer own side? There's tin million fa- 
 males. Out of the other tin million min five 
 million are boys who are all under the con- 
 trol of their mothers. Out of the remaining 
 five million adult min four million are adult 
 pisints, altogether under the control of the 
 priesthood, and riddy to vote as they suggist. 
 It is a great allowance to suppose a single 
 million as belonging to the Antipapal or Lib- 
 eral party. If ye wint among these, ye'd find 
 numerous ways of gaining control of three- 
 quarters of thim. lie own opinion is that, 
 out of the twinty millions of Italians, there's 
 only two hundred thousand min who can bo 
 called Liberals. .Ajid what could they do ? 
 Get universal suffrage and the ballot-box, and 
 ye'd swamp thim, so ye would. Ye howld the 
 distinies of the country in yer power, and all 
 ye've got to do is, like children of Israel at 
 the Eed Sea, whin Moses came to thim as I 
 do to you and said, as I now say, ' Go for- 
 ward ; ' or, like the same, when Joshua the 
 son of Xun said to them, ' Behold the prom- 
 ised land ! Go ye up and possess it ! ' " 
 
 Prom such high themes as these the con- 
 versation gradually faded away — Gwyn ab- 
 sorbing Bessie, and Kevin Magrath alternately 
 addressing Inez and Kane. But Inez evi- 
 dently took no interest in what she consid- 
 ered politics, and thus Kane was left as the 
 only collocutor or listener or whatever else he 
 may have been. Collocutor ho certainly was 
 not, however, for he simply listened, not at- 
 tending particularly to Kevin Magrath's re- 
 marks, but rather thinking about the best 
 way of seeing him alone, so as to ask him 
 about those things which now were upper- 
 most in his mind. At length Inez left the 
 room. Gwyn and Bessie were taken up with 
 each other, and then it was that Kane made 
 known his feelings. 
 
 " I should like very much," said ho, " to 
 ask you about some things that are of impor- 
 tance to mo. Can I see you alone for a few 
 moments?" 
 
 Kevin Magrath smiled graciously. 
 
 " With the greatest plisure in life," said 
 ho. " Come along with me to me own room, 
 and we'll make a night of it." 
 
 With these words ho rose and led the 
 way along the corridor to a room at the end 
 of it. Entering this, Kane foui.d himself in 
 a large and elegantly -furnished apartment, 
 opening into a bc^aroom. On a sideboard 
 
1 
 
 f 
 
 5 
 
 
 
 
 •' 
 
 
 ' 
 
 VJi 
 
 AN" Ori;\ QIKSTIOX. 
 
 wcro botllcH, dceautfr.-=, and tubncco-boxcs. j 
 On tho tabic was a mcerscliaum-pipe, a box 
 of cigars, and tbe latest Galiynani, 
 
 Kevin Magrath lollcd up au eapv-clialr be- 
 side the table. 
 
 " Mako versolf couifortablc," said lie, 
 cliecrily. " Yo'll take something warruni, 
 won't ye — and a pipe or so? I've whiskey 
 Lere by ine, Scotch or Irish — 'Cerium non 
 animum mutant,' ye know ; ' qui trans marc 
 currunt;' and, for my part, 1 carry a bottle 
 of Irish whiskey with me wherever I go — and 
 Scotch too, for that matter; though, on the 
 whole, I object to Scotch whiskey, for it sa- 
 vors somewhat of Calvinism, llowandivor, 
 )c'll take one or the other." 
 
 Kane mildly suggested Irish. 
 
 Kevin Magrath smiled. 
 
 "It's charruraed I am with yer taste, and 
 I take it as a compliniint to me country," and 
 he poured out a wincglassful, which he handed 
 to Kane, after which ho poured out another 
 ibr himself. "Here," said he, "lifting it to 
 his lips, "hero is a libation which I've pow- 
 ered o\it in honor of old Ireland, let's drink 
 to the first flower of the ear'.h and first gira 
 of the sea." 
 
 They both drank solemnly. 
 
 "And now," said Kevin Jfagrath, " hav- 
 ing performed the first jiities of hospitality, 
 I'm altogether at your service. But won't ye 
 take a pipe or a cigar? " 
 
 Kane declined. 
 
 "Tho fact is," said lie, drawing a long 
 breath, "my name is not llellmutli." 
 
 " The divil it isn't ! " said Kevin Magrath. 
 
 "Circumstances," said Kane, "made it 
 necessary for me on my former visit to take 
 that name. At present there is no such ne- 
 cessity. I have u.ippod it, and have taken 
 my own again." 
 
 "'Deed, thin," said Kevin Magrath, "I hope 
 that yer circumstances, whativer they are, have 
 changed for the better." 
 
 Kane sighed, and regarded the other 
 gloomily and fixedly. 
 
 " .My name," said he, is a familiar one to 
 you. It is Kane Kiithven. I am tho man 
 that married Clara Mordaunt, and caused her 
 death. I wish to talk to you about her. I 
 wish also to show you that, for any evil which 
 I did to her whom I loved, I have atoned for 
 by life-long remorse." 
 
 At the first mention of this name a siulden 
 and astonishing change came over Kevin Ma- 
 
 grath. His easy, placid smile passed away, 
 a dark frown came over his brows, he pushed 
 his chair back and started to his feet, and re- 
 garded Kane with a black, scowling face. 
 
 " You ! " he cried. 
 
 " Yes," said Kane. 
 
 Kevin Magrath looked at him for some 
 time with the same expression, but gradually 
 the severity of his features began to relax. 
 
 " I've prayed," said he, slowly "and I'vo 
 longed for the time to come whin could sec 
 ye face to face ; and thin again I've longed 
 and I've prayed that I might never see yo. 
 I've prayed to see ye that I might have ven- 
 gincc for Clara's bitter wrongs, for her be- 
 trayal, for ' er broken heart, for her death, 
 for the di onor of a noble name, and the 
 shame of a lofty lineage ; and I've prayed not 
 to see ye, so that I might niver Iiavc another 
 man's blood on my hands, for I felt sure that, 
 if I ever did see ye, that momint I'd have yer 
 heart's-blood. But, somehow," continued he, 
 after a moment's pause, "somehow — now 
 that I do sec ye face to face — sure, I don't 
 know how it is at all at all, but the desire for 
 bloody vingince has gone out of me; and ye 
 seem to have the face of a man that's paid 
 the full pinalty already of any wrong ye've iver 
 done, so ye do. And whither it is this that's 
 the matther, or whither it is that I can't rise 
 against the man that's drunk with me — but 
 sure to glory I'm changed — and so I say to 
 you, Kane Ruthven, in the name Qf God, 
 what is it that ye seek me for, and have ye 
 any thing to say for ycrself in regyard to yer 
 dealings with the young gyerrul that ye — de- 
 stroyed V " 
 
 Kevin Magrath's manner was most im- 
 pressive. It was that of a lofty, rigid, im- 
 partial judge, who will exact strict justice, yet 
 is not altogether disinclined to mercy. Kane 
 sustained his gaze with tranquillity, and looked 
 at him with a solemn, sombre brow. AVheu 
 he had finished, he said: 
 
 "You arc mistaken about me in many 
 ways, and, when you hear what I have to 
 say, you will have a less harsh opinion of me 
 than the one you expressed in London." 
 
 " Go on, then ; let me hear what you have 
 to say, for it's mesolf that would be the proud 
 man if ye could clear ycrself of any of the 
 guilt that's seemed to be attached to ye." 
 
 Kane now proceeded to tell his whole 
 story. lie told it frankly and fully, heaping 
 blame upon himself lavirhly, yet clearing 
 
 r-' 
 
l!i;i'()l!H Ills JL'DGK. 
 
 193 
 
 liiiiisc'.t' of all O.ui.'V worse cliargi;s wiiicli Ma- 
 gi'atli liail uttered against liiiu. 
 
 After it was over, Magrath remained imis- 
 iiig for a long time. 
 
 " Siiro," said lie, at last, " there was vil- 
 lany, though ' not with you. Your brother 
 was hard, but it was my poor frind IJennigar 
 Wyverne that was the areh-traitor and rogue. 
 ]iut how in tlie worruld did it happen that 
 Clara did not know herself that she was the 
 daughter of Bernal Mordauut, and heiress of 
 Mordaunt Manor ? " 
 
 " I can't account for it at all." 
 
 " I've heard it stated on iminiut authority," 
 paid Jlagrath, " that a boy who leaves his 
 liomc, or is taken from his home, at the age of 
 tin, and is thrown into a foreign land among 
 strangers, will in five years forget his own 
 name, his father's name, and his native lan- 
 guage. I nivir believed it before, but now 
 this looks like it. Clara lost her home and 
 her father at tin ; she had not lived regularly 
 at Mordaunt Manor either, and was sent into 
 Kranee ; and thus it has ha])pcneil tliut she 
 forgot in a few years the most important 
 tilings." 
 
 '' It mu-t h ive been so," said Kane. " She 
 knew her name, but had no roc;illection of 
 Mordaunt Manor — at le:ist slie said notliing 
 about it — and she certainly had no idea that 
 she was an lieiress." 
 
 Another long silence followed. 
 
 " Kane Ruthven," said Maurath, at la.st — 
 "or perhaps I ought to say Sir Kane — what 
 you have said clears you com))letely and ut- 
 terly from the suspicions which I had forrumcd 
 about you. You have not been guilty, as I 
 MOW sec, of any thing worse than careless- 
 ness, or thoughtlessness. For that you have 
 sulVeied enough. I must say that me con- 
 science condimns shuicide, and in that act yo 
 were clearly wrong; it was unnecessary; she 
 would have drifted home or into my hands, 
 for I was close upon her track at that very 
 lime, llowandiver, what's done can't bo un- 
 done, and, as ye'rc an innoeintand asufl'ering 
 nuin, why — there's my hand." 
 
 With this he reached out his hand. Kane 
 took it, and Magrath siiook it heartily. 
 
 " I have understood," said Kane, anx- 
 iously and hesitatingly, " that — that she — she 
 was removed from the cemetery." 
 
 " It was her father's wish," said Magrath, 
 " that she should be buried beside her mother 
 in Rome." 
 
 13 
 
 " She is now in Home, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, with her mother ; ond the other 
 two daughters, Inez and jiessic, are going to 
 pray over the graves for the repose of the 
 souls of their mother and their sister." 
 
 "I should think that they would Lave 
 been taken rather to Mordaunt Manor." 
 
 "It was Bcrnal MorJaunl's doing," said 
 Magrath. " But they are all united, for Bes- 
 sie's filial piety lias accomplished one of the 
 last wishes of her father ; and, while she was 
 living at Kuthven Towers, her father's remains 
 were c-xlif iied and taken to Rome." 
 
 Kane hardly heard these last words. His 
 mind w.is occupied exclusively with thoughts 
 of Clara. Magrath's information was con- 
 clusive. It was wliat he had wished to know, 
 and there was nothing more to bo learned. 
 About the affairs of Inez bethought no more. 
 Slie was safe now with loving friends; the 
 mysterious circumstances about her late im- 
 prisonment were no doubt satisfactorily ex- 
 plained, and he himself had no further inter- 
 est in the matter. 
 
 It was with a feeling of satisfaction, how- 
 ever, that Kane reflected on the formal ac- 
 quittal w hicli Magrath had given him of evil 
 acts. For Magrath was now to him a stern, 
 a just, and a wise judge, from whom a dec- 
 laration of this sort was valuable, iiuleed. 
 There n as at the conclusion of this interview 
 a deeper solemnity than usual in the manner 
 of each of tlieni, and Magrath did not press 
 him to stay, ora^k him again to take a drink. 
 
 That night (Iwyn bade Bessie farewell. 
 She was to start with Inez early on the fol- 
 lowing morning for Rome. 
 
 " You'll come on soon, Cwynnie darling," 
 said she, tenderly. 
 
 " Immediately, of course, l^essie dearest." 
 
 " And you'll bring dear Kane ? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 Bessie looked at him earnestly. 
 
 " We're beggars now, so we are, Gwynuio 
 dear, but I love you, and we can be as happy 
 in our poverty as ever we were in our wealth, 
 so we can." 
 
 Gwyn pressed her to his heart and left. 
 
 As ho walked away, nis heart was full of 
 bitterness. Kane and Inez seemed now like 
 interlopers, who had come between him and 
 his darling, casting her down from the wealth 
 and luxury with which he had thought he had 
 endowed her. Kane again had been the in- 
 nocent cause of this foul wrong which ho had 
 
«t^ 
 
 194 
 
 AX OI'EX QUESTION. 
 
 ■i . I ■ 
 
 i:j ; 
 
 
 i 
 
 ;! 
 
 
 done his wil'c, and luez came forward as her 
 supplanter in ilorduuut Manor, and also as in 
 Bomo sort a rival to himaelf, since sbc had 
 drawn Bessio away from hiui. 
 
 All these things filled his heart with bit- 
 terness, and with these feelings be sought 
 Knnc's apartments that night. 
 
 CIIArTER XLYir. 
 
 DB PROFUNDIS CLAMAVI. 
 
 For a long time Blake lay senseless, but 
 at last struggled back into consciousness. 
 V/hen he did so, the constraint of his posi- 
 tion, the weakness of his limbs, and the hard 
 stone wliicli met the first feeble uiovenicnts 
 of his arms, all tended to retard the approach 
 of sense, while the deep darkness all around 
 added to his bowiklcrment. By a mere ani- 
 mal instinct, he drew himself up from tlic 
 place where he had fallen, and turned his 
 eyes around, seeking to find some visible ob- 
 ject in that worse tluiu midnight darkne.-^'. 
 But nothing whatever was to be seen, and not 
 one ray of light, however faint, appeared in 
 any direction. Confused aiid perplexcil, and 
 not as yet able to collect his thoughts, or 
 comprehend his situation, he stood for a few 
 minutes thus, staring blindly into the gloom ; 
 and then liis linihs, wliieh had not yet re- 
 covered their fnll strength, gave Wiiy unuer 
 him, and he sank down upon the rocky floor 
 of the passage-way, immediately outside the 
 sepulchre, through which he had made his 
 ill-fated entrance here. 
 
 Here his mind struggled to establish a 
 connection with its former self, but for 
 some time was baffled. Blake was aware of 
 his own identity, and could recall much of 
 his past life, particularly that which referred 
 to his adventures at St. Malo and Villeneuve. 
 But every thing since then was dull and in- 
 distinct, nor could his memory recall any 
 thing that had occurred since his parting w ilh 
 Inez. There was a terrible sense of disaster, 
 a desolating sense of some irreparable ca- 
 lamity, and somehow it Ecemed to be eoii- 
 neeted with Inez, but how he could not lell. 
 Then there dawned i^lowly upon his mind the 
 knowledge of the place where he was. Tlic 
 rocky floor and wall, the rocky cell which he 
 bad just left, served to suggest this; yet, for 
 a time, he was (piite unable to account for 
 
 his presence here. He was in the Catacombs, 
 imprisoned here, without light, without hope 
 of escape, 'Who had done this thing? 
 
 Gradually the remembrances of the past 
 returned. First came the recollection of 
 those last words as they sounded, hollow and 
 terrible, through the piled-up stones, "Blake 
 Wi/venie, farewell forever J" Then the thought 
 of O'liourke, his desertion and betrayal ; of 
 the plot that had been made to entice him 
 here ; of the long preparation, and final com- 
 pletion of it. Each incident seemed more 
 terrible than its predecessor, and at length 
 every thing was recalled, and the whole hor- 
 ror of his fate stood revealed, rendered now 
 doubly so Ijy that horror of great darkness 
 which closed in all around him. 
 
 lie was here, shut in among the dead — 
 himself as good as dead. lie was buried 
 here — in the Catacombs ! The existence that 
 yet remained was but a mockery, a life in 
 death, a prolongation of woo, a lingering out of 
 his capacity for suffering, and better would it 
 be to destroy himself than to wait for the slow 
 and agonizing approaches of that death which 
 was incvilal)lo. With a shudder he recalled 
 the story of Aloysius, and the dread fate of 
 the lost Onofrio — a fate which, by a terrible 
 coincidence, was now to find a counterpart 
 in his own. Between him and the world 
 there lay an impassable barrier ; he was buried 
 alive, and the stones at the door of his sep- 
 ulchre could be moved away by no power of 
 his. 
 
 Suddenly there came to his ears a rush- 
 ing sound, the patter of footsteps. He 
 started up to his feet in horror, and, for a 
 moment, though ho had thus iiu- been a 
 stranger to superstitious feelings of any kind, 
 there came to his mind a terrible thought, the 
 thought of Onofrio, of disembodied spirits, 
 I and of all t! ose otlier horrors which beset 
 i even tiie boldest in such a siti:>\tion. But 
 the pattering sound came nearer, and some- 
 thing bru.'^hed against his feet, and his hasty, 
 , superstitious fancy was displaced by the dis- 
 : covery of the truth. Tiiat truth was hardly 
 , less formidable, however, than the fancy had 
 j been, for he now knew that this was an army 
 I of rats, and he knew, too, that in such a place 
 I these animals are bold and ravenous. He 
 feared, too, tliat tlicy had scented liim from 
 afar, and had come to him to begin their 
 abominable work. 
 
 A moment before he had not thought it 
 
 
tncombf, 
 lout Lopo 
 
 ? 
 
 the past 
 jction of 
 oUow and 
 ''Blake 
 10 tUougl.u 
 rayal ; of 
 nticc bim 
 final com- 
 ncd more 
 at length 
 
 hole hor- 
 Jercd now 
 
 darkness 
 
 the dead — 
 ivas buried 
 ifitence that 
 y, a life in 
 ;ering out of 
 tor would it 
 for the slow 
 death which 
 ho rcealled 
 read fate of 
 yy a terrible 
 counterpart 
 1 the world 
 ic was buried 
 r of his Bep- 
 no power of 
 
 cars a rush- 
 jtstcpsi. Ho 
 )r, and, for a 
 
 far been a 
 I of any kind, 
 ! thought, the 
 adied spirits, 
 
 which beset 
 nation, Hut 
 or, nud sonic- 
 ind his hasty, 
 id by the dis- 
 h was hardly 
 tlie fancy had 
 
 was an army 
 I such a idace 
 I venous. Ho 
 Led hiin from 
 3 begin their 
 
 Kit thought it 
 
 DE PROl-TNDIS CLAMAYI. 
 
 195 
 
 possible that any thing coidd increase the 
 horror of his situation, but now he recognized 
 something which added to the bitterness of 
 death. But it did more. It stirred him up 
 to activity — to self- defence. This mortal 
 cueniy was something against which ho had 
 to fight at once, and well was it for him that 
 he was roused, even in such a way as this, 
 out of his despair, and fureed to some sort of 
 action. 
 
 Xow, uo sooner had he started to his feet 
 with the instinct of self-defence, and pre- 
 pared to do battle against this ravenous en- 
 emy, than all his soul started up into strenu- 
 ous vigilant activity, all the powers of his 
 mind regained tone and force, and in an in- 
 stant he took the measure of himself and his 
 assailants, and tlie scene of conflict. 
 
 Xow, for the first time in the midst of 
 this impenetrable darkness, ho thought of 
 his lantern. Hastily reaching out his arm, 
 ho felt in the cell behind him, and to his 
 great joy found it lying there. lie had 
 matches in his pocket, whieli, being a smok- 
 er, he usually carried with him ; and on this 
 occasion he could not help feeling a fervent 
 emotion of joy that he had ever acquired that 
 habit. In a few moments tlie lantern was 
 ligiited, and the rats, squeaking and shrinking 
 back like wild animals from the unaccustomed 
 gleam of light in such a i)lacc, hurried awav 
 in fear; and Blake heard their pattering foot- 
 steps dying away in tlie distance, in the di- 
 rection of tluit way which U'llourke had led 
 him, and over which he had returned. 
 
 Tiic rats wore thus driven oil' for 'he pres- 
 ent, but iJlakc knew very well that they 
 would retuiii, especially if his lamp should go 
 out. That i)recious light would have to be 
 guarded with care, for upon this alone now 
 rested any hope, however feeble, which he 
 dared to cherish. There was no time to stand 
 and deliberate, lie would iiave io make use 
 of his lamp while it yet was burning, and so 
 he hurriedly set out along the path in the 
 opposite direction to where O'Rourko had 
 taken him, with a vague idea in his mind that 
 he would reach the vaults of the Monastery 
 of San Antonio, and perhaps be able to cfTeet 
 an opening through tlie walled-up archw.ay. 
 
 It was not long before he carao to a cross- 
 passage. This surprised him, for he did not 
 expect to find any. lie kept straight on, 
 however, and walked thus until ho had gone 
 a much greater distance than that which lay 
 
 between the house by which ho had entered 
 and the street on which the Monastery of San 
 Antonio stood. Hero, at length, ho carao to 
 a chamber, something like the one which ho 
 had visited with O'Uourke, out of which two 
 passages led. At this point he paused. 
 
 It now becamo slowly apparent ihat there 
 was no archway walled up, no vaults of San 
 Antonio contiguous to the Catacombs, and 
 consequently no further hope for him in this 
 direction. Uo began to believe now that 
 there was probably no Monastery of .''an An- 
 tonio, but that this, like the monk Aloysius, 
 and the monk Ouofrio, had all been the creat- 
 ures of O'Rourkc's imagination. Again, ho 
 had to make the discovery that the wholo 
 story of the monk's manuscripts, down to the 
 minutest particular, had been narrated only 
 for the purpose of enticing him here, and that 
 it only agreed with facts so far as it was ne- 
 cessary that it should. 
 
 Once more, full of the conviction that 
 what was to bo done shoulJ be done quickly, 
 Blake turned and hastily retraced his steps, 
 thinking as he went on about what his best 
 course now was. Ilis first thought was to 
 get the clew and the ladder, without which 
 he was but ill prepared for penetrating in any 
 direction. With these ho felt able to make 
 some vigorous explorations as long as his 
 lamp held out. Xow, as ho turned, he heard 
 in the distance before him the pattering foot- 
 falls of his ravenous pursuers, and knew that 
 they wer watching him all the time. As ho 
 advanced now, they turned and fled, their 
 footfalls dying out far away. It seemed to 
 Blake that their haunts lay in that direction. 
 It se;'nied, too, that they must have some 
 communication with the upper world, for in 
 these Catacombs there was nothing upoa 
 which they could live. A faint hope arose, 
 therefore, that if ho should continue his 
 searches in that direction he might possibly 
 reach some opening. 
 
 As he walked on, ho at length came to the 
 place where the ladder was. This he took 
 possession of. X'ot long after he came to the 
 clew, which lay on the ground, and this ho 
 proceeded to wind up for future use ; for he 
 felt sufficiently familiar with the way thus far 
 to go without the clew iu case of necessity. 
 But there came to him, even while he waa 
 winding it tip, a mournful thought of tha 
 utter usclcssness of the clew to one in his 
 circumstances, who would not wish to re- 
 
196 
 
 AN' OI'llN' QI'KSTION'. 
 
 ::i 
 
 tm 
 
 trace liis sti-ps, but rather to go on till lie 
 Bhould find signs of some way ol'oscapo. 
 
 And now his active mind busied itself, as 
 he went on, in the endeavor to discover what 
 direction niight give Ihu best promise of es- 
 cape. In spile of his conviction that the 
 whole of O'lldurke's story was a fiction, lie 
 Btill thouf;ht tliiit some portions of it might 
 give liim iu.'orination ; and, as his doseiiiilion 
 of portions of the jiatlis had been true, so 
 also might his assertions about the general 
 direction of this path on which he was going. 
 O'liourkc's a.«scrtion liad been that it ran 
 toward the Tahitine Hill, and the whole point 
 of his narrative had consisted in tlie theory 
 that it actually passed under the Palatine, 
 and was possibly connected with some of the 
 ancient vaults. If this were so, it seemed to 
 IJlakc that an opening might be found through 
 these vaults, and that thus his escape could 
 be made. 
 
 AVith this in his mind, Blake concluded to 
 go on as rapidly as possible along that very 
 path by which O'llourkc had tried to lead 
 him to destruction. In a short time he came 
 to that place which O'llourkc had called the 
 Painted Chamber, and, hurrying on quickly, 
 yet cautiously, he soon reached the opening 
 into the lower jiassiige-way. Donn this he 
 descended, and, as he passed down, his eyes 
 caught sight of those holes in the wall which 
 lie had so laborijusly made. But it was not 
 a time to yield to emotions of any sort, or to 
 feed his melancholy in any way. 
 
 lie now walked on very cautioiisly, for ho 
 was afraid of openings in the floor, and it was 
 jicccrsary to look well to his path. lie ex- 
 pected before long to reach some larger 
 chamber, which might mark the neighbor- 
 hood of the I'alatino Hill. For O'Kourke's 
 f tory had still so strong a hold of his mind 
 that he fully expected to see that place which 
 liad been called the " Treasure "liambcr," 
 though of course ho had not the slightest 
 expectation of finding any treasure, nor was 
 there any possibility that one in his dcper- 
 nte circumstances should feel the slightest 
 wish to find it. 
 
 As he went on, he found that the cro.i^s- 
 passages were much less numerous than they 
 had been. The path also along which he 
 went had b\it a slight deflection from a 
 straight course — so slight, indeed, that it was 
 the same to Blake as a straight line. No 
 pitfalls lay in his way, and it seemed to him 
 
 j that he had reaehed the lowest level on whieli 
 the Catiiconibs had been made. 
 
 At length he had walked on so far that h« 
 bc;j»n 10 hc.-itute. It was time fur him to 
 have reached that chamber tinder the I'al.i- 
 tiiie, but ho had found nothin{^' in liis way 
 which, by any stretch of fancy, could be called 
 a chamber. It had been a narrow passag'v 
 way, preserving the same dimensions all 
 along, and the characteristic features which 
 distinguished all the passages here. Ho 
 seemed to bo wandering on intcrnunably, 
 and at length the vague hope which thus far 
 had cncoiiragcd him, or at least led him on, 
 now faded away altogether, and lie walked 
 on slowly, merely because it seemed better 
 than standing still. 
 
 There was no treasure, i/ml he already 
 knew; but he had now found out that there 
 was no chamber either, no connection with 
 any ancient vaults, and possibly no approach 
 to the neighborhood of the Palatine. That 
 part of O'Kourke's statements seemed now 
 evidently thrown in to stimulate the fancy by 
 giving plausible grounds to his theory of the 
 treasure of the Ca-sars. And where, now, 
 should he go? In what direction should ho 
 turn? Might he not bo wandering farther 
 and farther away from the path of safely ? 
 
 AVith such thoughts as these, amid which 
 not one ray of hope presented itself, Blake 
 wandered on more and more slowly. At 
 length he reached a cross-passage, and hove 
 he came to a full stop. To go on any farther 
 along this passage-way seemed useless. Hero, 
 too, his hesitation was succeeded by a dis- 
 covery that promised the very worst. Already 
 he had noticed that the lump lind become 
 dimmer, but ho had refused to believe it, and 
 had tried to think that it was the hardening 
 of the wick, but now the fact could no longer 
 be concealed. Even as he stood here for a 
 few moments, that light — which to him was 
 symbolical of the light of life — faded more 
 and more. AVith a despairing hand he opened 
 the lantern, and picked olf the top of (he wick 
 that had caked over, feelir.g all the while the 
 utter hopelessness of such an act, for how 
 could that prolong in any degree the life of 
 the dying flame? It did not prolong it; the 
 flame died down lower and lower. 
 
 I'pon this, Blake, actuated by a sudden 
 impulse, blew it out. He thought that the 
 small (piantily of oil yet remaining might 
 better be preserved for some extreme uio- 
 
! on wli it'll 
 
 fur Unit li« 
 
 'or him to 
 
 tlio ral!\- 
 
 n ilia way 
 
 1 he oalled 
 
 w passago 
 
 ii^iioiis nil 
 
 irc3 whicli 
 
 hero. Ho 
 
 termiimbly, 
 
 eh thus far 
 
 ed hhn on, 
 
 lie walked 
 
 Mned butter 
 
 he already 
 t that there 
 leclion with 
 no npproncii 
 atino. That 
 ficcmcd now 
 the fancy by 
 hcory of the 
 where, now, 
 in should he 
 lerinj; farther 
 of safety ? 
 ;, amid whieh 
 itnelf, Blake 
 slowly. At 
 ige, and here 
 )n any farther 
 i?cU'?s. Hero, 
 led by a dis- 
 orst. Already 
 I had become 
 believe it, and 
 the hardening 
 mid no longer 
 od here for a 
 h to liim was 
 . — faded more 
 land he opened 
 (>p of the wick 
 1 the wliile the 
 I act, for how 
 rco the life of 
 rolong it; the 
 L-r. 
 
 1 by a sudden 
 night that the 
 maining might 
 c cxlrcnic mo- 
 
 DC I'UOFUXDIS CLAMAVr. 
 
 197 
 
 nu'iit of liin life, when a ray of light for but 
 a minute iniglit bo of far more value tlian 
 now. So ho extinguished it for the present, 
 and preserved the minute or so of light that 
 might yet be given for future need. 
 
 All wag now darkness, dense, imponctra- 
 hlc, appalling. Ilin long search had resulted 
 in absolutely nothing, and he began to think 
 that it would have been better for him at this 
 moment if he hail never set out upon it. It 
 seemed now as though he might liave elTcctcd 
 Bomething, had he devoted all thiii time tow- 
 ard the task of moving away some portion 
 of the stony barrier which O'Rourke had set 
 up. A little reflection, however, showed him 
 that this would have been impossible. lie 
 recollected the immense masses that closed 
 up the opening, and considered that behind 
 these were other masses. Xo; escape by 
 that way was impossible, 
 
 lie was at the intersection of two paths, 
 and lie had no idea now in what direction it 
 might be best to go. The darkness was tre- 
 mendous. The silence, also, that reigned all 
 around, was almost equally impressive. Now, 
 as ho listened, that silence was broken by 
 sounds which to him were more terrible even 
 than the silence. They showed the presence 
 of those ravenous foes wiio had hold aloof 
 during his progress witli the light, but who 
 now, while he stood in darkness, prepared to 
 attack him. It was their hour, and they 
 Kceniod to know it. From afar came tlio 
 fiound of their advance, tlio movement of 
 rapid, pattering feet, the hurry of abominable 
 things past him, the touch of horrible objects 
 that sort a shudder llirough him. Since ho 
 had descended to this lower leve^, he had 
 seen nothing of them, and in his other cares 
 had forgotten them. Now they made their 
 presence felt and feared. They came up from 
 the passage-way on his right. lie could tell 
 by the sounds that they were very numerous ; 
 ho could fool that they were very bold. 
 
 To stand still there was impossible ; to do 
 80 would simply be to make an attack certain. 
 Once ho siruck a match, and the flash of the 
 light revealed a sight so abhorrent that he 
 was glad to have the darkness shut it out 
 again — a multitude of eager, hungry eyes, 
 from the rnvenous little monsters that shrunk 
 back at the sudden blaze, but were ready at 
 any moment to spring. 
 
 Ho must move, for movement was his only 
 safety. The narrowness of the passage fa- 
 
 vored him, for he could not l)o sumnmded ; 
 he might possibly drive tlnin before him. To 
 move along this passage, by which tliey wero 
 advancing upon him, was necessary. I'erhaps, 
 also, it might be best. These animals must 
 have some communication with tlie outer 
 world, and it might possildy he found in tlii:J 
 direction. This way, then, seemed to him to 
 be by far the most promising, or, rather, to 
 be the one which had less of despair. Ho 
 could not help wondering why the rats had 
 not appeared when O'Rourke was with him. 
 Could it have been the greater light or noiso 
 that deterred them, or the sound of human 
 voices ? 
 
 No sooner had Blake tliought of this than 
 ho resolved to break the silonco himself, and 
 to use his own voice against tlietn, hoping 
 that the unusual sound miglit alarm them. 
 Already they were leaping up his legs. Ho 
 swung his ladder around, and advanced, push- 
 ing it before him, and wriggling it backward 
 and forward. This was partly to drive tlio 
 rats before him, and partly to feel his patli- 
 way, so as to guard against openings. Thus 
 ho set forth, and resumed liis journey in the 
 dark. 
 
 But not in silence. Ho was to try the 
 efToct of a human voice over his assailants. 
 But witli what words should he speak, what 
 cry should he give there, commensurate with 
 that appalling gloom, that terrible silence, 
 these abhorrent enemies ? No common \rords, 
 no words of evcry-day speech, were possible. 
 Where should he find words which might at 
 once be a weapon against the enemy and at 
 the same time be concordant with the anguii- li 
 of his soul? No words of his could do this. 
 He would have to make use of other words. 
 B. . A ^ mt his thoughts to words heard in 
 yonrr ^/ast — the solemn and sublime words of 
 the services of his Church, heard in child- 
 hood and boyhood, and remembered, though 
 of late neglected and despised. In his an- 
 guish his soul caught up a cry of anguisii — 
 the cry of- despairing sou's in all ages, which 
 never sounded forth from a more despairing 
 sonl, and never amid more terrific surround- 
 ings, than when Blake, wandeiing wildly on, 
 burst forth : 
 
 " Be pvofundk clamavi ad te, Domine ; Do- 
 mine, cxnudi voccm meam. 
 
 " Fiant aurrs tiuB hitcndentca in vocem dt' 
 prccaliani)! mrrfy 
 
 Nor was this the first time that this cry 
 
I' 
 
 108 
 
 AN' (H'V.S (irilSTIO.V. 
 
 1 
 
 p 
 
 hiul ffonc fofl-li, in Latin, tn fJroek, or in He- 
 brew, from (Icypniiing Hoiila in tho Catacombs 
 of Rome. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 BACK TO I.IFK. 
 
 The loud and prolonijcd orios of Bhxko 
 proved more efficacious than nny netivo ef- 
 forts. Tliere seemed something in tho sound 
 of this hiimnn voice which strucic terror ,to 
 tho fierce assailants by whom ho was thrcat- 
 eneil ; and thoii,i;li lint u sliort time before 
 tlipy liad been swarming near and loapinp; up 
 against him, yet no sooner had tho first words 
 of his cry pealed forth, than they started 
 back as thon^'h terrificil, and finally retreated 
 far away. Tliere was a mournful satisfaction 
 in having been so far successful, but none the 
 loss there remained in his soul a feeling which 
 was now one of nnalterablc despair. Though 
 for the present his enemies han fled, yet he 
 did not cease his cries utterly, but from time 
 to time gave utterance to tliera, so that what- 
 ever power they had might be made use of. 
 
 lie still walked on, pushing his ladder 
 along the floor before him, and moving it as 
 he pushed it .«o as to test the floor, and guard 
 against the danger of openings into lower re- 
 gions, rie still carried the lantern which 
 contained its few drops of oil as a last resort 
 when some supreme crisis should arrive and 
 light bo needed. Thus he went on, nor did 
 he forget that faint encouragement which he 
 h.id gathered before he began tliis last march, 
 by the fact that the rats had emerged from 
 this direction, and might possibly have some 
 communication here with the outer world. 
 There was now nothing better for him than 
 to move on, and he was resolved to move on 
 till he died. 
 
 lie had not gone far, after all. It was not 
 long since he had left the place where his 
 lamp had failed him ; ho had walked very 
 slowly and very cautiously, for in that dark- 
 ness any rapid progress was utterly out of the 
 question. ITe had to step slowly and cau- 
 tiously, feeling his way most carefullv, first 
 with the lad<icr, then with his foot, testing ilie 
 ground before him, first with his toe before 
 daring to plant himself Crmlv, and advancing 
 only a few inches at a time. In this way he 
 accomplished about twenty or tbii ty yards, 
 
 when all of a sudden he Viecau.e aware' of 
 something wiiirli was so amazing that ho 
 stood still as thouph ptiralyzed, with his eyes 
 fastened upon that something before him. 
 
 That something hail no very definable 
 shape or form, yet the verj- fact that there 
 was something before him, >ipon which his 
 eyes could fi.\ themselves, was of itself H\\{R- 
 cient to account for the great rush of con- 
 tending emotions which now succeeded to his 
 despair, and overwhelmed him. There was 
 liefore iiim — before his eyes — a visible some- 
 thing ; dim, obscure, yet appreciable to the 
 sense of vision, and it was not far away. It 
 was a dull anil barely perceptible liglit — so 
 dim that it could scarce be called light, and 
 yet it was light, light positive and unmistak- 
 able — light, too, from no lamp, but from the- 
 great external ocean of light which he h.ad .so 
 yearned to rea ' and which now seemed to 
 send forth t' n* stream to beckon him 
 
 onward, and 'C him with hope and joy 
 
 and life. 
 
 \3 he stood there motionless for a time, 
 of which he took no account, that light grew 
 perceptibly brighter, and every moment 
 brought a fresher and a sweeter assurance to 
 his soul that there was no mistake, that his 
 wanderings had led him in the right direc- 
 tion ; that there was some opening here 
 ihrouph which came the light of the extemal 
 world — the world of life. At length the as- 
 surance grew 80 strong that it broke down 
 his inaction, and he started forward to reach 
 it, still moving cautiously, and feeling his way 
 as before. lie saw as he slowly advanced an 
 irregidar aperture gradually taking form, and 
 through this penetrated that dim yet ever-in- 
 creasing light which had met his eyes. Every 
 minute that outline became more clearly de- 
 fined, until at length there was more than an 
 outline. lie ,;aw light and shade, and tho 
 rough surface of stone, and a lighter space 
 beyond the opening. The intense darkness 
 from which he had just emerged had given 
 to his eyes a greater power than \isual of dis- 
 cerning objects illumined by this faint light; 
 and, faint though it was, it brightened more 
 and more, ju^t as though the external source 
 of this light was itself increasing in bright- 
 ness. To Blake it seemed as if the sun was, 
 or might be, rising in that outer world; and 
 the increasing light which he saw might bo 
 the sign of that gathering dawn. 
 
 At length he reached the place, aud Stood 
 
HACK TO LIFE. 
 
 199 
 
 for a moment scarcely able to Ijclitve in tlio 
 rcnlity of liis gooil fortune. It was nn open- 
 ing into (I Bpaco beyinul, nhont three feet long 
 mid two feet liigli, formed by the removal of 
 some blocks of stone. The space beyond was 
 iin arched pnssngo-way constructed of enor- 
 mous blocks of Htone, about six feet in tipight, 
 and mueh wider than tho passages of the 
 Catacombs. At the bottom water was flow- 
 ing along. Thiu.stinghiH head further through, 
 }ie looked up and down. In the one direction 
 all was dark, but in the other, at no very 
 great distance, there appearf d the glad outer 
 world, over which was brightening the morn- 
 ing sky, with fielih* and houses reddening un- 
 der the flu.sii of dawn. 
 
 Ifo remained here some time, drinking in 
 great waves of this ever-increasing light with 
 something like adoration, quaflfin it like one 
 into.\ieatcil, hardly able to sati.'^l ;. Iiimself, but 
 giving liiniscif up idtogethcr to the ecstasy 
 of tho moment. And what was this place, 
 he wondered, upon which he bad thus so 
 strar.gely stumbled ? What was this archway 
 of Cyclopean stones, hoar with age, ^\itli its 
 floor filled with rubbish, and running water 
 passing on? A bro!:on fragment of one 
 of the massive rocks composing its sides 
 had been removed, and formed the opening 
 which had given him life once more. Doubt- 
 li'ss this fragment had been removed in past 
 ages by fugitives who thus were able to es- 
 cape I ur^tiit by plunging into the Catncombs. 
 rcrhaps those wlio removed the broken frag- 
 men; cut the passage-way along to those far- 
 tlie, 1 ; or perhaps it was tho work of some 
 of th early Christians in the ages of persecu- 
 tion, and this may have been one of the se- 
 cret and unsuspected entrances to tho subter- 
 ranean hiding-plaoos. But what was this an- 
 cient arch itself? Xo place of graves — no 
 passage-way among many others like it, was 
 this. It was unique. It stood alone; and 
 Illake, though a stranger in Rome, had sufTi- 
 cient knowledge of its most remarkable mon- 
 uments to feel sure that this place upon wluch 
 he had so strangely come was no other than 
 the most venerable, the most ancient, and in 
 many respects the most wonderful, of all the 
 works of ancient Rome — the Cloaca Maxima. 
 
 But this was not a time for wonder, or 
 for curiosity, or for antiquarian researches. 
 Death lay behind him. Light and life lay 
 before him. The horrors through which he 
 had passed Lad produced their natural effect 
 
 in extreme prostration of mind and body, 
 Some rest, some breathing-space, was re- 
 {juired ; but, after that, if he would save him- 
 self, if ho would not perish within the very 
 reach of safety, he must hurry on. 
 
 He crawled through and stood in tho 
 Cloaca Maxima. It ran before him, leading 
 him to the outer worlii, giving him light and 
 life. Tho treasure of tho Ilomaii emperors, 
 which ho had dreamed of finding, had been 
 missed ; but ho had found tho work of tho 
 Roman kings, which to him, in his despair, 
 was worth infinitely more. He stood in oozo 
 and slime, over which passed running water, 
 which flowed to tho Tiber. RIako did not 
 wait, but hurried onward as fast as ho could. 
 Tho brightening scene, visible in the distance, 
 and growing more brilliant every moment, 
 drew him onward, and the terrors behind 
 him drove' him forward ; so that this com- 
 biiicd attraction and repulsion gave him ad- 
 ditional .strength and speed. lie hurried on, 
 and still on, and at length reached the mouth 
 of the arched passage. Here he saw sloping 
 banks on either side ; and, clambering up the 
 bank on the right, he stood for a moment to 
 rest liimsclf. 
 
 In that brief period of rest he had no eyes 
 and no thoughts for the scene around, though 
 for some that scene would have posse ^ed a 
 charm greater tlian any other tliat may ba 
 met with in all the world. He did not notico 
 the Aventint', the Capitoline, the Janiculura, 
 in tho distance, and the yellow Tiber thai 
 flowed between. He was thinking only of 
 rest, of refuge. He longed for some sort of 
 home, some place where he might lie down 
 and sleep. He only noticed that it was the 
 morning of a new day, and consequently per- 
 ceived that he must have spent a whole night 
 in the Catacombs. 
 
 In that night what horrors had he not 
 endured ! As he stood there panting for 
 breath, the recollection came over him of all 
 that he had passed through. He thought of 
 that first moment when he discovered that ho 
 was alone ; that the ladder and the clew were 
 gone ; that he had been betrayed. He thought 
 of his despair, followed by his cfTbrfs to es- 
 cape ; his long labor at the walls of stone; 
 his ascent to the upper floor and pursuit of 
 O'Rourke ; his arrival at the opening, and 
 his discovery that it was walled up. Then 
 he heard the rattle of stones, and tho voice 
 of his betrayer, saying, " Blake Wifi'tme, fart- 
 
200 
 
 AS OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 :?^ 
 
 well forever ! "' lie rccallcJ liis I'ninlini; fit, 
 his recovery, and his renewal of his uflbrts to 
 esciipe; ami then followed that long horror, 
 that iii;i,l:t of agony, in which lie had wan- 
 dered along that terrific patliwiiy, with its 
 appalling surrounding.-". In such a situation 
 a man might well have died through utter 
 fright, or have sunk down to death through 
 despiiir, or have wandered aimlessly till all 
 strength had failed hira. It was to lilake's 
 credit that, even in 'is despair, he had pre- 
 served some sort ot presence of mind, and 
 had not been without a method in his mo\"c- 
 laents. Yet the suffering had been terrible ; 
 and the anguish of soul that ho had endured 
 intensitied his bodily fatigues, so that now, in 
 the very moment of safety, he found himself 
 unable to obtain the benefits of that safety; 
 and so extreme was his prostration and so 
 utter his weakness that it was only with dif- 
 ficulty that he kept himself from sinking 
 down into scnsclessni'ss on the spot. 
 
 This would not do. lie must obtain some 
 sort of a home, some kind of ii lodging-idace, 
 where he might rest and receive attention. 
 His strong and i ^solute nature still asserted 
 itself in L^pite of the weakness of the flesh, 
 and he dragged hitnself onward, unwilliiig to 
 give up, unable to surrender himself too easily 
 to the frailty of his physical nature. The in- 
 stinct of self-preservation a1.-;o warned him to 
 seek some shelter, where he niight be con- 
 cealed from the discovery of ORourke ; for, 
 even in the weakness of that hour und in the 
 confusion of his mind, he had a keen sense 
 of impending danger, t'-neuicr v ith a desire 
 to maintain the secret of his escape. Aui- 
 matod by this, lie went on, but by what way.i 
 and innier what circumstances he was never 
 afterward able to remember. 
 
 Afterward ho had only a vague recollection 
 of strcx's and houses. Few people were to 
 be seen. Tlic streets were narrow, the houses 
 lofiy ni.d f:loomy. It was the oliler, the 
 meaner, and the most densely-peopled part 
 of the city. The early morning prevented 
 many fro.;; being abroad. Ho watched the 
 windows of the houses with close and rnger 
 ""•rutiny, BO as to discover some place where 
 lie might rest. At length he founci a place 
 where there was a notice in the window for 
 lodgers, He knew enough Italian to under- 
 stand it, and entered by the door, which hap- 
 pened to be open. An old woman was stand- 
 ing there, and a young girl was condng toward 
 
 her T'om an inner room. Rlakc accosted her 
 in broken Italian, and had just managed to 
 make her understand that he wished to en- 
 gMge lodgings, when his exhausted strength 
 gave way utterly, and he sank, with a groan, 
 to the floor at her feet. 
 
 It was fortunate forBhike that he had en- 
 countered those who possessed common feel- 
 ings of humanity, and were not merely mer- 
 cenary and calculating people, wlir world have 
 turned away from their doors those who prom- 
 ised to bring more trouble than profit. It is 
 probable that this old woman would have 
 been ijuitc ready to overreach, or, in fact, 
 to cheat any stranger who came to her in an 
 ordinary way ; and yet this same olil woman 
 waa overcome by the sinccrest compassion 
 ot the sight of this stranger who had fallen 
 at her feet. Such apparent contradictions 
 are not rare, for in Ituly there is more 'in- 
 dency among the common people to swindle 
 strangers than there ia in our own country ; 
 and yet, at the same time, there is \indeniably 
 more kindliness of nature, more tcndei'iess 
 of sympathy, more readiness of pity, more 
 willingness tc help the needy, than may be 
 found among our harder and sterner natures. 
 So this old woman, though a possible cheat 
 and swindler, no sooner saw this stranger 
 lying prostrate and senseless, than, without a 
 thought for her own interests, and without 
 any other feeling or motive than pure and 
 disinterested pity and warm human sympa- 
 thy, she flew to h's assistance. She sum- 
 moned the servants, sl.e f.etit for a doctor, 
 and in a short time Blako was l.ving on a soft 
 bed in a comfortable room, watched oi'er 
 most anxiously b/ perfect strangers, who, 
 however, had been made friends by ' '.s alllie- 
 tiou, and who iiow hung over him, and tendeii 
 him, nnd cared for him, as thouj;h ho had 
 bec.i otic of their own, instead of a stranger 
 an J a foreigner. 
 
 Ulakc was in a high fever — a brain-fever 
 — accompanied with delirium. A long ill- 
 ness followed. He lay utterly unconscious ; 
 his mind was occupied with tiie scenes t.'irougli 
 which he hud passed of late ; and all his 
 wandering ihouglits t'lvned to the teiriblc ex- 
 perience of that night o'. horror. During nil 
 this time he was tended most carefully and 
 vigilantly by the kim! hearted old woman and 
 her daughter, who were filled with pity and 
 sympathy. Not one wo'<l did they under* 
 Bland of all hi.t delitior.s raviiigH, nor did 
 

 j^*Pi 1. jj^jji^ 
 
- < 
 
BACK TO LIFE. 
 
 201 
 
 they know even wli:it limguagc it was. It 
 might 1)0 German, or Ixussian, or Boherniiin, 
 or Tiifkisli, or English, but this made no dif- 
 ference to them. Tlicy maintained the part 
 of the good Samaritan, and denied tlicmselves 
 every comfort for the sake of their afflicted 
 lodger. 
 
 At length the crisis of the disease was 
 successfully surmounted, and Blake began to 
 recover. In course of time he regained con- 
 sciousness, and began to understand the sit- 
 uation in which he was. His gratitude to 
 these kind-hearted people knew no bounds, 
 and his earnest expressions of his feelings 
 had to be checked by his careful attendants. 
 These good people had grown to regard him 
 as some one who was dear to them, and to 
 watch lor his recovery as for something of 
 the utmost imi"';)rtance. But Bhikc's prostra- 
 tion had been extreme, and his recovery was 
 very slow. There was also something on his 
 mind. This was a desire to communicate 
 with his mother. But he was unable to write 
 himself, and these good people, though most 
 anxious to serve him in every possilile way, 
 were quite unable to write a letter in Engliah 
 at his dictation. So Blake was forced to 
 wait. 
 
 At length Blake gained f ' Tielont strength 
 to write what ho wished. It w;i3 a feeble 
 scrawl, and the handwriting itself expressed 
 the whole of his weakness; but Blake, from 
 a motive of pioiis deceit, tried to conceal tlio 
 full extent of his illness. lie wrote some- 
 thing about bis journey to Kome on "busi- 
 ness " (a vciy convenient term), and about 
 his contracting an illness from the unhealthy 
 climate. He assured her, however, that ho 
 was bettor, urged hernot to bent all anxious, 
 and cnlroatcd her to come on at once and 
 join ' im. This letter ho directed, and tho 
 good people of tho house mailed it for him, 
 after which they waited with hardly less anx- 
 iety than that which was felt by Blake him- 
 self for the result. 
 
 That result soon took place. In about 
 ten days an elderly laly came to the house, 
 and inquired, in a tremulous voice, for Dr. 
 Bhikc. She was a woman of medium stature, 
 slender figure, hair plentifully sprinkled with 
 gray, and a face of gentleness and refino- 
 nicnt miiiglt'd with firmness and dignity, 
 which also bore evident marks of sorrow. 
 She was unmistakably a lady, and she also 
 had undoubtedly experienced her full share 
 
 of those ills to which all flesh is heir. Tho 
 moment that she appeared, the good people 
 of the house recognized her as the mother of 
 their lodger ; and, while some went to announce 
 her arrival so as to spare Blake the excite- 
 ment of a sudden surprise, others endeavored 
 to soothe her evident anxiety by lively descrip- 
 tions of the great improvement which had 
 taken place in the health of tho invalid. 
 
 In this manner a way was prepared for a 
 meeting between these two, and mother and 
 son were soon in one another's arms. 
 
 At first that mother had nothing to do 
 but to nurse that son, to soothe him, and to 
 prohibit him from mentioning any exciting 
 circiinistances. But the son had a strong 
 constitution, which had favored his recovery, 
 and that recovery was now materially hast- 
 ened by the arrival of that mother whom he 
 tenderly loved ; whose presence at his bed- 
 side acted like a healing balm, and whoso 
 very words seemed to have some soothing, 
 some vivifying power. After her arrival, his 
 recovery grew more rapid, and at 1 ?ngth he was 
 strong enough to give to her a full and com- 
 plete account of his whole history, without ex- 
 cepting any thing whatever. In that history 
 she found many things to question him-ibout. 
 She asked very particularly about Inez and 
 I'.ossio. She interrogated him very closely 
 about the scone at tho deatli-bcd of Ilennigar 
 Wyvcrne, and also asked him many questions 
 a'lout his fric;- ■ Kane Ilcllmuth. She was 
 struck by tho f.i' ' that Ilellrauth was an as- 
 sumed name ; made Blake describe his per- 
 sonal «ppoarance ; learned from him the his- 
 tory of hi- marriage with Clara Mordaunt ; 
 and was anxious to know whether Blake had 
 not found out his real name. But her chief 
 interest was evinced in O'Rourke, about whom 
 she questioned Blake over and over again, 
 seeking to know ail about his personal ap- 
 pearance, liis 1.0, his height, his gestures, his 
 accent, his idioms, his peculiarities of every 
 sort. Tho conclusion of all this was that she 
 at length, with a solemn look at Blake, ex- 
 claimed : " This O'Rourke has been 'deceiving 
 you, and under an assumed name. His real 
 name is Kevin Magrath. It is iinpossiblo 
 that those names can belong to any other ex- 
 cept one man." 
 
 " Kevin Magrath 1 " exclaimed Bluke. " I 
 never heard tho name before." 
 
 " I suppose not, dear," said his mother ; 
 " and BO, B9 you arc now strong enough, I will 
 

 :,., 
 
 .'! i 
 
 203 
 
 tell von all about liini. 
 undcrstanil what his 
 you." 
 
 Y 
 
 AN OPEX QUESTION. 
 
 Yoii will be able to 
 desiRns were about 
 
 CIIAriER XLIX. 
 
 MRS. WYVKIINE. 
 
 Blake's motlier regarded him very car 
 ncstly for a few moments, and then said, in a 
 low voice : 
 
 " You remember well, dear, every inci- 
 dent at the death-bed of Mr. Wyverne ; you 
 hare not told me, however, all, 1 am sure." 
 
 Blake looked hastily at his mother. It 
 was true, he had not told her all. The dying 
 man bad claimed him as his son ; this he had 
 not mentioned to her — how could he ? 
 
 But now, as he looked at her, he saw an 
 expression in her face which showed him that 
 she had divined his secret, and had suspected 
 that Mr. Wyverne had said more. The look 
 which slie pave him invited further disclosure, 
 without koopinq a'ly thing back. Yet, still, 
 Blake hesitated. 
 
 " When he said that Inez was not his 
 daughter, had he nothing to say to you ? " 
 she asked. " He must. He did. I see it in 
 your face. You are keeping it back. Don't 
 be afraid ; I am going to tell you all, and there 
 is nothing in this that should make you hesi- 
 tate about telling me." 
 
 Upon tills Blake hesitated no longer, but 
 told hor nil the particulars of the last scene 
 in which lie and Inez took part — he being 
 owned as a son, iiiid Inez rejected as a 
 daughter. 
 
 His mother listened attentively to it nil, 
 without any comment whatever. After he 
 had ended, she said : 
 
 " Ushould lave cxpl.iinod it nil at once if 
 1 had only seen you, dear, but we have never 
 had an opportunity finec then. There was 
 ro reason for rcticcnre on your part, and 
 tlure is nothing in it that is to be dreaded 
 either by you or by me. In tin first [dace, 
 then, Basil dear, I may say that Mr. Wy- 
 vcrnc's dying declaration is tri.c. You are 
 his son, Basil Blake Wyvenie, and I am Mrs. 
 llonnigar Wyverne, your mother and his 
 wife." 
 
 For tho latter part of this declaration 
 Blake was utterly nttprepared. lu his former 
 epeculationi" as to tho probability of Mr. Wy- 
 
 vernc's staioment, he had never thought of 
 his mother as having lived under an assumed 
 name. lie had only thought of her as Mrs. 
 Blake, i.iid from this point of view the ques- 
 tion was one which ho did not care to open 
 up. Now, however, by this simple statement, 
 his mother had cleared up the ajiparent mys- 
 tery. Still, another wonder remained, and 
 that was the very fact that she had stated. 
 If she had been Mrs. Wyverne, why had she 
 left her husband ? Why had she lived in se- 
 clusion under an assumed name ? why had 
 she kept her secret so carefully, and brought 
 him up in such total ignorance of his parent- 
 age? Together with these, many other ques- 
 tions occurred to his mind which only served 
 to bewilder him. 
 
 But now all bewilderment was to end. 
 Ilia mother held the clew by which he could 
 pass to the innermost centre of this tortuous 
 labyrinth of plot, and counterplot, and mys- 
 tery, and di.^guise. 
 
 " You must know all, Basil dear," said 
 she. " I will therefore begin at the begiuinng 
 and tell you the whole story." 
 
 Basil made no reply, but the eager look 
 of his face showed how great was his desire 
 to hear that story. 
 
 " My dear papn, saiil Sirs. Blake, " was 
 a doctor in London. He was engaged in a 
 large practice, but the style in which he found 
 it necessary to live consumed all his income. 
 When he d.'."d there was nothing left but a 
 life-assurance policy of five thousand pounds, 
 which was .-ettK'd on me, and has boon my 
 support in late years. Some time before his 
 death, however, I manii;d Mr. Wyverne, and 
 you were born, and we lived very happily un- 
 til the death of Bernal Mordaunt, and the ar- 
 rival of this Kevin Magrath ujion the scene. 
 
 "Your papa and Bernal Mordaunt were 
 relatives, .Irst or second cousins, I am not 
 pure which, ir.'l had always been bosom 
 friends. This Kevin Magrath was some rel- 
 ative of Mr. Wyvcrne's, not very ne.ir, tliough, 
 and Mr. Wyverne's father had helped him on 
 in life very greatly. Ho sent hira to college 
 at Maynooth to study for tho priesthood ; 
 but Magrath pot into diCiculties there, and 
 Jiad to leave. IIo afterward explained the 
 nffair in a way very satisfactorily to the elder 
 Mr. Wyverne, wiio received him again into 
 favor. This Mr. Wyvemo was a solicitor — I 
 mean your papa's father — and admitted Ma- 
 grath into hifl oflioe, with the iutcntiou of 
 
MRS. WYVEHXE. 
 
 2oa 
 
 iniikiiifi; liipi partner, I believo. Ili.s own son, 
 iiiy Intsbami, liiid disliked law, and was en- 
 ;;aged ia tho banking busine.-?£. Tlie elder 
 Mr. W)-venie, Jiowcver, dieu before Magrath 
 bad gained tbe full benefit of this connection, 
 so that he had once more to look about in 
 Hoareh of an occupation. Your papa now as- 
 sisted him, and Magrath soon acquired an im- 
 mense ascendency over him. He was np- 
 j)arcntl_v tlie soul of frankness and honor, and 
 with this there was a vein of quiet humor 
 about tlio limn that was very mucti in his 
 favor; but, after all, he was wily, selfish, un- 
 scrupulous, and, in short, nil that you, my 
 poor, dear boy have found him to be. 
 
 " I did not see very much of him until 
 after the death of poor Uernal Monlaunt's 
 wife. We used to see the Mordaunts — and 
 the children were great pets of mine — Clara 
 and Inez. Mrs. Mordaunt and I also were 
 very tenderly attached, and I nursed her dur- 
 ing her last illness. Poor Bcrnal was utterly 
 prostrated by the blow, and for a time it was 
 fcarel that he would either die or go mad. 
 At length he went to the Continent, leaving 
 tlie children under my care. Tlie next we 
 heard of him was that he was going to become 
 a priest, and go to Asia or Africa. After 
 about a year's absence, this news was con- 
 (i-med by himself. He visited us to sec his 
 children for tho last time, and to make ar- 
 rangements for their future welfare. 
 
 " These arrangements were simple enough, 
 lie loft the children with me, for they loved 
 me like a mother, and appointed your papa 
 their guardian. He then left, and in about a 
 year wo heard that he had died of the plague 
 in .Mexandria, 
 
 " N'ow was the time that my troubles com- 
 menced. Your papa began to drop mysterious 
 hints aboi;t tho ctiildren. He talked about 
 sending Clara away to France, and then he 
 .vished to adopt Inez as his child, and call 
 Iier Iiict; Wyverne. At first these proposals 
 seemed merely foolish and nnmeaning, and I 
 laughed at them as preposterous. (Iradually, 
 liowever, ho dwelt upon it so incessantly that 
 I saw that he was iu earnest about it; and I 
 found that I should have to enter upon an 
 actual course of opposition. I found the 
 children threatened by my own husband, and 
 myself placed in the painful position of de- 
 fender of these pour orphans Bg.iiiist the evil 
 designs of a man who was hound, by every tie 
 of duty, honor, and afTectiou, to guard them. 
 
 " This discovery was soon followea oy 
 another. It was not your papa himself who 
 had originated this. I ho])c and believe that 
 he was iacapable of it. Kevin Magrath was 
 the real originator, and he had gradually in- 
 sinuated it into your papa's mind until he- 
 had familiari/ed his thoughts with it. I have 
 said already that Magrath had gained a 
 strange ascendency over him. In this ease 
 he stood behind your papa like some ttnipt- 
 er, s:)me Mephistopheles, insidiously whisper- 
 ing his evil and cruel schemes into his ear. 
 
 "If it had been my husband only, dear 
 Basil, I am certain I could have defended 
 those poor lambs successfully ; but, unfortu- 
 nately, Kevin Jfagrath was always behind 
 him, and whenever my remonstrances or my 
 appeals to his better nature produced any lit- 
 tle effect, it was sure to piss away in a short 
 time through Magrath's evil ascendency, -^nd 
 so I found that my own intluonce was grow- 
 ing less and less, your papa was becoming 
 alienated from n;e, and I was very miserable. 
 I had no friends to whom I could go, and my 
 only relatives were very distant ones whom I 
 had never seen. About a year passed, and 
 your papa finally grew impatient to carry out 
 his measures, so one day he took Clara away, 
 during my absence from the house. When I 
 came home I found poor little Inez sobbing 
 in a most heart-broken manner, and I learned 
 tho truth. Then all my indignation burst 
 forth. Your papa and I quarrelled. I de- 
 nounced him in tho strongest language. I 
 was wild with indignation, and tho opinion 
 that I had of the man Magrath made me cer- 
 tain that poor little Clara's life was in dan- 
 ger. Y'our papa s "~mcd at me — (Jeclared 
 that Clara was safe — ihat she had gone to a 
 convent-school in Paris, and would receive a 
 good education. I threatened to inform against 
 him, but lie snecringly asked what charge I 
 could bring. At this I was silenced; for in 
 the first place, is a wife, I could hardly bring 
 my husband into tho public gaze as a crimi- 
 nal ; and, again, the charge which I had to 
 make could not bo sustained. 
 
 " I still tried to protect the remaining 
 child from their machinations. Your papa 
 was bent on carrying out his design of chang- 
 ing her name. What that design really aimed 
 at I did not then know, but I fully believed 
 that tho intention was to deal dishonestly and 
 foully by both Inez and Clarn. Under these 
 circumstances your papa and I grew more 
 
^04 
 
 AN urKN yUESTIOX. 
 
 m: 
 
 i \ 
 
 li I) 
 
 ■ '■ 'i' 
 
 ii ii 
 
 ami more estningfd, nioic iiiid moie hostile, 
 uutil at liist his dislike or oven hntrcd toward 
 me beoanie evident to all. lie wished to get 
 rid of ine on any terras — he wi.--hod lo put 
 Inez under other influences, so as to bring her 
 up, no dou' 1, in ignorance of her real name 
 and real rights, and I stood in the waj'. It 
 l)ecanie more and more an object with him to 
 get rid of me. At length, one day, incz was 
 taken, and sent away I knew not where. Upon 
 this I grew quite wild in my despair — once 
 more there was a furious scene, in which I 
 threatened to denounce him in thn Tacoof the 
 world. Once again he laughed at my threats, 
 and told me that, on removing the children 
 from my care, he had otdy sought their own 
 good, because I was not a fit person to take 
 care of them — that he could produce them at 
 any moment, if they were needed, and sikueo 
 easily any siilv clamor that I might raise. In 
 fact, once more I perceived that I was power- 
 less. 
 
 " But your papa had designs, and my 
 presence, together with my suspicions, was 
 very nnwelconie. lie became eager to get 
 lid of me, no matter h.o-v. At length he him- 
 self proposed this. lie said that, if I would 
 go, he would allow mo to take you; but, if 
 I refused, he wculd find a way to make me. 
 I then dreaded that ho might deprive me of 
 you also, and this last fear was too much. 
 I'esidcs, living there under the baleful influ- 
 ence of Kevin Magrath was intolerable, and 
 so, at length, I accepted this ofier. 
 
 "That is the reason why I separated from 
 yiiur papa, liiisil dear. It was not my act — 
 it was his. rortunatcly, I was quite indepen- 
 dent of him. no had stipulated to give me 
 an allowance, and I pretended to assent to 
 this; but, the moment I had got safely away 
 with you, I resolved t'> put myself out of 
 his reach altogether. With this intention I 
 changed my name, and went to live; in a little 
 village in Wales, near Conway — the place, in 
 fact, which you knew as your home; and for 
 years neither your ptpa nor Kevin Magrath 
 had the faintest idea where I was, or whether 
 we were alive or dead. 
 
 " Tlie opinion wiiich I formed then ns to 
 the plot of this Kevin Magrath — the plot which 
 lie induced your father to try to carry into ac- 
 complishment — I have never changed since ; 
 but, on the contrary, subsequent events have 
 all tended to confirm that opinion only too 
 painfully. I thought that he was trying no 
 
 less a thing than to get control of the great 
 Mordaunt inheritance. I am not sure, but I 
 think, that your papa was next of kin to Ber- 
 nal Mordaunt, after his own children ; and, 
 consequently, if these children should by any 
 means bo put out of the way — if it could be 
 made to appear that they were dead — why, 
 tlicn, your papa would gain the great Mor- 
 daunt inheritance, and possibly Kevin Ma- 
 grath would himself obtain such a share of 
 the prize as might be commensurate with his 
 own services. Now, I saw Clara taken away 
 to a foreign country, and never expected to 
 see her again. This I considered the begin- 
 ning of that policy which was to make the 
 children as good as dead, so as to clear the 
 way for the next of kin. When Inez followed, 
 then I felt sure that she was the next victim. 
 
 " It appears, however, that Kevin Magrath 
 did not intend to lay violent hands on them. 
 His purpose, no doubt, was to get them out 
 of the Avay, and either make up a ph.usiblc 
 story of their death, accompanied, of course, 
 by the necessary proofs, or else bring forward 
 creatures of their own as substitutes. Wlio 
 this Bessie Mordaunt can be, of whom you 
 speak, I cannot imagine. There arc no rela- 
 tives named Mordaunt. Your papa was the 
 next of kin, and it looks as if this Bessie 
 may be some one used by these ari-l'-plotters 
 ns a means of gaining the cstat \ i cannot 
 imagine where your papa could ha"e obtained 
 her, but I take it for granted, of couuo, that 
 she is some creature of Kevin Magratii's. He 
 had a little family, I remember — a wife and 
 daughter — but that is out of the question, of 
 course. 
 
 " Well, I may as well go on w ith my story. 
 After I had left your papa, I was not idle. I 
 put you at a boarding-school, and spent three 
 months in Paris searching after Clara Mor- 
 daunt. I stiecccdcd in finding her at last. 
 She was quite happy, and I did not like to 
 distress her by telling her what was going on. 
 I therefore did not speak to her at all about 
 any of her family afi'airs, but was satisfied to 
 find that she remembered me and loved me. 
 She, of course, knew mo by my true name. 
 She called Mr. Wyverne her guardian, and had 
 no suspicion of any evil on his p;.rt. She had 
 never seen him since she left our house. She 
 thought my visit wa' known t" him. After 
 this I kept watch over her. I could find out 
 nothing about Inez, however, for some time. 
 j At length, to my horror, Clara disappcarca 
 
MltS. WYVEKNE. 
 
 905 
 
 They told mc at the school aljoiit a runaway- 
 match, and I found out that it was only too 
 true. Slie had married some adventurer, they 
 Eald. I learned tliat his name waj Rutliven. 
 lie belonged to a good family." 
 
 "Ruihven!" exclaimed Blake. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Wyvcrne, not noticing 
 the astonishment that was visible in the face 
 of iier son as he said this — "yes, a Mr. Uuth- 
 ven, younger son of a grcit family, but a roue 
 and a man of bad reputation. He had run 
 away with her, they said, nrd, in sliort, it 
 was the old, old story. For my part, Basil 
 dear, at tliat time I had no doubt that this 
 was tiie doing of llagrath ; that this Buthven 
 was his emissary, and that this had been 
 done to remove Clara Mordaunt out of his 
 wr. It is the peculiarity of this man's na- 
 ture always to avoid crime himself, and to 
 carry out his purposes by what I may call 
 natural nn>ans ; tlius, instead of doing any act 
 of violence himself against those who might 
 bo in his way, he rhosc ratlier to effect their 
 removal in such a way as should prevent any 
 guilt from attaching to him. He would not 
 injure Clara directly, but he caused her to be 
 utterly ruined by means of this emissary, 
 who was only too successful in his purpose. 
 
 " Welt, you iniy imagine my despair when 
 [ learned this, and when, after all my efforts, 
 I could find no trace of licr. I returned home, 
 and wondered how all this would end, and 
 chafed all the time against my own weakness 
 and helplessness. For I could no nothing. I 
 knew that, in tiie eyes of Heaven, crimes had 
 been committed by these men, yet I could 
 prove no crimes. Through the f-^ft of ila- 
 grath they hid kept themsc'.v^s uut of the 
 reach <if human law. 
 
 " In the midst of my unliappiness about 
 Clara, I received a letter from her. I had 
 told her once before where I lived, allowing 
 her to supnre that Jir. ".'yvcrne lived there 
 too, trusting icr w' . my secret, because I 
 knew that she vc.id not be in a position to 
 divulge it, since she never saw your papa. 
 So she wrote to n.o, addressing the letter to 
 Mrs. Wyverne. I hud t / make up some 
 plausible story to the post-woman, who kept 
 the little shop where the post-office was, so 
 as to get tiiat letter, pretending to her that 
 Wyverne was an assumed name, and making 
 up a story to suit the occasion, and thus I 
 was able to get ii. It was a heart-rending 
 letter. She spoke of poverty, danger, de- 
 
 spair, and death, and entreated mc to hasten 
 on and do something to save her. It was 
 vaguely expressed, but I saw that she wac in 
 great danger. She signed herself Clara lUith- 
 vcn, by which I saw that she was married, or 
 at least supposed herself to be. I hastened on. 
 I hurried to the house which she mentioned as 
 her lodgings, and arrived there only to find 
 her in a raging fever. The people of the 
 house told me that she had only been there 
 a few days ; that she had come in a great 
 state of excitement, and, after sending off a 
 letter which they supposed was to mo, she 
 had been seized with illness, which had grown 
 worse and worse. She was delirious for a 
 long time, but eventually recovered. I re- 
 mained with her and nursed her, as I had 
 nursed her mother; but she, more fortunate, 
 yet •perhaps, after all, less fortunate, was 
 saved from her mother's file, and was re- 
 stored eventually to life and health. 
 
 " I found her grateful beyond all power 
 of language to express — most touehingly so 
 — yet there was over her a profound and in- 
 vincible sadness, which bordered on despair. 
 On the events which had occurred since her 
 elopement she would not speak. She raado 
 no reference whatever to her letter. She 
 preserved a most obstinate silence auout all 
 these things, and I know no more of Iheni 
 now than you do. Something terrible, how- 
 ever, had- iiappened. Her husband — for I 
 will call him this — had either died or he had 
 forsaken her. I do not know which ; and, 
 whichever it was that had taken place, the 
 effect was to crush out in her young heart all 
 joy and hope forever. 
 
 "I tried to induce her to return to Eng- 
 land and live with me, but she refused. I 
 then told her the truth about her life. She 
 was actually ignorant that she was the heir- 
 ess f f Mordaunt Manor. She did not remem- 
 ber nuch about her youth. She had lived so 
 long amid foreign scenes, that this remem- 
 brance had died out. Besides, she had not 
 lived very constantly at Mordaunt Manor, but 
 had lived in Italy for several years with her 
 mother, who was an invalid. But, when I 
 told lier the truth, it had no effect whatever. 
 I told her about her sister Inez, but she was 
 indillcrent. She would not leave Paris. There 
 was some mournful attraction abo\it the place 
 which kept her there. She only longed to 
 finil some home there, where she might live iu 
 peace and seclusion. At length she conceived 
 
30G 
 
 AN OPEN' QUESTION'. 
 
 a strong desire to become a Sister of Cliavity. 
 She thouglit tbiit sucli a life would give bcr 
 the seclusion and peace wbich sbc longed for, 
 and, lit tbo same time, that she would have 
 sufficient occupation to distract her thoughts 
 and save her from despair. 
 
 "l''rom that resolve I found it impossible 
 to move bcr. Every thing that I mentioned 
 was received with indifl'erence, and at length 
 I found it necesfiary to desist and to yield to 
 her desires. She found a sisterhood at last, 
 and entered upon her novitiate. Then I left 
 her, and have never seen her since, though 
 we have exchanged lettei-s every year," 
 
 CIIAPTER L. 
 
 A MOTRKIl'S PLOT. 
 
 Blakk had listened thus far almost in si- 
 lence, but these last revelations about Clara 
 filled him with the strongest emotion. He 
 bad already heard from Kane the story of 
 Claru .^ marriage, and the tragic termination 
 of that married life ; but his mother's story 
 furnished an appendix, or rather a sequel, to 
 that story scarcely less tragic than that which 
 Kane had told of. Yet Kane's jierfect belief 
 in her death, bis vigils over her grave, in 
 Pere-la-Chaisc, were so well known to Blake 
 that they had inspired him with the same be- 
 lief, and now he could hardly credit bis moth- 
 er's revelations. 
 
 " Do you really mean to say," ho ex- 
 cliumed at last, as she paused in her nar- 
 rative, " that Clara Mordiuint, after all, is not 
 dead i' " 
 
 " She certainly is not dead," said his 
 mother, placidly. " Have I not been telling 
 all about her life ? " 
 
 " She Is alive now — really and truly ? " 
 
 " Ecally and truly. But it seems to me 
 that you show a very strange kind of feeling 
 about it. How agitated you arc, Basil 
 dear ! " 
 
 " Alive ! " repeated Blako, 
 " alive — and a Sister of Charity '/ 
 nun — a nun in black — " 
 
 " What is all that ? " asked his mother. 
 " What are you saying about nuns, and 
 things ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing," said Blukc ; " only, its 
 confoun<lcdly strange. But I'll tell you all 
 about it." 
 
 musingly ; 
 That is— a 
 
 Upon this Blake proceeded to tell Lor 
 about Kane, and Kane's occount of his mar- 
 riage, and Kane's fancy about opparitions. 
 To all of this his mother listened in evident 
 surprise, and with much emotion. 
 
 " Wonders will never cease," she ex- 
 claimed. " Who could have imagined this ? 
 So your friend Kane Ilellmuth must be Kane 
 Ruthvcn — and so he is not an emissary of 
 Magrath's, but an honest man." 
 
 " An honest man ! " cried Blake. " I tell 
 you, mother dear, he is one of the noblest 
 fellows that I ever saw. There was no hum- 
 bug there, I can tell you. No man ever loved 
 a womai;»bctter than he did Clara llordaunt. 
 Why, only think of him now, with his blighted 
 life, and his misery and remorse ! " 
 
 " So — that was it," continued Mrs. Wy- 
 venie ; " and that accounts for poor Clara's 
 despair. She escaped death, and he died — or 
 she thought he did. But how strange, in such 
 a solemn and really awful attempt at suicide, 
 that both should escape, and each go into de- 
 spair about the other." 
 
 "Whj, they must have met over and 
 over. These meetings have seemed to Kano 
 to bo apparitions. I wonder if they have 
 seemed so to her? Oh, why didn't she speak ? 
 Why didn't she explain, instead of giving 
 hiui silent, despairing looks ;' " 
 Sirs. Wyverne sighed. 
 " I can understand," said she. " It's all 
 over with them — she is dead to Lira." 
 " Dead to him ? " 
 
 " Yes ; sho is a Sister of Charity. She 
 has taken the vows, and so she is dead to 
 poor Kane — and that, no dou <■, is the reason 
 why she has looked at him so — in dumb de- 
 spair. I can understand it all. She thought 
 him dead. His absence for years confirmed 
 that belief. These meetings must have af- 
 fected her as they affected him. She is, at 
 least, as superstitious as he is. But, in any 
 case, it is just as well, since tlicy never can 
 belong to one another again." 
 
 At this sad thought Blake was silent. Hia 
 first feeling had been one of joy. He thought 
 of flying at once to tell Kane the news, but 
 now he saw that such news as this had better 
 not be told to bis friend. 
 
 " But I must go on," continued Mrs. Wy- 
 verne, " and tell you something about my 
 share in these later events of your life, Basil 
 dear. Well, then, for years I had no commu- ■ 
 nication with youi' father, and preserved my 
 
A MOTlIKlfS IM.OT. 
 
 2or 
 
 incognilo and my seclusion most carefully. I 
 beanl, hoMCver, from time to time, tlmt be 
 was ulive, tliougli ho never could have heard 
 any tliinj; about mo. At length you had liu- 
 iahed your education, and you got tlmt situa- 
 tion ill Tiuis, and it gocmed to me that you 
 ouj;ht to know soraotliing about your past, 
 yi't I did not know exactly how to ttU you, 
 for it seemed to me to be a terrible thing to 
 tell a son about a father's guilt. Tlien, again, 
 I thought that, if your father could only see 
 you, he might fee! some emotion of allection ; 
 and i.>o:'<sibly, if he were brought into coinicc- 
 tion with you in any way, you might gain an 
 inllucncc over his better nature, by moans of 
 which tlie fatal ascendency of .MagratU might 
 be destroyed. 
 
 " With these hopes I made a journey to 
 London very secretly, and succeeded in find- 
 ing out all about your papa's circumstances. 
 1 learned that he was in very feeble liealth. I 
 learned that he had a family consi.uing of two 
 young ladies, one of whom was named Inez 
 Wyvcrno, and the otiier, Bessie Mordaunt. 
 Who liossie Mordaimt was I did not know, 
 nor do I now know; but, as to Inez Wy- 
 vornc, there could be no doubt. I saw at 
 once tliat he had carried Lis oid |dan — or 
 rather Jlagrath's old plan — into execui'on, 
 ami that my poor darling Inez had been 
 brought up in tiie belief tliat iicr name was 
 ■\Vyverne, and that she was his daugliter 
 Yet even this discovery of his unfalteriig 
 pursuit of his ptirpose did not destroy the 
 hope which I had formed of working ca Lira 
 througii you. 
 
 " Circumstances favored my wi.sh. I 
 learned that he was going to the Continent for 
 his liealth, and that St. Malo was his destina- 
 tion. And now, llasil dear, you understand 
 why I wrote you so ciunostly about your 
 hoaUh ; why I insisted so strongly upon your 
 having some recreation ; why, above all, I al- 
 most orilered you to go io St. Halo. You 
 ntust have wondered at what you considered 
 a woman's whim ; but it was not that, Basil 
 dear; it was something far deeper. And I 
 insisted on your going tlierc solely because I 
 hoped that you might meet with your own 
 father. Hut I did not trust to accident. I 
 made sure of a mooting between you. I wrote 
 him a loiter, and reminded him of all the 
 past; of that better past, the past of inno- 
 cence, of love, and of domestic joy. I ro- 
 minded him of the child whom he once loved 
 
 before his soul liad becoiuo darkened and hia 
 heart hardened tlirougii the wiles of the 
 Tempter. I told him that his son — our son 
 — the associate of his better past, and of tho 
 days of Lis innocence, was now a man — an 
 honoraldc gentleman ; and that this son would 
 be at St. Malo's, ready there to become Lia 
 better angel, and lead Idni back to virtue and 
 peace. I told him how you had been brought 
 up, Basil dear; how ignorant you were of all 
 his faults; how ignorant you were of the fact 
 that he had any connection witli the name of 
 ^\'yvcrne. I told him that I had heard of his 
 proposed journey to St. Malo's, and had made 
 you pronnse to go there, with tho hope that 
 the guilty father might meet ^^ith the inno- 
 cent son, and might be moved to repentance 
 through a father's lovo. 
 
 " And, Basil dear, how can I tell you 
 the feelings that I had as I received your let- 
 ters — tliosc letters which showed me that ho 
 had yet lingering in his heart tho feelings of a 
 fatlier? He had not forgotten the child whom 
 ho once loved. Avarice had hardened his 
 heart, but sicknc'S and weakness had softened 
 it again, and the sight of you awakened a deep 
 yearning within hini. Xow you know all. 
 N'ow you understand why it was that the poor 
 invalid clung to •'•ou, why he yielded to you, 
 why he tlirew at you those looks of deep af- 
 fection, why he loved to see you with the in- 
 jured Inez. lie had repented. lie was long- 
 ing to make amends, lie could not tell you 
 all that was in his heart to say. lie could 
 not rovoal to you tho truth about his past life, 
 for fear that you would scorn him. He had 
 my address, and wrote mo one or two letters, 
 full of repentance for his past. lie implored 
 my forgiveness. lie promised to make amends. 
 He spoke of his deep lovo for yon. He en- 
 treated me to find some way of making known 
 those things to you without exciting your de- 
 testation. He wished me to come on at once, 
 an I j'^in him, and tell all to you in such a way 
 tha ytu might own hit;; for your father. He 
 spoke of your regard for Inez, and expressed 
 tlie hope that a union between you 'wo might 
 be brought about; for son.ehow he seoiiicd co 
 consider this the best sor', of atonement that 
 lie could make. 
 
 " I was overcome. I was not very well 
 just then, and could not travel. Besides, I 
 thought it best to wait, leaving you two to 
 know one another better. The profound 
 reverence which you expressed for him 
 
 im ' )>i 
 
:.'08 
 
 AX Ol'EX QUESTION. 
 
 loucliud me, iind 1 wished tliia reverence to 
 deepen into alTcction; and then I thought I 
 would jdiii you, and my work of rcconcilia- 
 liou would bo made easier. Oil, if I had but 
 gone on tlicn ! How much sufieiing would 
 have been prevented for all of us ! IJut I 
 octed for the best. 
 
 " Well, dear Ha.sil, you linow the rest. 
 You went away to Switzerland, and there 
 your poor papa died. Tlint letter wliich you 
 spoke of struck him down. I don't know 
 wlint was in it, but it was undoubtetily .sonic 
 i-ommuiiieation from Kevin Miigrath — ?onie 
 threat — .=ome terror. At any rate, he sunk 
 down to death, and strove vainly, at the last, 
 to make some feeble amends by expressions 
 of remorse, by a declaration of the truth. 
 liasill tliat father's heart yearned over you 
 then, as Death stood near; and I believe — I 
 ' .low — that his repentance was sincere. I'ray, 
 IJasil dear — pray for your father; pray for 
 the repose of the soul of the repentant Ilcn- 
 nigar Wyvcrne! " 
 
 Mrs. ^Vyvcrne stopjied, overcome by deep 
 emotion. Dlake also felt himself profoundly 
 moved. His mother's story brought up vivid- 
 ly before him the form of that venerable in- 
 VTlid who had manifested such a Ktrong re- 
 pard for him — the form of that dying man 
 who, at the last hour of life, had claimed him 
 ns a son. It had been all a mystery, but now 
 nil was revealed. AVhat he had considered a 
 Ptrange coincidence was now shown to be no 
 coincidence at all, but the result of his moth- 
 er's management, and of her dc.-iie to bring 
 father and pon together. 
 
 There was nothing which he could say on 
 Fuch a subject. It was a painfid one from 
 any point of view. Jlis father's past could 
 not be discussed, as it was a past filled with 
 wrong-doing too late repented of. Ilia fa- 
 ther's death-bed was too sad a theme for con- 
 versation 
 
 liut there were other thoughts which had 
 been Bu^rgestcd by these revelations, and 
 prominent among them was his mother's con- 
 viction that O'liourkc was no otiier than 
 Kevin JIagrath. O'Hourke, he well knew, 
 must h;.ve s(.mc motive. Down in the gloom 
 of the Catacombs, at that first appalling mo- 
 ment of desertion, he liad fancied for a time 
 that his betr.iyer must be a madman ; but 
 after he had heard those words stealing 
 through the jiiled-up stones to his ears, 
 "/.Y<iAe Wijvcruc, J'trcvcU forever ! " lie saw- 
 
 that this treachery must liavo been premedi- 
 tated, and that it must have arisen out of \\\* 
 relation to IIenni;,'ar "Wyverno. Now, when 
 that relation was assured, it became a more 
 certain cause than ever for O'Kourke's treach- 
 ery. Yet why it should be a cause, and what 
 benefit O'lJourke could hope to gain, re- 
 maino<l as much a mystery as ever. 
 
 " It may be true, mother dear," said he, 
 " that O'Jtourke is only your Kevin Magrath 
 under on assumed name. I don't deny it, 
 since you arc so sure aboiit it ; but I confess 
 it is a puzzle to me why O'lJourke, or Ma- 
 grath, or whoever he is, should take the 
 trouble to elaborate so intricate a ])lot against 
 such an insignificant personage as I am. 
 What am I, that he should labor so secretly, 
 so persistently, and for so long a time, to 
 compass my destruction ? What benefit could 
 he get by it ? I must say, it Hcems to me, in 
 the hackneyed French phrase, " the play isn't 
 worth the candle." 
 
 Mrs. Wyverno looked gravely up. 
 
 " You speak now," eaid she, " as Basil 
 Blake, not as Basil Wyvcrne. You forget 
 that, though Basil Blake is insignificant, Basil 
 Wyverne is very much the contrary. He is 
 the son and heir of Ilennigar Wyvcrne, a 
 we'1-known London banker of great wcnlth. 
 What he had of his own was immense ; what 
 he has appropriated from the Mordaunt prop- 
 erty I cannot tell ; but certain it is that you, 
 his son, are the heir of a vast fortune. This 
 of itself would be a prize Kufiicier.t to induce 
 Kevin Magrath to get you removed, t^uppos- 
 ing that you were removed, I do not see ex- 
 actly bow he could enter upon the possession 
 of the estate of your pajia, but I have no 
 doubt that he would manage to do it. At 
 any rate, you may be sure that this was his 
 motive, lie went to the Catacombs w ith you, 
 as he said, for a great treasure — not, how- 
 ever, for his pretended treasure of the Ch'- 
 sars, but for the sake of the more common- 
 place treasure of the Wyverncs. f^uch a 
 treasure was worthy, in his estimation, of 
 such .1 deed. And you sec, Basil dear, his 
 hand. You see how cautiously, how elabo- 
 rately, he has worked. lie has tried to re- 
 move you iVom the world, so that you should 
 leave no trace whatever. If you bad not es- 
 caped, there would not have been even the 
 faintest indication which might have disclosed 
 your fate. Y'ou would have vanished from 
 the scene ut'.erly. Your incoherent letter to 
 
pio'ncdi- 
 mt of \t\» 
 o\v, wlien 
 e a more 
 j's ticaeli- 
 and nliut 
 gain, It- 
 said lie, 
 Slagnitli 
 deny it, 
 I coiifesH 
 kf, or Ma- 
 Inko tlio 
 ot against 
 a^ I nni. 
 10 Bocrclly, 
 a time, t(i 
 cnclit could 
 IS to mo, in 
 ic play i(!n't 
 
 up. 
 
 ' as Basil 
 You forget 
 (leant, Basil 
 avy. He is 
 ■NVyvciuc, a 
 ;rcat Mcnllli. 
 iicnse ; what 
 idaunt prop- 
 is lliat you, 
 rluiic. Tliis 
 ■nt to induce 
 ;d. fc^uppos- 
 
 IlOt SCO cx- 
 
 c possession 
 t 1 have no 
 ) du it. At 
 tliis was liis 
 ,1)3 with you, 
 I — not, how- 
 ! of the Cft'- 
 ire common- 
 cs. Fucli a 
 timation, of 
 \sil dear, his 
 , how clabo- 
 tricd to re- 
 t you should 
 . had not cs- 
 'cn even tho 
 live disclosed 
 tnished from 
 rent letter to 
 
 A ilOTlIKH'S I'LUT. 
 
 209 
 
 mo told uolhing at ull, .md I imagine the let- 
 ter that you wrote to your friend Kane must 
 have been ciiually unintelligible. When I re- 
 ceived your letter, I liad just recovered from 
 a sovero illnctis, and the fears which it created 
 almost sent me back again." 
 
 " lUnesH, mothor dear t " said Blake, anx- 
 ioufcly. " You never mentiuucd that be- 
 fore." 
 
 "Illness? my boy!" said Mrs. ^Vy. 
 verno. " It is not worth speaking of, since it 
 is past; but, while it lasted, I was as near to 
 death iis you wore in the Catacombs. It was 
 the news of the death of your poor papa that 
 Intrude me down. It cuine so sudden, and at 
 the very time, too, when I was indulging in 
 such briglit hopes. I was preparing to join 
 you, and to perform the part of general rec- 
 onciler. I hoped to be joinod at last to the 
 husband of my youth, with whom I had lived 
 in the happiest part of my life. O Basil ! 
 dear boy, you do not know, you cannot ima- 
 gine how strongly I had set my heart on this 
 reunion, on this reconciliation. But suddenly 
 the news came, and all these hopes were 
 dashed to tlie ground. The blow was a ter- 
 rible one, and for a time all hope died out, 
 and all desire for life. I was utterly pros- 
 trated, and remained so for weeks. During 
 all that time I heard nothing from you, and a 
 great anxiety came over nie. This made it 
 worse. Your incoherent and unintelligible 
 letter gave me nothing but uneasiness, and, 
 as nothing followed it, I sank into despair. 
 At length I recovered my bodily strength, and 
 was able to move about; but siill, dear boy, 
 r could never find any respite whatever from 
 the dreadful suspense and anxiety in which I 
 was about you. At last your letter came, 
 telling me that you had been ill, an<l wanted 
 ino. Such a letter at ordinary times would 
 have been sad indeed, but to me, under those 
 circumstances, it was like a resurrection from 
 despair. I found new life and strength, and 
 hurried on to you at once. But, apart from 
 my own misfortunes, what you told me about 
 yours, Basil dear, makes me feel certain that 
 your Dr. O'ilouriio is no other than Kevin 
 Magrath. He's no more a doctor than I am. 
 lie played the part of one merely for the pur- 
 pose of making your acquiiintanco. He is no 
 more a doctor than he is a priest." 
 
 " It was as a priest that Kane saw him," 
 said Blake, who then went on to tell about 
 Kane's journey to London, 
 li 
 
 " Yes, yes, oh, yen," said lira. VVyvcrne, 
 as ho ended. "Every thing that you tell mo 
 only shows more and more plainly the un- 
 mistakablo marks of Kevin Magratii, Now, 
 not one word of all that he told Kane wa.i 
 true. Inez was not the daughter of llennigar 
 Wyvcrne, and ho knew it. llennigar W'y. 
 vernedid not die poor, for he left an inunc'.:^o 
 property, which perhaps Magrath is now try- 
 ing to gain for himself. Above all, C'lari i.s 
 not dead, and he could not have known any 
 thing about her." 
 
 "But, mother dear, if this terrible Kevin 
 Magrath is so anxious to get tho Wyveruo 
 property, what will he do about you ? " 
 
 "About me? Well, I don't know. I 
 have taken care to keep out ol his reach. IIo 
 is not the man to overlook me, however in- 
 significant I may bo. No doubt ho baa hia 
 designs with regard to me. I dare say ho 
 has formed some plan, if he can find nie, to 
 work upon my love fr you, to invent lomo 
 story about your going to America, and en- 
 tice me away, where I shall never trouble him 
 again. That is his mode of action. If you, 
 dear, had not written to me, ho might huvo 
 done this, for I would have gone to tho north- 
 pole after you, even on the strength of a 
 forged letter or a trumped-up story ; but now, 
 Basil boy, since I have you, there is no need 
 for us to conjecture any thing as to what 
 Kevin Magrath might have done." 
 
 "Did you stop in London on your way 
 here?" asked Blake, after a moment's pause. 
 
 " Stop in London, dear Basil ? Of courso 
 not." 
 
 " You did not hear any thing, then, about 
 Inez ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. I was too anxious about you, 
 dear." 
 
 Blake sighed. 
 
 " I did not know," said he, " but that you 
 might have heard something about them." 
 
 " No, Basil dear, not a word. You sec, I 
 eirae on at once, almost from a bed of illness, 
 to you, for your sake, dear boy." 
 
 Basil was silent, lie was longing to hear 
 something about Inez. 
 
 " I shall be able to travel, dear mother," 
 said he, after a time, " in a day or two, and 
 Rome is horrible to me, after what has hap- 
 pened. I should like to go to England at 
 once — to London — but I suppose on our way 
 we ought to stop nt Paris. I want to seo 
 Kane, to tell him what you have told me ; or, 
 

 ng 
 
 I ■ ';■ 
 
 ■f I 
 
 ,}r\ 
 
 s 
 
 ] l 
 
 :■.}{ [ 
 
 i' <■■■ 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 j; 
 
 \'. 
 
 210 
 
 AN OI'EX QUESTION. 
 
 liiin, wliftlicr I ti'll Lim 
 
 nt any rati', t'» 
 that or not." 
 
 " Vcs," siii.l Mm. V/yvcriio, " that is no 
 more tliaii ri;^lit. I also wi.-h to go to TariB, 
 for I slioulil like very much to sec poor, dear 
 Clara." 
 
 "I do not know whether I ought to tell 
 Knne about her or not," euiJ IJlakc, doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure I don't," paid liis mother; 
 '' and it seems to me that you'll have to bo 
 guided by circumstances. At any rate, I shall 
 b;c her, and I think it probable that I shall 
 tell her nil that I've lirarJ from you about 
 poor Kane. For, dear Hasil, 1 have come to 
 pity that poor man, with his undeserved re- 
 morse, and his ruined life ; and my sympathy 
 with you makes me look upon him with some- 
 thing of your feelings, Basil dear." 
 
 " Kano is the noblest man I Lave ever met 
 with," said Blake. 
 
 "Poor fellow 1" sighed Mrs. Wyvomc. 
 "And only think that, while poor Clara is, 
 after all, really alive, she is the same as dead 
 to him." 
 
 " Well," said Blake, " the more I think of 
 it, the more I feel that Kane ought to know 
 it. At the worst, it cannot bo so bad as his 
 present belief, lie thinks now that ho is 
 little better than a murderer; if he were io 
 know that she did not die, ho might have 
 more peace of mind, even though she could 
 uever be his." 
 
 " I am quite of your opinion, Basil dear, 
 quite," said Mrs. Wyverno. 
 
 They now wont on to talk of many things, 
 and more particularly about this Bessie Mor- 
 daunt, whoso exact position amid all these 
 affairs Mrs. Wyvernc was anxious to ascertain. 
 She therefore made very particular inquiries 
 about her personal appearance, manner, tone, 
 accent, etc., and gradually a light began to 
 dawn on her mind. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 A DI S CO VERT. 
 
 Blake had reasons of his own for keeping 
 his escape a secret. Ue therefore did not go 
 out of the house, even though he needed ex- 
 ercise, but quietly waited till he waa strong 
 enough to travel, lie did not know but that 
 O'Rourke, or rather Kevin Magrath, as he now 
 
 believed him to be, might still be in tho city ; 
 nor did he know but that ho might have cmis> 
 saries abroad. For many reasons he did not 
 wish Magrath to know that he was alive; and 
 accordingly ho determined to travel In dis, uiso, 
 so as to guard against tho possibility of dis- 
 covery. This disguise was very easily pro- 
 cured — a false beard, spectacles, and a priest's 
 diess, being sudieient to make him unrecog- 
 nizable by his own mother. In ii few days 
 they set out, and reached Paris witliout any 
 further incident. 
 
 BlaUo remained in hi/> room that day. 
 Mrs. Wyvernc rested a few hours, and then, 
 in tho afternoon, went out with the intention 
 of finding Clara. Toward evening Hhike left 
 the hotel, and went to visit Kane liuthvcn. 
 
 Kano was alone. In answer to tho knock 
 a;, the door ho roared, " Come in ! " The 
 door opened, and a man entered in a priest's 
 dress, for Blake's caution would not allow 
 him ns yet to drop his disguise. Kane rose, 
 and looked inquiringly al his visitor, but 
 without tho slightest tiji ' recognition. 
 Upon this Blake removed his beard and spec- 
 tacles, and revealed to Kane the pale face of 
 his friend, upon which were still visible tho 
 marks of the sufferings through which he had 
 passed. 
 
 " (iood Lord ! " cried Kano Ruthvcn, 
 springing forward and grasping Blake's hands 
 in both of his. " Blake, old fellow, is it 
 really you ? Why, how pale you are ! " 
 
 He stopped abruptly, and looked anxious- 
 ly ai Blake, still holding his hands. 
 
 " I've had a hard time of it, old fellow,'' 
 iaid Blake ; " been sick, and am hardly well 
 yet." 
 
 " Ah, that accounts for your strange si- 
 lence. Why, I've been at my wit's ends 
 about you. You decamped suddenly, leaving 
 a crazy, unintelligible letter, and vanished 
 into midnight darkness. Sick, ah ! So that's 
 it— but where ? " 
 
 " You've just said it," said Blake, solemn- 
 ly. " I vanished into midnight darkness." 
 
 " I don't understand you." 
 
 "AVell, perhaps I'd better tell you all 
 about myself, for I want to get your assist- 
 ance, old boy. You're the very man I need 
 now, and you're the only man." 
 
 " You may rely upon mo to no end of aa 
 extent, my boy," said Kane, earnestly. "But 
 come, sit down now. We've given queer 
 confidences to one another in this room, and 
 
A DI.SCOVEIIY. 
 
 «u 
 
 I tlio city; 
 li;ive oniis- 
 iie did not 
 ,iliv(; ; and 
 ri di.s, uist", 
 
 lily of dis- 
 c:isily pio- 
 id a pi'iest'a 
 m iiiirccog- 
 
 II f(,'\v days 
 itliuiit any 
 
 that day. 
 , and tlion, 
 ic intention 
 
 lilake Icl't 
 aithvcn. 
 
 tlio knoclc 
 in!" Tlio 
 
 in a priest's 
 
 1 not allow 
 Kane rose, 
 
 visitor, but 
 recognition, 
 rd and spoc- 
 palc face of 
 1 visible the 
 iliicli he had 
 
 ic Ruthvcn, 
 tlalic's hands 
 fellow, is it 
 
 are'" 
 
 ked auxious- 
 Is. 
 
 old fellow,"' 
 i hardly well 
 
 r strange si- 
 ' wit's ends 
 enly, leaving 
 nd vauishcd 
 i ! So that's 
 
 lake, solenm- 
 larkncss." 
 
 tell you all 
 
 . your assist- 
 
 man I need 
 
 ao end of aa 
 lestly. "Cut 
 given queer 
 lis room, and 
 
 it looks as though this would bo the queerest. 
 But you'll take sonieihlng, won't you ? " 
 
 " Thanks— no." 
 
 " What-not even olo ' " 
 
 " Well, perhaps a glass of alo wouldn't be 
 unwelcome," said IMako, taking his seat on 
 Iho sofa. Kane at once poured out the 
 draught, and lilake slowly drank it. There- 
 upon Kiino ofTored a pipe, which, however, 
 lilukc refused. 
 
 ' Kane now sat down, and Blako told him 
 the whole story. Ho listened in a state of 
 mind which was made up of astonishment 
 and horror, and said not a single word. 
 
 After this, Rlako proceeded to give him 
 the outlines of his mother's story, without 
 hinting, however, at the fact of Clara's flight 
 and subsequent life. This he did not feci 
 prepared as yet to divulge. IFo merely 
 wished Kane to understand what he had 
 learned about his own birth, and c.bout that 
 of Inez; to explain the character of Kev- 
 in llagratli, and try identifying him with 
 O'llourke, to disclose the motive which had 
 •animated his betrayer. 
 
 The ciTect of all this upon Kane was tre- 
 mendous. The last phase which his opinion 
 a'oout Magrath had undergone was one of 
 reverence. lie had sought him out as a cul- 
 prit ; he had pleaded his own cause before 
 him as before a judge ; he had humbly and 
 most gratefully listened to his acquittal, and 
 had received the grasp of his hand as a sym- 
 bol of the forgiveness of some superior being. 
 Now, in .'he light of Blake's story, Kevin Ma- 
 grath stood at last revealed in l.is own true 
 character — a villain, cold-blooded, remorse- 
 less, terrible ! 
 
 But with this discovery there came a 
 throng of thoughts so painful that he hardly 
 dared to entertain them. At once he thought 
 of Inez — of Bessie — now in the power of ihis 
 man, who could take them where he wished, 
 since they had been formally intrusted to 
 him by their best friends — by Kane and 
 Gwyn — the husband, the brother ; thus hand- 
 ing them both over unsuspectingly into his 
 keeping. The terror of this thought was too 
 much. 
 
 Blake saw the horror of Kane's soul, and 
 understood at onco that his story had served 
 to arouse within his friend feelings and trou- 
 bles that were connected with himself, and 
 that some new grief had arisen before Kane 
 out of the light of this rcvelatiou. AYhat it 
 
 was he could not conjecture. He thought at 
 first that Kane's troubles poihiips referred to 
 Clara ; and then he thought that they might 
 be connected with Inez. i\>r already Blake's 
 speculation \ipon Magrath's course had niado 
 him think that his next victim might be Inez. 
 And now the sight of Kane's agitation mado 
 him foel so sure at last that Inez was really 
 involved, that he was afraid to ask, for fear 
 that he might learn the truth that he dreaded 
 to hear. 
 
 There was now a long silcnoe. Kaeh had 
 much to say, but did not know how to say it. 
 In the mind of each there was that which he 
 dreaded to make known to the other. 
 
 Kane was the first to break the silence. 
 
 " Settled in Koine ! for good — for good ! '* 
 ho repeated, recalling the statement of Ma- 
 grath — " settled in Kome for good t " 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" asked 
 Blake, in surprise. 
 
 " It was what I heard about you." 
 
 " About me ? " cried Blake. " Who said 
 it?" 
 
 " What horrible irony ! What cold-blood- 
 ed, remorseless humor — for he had a sense of 
 humor — the humor of a demon ; and I caa 
 imagine him enjoying this, all by himself — 
 ' sealed down — yes, down — iii, Home — and for 
 good!''' 
 
 " There's only one man that could hava 
 said that of mo. What do you mean ? Ilavo 
 you seen him ? " 
 
 Blako trembled from head to foot. The 
 danger was growing greater, and drawing 
 nearer to Inez. 
 
 " Only one man — yes," said Kane. " Of 
 course ; you are right. Your O'Rourke must 
 be Kevin Magrath, and he was the man that 
 said that of you." 
 
 Blake started to his feet. 
 
 " Have you seen him ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Kane, solemnly. 
 
 " You know something, that you're hold- 
 ing back," said Blake, in feverish excitement. 
 " Magrath has been doing something more, 
 which you know of; and now, since I have 
 told you his true character, you are horrified. 
 There is danger abroad, to which friends of 
 yours are exposed — are they friends of mine, 
 too ? " 
 
 Before Kane could answer, there was a 
 knock at the door. Blake looked impatiently 
 around. It was Gwyn. Kane introduced 
 them to one another, and explained Gwyn'a 
 
212 
 
 AN OPEX QUESTION. 
 
 1 ) 
 
 position ns the liusbiintl of the young lady 
 whom he had known as Bessie Mordaunt. 
 
 " Before I answer your last question, 
 Blake.' said Kane, "let me explain all this 
 liorriblo business to my brother here, fov I 
 assure you he id as deeply concerned iu what 
 you ask about as you yourscli' arc — perhaps 
 moro so." 
 
 At this Blake regarded Owyn with sad 
 curiosity. Kane's words meant that ho was 
 implicated, probably as Bessie's husband, and 
 that if the.-c was danger to Inez, Bessie was 
 also involved. lie was now content to ex- 
 plain all to Gwyn, so as to have his coopera- 
 tion in any duty that might now aribo before 
 them, and also to get the benefit of any ad- 
 vice which one so deeply interested might be 
 able to give. 
 
 Gwyn had never expericncel any of those 
 altern.itions of opinion about Kevin Mngiath 
 which had been felt by Kane ; indeed, he had 
 not thought much abcut him, inasmuch as he 
 h.id only known him for the last few days. 
 Dining that time he had thought of him as 
 rather an eccentric, but still a good man, and 
 hiid only objected to him on the ground tliiit 
 he forned one of those who were taking Bes- 
 sie from him. But now, ns he learned tlie 
 truth about 'his man, and rpfleeted that he 
 had allowed Bessie to go with him — thinking 
 also that Bessie, ns one of tl;e Mordaunts, 
 might be implicated in the f^te of those 
 whom ho yet bi-lieved to bo her sisters — a 
 great fear arose in his heart, and ho sat look- 
 ing at the others in mute horror. 
 
 " lie — he — could not harm lier — he — loves 
 lior — slie always callcl him her dear grandpa, 
 you know," faltered vlwyn, at last. 
 
 "Is yovir wife with him?" asked Blake, 
 rij-'htly interpreting tho mcaring of those 
 word.i. 
 
 " Yes," said Kane, " and Inez, too." 
 
 At this, Blake slid iiut a word. lie had 
 dreaded if: ho hi"' expected it; but was 
 none the lesb overwhelmed when he actually 
 heard it. 
 
 '■ It's a mixed-up story, and the devil him- 
 gelf couldn't have worked with more patient, 
 cold-blooded craft," said Kane. "I didn t 
 like to tell you, and I don't like to now, but 
 Inez has had a hard time of it." 
 
 " (Jo on," eaid Blake, in i\ whisper. 
 
 ^pon this, Kano told Blako tho whole 
 Btoi . of Inez — her imprisonrcen', her escape, 
 h T • iting with hor, Lis journey to RutLrcn, 
 
 and Bessie's departure to meet her friend, 
 followed by himself and Gwyn. Some of this 
 was news to '3wyn, for he had not known be- 
 fore tho name of the man who had en'ripped 
 Inez. It only added to his terrors a'>out Bes- 
 sie. To Bluke this was nil too 'oarfully in- 
 toUigible. The long, deep, patient plot was 
 cliaractcristic of Kevin M.igrath. • lie chose 
 to lead his victims to destruction, as his 
 mother had said, by a purely natural proces?, 
 by their own act and consent, so that he should 
 be himself free from danger. What more? 
 Had Inez and Bessie now g ine with him vol- 
 untarily to destruction ? lie trcmblei.' to hear. 
 
 The rest was soon told. The story of 
 Clara's grave in Rome, of tho removal of her 
 remains — all was liorrible. lie knew well 
 how false it was. He could not tell Kano 
 even then the truth about Clara, so as to shoTV 
 Kane and Gwyn its complete untruth. Uo 
 could scarcL'ly use his faculties, and it seemed 
 as though his strength of wind and body, 
 which had been so severely tried of late, was 
 about to give way utterly under this new blow. 
 
 " They're lost ! " he cried at last. " There's 
 no such grave — in all — Pome." 
 
 Kane looked at hira as though ho would 
 read his soul. 
 
 " Her father," said he, in a voice which 
 was tremuTous with agitation at a frightful 
 suspicion which came to him — " her father — 
 had her — her remain? buried — by tho sida 
 of her moiher — in the Catacombs." 
 
 " The Catacombs ! " groaned Blake. •' 
 God! Tho Catacombs! Heavens! don't 
 you know wliat that means ? " 
 
 At this both Kane and Gwyn shuddered. 
 
 "Stop!" said Kane, in a hoarse voice, 
 "don't be too fast — you don't know — sha 
 was taken away from Pire-l;i Chaise." 
 
 "She was not," cried Blako, who could 
 not say any more. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked Kane. 
 
 " Go and ask tho keeper — go to the ceme- 
 tery now — ask him if any such a removal has 
 taken place," gasped Blake. 
 
 "By HcnvcDs, I will!" cried Kane. "IIo 
 had persuaded r.ie, I too was going to tho 
 Catacombs, to pray at her grave. I will go 
 thi.s very instant and s.-e — " He hurried out 
 of the room, and bangod tho door after him, 
 in tho middle of hi:* t-entence. 
 
 Bl.xke and Gwyn sat thrro in silence, over- 
 whelmed by tho anguish of the now fear that 
 had arisen in their minds. Of tho two, Ulaks 
 
 ; . : JS 
 
icr friend, 
 
 me of this 
 
 known bc- 
 
 cn'rapj^ed 
 
 a'>out Bes- 
 
 L-arfully in- 
 
 t plot was 
 
 IIu cliosc 
 
 on, as bis 
 
 al proces?, 
 
 t he should 
 
 hat more? 
 
 h him vol- 
 
 Ici.' to hear. 
 
 e story of 
 
 aval of her 
 
 knew well 
 
 «cl) Kano 
 
 as to show 
 
 itruth. llo 
 
 d it seemed 
 
 and body, 
 
 of late, was 
 
 s new blow. 
 
 It. "There's 
 
 h ho would 
 
 voice which 
 t a frightful 
 her father — 
 by the sidd 
 1." 
 
 Blake. " 
 ivcns I don't 
 
 shuddered, 
 
 loarso voice, 
 
 , know — sho 
 
 lise." 
 
 ;, who could 
 
 il Kane. 
 
 to the ceme- 
 
 rcmoval has 
 
 Kane. "IIo 
 ;oiiij» to tho 
 c. I will (^ 
 ! hurried out 
 or after hiu, 
 
 silence, ovor- 
 low fesr that 
 two, Blak« 
 
 A DISCOVERY. 
 
 213 
 
 was in the deeper despair, for he knew all. 
 Gwyik's knowledge was iiiiperfcct, and iir» 
 could not help con'oling himself by the be- 
 lief which he had in Magrath's affection for 
 Bessie. Sl;e had always spoken nf hira in 
 fondest language. She rested in his affeetion 
 now with the undoubting confidence of a 
 child. Inez showed nothing of such a fcnti- 
 tnent. Bessie seemed to appropiiatcMagrath 
 as her own — as if he was her father. More- 
 over, once before, when he had been able to 
 injure Bessie, he had spared her, and it was 
 for Inez alone that he had spread his snares. 
 Out of all this he eoiild not help reaching the 
 conclusion that Bessie was perfectly safe, and 
 Inez alone in peril. 
 
 That Inez wis in peril he had no doubt. 
 What then ? AVhat part was Bessie des- 
 tined to play ? Was her prcsenoo any pro- 
 tection to Inez? If so, why should Magrath 
 allow her to go ? Pcrhap? Magrath was 
 making use of Bessie to woric o\i; iiis will on 
 Inez tho more surely. Perhaps he was using 
 Bessie as u decoy. I'erhajis — the thoughts 
 .at came to him now were such ns filled hira 
 with horror. Once more tlic tcn.ble recol- 
 lection came of Ruthven Towers, of Bessie 
 with her frightful suggestions, of that appall- 
 ing moment when she stood before him on 
 the top of tho cliff and seemed a beautiful 
 demon — tlio Tempter in the form of an angel 
 — in the form oi' one whom he loved dearer 
 than life. The remembrance was anguish ; 
 and once more there went on within him a 
 struggle of Koul sometlung like that which 
 had torn him as lie fought down the tempta- 
 tion. But the evil though*, once indulged 
 could not easily be dismissed nor could the 
 one of whom ho had once formed suspicions 
 become ever again altogether free from their 
 recurrence. Tlie thought which had once 
 made him strike her sen.ielcss was not to be 
 destroyed, nor could Bessie ever be immacu- 
 late again. Circum.stanccs suggested Ihcm- 
 selvet to his mind, and tormented him by the 
 horrible coloring which tliey gave to her ao 
 tions : her flight from Ttuiln en Towers ; her 
 bringing Inez once more into Magrath's power ; 
 her refusal to return to her hu.-<band ; her de- 
 parture with Inez and Magrath, and to Utime, 
 and to the ("alucombs ; her last woid^ remind- 
 ing him that he must bring Kani loo. Was 
 it only to draw Kane to Rome that .;ie wisiied 
 liim to come ? Was sho trying to make n 
 decoy of hiin f and, since she had failed in 
 
 her first temptation, hal "ho resorted to one 
 which w.-s more insidious ' And why ? De- 
 stroy Kane, and Ruthven Towers would bo 
 lii.o ; destroy Inez, and Mordaunt Manor would 
 be hers ! — A groan burst from hira in his 
 agony ; he started to his feet, and paced tho 
 room unconscious of the presence of Blake. 
 
 But Blako himself had too much to think 
 of to give any attention to his companion. 
 Kane iiad gone, and ho knew what news ho 
 would bring back. What then ? lie must 
 ftvt. How? When? How long was it sinco 
 they had started for Rome ? Could lie over- 
 take ther.i ? 
 
 Clara's grave ! The Catacombs ! Abhor- 
 rent, appalling thought ! The Catacombs t 
 And Kevin Magrath \ras now leading Iiicr, to 
 that place of horror — the place to which ho 
 had been led. And Inez was going of her 
 own free viil, as he had gone; drawn there 
 -" he had been drawn, by an overpowering 
 .. jtivc. Avarice had drawn him ; I.ove was 
 drawing her. He had gone to find the treas- 
 ure of the Ctpsars ; flie was going to pray at 
 a sister's grave. What damnable art was it 
 that enabled this man to destroy the just 
 suspicions of others? — and, after all that ho 
 had done to Inez, to win tier confidence, and 
 even that of a world-worn man lil'o Kane? 
 Was he, too, intending to go down into tho 
 Catacombs with Kevin Magrath? Wouhl 
 not lie, too, wish (o pratj at tiaras yravtf 
 .\nd Gwyn Ruthven! Was he, toT doomed • 
 What part had his wife in all tlii-< ? Why 
 did filio leave her young husband who loved 
 her? What had she to do with the Mor- 
 daunts ? Wliat connection was '.here be- 
 tween her and Magrath ? His mother knew 
 that she was not a Jlordaun' or at least not 
 of tho family of Bernal Mordaunt. Was sho 
 true, and deo.ived; or a deceiver, falc'c liko 
 Magrath? Or w.w «he a decoy tised by Ma- 
 grath, though Innocen, herself? 
 
 Blake's tnouglits ibout Brpsio were bit- 
 ter; and present cireum«taners, combined 
 with wliat he had heard from Ciwjn and Kane 
 about her, bad already created suspicions in 
 his mind which he had not cnied or dared to 
 expre?>.i. In his own thoughts ho doubted 
 lier, lie feared the worst about her. Thus, in 
 til's present terrible mcmuii, It was Bessie's 
 lij.rd fortune to be the subje,.! of the gr.iveflt 
 and hir'.est suspicion, imt only in tlic mind 
 of riiA'ie, but even in that of her husband. 
 
 A' length, after a long absiiiee, Kane ro- 
 
k 
 
 »l 
 
 , i J 
 
 214 
 
 AX Oi'KX QIKSTIOX. 
 
 turned, nis face wore a very strange expres- 
 sion. 
 
 " Well ? " cried Blake. 
 " It is gone," said Kane, slowly. 
 «' What ! " 
 
 "It is true. Tier — romaius — were ex- 
 humed — and taken away. I saw the keeper, 
 ■who showed rae the books of record — and I 
 — visited tlic grave." 
 
 II.o f.'ing himself into a chair by the table 
 and buried his head in Iiis hands. 
 
 Blake was bewildered, but a moment's re- 
 flection explained all. 
 
 " It is part of that villain's consummate 
 nnd most painstaking stylo of action. Ho 
 always works in what ho would call a scien- 
 tific or artistic manner. Yes, he has certain- 
 ly exhumed — soraotliing — and — " 
 Kane started 'ip and stared. 
 " This is tiic second time," ho said, with 
 deep agitation, " that you have spoken about 
 — about her — in that tone. In Heaven's 
 name, Bl.ike, what is It ? What am I to un- 
 derstand?" 
 
 " Tone ? " said Blako, confusedly. " I 
 •was not conscious of speaking in any partic- 
 ular tone." 
 
 With a disappointed look, Kane sat down 
 again. 
 
 " Wo must not, or I must, and at once," 
 cried Blake. " Toll me— havo I time ? " 
 Owyn and Kane looked at one another. 
 " I tell you his removal of — of that — is 
 only to make his work more thoroiigh. He 
 •will iiavc something to show them." 
 Kane looked up. 
 
 " That is what I mean l)y your tone. I 
 can't understand you, but I sec how agitated 
 you arc. I'll t:i!k about it to-morrow. liut 
 if you are going to do any thing, (Jwyn and I 
 will help you. Magrath left for liomo yestor- 
 d^iy morning only, with Inez and Bessie. 
 Gwyn ■wauled me to leave with liiin to-mor- 
 row, but I was going to remain a week or 
 two. Still, as things are now, wo ougl'it all 
 of us to leave by the very next train." 
 
 " Will you go?— that's right," said Dlakc. 
 " Yosteniay morning ! — and Magrath is prompt 
 In his aots always; but this tiino ho maybe 
 jnorc leisurely about it, ho may not suspect 
 pursuit., ile knows nothing of my escape. 
 No — no — I think he will go about this work 
 leisurely, an<l assist those of you who wish to 
 — doseend into the Cutacombs — and /)('<ii/ n/ 
 ClariCt tumh. — When does the next train go. 
 
 to-night? r'an't we start at once? I will 
 go now. I'll only stop a minute to write a 
 few lines to my mother." 
 
 " Wait, Blake, boy," said Kane, as Blake, 
 after these Incoherent words, arose and 
 walked to the door. " There's no train till 
 rooming. Wo had better a!' '--ave at tho 
 same time. You can write youi letter hero, 
 or you'll have time to go and sec your moth- 
 er yourself" 
 
 " No ; I w^oii't go and see her," said 
 Blake. " She would mako objections, and 
 all that, or insist on coming with me. No. 
 I'll write her, and if you can find some one to 
 take it to her address, I'll be obliged." 
 
 Kane now ofl'cred Blake some writing-ma- 
 terials, and he wrote very hurriedly the fol- 
 lowing letter : 
 
 "Dear Motiikii: I have hoard the very 
 worst. Inez has fallen into the hands of 
 Kevin Miigrath, who has taken her to liome. 
 You know what that means. I am going 
 back there by the lirst train to-morrow morn- 
 ing, in the faint hope of being able to save 
 her. If you have any news about Clara, you 
 had better come on also. Kane Uuthven 
 and his brother (Jwyn are guing .to accompany 
 me. I have said nothing to Kane about Clara. 
 
 " If you come to Rome you will find me, 
 or hear of mo at the old lodgings. 
 
 '' Your ull'ectiunale son, 
 " Basil." 
 
 CILVrTKU LII. 
 
 CL A II A M oil I) A i; NT. 
 
 Sins. Wyvkunk had gone- out fur the pur- 
 pose of finding Clara, and wont at oneo to 
 tho place which had been her last address. 
 It was an ordinary house, which was occupied 
 by some Sisters of Charity, uuioiig whom Cla- 
 ra had cast in her lot. She hoprd to find her 
 here yet ; and, on asking for hor, she found, 
 to hor great relief, that she was within. 
 
 Mr:i. Wyvernu's story to Blake has already 
 shown that Clara was not dead, as Kane had 
 Huppopod. To Kano iho thought of hor being 
 actually alivo was not adinissililo. Tho mem- 
 ory of that one great tragedy obscured ell 
 olso, and ho was incapable of seriously cnn« 
 ^icti-ring that theory which Blake had sug- 
 pestoil, namoly, tliat (~'lara had escaped as ho 
 hinisolf hnd. Hut, to Mrs. Wyvorne, tho liv- 
 
 ij, , 
 
» I will 
 to write a 
 
 a^ Blake, 
 ro30 ami 
 train till 
 vo at the 
 L'ttcT here, 
 our inotli- 
 
 iOr," said 
 
 lions, mid 
 
 me. No. 
 
 oiiie one to 
 
 1." 
 
 riting-ma- 
 ily Iho fol- 
 
 ] tlic Tcry 
 
 ! liiinds of 
 
 r to Uonic. 
 
 am going 
 
 )rvow nioru- 
 
 Llo to snvo 
 
 t Clara, you 
 
 le Kiithveii 
 
 taceonipany 
 
 about Clara. 
 
 rill find itic, 
 
 ale son, 
 " lUsiL." 
 
 for tlio pur- 
 ; nt onco to 
 ast addrosii. 
 las oocupieil 
 f,' whom Cla- 
 d to find her 
 ', hIio found, 
 vi(hit). 
 
 I \inA already 
 iH Kano had 
 of her bcin^ 
 The mom- 
 obscured all 
 'rioiisly con- 
 lii! Iiiid Bu^;- 
 xcapcd BA ho 
 'me, tho liv- 
 
 CLARA MORDAUNT. 
 
 m$ 
 
 ing Clara was the most familiar thought in 
 the world ; and, what to Kane was supernat- 
 ural, to her was in the highest degree nat- 
 ural. 
 
 She was at once admitted, and in a few 
 moments Clara herself made her appearance, 
 and with a cry of joy caught her in lier arms, 
 and kissed ner again and again, uttering at 
 tho same time many exclamations of affection, 
 of gratitude, and of delight. Mrs. Wyverne 
 herself was moved by such emotion on the 
 part of Clara, ami was rejoiced to perceive 
 these signs of a warm human sympathy and 
 a tender loving nature in one who might have 
 been expected to have grown indifferent to 
 worldly tics. 
 
 Clara took her to her own chamber, in- 
 forming her that in this house they were less 
 strict in their regulations than in other places, 
 and that .arious privileges were allowed of 
 intimate association with friends or relatives. 
 It was a plainlj'-furnished room, with a single 
 window looking out upon tho stnet. Here 
 they were alone together, and could say what 
 they wislied without interruption. 
 
 Clara was dressed as a Sister of Charity, 
 and tlie simple costume served in her ca?e to 
 give an additional charm to her graceful fig- 
 ure, and to the beautiful and siiil youthful 
 face. She had an extraordinary resemblance 
 to Inez, having generally tho same features 
 and tho same family peculiarity. But, with 
 Clara, there was a deeper melancholy visible ; 
 in her eyes and in her face there were tlic 
 manifest traces of Icng and severe suffering. 
 Inez, after her escape from prison, and while 
 just arising from a bed of sickness, thin and 
 pale from suffering, had seemed to him tho 
 counterpart of his lost Clara; but the real 
 <'larahad in her face a sadness sueh as Inez 
 had never shown, for her sufferings had been 
 deeper, and more intense, and more pir- 
 lonpcu. 
 
 At first the conversation was taken up 
 with anxious incpiiries about one another's 
 health, and questions about what each h.id 
 been doing since their lust meeting. Clara 
 professed to have lived her usual life, but 
 Mrs. Wyverne was more fiaiik; and, begin- 
 ning with the recital of her own troubles, she 
 at length went on by degrees to unfold all 
 tliat series of events which had been going 
 on, and with which Chira herself was so inti- 
 mately conneeteil. Mrs. AVyverno did this 
 cautiously and gradually, and now for the 
 
 first time Clara learned the full measure of 
 her own rights, the extent of her wrongs, tho 
 sufferings of those near relatives of hers 
 whom she had not seen since childhood, but 
 whose names and fortunes now awakened an 
 intense interest; and, finally, the niachina- 
 tions of Magralh, which had first been direct- 
 ed against herself, and of late had turned 
 against her sister Inez. All this awakened 
 deep emotion within her, but this was sur- 
 passed by the feelings that were aroused when 
 Mrs. ■\Vyvernc brought forward the n;cntion of 
 Kane Ruthven. Kane Ruthven was the inti- 
 mate friend of Mrs. Wyverne's son. That son, 
 just escaping from unparalleled dangers, was 
 even now about to visit Kane Ruthven. This 
 Kane Ruthven, also, her husband, had been 
 subject to remorse for years on her account, and 
 was still mourning over her as dead. All thia 
 came out, and Claia listened wiih intense 
 emotion, pouring forth a torrent of eager 
 questions, and, forgetting every thing else, 
 evinced an insatiable longing to know every 
 thing that Mrs. Wyverne could tell about 
 I him. 
 
 On former interviews Clara had been mere- 
 ly a despairing mourner, weary of the world, 
 seeking solace only in tho lilo which she had 
 adopted, reticent about her past, shunning 
 every allusion to it. Now, the revelations 
 which Mrs. AVyverne brought her broke down 
 all her reticence, and poured over her soul a 
 Hood of memories which overwhelmed her. 
 It was not the fact that Kane Ruthven was 
 alive, not the fact that he was living in Paris 
 that impressed her, but rather the fact that 
 ho was suffering, and for her ; that he was 
 bearing thi; load nf remorse, and enduring 
 these stings of conscience, on her account ; 
 the fact that he so clung to his uniorios of 
 her, that he was, even now, living a life which 
 was arranged with reference to her, and that 
 ho was associating her in all his thoughts n ith 
 the angels of heaven. 
 
 All her reserve broke d( wn, and she was 
 now eager to tell Mrs. Wyverne her own 
 story, eager to ask Mrs. Wyverne's advico 
 about what she ought to do. Tho story 
 which she had to tell referred to that event 
 already narrated to Blake by Kiiiie, but, as it 
 regarded it from her point of view, it may bo 
 repeated here. 
 
 She began by describing her earl est rec- 
 olleelions, which were vague reniiniscencea 
 of splendid homos iu England and in Italy. 
 
 I* 
 
ni 
 
 210 
 
 AN OrEN" (jUKSTION. 
 
 11 : 
 
 I! : 
 
 fit i 
 
 1 
 
 Then c;imo the death of her mother mid the 
 loss of lier fatlicr ; tlicn a home among stran- 
 gers, ciulinp; witli lier departure to Paris, and 
 her eiitraiiee into a boarding-school. Here 
 plic wan alloweil unusual liberties, hceanic 
 nequainted with virions people, and at length 
 fell in with Kane Iluthvcn, and consented to 
 marry him. 
 
 " But oh ! dear Mra. Wyvcrne," she con- 
 tinued, "you may imagine what a child I was, 
 what a poor little child, when I tell you that, 
 in p'lcking up my small valise to fly, I actually 
 put in a doll — I was passionately fond of doU.-i 
 — and a multitude of little scraps of silk, and 
 odds and ends of colored ribbons. Oh, dcii- 
 Mrs. Wyvcrne, I could cry over the rcincm- 
 brance of my utter childishness and inno- 
 cence, if it were not that I have other rac no- 
 rics that are too deep for tears. 
 
 " Well, we were married, and then we j 
 travelled everywhere. We went to Italy, and j 
 finally came back to Paris through Germany. I 
 Wo had been gone about three months, I 
 think. Those throe months were perfect 
 Lappino.->s. Kane was passionately fond of 
 me, and I was far happier than ever I had 
 been in all my life. His love was perfect ad- 
 oration. He Ecemed not to havo oiie single 
 thought that was not about me ; and, as for 
 myself, I idolized him. 
 
 " Well, wo came back to Paris, and lived 
 there for several months. We enjoyed life 
 to the very uttermost. Day followed day, 
 and week followed week, and month fullowod 
 month, so rapidly thiit I waH amazed at the 
 quick flight of time. 
 
 " Well, one day, there came a break in all 
 this. I learnwl that my guardian had cast 
 nio ofT. I did not know av.y thing about my 
 inheritance. I only thought it was a very, 
 very cruel thing for him to do. lie wrote 
 Kane a torrilil' 'iCtter, and Kane felt cut to 
 the heart, thouj^li he tried as hard a.'' he could 
 to hide from me how he felt it, but I could 
 easily perceive if. I know by that time every 
 varying expression of his noble and lordly 
 face, anil every intonation of his voice so well, 
 that any change was at onco perceptible. 
 However, ho had great power over himself, 
 and in a short time he s\iccccded in regaining 
 his former flow of epirits. 
 
 " At last there came one memorable day. 
 Ho had pone out early in the morning. He 
 came back at about ten o'clock — wo then 
 breakfasted. I noticed a certain t-ouble in 
 
 his face, which he was trying to hide by as- 
 sumed gayety. I tried to quell my anxiety, 
 but at length could restrain myself no longer, 
 and I went over to him, and put my arms 
 around him. He pressed iiie close to his 
 heart in silence. 
 
 " ' Ob, my dear love I ' I asked, ' what is 
 it?' 
 
 " ' Nothing,' said he. 
 
 " I then implored him to tell me, but, in- 
 stead of doing so, he gently witiidrcw him- 
 self, and went away, and sat down by a win- 
 dow in pilcnce. At puch apparent coldness 
 as this, I was quite overcome. 'O Kane!' I 
 cried, 'has it come to thi.'<! — has it come to 
 tills!' At this he started, and leaving his 
 acat he came over to me, and stood looking 
 at me with a mild, sweet, loving, and com- 
 l>assionate smile — looking like some protect- 
 ing divinity; yet still, behind all this, I cotdd 
 not help seeing that lurking cxprc.s?ion of 
 trouble 
 
 " ' Not love you ! ' he said — ' love I ' and 
 then he gave a little laugh. 'My darling I' 
 he continued, in a tremulous voice, ' I do not 
 believe that there are any other men in the 
 worM just now who know what it is to lovo, 
 as 1 know it.' 
 
 "At this, I rose, and threw myself in hi.^ 
 arms, and cried. Tears wore in his eyes, too 
 — and those tears made mo cry all the more. 
 Hut at last he regained his composure, and 
 began to talk to me again. Hi,- then told me 
 all — the whole truth. He iiiforuioil me that, 
 when wo married, he had a certain amount 
 of money — that hi.s lovo wa." so great thai he 
 determined to make my life nothing but hap- 
 piness. How well he had done that, I have 
 lold you. Itiit, in doing this, he had spent 
 every thing — and on that morning l:e was 
 destitute, liesidcs this, he was in debt, (\vdit- 
 ors were persecuting him — even the landlord 
 joined with them, nnd had threatened to turn 
 us out. We were to be turned out into the 
 streets — or, rather, I was to be turned out 
 alone, for he was in danger of arrest and im- 
 prisonment. 
 
 " I'pon this, I was eager to know what ho 
 proposed to do, antl in an anguish of fear 1 
 asked him if he was thinking of leaving me. 
 
 " ' Never, never ! Leave you, darling ? — 
 never, never 1 ' he cried, with wild impetuosity. 
 ' Never — it all drpeiids upon you — if you will 
 come with me where 1 go.' 
 
 "'Ohl'I cried, ' why do you talk «of— 
 
(■|,VI!\ MoUD.M'NT. 
 
 217 
 
 ' nliat in 
 
 ofl if I woiiMiit go u!l over the woiUl with 
 you.' 
 
 " At tlii?, lie looked at nie with so strange 
 an expression tliat I actually felt fiigliteiu'd. 
 For a lonp time lio regardoii ine in silciioo — 
 I was bewildered anil te-rifieJ, and didn't 
 know what to tliitil;. 
 
 " 'Over the worM,' he said, in a whisper, 
 bending down lower, and Btill holdiiig me in 
 his arms — ' over the world? — my darling! 
 — I know you would do that — but would you 
 do more than that?' 
 
 " ' Do more than that ? ' I faltered. 
 
 " ' Would you — would you ? ' he said ; and 
 tiicn he hesitated. 
 
 '"Would I what?' I asked, breathlessly. 
 
 " He bent his head down lower yet, and 
 whispered in my ear: 
 
 " ' J)arli)>ff .' xroulfi yon go telth me out of 
 the Korld! ' 
 
 "0 dear Mra. Wyverne! how can I tell 
 you the uniittorahle horror that there was in 
 that question? The whisper hissed itself 
 through me ; and every nerve and every fibre 
 tingled and thrilled at its awful meaning. I 
 felt paralyzed. I did not say one single word. 
 He, on his part, went talking on in a strange, 
 wild way, and was too intent on framing some 
 argimieiit for persuading me to notice the 
 perfect ngotiy of fear that thi.s proposal Iiad 
 given me. — To die ! Oh ! to die ! and I so 
 young ! and when I had been so happy ! This 
 was my only thought. Iicmcniber what a 
 rhild I was. And to die ! and so suddenly ! 
 <th, horror of hor/ors! And worse, to admin- 
 ister death to myself 1 O dear, dear Mrs. 
 Wyvcrne I how can I possibly tell you the 
 t.tter anguish of such a thought? — Well, he 
 went on speaking more, but I didn't hear a 
 word, or, at least, I didn't understand, you 
 know, for I was really quite stupefied. Itut I 
 gathered, in a vague way, from what he said, 
 that he had all along been looking fornurd to 
 this, and that ho had decided what to do. 
 For himself, he was calm; but he felt uncer- 
 tain about me, and had not dared to mention 
 it before. He h.id gone out tliat morning to 
 buy the ilrug that would furnish the deadly 
 draught. This ho showed me. The sight of 
 it had the same cfTcct on me which the sight 
 of the gallowH may have on the condemned 
 etiminal. Ilut he was tno much taken up 
 with his own thoughts to notice my horror ; 
 •nd so he went on, working himself up into 
 an eloquent rhapsody — in which lie dcscrilied 
 
 the joys of the spiritual Flate, and of the world 
 beyond the grave. l!ut oh! his words fell 
 only upon the dull, dead ears of a terrified 
 and iianie-strieken girl. 
 
 " At length he made a proposal that each 
 should jjour it out for the other, or I made it 
 in my despair— I forget which. He himself 
 was in a very peculiar mood by this time; 
 he was nt once so absorbed in the i)iirpose 
 over which he had brooded so long, and at the 
 same time so taken up with his own thoughts, 
 that I saw the utter uselessness of any thing 
 like remonstrance. I only thought of evasion 
 — not of resistance; so I caught a* once at 
 the plan of pouring out a draught for myself, 
 and in this way I hoped to escape this terrible 
 fate which he was medititing for me. So I 
 got up, and stammered something about get- 
 ting the glasses. He smiled, and said nothing, 
 but threw himself back in his chair. His face 
 was turned from me. With a trembling hand 
 I poured out some wine in a glass, and. taking 
 this in one liand, I took two empty glasses in 
 the other, and then went b.ick very softly ; 
 stooping down, I put the glass of wine under 
 the place where I had been sitting on the 
 sofa. Then I handed him the empty glasses ; 
 he took them with an abstracted air and an 
 enthusiastic smile. Then he maile me sit down. 
 
 " Then he poured out the draught in cuch 
 glass, and handed one to me. 1 took it — my 
 hand trembling so that I eculd scarcely hold 
 it, and looked at him as he sat there with his 
 eyes turned toward me; but his eyes seemed 
 fixed on vacancy, with that same excited anil 
 abstracted look which I have already men- 
 tioned. 
 
 " ' Now,' saiil he, after some silence — 
 'now — my own darling — wc both hold in 
 our hands the means of escape from the 
 darkness of poverty and tliv, sorrow of life ! 
 Come, l(t us both drink together, and so pass 
 away. When I raise my glass, do you raise 
 yours, and thus we shall drink together, and 
 —die ! • 
 
 " At this a fresh anguish of despair rushed 
 thmugh me. I was filled with horror, and in 
 that last moment of agony a sudden thought 
 came to me. 
 
 '"What is the matter, my darling? ' be 
 asked, noticing my agitatimi. 
 
 " ' Oh, hark ! oh, listen ! ' I cried. 'There 
 is some one at the door.' 
 
 " Ho started, and rose and went to (lie 
 door. The moment his back was turned, I 
 
 A ^ 
 

 , I 
 
 218 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 linstilj' clmnj^ed tlio gla^s of poison for that 
 of wino which was umlcr mo. l!y the time 
 that I had done tlii.«, he had come baclj. 
 
 " ' You arc excited,' lie said. ' Tiievo is 
 no one tlierc' 
 
 " Willi thoPC words he resumed his scat. 
 On hi3 iioblo face I saw a glow of lofty en- 
 thusiasm, and, as he fastened his eyes on me, 
 they glon'cd with unutterable tenderness. 
 There was also the moisture of tears in his 
 eyes, and there was a smile on his lips, lie 
 held his glass in his left hand, while his right 
 hand took mine. I noticed at that awful mo- 
 HK-'nt how warm his hand was, and how steady. 
 It was the warmth and steadiness of perfect 
 coolness and perfect health ; but ray band 
 was as cold as ice, and clammy, and tremu- 
 lous, for I was shuddering and shivering in 
 excitement and fear. Wo sat in this way for 
 a 'loment or two, and then he said ; 
 
 " ' Now ! ' 
 
 " Ho r;iispd the glass to his lips. I did 
 the same. \Vc both drank at the same time. 
 Each of us dr\nk, and oh, how difForcnt in 
 each case! Then we put down the glasses, 
 nnd still sat tlv^re in the same position, llow 
 long we s.it I cannot tell, for my brain was in 
 a wliirl, and a dark horror was over me. I 
 had escaped death, but I was losing him who 
 was dearer than life. With my woman's love 
 and yearning over him, there was a child's 
 panic fc:ir of death and its accompaniments. 
 At ienglh his grasp began to rolux. He fell 
 forward against me. I gave a shriek. I had 
 a wild idea of going fur hel.i, , .<1 a wilder 
 idea of flight; and so, with my nsincl almost 
 in a state of ('elirium, I rushed from the 
 room, and fled 1 hardly knew where. 
 
 " I remember getting lodgings, nnd writ- 
 ing to you, the only friend I had in all tho 
 world, and you came, and you nursed nic, 
 but I have never told you tliia till now." 
 
 Clara paused here for some time, and at 
 length resumed : 
 
 "Well, dear, you know how I was. Think- 
 ing only of Katie's death, I gave myself up 
 to despair. Life had lost all its value, and I 
 on\y wished to find some occupation where I 
 jnigiit also have the consolations of religion. 
 This I found among those dear Sisters aniorg 
 whom I came to live and to w(uk. 
 
 " Well, now, dear, I mu-'t rr.enlion ii dis- 
 covery that I niaile. It was about a year 
 after this event. I was nursing at a lios- 
 pilal, uiid by the merest accident I heard of 
 
 tho case of a man who had been poisoned 
 nnd sent here. The poison was too weak, or 
 the amount was too small, and the work was 
 not done. I was struck by this very forcibly, 
 and on inquiry found out tho date and tho 
 place. It was tho date of our tragedy, and 
 the place, too. They had not found out his 
 name, but I know that this patient could be 
 no other than Kane. He had recovered I Uo 
 had gone away I lie had not died ! He was 
 alive ! I cannot possibly convey to you, 
 dea', the slightest idea of my feelings at such 
 an ostonishing discovery. 
 
 "After that I was in a constant state of 
 watchfulness, I was on tho lookout for him 
 everywhere. Years passed, however, and I 
 never saw him. At last I gave him up, nnd 
 concluded that he liad gone away, though, 
 after all, I could imt help indulging the hopo 
 of meeting him again. You have mentioned 
 his strange fancies about me, dear. You 
 now understand, and I can understand ; wo 
 met by chance. He had come back here. 
 Tlie first time wag at Xotre-Dame, the next in 
 the rail-ears, the next on the street. On each 
 of those occasions I was as much affected as 
 he was. The first meeting showed mo that 
 he was alive, tliougli I knew not where to 
 find him. This thought filled my mind to tho 
 exclusion of every thing else. The second 
 meeting oidy confirmed this thouglit, nnd 
 made mo think also that he ktiew of my es- 
 cape from the fate that he had prepared forme. 
 
 " But oh ! I cannot tell you what I suf- 
 fered. I had grown reconciled to this life. 
 The di.scovcry that ho was alive destroyed all 
 my peace of mind. It brought back all my 
 past. Above all, I was filled with shamo at 
 the thought of the deceit of whicli I had been 
 guilty. I liatl saved my life by a cowardly 
 trick. He had gone, in good faith, to death, 
 ns he supposed ; and had thought that I loved 
 him well enough to go with him. Hut I did 
 not. I was a coward, nnd in my terror I had 
 deceived him. 1 dared not meet him. I was 
 t(M'riliejl at the sight of him, even though I 
 longed to tell him all. One evening I saw 
 him seated in tho street in front of a ca/e, 
 and I caught his look. It seemed to me that 
 ho was regarding mo with a stern, reproach- 
 ful glance. 1 almost fainted in utter anguish; 
 but I managed to reach my home. At an- 
 other time I saw him at a distance. I fol- 
 lowed him, with a vague idea of accosting 
 him. 1 I'ollowud him to tho cemetery of 
 
(inINt; TO niAY AT CLAUA'S GHAVE. 
 
 sia 
 
 PcTo-la-Cliai.-c, ami waliliod liim for liouri). I 
 saw him kiicdiiij^ brfoio a tomb. I woiidoi'cd 
 very miidi, ami looked at him for u long limc 
 from a hiding-place. At last I ventured fortli 
 a little, and lie looked up and saw me. I 
 shrank back again, and was so tiM-rificd that 
 I remained there all night long. This ex- 
 plains to you all about our meetings, which 
 lie, poor fellow ! thought were Bupcrnatural ; 
 'and you see, too, dear, and you can under- 
 stand, the reason why I was too frightened to 
 make myself known to him. 
 
 " But oh ! if it had not been for my own 
 sense of dishonor — if it had not been for the 
 feeling which I had that I had deceived him, 
 and that ho would never forgive if, liow gladly 
 I would have told him all I Rut I dared not. 
 I was afraid. I knew so well his lofty na- 
 ture, and remembered so well his proud con- 
 fidence in me. And now, even now, dear 
 Mrs. ■\Vyvcriic ! — even now — even now — how 
 can I even now let him know ? Will he not 
 utterly despise me? lie feels ntuorse now 
 for an imaginary crime, and I long to save 
 him from this ; but how can I, when to do so 
 will only change his feelings from remorse to 
 contempt ? Oh, how I wish that I knew what 
 to do ! " 
 
 Jlrs. Wyverne wondered very much at 
 Clara's language, not so much, indeed, at the 
 feelings which she expressed about what she 
 called her cowardice as at the evident long- 
 ings which she possessed after a husband 
 from whom her vows must have separated 
 her. Xor, indeed, could she help mentioning it. 
 
 " Ah, Mrs. Wyverne," said Claia, " tlierc 
 IS something yet to bo told. I am not alto- 
 gether a Sister. 1 found out that he had not 
 died in less than a year after I had joined 
 them, and this always inlluenccd my position 
 here. For a married woman cannot become 
 a Pistcr without the formal consent of her 
 husband, and in my ease this was out of the 
 question. Ilesides, niy case was so very pe- 
 culiar, you know. I entered their house with 
 the full intention of bcc^ ning a Sister, for I 
 thought ho was dead, but the discovery that 
 he was not prevented my taking the vows. 
 But the Sisters knew that I had come with 
 the intention of doing so, under the impres- 
 sion that I was a widow. They knew my cir- 
 cumstances, they all pitied mo, and so they 
 have made allowances for me, and pcrniiltcd 
 luc to remain." 
 
 Tliia in forma Hon set Mrs. Wyverne ihinking. 
 
 CIlAl'TEIl LIII. 
 
 GOI.SG TO ril.iV AT CLAKA'd CRAVE. 
 
 Bkrsie and Inez wore in a eomfortabla 
 apartment in an ancient house in Rome. The 
 ancient house was tliat one which had been 
 described to Blake as having been recently 
 obtained ; but the appearance of the interior 
 gave indications of a long occupation. The 
 room in which tliey were was filled with an- 
 tique furniture, and looked out upon a court- 
 yard, surrounded by venerable walls, with a 
 grotesque fountain in the midst. 
 
 " What a very particularly quaint old 
 house this is, Inez darling, isn't it ? and did 
 you ever see such a dear old place — so an- 
 cient — so stately — such massive walls ? And 
 sure there's a kind of solemnity about it that's 
 fairly delightful, so it is." 
 
 " Yes," said Inez ; " I really never saw 
 such a perfect reproduction of the romance 
 of the middle ages." 
 
 " Sure, but it isn't romance, then, that 
 I'm thinking of, at all at all, Inez darling; but 
 it's religion, so it is. I don't feel like being 
 in a feudal castle ; but much more like being 
 in some sweet, placid convent, where I'm set- 
 tled for the rest of my days. And sure and 
 it wouldn't take much to make mo now con- 
 sent to be made a nun of. and take the veil 
 on the spot, so it wouldn't." 
 
 " That would be rather too rash a thing, 
 Bessie dear," said Inez, with a smile, " for 
 a bride hardly out of her honey-moon." 
 
 " Sure, and didn't I run away from poor 
 old Gwynnic for the sake of friendship? and 
 mightn't I run away from him again for the 
 sake of r'digion?" 
 
 " Not very likely, I fancy, dear," saiil 
 Inez, who was much amused at such an idea 
 entering the head of so loving a wife as 
 Bessie. 
 
 Bessie was silent and pensive for some 
 lime, ller glorious bhic eyes were veiled by 
 their heavy lashes, and were downcast and 
 sad, while over the youthful beauty of her 
 face there was a gentle melancholy, which 
 threw around her a touching grace and 
 charm, 
 
 " And O Inez darling ! " said she, at 
 length, in a low voice, " doesn't it seem 
 sweet, then, to you, to think of those dear 
 ones reposing in that holy I'lace that dear 
 grandpa baa told us so much about f " 
 
no 
 
 AX Ol'KS QIESTIO.V. 
 
 i 
 
 il.r 
 
 t^f r 
 
 " It does sccin sweet,"' Fiild Inez. " I liad 
 beard in a vague way of the lloinan Cata- 
 combs, but never knew what thoy really were. 
 I had nn idea that they were dangero\is and 
 dreadful." 
 
 " Sure, that's from the silly romiinces that 
 we've read. Hut dear grandpa has known 
 them all his life, so he has; and oh, but 's 
 the holy man that he is himself, with his long 
 life of fasting and devotion ; and it's the 
 great ftiend he was of our do.ir papa, Inez 
 dear ! " 
 
 " Yes," paid Inez ; " they must have been 
 congenial spirits. I only wish I had known 
 him before. AVliat a beautiful enthusiasm 
 he has for the saintly type of human charae- 
 tcr — the monks of the middle ages ; and how 
 be manages to kindle the same foelings in an- 
 other ! I feel it, and I know you do too, 
 Bessie dear, for that was what made you 
 ninkc your remark just now about wishing to 
 take the veil.'' 
 
 "Sure and I don't deny, then, that it was 
 Just that same, Inez dear ; and really it would 
 be BO eharming, you know ; but then, poor 
 dear Owynnic would go on so, and be so sad, 
 that I'm afraid I shoul.I not have the courage 
 to do it." 
 
 " I should think not," said Inez. 
 
 "Well," said Ilcssie, "it must be the 
 prospect of going to that sacred plaro that 
 gives me those feelings. I've been fasting 
 all day, and preparing myself. I could not 
 go there as I would go to a picture-gallery. I 
 go to the graves of my nearest and dearest 
 ones, 80 I do; and sure I hope that wc may 
 be buried there some day, Inez darling — don't 
 you, dear ? " 
 
 "Yc, dear; I can think of no sweeter 
 burial-place." 
 
 At this instant Kevin Magrnth entered the 
 room, and Inez and Bessie both rose with 
 pleasant smilea to meet him. Ho regarded 
 them boih wiih tl)at genial sniMo of his, 
 »hich was benignant, tender, and pater- 
 nal. 
 
 " Well, my dear gycrruls,'' said ho, in a 
 tone of gentle inelanelioly, " you miy get 
 ready now, and <lon't forget to |)ut on some- 
 thing warrum, for I wouldn't likeyt-'s to catch 
 cold. In the hot summer even, whin pcopW 
 go down to saunter about for the aftonioon, 
 ye'll see Ihim all dressed like Russians, so vo 
 Win." 
 
 " Oh, you have warned us enou^il, gran<I- 
 
 pa dearest," said Bessie. " We'll bo careful, 
 never fear." 
 
 Leaving the room, they completed their 
 preparations, and soon returned. Kevin Ma- 
 grath then led the way, and they followed 
 him. Uoaching the lower floor, he lighted 
 three lanterns, each of wkieh gave a most 
 brilliant glow, and then descended into tho 
 cellar, followed by the two. Not the slightest 
 hesitation was shown by either of them. The 
 lustre of tho lamps illumined the cellar most 
 brilliantly, and the look which thoy cast 
 about the place showed nothing more than 
 ctirio.'-ity and interest. The opening into tho 
 place was very much larger than it had been 
 at Iflake's visit, for the lower ton)bs had been 
 knocked away, and it was thus large enough 
 for Inez or liessio to enter with only a slight 
 inclination of their heads. There was also a 
 small door, with a lock, with which the open- 
 ing could be closed. The door was very mas- 
 sive, and so was the frauie. 
 
 Kevin Magrath stopped for a short time, 
 and looked at Inez nnd Hessie. 
 
 " Ye're about to inter n holy place," said 
 he. " It's a place that will not inspire alar- 
 rum after what I've told ye's ; but it will 
 surely giro ye's a sintimint of soliran awe — 
 from the sacred, the rivirintial, and the viii- 
 irible associations around. Ye'll see numer- 
 ous passages ; but yc can't lose yer way with 
 me ; and, as to the solioliude, why, it's only 
 ppparii.t, for there's plenty hero movin;; 
 about, and ye'll meet hundreds, so ye will, 
 before ye get out." 
 
 With these words he passed through the 
 opening, and Bessie and Inez came after 
 him. 
 
 " There's nothing more ilivating in life," 
 siiil Magrath, standing still and looking 
 around, " thin a visit to this sanetified spot. 
 There's a. certain divine charrum here tliat 
 iinprissis ivery mind. I've alriddy tcld yo 
 the whole history of this place, its nature, 
 uses, ofTlces, ixtint — so I need say no more on 
 that. But no.v, dear gycrruls, bd'orc we go 
 further, let us pause and imlivor to aehunu 
 our minds to the grandeur of the place ; Kt 
 \is fool that wo are surroundeil on ivery side 
 by a great cloud of wiinisses." 
 
 Aflei waiting a little while, he proceeded 
 at a slow pace, and Inez and Bessie followed. 
 Their eyes rested on those same scenes which 
 Blake had viewed before, in this same com- 
 pany. T!io lights shone bright, but died 
 
OOINC TO I'KAY AT CLARA'S GRAVE. 
 
 away in tlic gloom before nnj behind. After 
 a wliilo Magratli walked closer to them, uiul 
 raado remarks from time to time in aecnrd- 
 aneo with the nature of the surroundiug 
 Bccnc. 
 
 "It's a holy place," said he. "Even the 
 very dust i.s holy, so it is. Those passage- 
 ways were ixciiviited by the hands, worriiu by 
 the feet, and hallowed by the blissid rilics of 
 npostlcs, Saints, martyrs, eonlissors, virgins, 
 and holy innoeints ; yes, here we have, in very 
 deed around us, the goodly fellowship cf the 
 aaints, the glorious company of the apostles, 
 and the white-robed army of martyrs ; here, 
 too, above all, we shall sec the lust risting- 
 placc of those who were so dear to us. 
 
 ".^cc there," said he, pointing to a small 
 tablet ; " it's a child-martyr, and sure, but 
 it's a touching thing intirely to think of these 
 cliildmartyrs — buried here — but yc'U be hav- 
 ing plinty cf opporeliutiitics to see thira all 
 yit, Inez darling, so ye will — so we won't stop 
 now." 
 
 In this way they went on till they reached 
 the first cross-passage. 
 
 " Now," said he, " ye observe what I told 
 ye — rcgyard this passage-way — it's a cross- 
 street, as it were; the right hand brings ye to 
 the crypt of the Cfiicse <li Snn J'iclro in ear- 
 cere, while the left one runs to Chksi di Gem. 
 This is the true holy city — this subterranean 
 Rome; this is the tirristrial Jerusalem, wiili 
 its population of martyrs — the true Zion that 
 I love. And here come all thim that pray 
 for the peace of Jerusalem ; here resort thim 
 that are weary of the vanities of the upper 
 wurruld, to hold commune with the [spirits of 
 the departed. All these patlis lead to churches, 
 or sometimes to houses that have easy con- 
 nection with the streets above, so that ye can 
 start ill hot weather and visit a friend by tak- 
 ing one of these underground streets. Yc'Il 
 yet see thcfc pnss.nges thronged, so ye will — 
 yi.'i, with busy life too. I've seen hundreds 
 here — yi.'*, tliousano's, so I have." 
 
 At length they reached that place which 
 IJlake had known as the Tainted Chamber. 
 
 " Here," said Magrath, " is one of the 
 cintral points from which sanctity seems to 
 bo irradiated all around. We are not far 
 from our distinatioii,so let us wait here for a 
 momint, to prejiure our minds for the last. 
 There's a solimnity about this place that niver 
 fails to inipriss me — an awo I always feel — ■ 
 and never have I felt it stronger than now. 
 
 Look, Inez darling; look, IJessio jool, at thira 
 painted walls. These walls speak, and seo 
 what a past they tell about." 
 
 Inez and IJessic looked around, and gazed 
 with deep interest upon the objects vi.'^iblo 
 there, and listened to the explanations of 
 their guide. As for Magratii, he seemed to 
 lose himself in his lofty theme, and rose 
 every moment to a higher strain of eloquent 
 rhapsodizing. 
 
 " Ve must contimplatc the Christian wor- 
 ruld in tfce times of persecution,'' said he, 
 " In those times the Catacombs opened before 
 them as a city of rifuge. Here lay the bonca 
 of their fathers who, from glneration to gin- 
 eralion, had fought and died for the truth. 
 Here they brought their rilitivcs as one by 
 one they died. Here the son had borrun the 
 bo<ly of his aged parint, and the parint had 
 seen his child eomniittcd to the tomb. Hero 
 they had carried the mangled remains of those 
 who had l)een torn by the wild beasts of the 
 arena, the Ijlackined coriises of those that 
 had been committed to the flames, or the 
 wasted forrums of those most miserable, who 
 had sighed out their lives amid the lingering 
 agonies of crucifixion. The place was hal- 
 lowed, and it was no wonder that they ^ould 
 seek for refuge here. 
 
 " Here, thin, the persecuted Christians 
 turruned, and they peopled these paths and 
 grottoes — by day assinibling to exchango 
 wonls of cheer and comfort, or to bewail the 
 death of some new martyr; by night sinding 
 forth the boldest among thim, like a forlornin 
 hope, to learrun tidinirs of the upper worruld, 
 or to bring down the blood-stained bodies of 
 some new victim. Po they saved thinisilves, 
 but at what a cost! 
 
 "Yis, at what a coiJt — living here amid 
 the damp vapors and the dinse smoke of their 
 torches! Sure to glory, but to me the Roman 
 spirit that enjured all this t0"irs up to 
 grander proportions than were ever attained 
 in the days of the republic. The fortlchudu 
 of ReguliH, the devotion of Curtiu:», the con- 
 stancy of liriitus, were here suri>a?i<ed, not 
 by the strong man, but by the tindir virgin 
 and the weak child. And thus, scorruning 
 to yield to the fiercest powers of persecution, 
 these min went forth, the good, the pure in 
 heart, the great, the brave. I'or thim, death 
 had no terrors, nor that appalling lite in death 
 which they had to enjurc hero in this sublcv- 
 rnncan worruld. 
 
223 
 
 AX OPEN' QUESTIOX. 
 
 .V 
 
 "Look Qround yc's now. AYliat is it that 
 ye see? Ye behold tlie lolcins, tlie imblims, 
 of the thoiifrhts and I'cclinf^s that animated 
 thini, and tlic constant cllbrts which they 
 made to consolo tlicir niindi by lilirinco to 
 sliupcrnatural truths. lu tliat ancient wor- 
 ruld, ye'll remimber, art was cultivated and 
 cherished more ginerally tlian in tlic modern 
 vrorrulci. 'Wherever any nuuibor of niiu and 
 ■women gathered togctlier, an imminse propor- 
 tioD had tlic taste and the talint for art. 
 Whin tlie Christians peopled the Catacomba, 
 the artist was here too, and his art was not 
 unimphned. Tlicso chambers were to tlic 
 C'hri.stiiin population like sciuares amid the 
 narrow streets around; and here it was that 
 they made efforts for addorunraint. So, yo 
 8ce, they covered the walls with white stucco, 
 and tliey painted on thiin pictures of the 
 saints and martyrs, the apostles and proi)hets, 
 flio confissors and witnesses for the truth. 
 If, in the hour of bitter anguish, they sought 
 for scenes or for thoughts that might relieve 
 their souls and prnjuce fresh strength within 
 thira, they could have found no other objects 
 to look upon, so strong to encourage, so 
 mighty to console. 
 
 ■' Yis, in these graves around me," he con- 
 tinued, rising to a higher strain of enthusi- 
 asm, " I behold the remains of those who ili- 
 ivated Immanity ; of whom the worruld was 
 not worthy. They lived at a time whin, to 
 bo a Christian, was to risk one's life. They 
 did not shrink, but boldly proclainn J their 
 faith, and acciptid tho consequinees. They 
 drew a broad line between thimsilves and the 
 Leathin, and stood manfully on their own 
 side. To utter a few words, to pcrforrum a 
 simple art, could always save from impinding 
 death; but the tongue refused to speak the 
 formula, and tho stubborn hand refused to 
 power the libation. They took up the cross, 
 and bore the reproach. That cross was not 
 a figure of speech, as it now is in these days 
 of emasculated Christianity. Witness these 
 names of martyrs — these words of anguish ! 
 These walls have carried down to us, through 
 tho ages, tho words of grief, of lamentation, 
 of ever-changing feeling, which wero marked 
 upon them by those who once sought rifugo 
 here. They tell their mourrunful story to us 
 in these latter days, and raise up before our 
 imagination tho forrums, tho fecUngs, and 
 tho acts of those who were imprisoned hero. 
 And, just as the forrums of life arc taken up- 
 
 on the plates of the camera, so has the great 
 voice, once forced out by suffering from tho 
 very soul of the martyr, become stamped up- 
 on these walls all around us wlierivcr wc tur- 
 run our eyes." 
 
 lie paused for a moment, and then, clasp, 
 ing his hand.o, looked with a lapt gaze at va- 
 cancy, and burst forth : 
 
 " Yis, yc humble witnisses of the truth, 
 poor, desp!.«cd, forlorrun, and forsaken, in 
 vain your calls for morey wint forth to the 
 cars of man : they were stifled in the blood 
 of the slaughter and in the smoke of tho 
 sacrifice ! Yet, where your own race only 
 answered your cry of despair with ficsh tor- 
 ramints, these rocky walls proved more mer- 
 ciful ; they heard your cries, they took thira 
 to their bosoms, and so your words of suDer- 
 ir.g live here, trisured up and graven in the 
 rock foriver ! 
 
 " Ah, my childrin ! ah, Inez d;irling ! I?cs- 
 sie jool ! let your imagination have full swing, 
 and try to bring before yer mind's eyes tho 
 truth of these surroundings. Contimplatc 
 thim as they once were. Ye'll sec these pas- 
 sages not left to tho silent slumber of the 
 dead, but filled with thousands of the living. 
 W.nn, and pale, and sad, and oppressed, they 
 find, even amid this darkness, a better fate 
 than that which awaits them in the worruld 
 above-ground. Bu?y life animates the haunts 
 of the dead ; these pathways ring to the sound 
 of human voices. The light of truth and 
 virtue, banished from the ujipcr air, burruns 
 anew with a purer mjiancc in this subterra- 
 nean gloom I The tender greetings of affic- 
 tion, of frindship, of kinship, and of love, 
 arise amid the mowldering remains of the de- 
 parted. Hero the tear of grief bejews the 
 blood of tho martyr, and the hand of adic- 
 tion wraps his pale limbs in the shroud. Eero 
 in these grottoes the heroic soul rises up shu- 
 perior to sorrow. Hope and faith smile cx- 
 ultingly, and the voice of praise breathes It- 
 self forth from tho lips of the mourrun- 
 cr!" 
 
 He stopped abruptly, and was silent for 
 some time. 
 
 " Sure but it's rhapsodical I am intiroly, 
 dear gycrruls," said he, at last, "but I can't 
 help it. Whiniver I get upon these themes I 
 am carried away beyond mysilf, I ouglit to 
 have held mo tongue, and given mcself up to 
 contimplation. Hut it's difficult to be calm 
 amid such scenes aa these." 
 
GOIXli TO rUAV AT n.AltA'S GRAVK. 
 
 223 
 
 But Inez ansurcJ liim that she luvud to 
 licar him talk iu this way iu Kuch a plaeo, and 
 that plii^ could have listened fur lunger with 
 delight and with instruction. 
 
 "Weil, well," haid he, " it's very kind lor 
 you to say that, so it is, and I know how 
 unliable ye are intircly, but — I'm thinking I 
 winta little beyond ye; howandiver, we needn't 
 bo losing time, so let's go on now, in the ' pe 
 that our luiuds'll be iu fitting trim fur the 
 (Sacred juties and holy coutimplalions that lie 
 befower us. Cumo on, dear gyerruls — come 
 on, Inez darling — come on, IJcssic jool. Fol- 
 low me, children dear, for w ro close by the 
 spot, so wc arc." 
 
 With tlicao words ho turned, and, fol- 
 lowed by Inez and Bessie, walked out of the 
 I'ainted Chamber. 
 
 Inez followed first along the passage-way 
 which lay between tlie Tainted Chamber and 
 that opening in the floor into the realms be- 
 low. iShc was perfectly and utterly fearless. 
 Of the gloom and the terrors around her she 
 had not the faintest idea, !^he walked tli e 
 ns fearlessly as though she was walking alung 
 the Corso, as though she was passing up the 
 liavo of Ht. reter's, but only with a deeper 
 solemnity, and a holier calm, and a prol'uuud- 
 cr awe 
 
 This may easily be explained. C>uce she 
 had entertained tho common opinion about 
 the lloman Catacombs, blio did not know 
 any thing Tcry particular about them. Slie 
 had read about them in a general way, and 
 in the course of her reading she had encoun- 
 tered terrible talcs of people who had been 
 lost in these endless labyrinths. But all 
 these hud been dismissed. Kevin Magrath 
 had given her a different opinion about them. 
 From him she learned that they were not 
 dangerous at all, but were a common resort 
 of devotees; that, instead of being a series 
 of labyrinthine passages without end, they 
 were in reality connected in counties places 
 with the houses above; and that the dilTi- 
 cully was not how to avoid being lost, but 
 rather how to find some passage-way which 
 would not lead into the cellar of a house, or 
 the crypt of some church. Thus Inez be- 
 lieved herself to be in a place which wa* a 
 common resort, a place where in every direc- 
 tion there were passages leading straight to 
 tho upper world. With this belief fear was 
 impossible. 
 
 But she had stronger feelings than this 
 
 belief — the feeling of religious ardor evoked 
 by the enlhusiuslio declamation of Magrath, 
 who, from being earnest, had grown rliap- 
 sodieal. S-he felt her soul kindling at hi.H 
 veluinent words ; she felt her must intense 
 religious fervor evoked by the thoughts which 
 he had called up of that sublimo i)ast, when 
 this was a city, not of the dead, but of tho 
 living; when tiie faithful soiiglit rel'ugo here 
 from persecution ; and where, amid the relics 
 of dead saints, there stood those living saints 
 who themselves were destined to swell tho 
 ranks of the " white-robed army of mar- 
 tyrs." 
 
 Beneath all this was her solemn purpose 
 for which she had come — tho cnil of her pil- 
 grimoge to Komc — the graves of her father, 
 her mother, and her sister. I'or this she had 
 prepared herself, and this lay before her. 
 For this the scenes thus far had only served 
 to prepare her soul, and the words which she 
 had beard seemed a fitting prelude to the sol- 
 emn devotions before lier. 
 
 Kevin Magratii slopped. 
 
 Inez looked around. 
 
 At her feet she saw a step-ladder. A lit- 
 tle In front she saw an opening iu the path, 
 black, yawn _' ! 
 
 "It's an opening into a passage below like 
 this," said Kevin Magrath. " It's down there 
 that we're going ; there, Inez darling, they lie 
 — the loved one? — wailing for you and for us. 
 I brought the ladder here this morning. It's 
 only u short distance, and I'll help ye's botli 
 down easy enough. Ye'll find it just tho 
 same down there as it is up here." 
 
 The sight of this pit at first startled Inez, 
 but Slagrath's words reassured her. 
 
 " It looks dangerous," said he, " but peo- 
 ple always carry lights, and so there's niver 
 any aecidint. Besides, it's only in out-of-the 
 way places that we find these lower stories. 
 It's only a few feet, too." 
 
 Saying this, he pushed the step-ladder 
 down into the opening. It touched the floor 
 below, and rested there, with tho top of iO 
 projecting a short distance above. 
 
 " It's a mighty convanicnt thing intirely," 
 said he, " and I'll help ye's both down. You 
 may come down first after mo, Inez darling— 
 and thin, Bessie jool, I'll fetch //o"." 
 
 With these words he descended, and soon 
 reached the place below. lie placed his lan- 
 tern on the floor, and the bright gleam illu- 
 minated the passage-way, showing that it was 
 
i ,k 
 
 AN OPEN QIESTIOX. 
 
 tlio couiitcrp;irt of the ono ubovo. Kevin 
 Miigiutli stood mill looked up. There wiis a 
 RCtitlo tituilc on hit) fucc, and witli tliia tlierc 
 was un expression of solemn awe wbicl> was 
 ill I<eopini; witii the bcpiio around. 
 
 " IK'ri'," said lie, "rot lar uway, Id the 
 risiin^ plat'O of liie loved ones; litre your 
 father and I witli our own liond.'*, Inez dar- 
 ling, boro the precious rilics of poor Clara; 
 and licrc afterward it wn» mc own niourrun- 
 ful privilege to — but wait till I help yr, dear; 
 give ine ycr hand thin." 
 
 While ho was speaking Inez had bcf;un to 
 descend, and Ma^ruth slopped short in hii> 
 remarks, to help lier. He stood on tlie low ;r 
 step of the ladder, and reached out his hauc'. 
 Then, not satisfied wilh that, ho went up u 
 low 8tC|)S, holding her so as to help her down. 
 At length Inez reached tlie floor below. 
 
 The lamp wan burning then brightly. 
 Inez, full of the solemn purpose before her, 
 and roused up to a high ciitliusiAsm by the 
 scene around, and by the events that had 
 thus far occurred, enst one look up the path- 
 way, and another look down, and tlien stood 
 waiting for Hessic, wilh her eyes downcast, 
 and her mind preparing itself for what was 
 before her. Ho, in deep abstraction, stood 
 Inez. 
 
 Bessie was on the floor above, at the head 
 of the ladder. Kevin Slagrath was on the 
 floor below, at the foot of the ladder. Ho 
 looked up and said nothing. licssic looked 
 down. Tlieir eyes met. 
 
 " It makes me so dizzy, grandpa dear," 
 said Ucssie. " It always makes me dizzy to 
 climb ladders, or to look down places, so it 
 docs. Inez wan always awfully brave." 
 
 "Dizzy is it? Sure to glory but its the 
 big I >ward ye are thin," said Kevin Magrath. 
 " Sure if yu'rc afraid, I'll go up and carry ye 
 down in rae arrums, so I will." 
 
 Inez was standing there. She held In her 
 hands the lantern which she had carried. 
 She heard these words. At the same time 
 her eyes were struck by a flash of light in the 
 passage at some distance. There was also 
 the sound of hurrying footsteps, as of some 
 ono advancing. Slic could not help feeling 
 some curiosity. That some one should be 
 advancing was not at all surprising to her, 
 for Kevin Magrath had given her to under- 
 st.ind that the Catacombs were visited and 
 traversed by people at all hours of the day 
 and night. These perhaps, she thought, 
 
 might bo like herself, mourncrfi, visitors to 
 the graves of departed friends. So shs stood 
 looking. 
 
 Kevin Magrath was looking up, his back 
 being turned, and his attentiim absorbed 
 with Itessie and with his own thoughts. Ho 
 had not seen that gleam of light, nor had ho 
 heard the footsteps, lie was so absorbed in 
 his own purposes, 
 
 " Inez darling," said he, not turning to 
 face her, not choosing now to look at her, 
 " I'll liavo to go up to carry Ilcs-fio down. 
 Sure but it's the big coward she is thin! — 
 Bessie, jool, if ye won't come down, or if yo 
 can't, why yo needn't. Wait a momint, and 
 i II bring yo in nie ov n arrums. — Wait a mo- 
 iniiit, Inez darling. It's only a minute I'll be, 
 ye know, and then we'll rczliumo our wan- 
 dciings — to the holy graves — and — we'll pcr- 
 forrum the last mourrunful rites, so wo will." 
 
 He had spoken slowly. He seemed to 
 think that Inez would bo afraid to have hiia 
 go up even for a niinute, and so tried to re- 
 assure her and to strengthen her by remind- 
 ing her of the purpose before her. There 
 was, in reality, no need of this, since Inez did 
 not have the slightest suspicion, and, from 
 perfect ignorance, was perfectly fearless. 
 
 At this moment also, and while ho was 
 speaking, her eyes were flxed on an odvanr- 
 ing figure hastening along. A strongo thrill 
 came over her. It seemed incredible. She 
 could scarcely stand. The figure came near- 
 er, nearer, nearer. It was a man, who was 
 hurr\iiig at a rapid run; he had a lantern, 
 which revealed his form and face. 
 
 The noise of those advancing footsteps 
 could now not fail to force itself tliroiigh 
 Kevin .Magrath's abstraction of soul, into 
 which he had fallen from the pressure of his 
 own purpose. Already he had ono foot on 
 the lowest step of tho ladder, and his left 
 hand had grasped it so as to ascend, when 
 that strange and startling noise eanio to Lis 
 ears. 
 
 lie stopped and turned. 
 
 And then, full before him, and rushlhg 
 toward him, be saw It. Kushing toward him 
 with impetuous haste, with a face ghastly 
 white, with fierce, eager eyes, with one hand 
 holding a lantern, and the other hand out- 
 stretched as if to strike; wild, terrible, men- 
 acing, ho saw It! What? The tremendous 
 apparition of tho man whom ho had led down 
 here, and left to die in this very place ; from 
 
r-'*^.- 
 
T 
 
 (iOIX(J TO PRAY AT CLAKA'S (lUAVE. 
 
 •?.; 
 
 25 
 
 
 whom lie Imd fled up tliia very opening; tlic 
 form of the dead ; the nppnritioii (if horror! 
 It Kns Da.Ml Wyvcrno; the man wliom he 
 Knew to he dead, hut wliom lie saw to be 
 livinR — living in tlii.s drenr liome of death ; a 
 spectacle of anguish unutterable ; a figure np- 
 ))alling and abhorrent; a siglit and a thought 
 that man might not face; before which 
 lienson trembled and vani^^lud ; and tlie 
 strong, rcmoraeles.« nature, hardened to nets 
 of crime, uhuddcr'. ' ud sank away. 
 
 "Why, Dr. niuk;!" 
 
 It was the voice of Inez, 
 
 It was followed l)y a gni'p and a groi..i ; 
 then the fiound of rushing footstrpH in pan* 
 ic flight, and Kevin Mngrath di!fappeare<I, 
 swallowed up in tliick daikncK!<, while ihe 
 sound of th'/.se footsteps came up from afar, 
 lessening gradually till all n-as still, from that 
 passage up whiel; the fabulous Onofrio had 
 lied. 
 
 At the same moment a piercing cry came 
 from Hessie in the pas.sagi'-way above. For 
 she had been stooping down low, and, startled 
 by the niovcment of Kevin Magrath, she knelt 
 down and put her luad lower Htill, sc as to 
 sec what it was that caused thin agitation. 
 And in thai one instance she saw it all. 
 
 The sudden arrival of Dlako upon the 
 scene can iio accounted for in the most natu- 
 ral manner. Ho had nurried to Home with 
 Kane and (!wyn, fidl of onxicty. He hod 
 lound the Via del Conli and had recognized 
 that gloomy building wliich had been pointed 
 out by Kevin Magrath as the Monastery of 
 San Antonio. Turning down the .<trcct nt 
 the corner, he wci'.t on until ho had reached 
 and fully recognized the house to which he 
 had been taken by his betrayer. He could 
 find out nothing about it now. Peuplc ."aid 
 that it was uninhabited, and its aspe.'t seemed 
 lo confirm Mie statement. 
 
 Kevin Magrath had informed fJwyn that 
 !iC would stop at the Hotel delf Kiiropo, but, 
 on imiuiring there, they could learn nothing 
 whatever about liini, This made lilakc feel 
 certain that ho had taken Inez at oneo to 
 that house. At first he tiiought of communi- 
 cating with the police; but the fever of his 
 impatience made hiin resolve to act for him- 
 self. He could not get admittance to the 
 houee by the door, but he remeniborcd that 
 he could penetrate into that jiri.son through 
 iho (.'atacombs. Iron crow-bars and the 
 stout arms of his friend.'i could soon break 
 16 
 
 Ihrongh into the cellars, and I'lez could be 
 reached iiiul icsciu d in this way far sooner 
 than by the nio\iinciil.-i of (he iioliee. 
 
 The emergency of the case, and his new 
 anxiety, dispelled the tcrrorr, of the C'ala- 
 conjbs, and Kane and (iwyn wjre willing to 
 aceomp. ny him. They took all the malei iais 
 that were recpiiiiite for their purpose, and hur- 
 ried to the mouth of the Cloaca Maxima. 
 Their movements excited no attention, for 
 they lookeil like one of those exploring parties 
 which n.ay often be met with in Home. 
 
 In due time they came to the broken 
 stone, and passed throujdi. After this, tiny 
 had to move more carefully. Hut at length 
 IJlake discovered, lying on the lloor, sonic- 
 thing which gave him an unmistakable clew- 
 to the path which he should take. It was 
 that burnt match which he had lighted while 
 standing at the intersection of tiic two paths, 
 when the light had revealed the horrible spec- 
 tacle of his ossailants. Hero lay the Tuatch, 
 at the intersection of the two paths, and ho 
 was oble at once to take up Ihe course which 
 was to lead him back over the secuc of his 
 wanderings. 
 
 Hero the course was perfectly straight, 
 and tlii'y at length reached the opening above. 
 I'p this lilake climbed by means of those 
 very holes which he had cut before, when his 
 ear caught the sound of voices, and, (.8 his 
 head arose alx.ve the opening, he saw a glow 
 of light before hiin. He hung thcrr, '.steniog. 
 
 It was Kevin Magrath's voice, speaking 
 in a high key, in the Painted Chamber; am^ 
 Hlake heard nearly all. He now knew that 
 he had not been a moment too soon, and that 
 Inez was already descending to her living 
 tomb. As Kevin Magrath ceased, ho lei 
 himself down again, and lh<'y hurriedly dclib- 
 crated about what they should do next. It 
 was agreed to retreat, lower their lamps, and 
 watch from a convenient distance. This they 
 did, and from the gloom around thcni ihcy 
 saw all. They saw the ladder come down. 
 They saw Inez descend first. They saw 
 U'ovin Magrath go away. They heard all 
 that passed between him and Kessie. They 
 heard his last words, and saw him prepare to 
 ascend. 
 
 Then they could wait nolongcr, and Blake 
 sprang forward upon his horror-stricken 
 encmv. 
 
dp^'-T? 
 
 
 fi 
 
 !i ■ 
 
 
 'It 
 
 t 
 
 :( '.! i 
 
 226 
 
 AX OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 PTER LIV. 
 
 CO.NCLUSIOX. 
 
 The perfect fearlessness of Inrz In this ter- 
 rible sitimtion, cud licr utter unconsciousness 
 of danger, liavc already been explained. Xor 
 did tlic appearanei! of Blake seem to her very 
 extraordinary. Kevin Mapratli had (;ivcn her 
 to tiiiilcrtitaiKl tliat the Oatacoml)^ were i 
 place of common rosovt, easily a'-ec^.^iljic, and, 
 in some part:', actually used an a tlioroiigh- 
 fnro in hot weather. That Dlakc should be 
 hero W3.S not unaccounl.ildo. Tn a moment 
 she accounted fcir it, and tlioufjlit that Ma- 
 frra'h must have told him of her presence in 
 Itomc, and of her in(en>led visit to tliis place. 
 The incongruity of a lover'a visit, with this 
 Sacred purpose before her, was certainly evi- 
 dent ; yet .she was consi ious of no vexation ; 
 nor did she feel any other emotion than sin- 
 cer joy. Thu8 she saw his appearance witli 
 the same quiet pleasure with which she would 
 have greeted it iu the Corso or on the Pin- 
 cian Hill. 
 
 This w.ia but for a moment or so, when 
 she first saw who it wf. A few moments 
 more, and these feelings were succecdeu by 
 others of a more violent eharacter. 
 
 It was indeed Dlakc, and he was advan- 
 cing at a liLidlong speed, his pallid face 
 showing in agony of anxiety and eagerness. 
 To re.'cuo Inez, and to avenge his own inju- 
 ries, had brouglit him here ; and, as he saw 
 her before him, standing tlierc, yet saf?, ho at 
 fl. St was only oon-'ciriis of her ; nor did the 
 oil-' r (1 nire, with its white face of horror and 
 itarlnji, eyes, attract his regards. His only 
 impulse was to sei/.c Ine?; in his arms — to 
 clasp her to his heart. His only thought was 
 of that fate which had been prepared for her 
 — tiie terrific, the appalling, the living grave, 
 with its awful accompaniments I Even here, 
 already iu that grave, she was standing; and 
 here he hud fjund her 1 He could not know 
 what there was in her mind, nor could he un- 
 derstand her ignorance of danger; but he 
 could SCO In her face her innocent foarlcssness 
 And the bright welcome of her glance. It 
 wail inlinitcly touching. 
 
 With an inarticulate cry ho caught the 
 Mtouiideil Inez in hi< arm.«, and pressed her 
 to his h''art again and again. Slie — over. 
 whelmed with aniaz'>ment at such unexpected 
 pftuion anu vehemenuc) bcwildeied nt such 
 
 treatment from a man whom she certainly 
 knew as her lover, but who yet had nc^vnr de- 
 clared his love ; half terrified, vet not alto- 
 gptlicr displeased — at first tried to shrink 
 away, and then yielded hf lples.«ly. Hut, iVom 
 Ms broken words and exclamations, kIic was 
 not long in gathering suggestions of .somc- 
 thinp ; hat terrible doom viiich had just now 
 been owaKing her here. A vague hovror came 
 over her, but in her ignorance and bowik'er- 
 inciH that horror took no def.nite shapt'. 
 
 Though Illake had thus yielded so ut'erly 
 to the rapture of his b3ul at f.m'ing Inez, ho 
 did not long remain f';rcctful of Lis other 
 purpose. Lights and fooL-iiej,.-. tamo up from 
 behind him, and in a few minutes two others 
 had r('aehe<l the spot, whom Inez in her 
 amazement recognized as Kane and (Jwyn. 
 In the faces of bo*' «herc was an expression 
 80 awful that nc ■ < were awal»er.ed in 
 Inez; while Hhike, • d by tlicir approach, 
 turned away from Inez to look for his enemy. 
 
 He had seen him but a short time before, 
 standing at the foot of tho ladder, staring at 
 him. As he now looked that figure wa.s gone, 
 but in place of It there was another. 
 
 It WIS Hessic. 
 
 Her face wos of a waxen hue, iter lip* 
 bloodless; sin looked like a marble statue, 
 except for the bright blue of her glorious 
 eyes, which now were fixed upon tlie party 
 before her, wide open, «itli an expression of 
 childish wonder. 
 
 " How very, very funny ! " she said, at 
 last. 
 
 All the others looked at her in sil'.'nce. 
 There was perplexity in the minds of Kane 
 and niake aiul (-"wyn ; ncr could they at yet 
 decide what her part had been, (iwyn's long 
 agony of soul about her haci gom- on increas- 
 ing, and finding her here now seemed a con- 
 firmation of his worst suspicions. For he 
 had seen her coming down the ladder, and 
 knew that she had allowed lucx to be taken 
 down first. Tliat one thing filled liis mind 
 with anguish. 
 
 "Sure but this is an unexpected meeting 
 entirely," said Ihsnie, In a simple, unalTi'dcl 
 nuinner; "but what it) the wiilc world has 
 happened to poor, dear gramlpapa *" 
 
 At tliis Inez, wit's u diort, perrcivei! that 
 Magrath had disappeared. 
 
 " Ho was hero but a few imuncnts ago," 
 eaid i>ho. 
 
 " H« has gone," «aid Dinko, in a Bolcmn 
 
 WM 
 

 cortainly 
 never do- 
 not ulto- 
 Klii'iiik 
 Jut, iVom 
 filu! was 
 
 of SOIIIC- 
 jllSt MOW 
 
 Toronmc 
 
 txwiii'er. 
 
 .ilu>. 
 
 1 iit'crly 
 Inez, ho 
 
 • is otlicr 
 
 10 tip from 
 
 wo otiiers 
 
 pz in her 
 
 lud (iwvii. 
 
 i'X|>rc!»sion 
 
 iiker.cil in 
 
 iipproacli, 
 
 liis enemy. 
 
 me before, 
 
 staring at 
 
 ewjs gone, 
 
 r. 
 
 CONCU'SIOX. 
 
 827 
 
 Tolcc, " lo Ilia own place ! " A Bliudilcr 
 paHBed thioii;;h iiim, and lie paused, for he 
 thought of tlio ful)led Oiiofrio, and remem- 
 bered that the xeene of liis flight had been 
 laid ill thi^ very place. " Inez," ho con- 
 tinued, looldiij,- upon her with a gaze of 
 un:ipeal{al)ie tenderness and compassion — 
 "Inez! Inez! you little know what you 
 have escaped. It is something so appalling 
 that I cannot bear to tell. I should prefer to 
 put it off to some time when our surround- 
 ings might not be so fearful, but I sec thai 
 it must not bo put off. I must tcU it now, 
 for wo are all hero, and she is here " — indi- 
 cating Be.ssie — "who is so deeply implicated, 
 and others are hero whoso whole life now 
 depends upon the onswer she may give. Pre- 
 pare yourself, Inez. Try to bear what is 
 coming. In the first place, answer me this: 
 What was it that brought you here ? " 
 
 Inez looked with awo at the solemn face 
 of the ppoakcr. Her voice was tremulous as 
 she replied lo hi.s (lucsllon : 
 
 ■ I came down here to pray at the grave 
 of my dear papa, and — " 
 
 "Your father!" interrupted Ulakc — 
 " Your father ! Do you mean Ilernul Mor. 
 daunt?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "And have you not heard the truth tibo'it 
 him from her t " he exclaimed. 
 
 "Truth? what truth?" a;'kcd Inez, full 
 of ugitalion. 
 
 A silen'-e followed. Itcssic stood looking 
 III tliem as before, but none of them looked 
 at her. They averted their cye.», for this an- 
 nwer of Inez opened up endless suspicion'. 
 
 Dlnke, ^'ter a time, we'it on, and told 
 Inez the whole truth about her father's re- 
 turn and death, of Hessie's taking her place, 
 and reeeiviiig her father's biossing. 
 
 As th" Irulli began to 'luwn on her, Inez 
 (i.tod her eyes upon Bessie with a look of in- 
 describable wonder and reproach, while Ues- 
 slo looked at her with unallcrablo placidity. 
 As soon as Itlake h.id ended, Inez asked her : 
 
 " f. ,,...«io I is this al! true ? " 
 
 "Sure and it is, then, Inez darling, every 
 word of it, and I'm glad it's out, for it's been 
 a sore load on my heart all the time, so it 
 lm«." 
 
 " Itut why didn't you toll me ? " 
 
 " .'^ure it's because I coul in't bear to, Inez 
 darling. You'd liave thoupat of mo as a de- 
 ceiver — as a supplanting Jn.eob — when nil the 
 
 time I was as innocent as a child. Roally. 
 Inez darling, I could not bring myself to tell 
 it, and I was «o troubled about it, too, all the 
 time." 
 
 " But why did yoi> always talk as though 
 he were buried here, ond come with mc to 
 proy over his grave ? " 
 
 'Because, Inez darling, he i» buried here, 
 vith dear mamma and poor, dear Clara. His 
 remains were brought here from Mordaunt 
 Ma>;or by poor, deor grandpa ; and oh ! but 
 it's m;s«'lf that's fairly heart-broken with 
 an.\iety about him this blessed moment, so 
 it is." 
 
 " lie was never brought here," ?aid Bloke, 
 sadly ; " none of those graves are lierc. Do 
 you want to know why you were brought 
 here ? I'll tell you — I must — though it is 
 torment even to think of it." 
 
 And noMf Inez had to listen to the story 
 of Ulake. Under any circumstances such a 
 story would have lieen owfiil, indeed ; but 
 now, in this place, to hear tliii was more 
 than she could bear. Ulake did not dwell 
 much upon his sufferings, but she could irna- 
 c;ine them. N'ow, too, she first learned the true 
 nature of the Cataconibs, and how terribly 
 she had been deceived. Kven though that 
 danger had passed away, yet tlio very thought 
 of it WHS 80 terrible that her fainting limbs 
 saidt under her, and she would have fallen 
 had not IJIako supported her. 
 
 But the terror which the thought oi' this 
 recent di-.ngcr, and the discovery thot sIio 
 had been the intended victim of Magrathj 
 had given to Inez did not seem to bo felt 'oy 
 Bessie, .'^he stood there, pale as before, yet 
 with an unchanged face, listening to Blake's 
 story, and exhibiting nothing stronger thon 
 a very deep interest in his narrative. Inez 
 marked her calmness, and she wondered to 
 herself wliat part Bessie had ta :en in all 
 this, and, turned her sad eyes o\er in that 
 direction. She remembered tnosc letters to 
 Bes.sie which had never been answered. Shu 
 recoiled her form.'r feelings about Magralh, 
 and recollected, too, how Bessie had brought 
 her back into hi.4 power. What did all this 
 mean ? Yet tlio suspicion that rushed into 
 her mind was intolerable, nor could she bring 
 herself to put any riuestion to one whom sho 
 even yet believed to be her sister. 
 
 It \\n.i Uhiko who put the fiueslion for 
 her. Turning to Bessie, ho regarded her for 
 a few i-.iniiicnts ia silence, and thcu sa'd : 
 
S88 
 
 AN' OrEX QUESTION'. 
 
 "As I came ii;i I saw Inez stuiiJiiig liern, 
 Kevin Muf,'ratli at the fjot of tlio laclJcr, 
 about to gi) up, wliilc you were at tlio top 
 watoliin^. Majinith wps going up, and you 
 were up liicro, ami I'o was going V) draw up 
 tliat ladilcr, loavinjr Inez iicro as lie left mo." 
 
 " Sure lie novof could liavo done It at all 
 at all," cried Ressio. " I would never have let 
 lii:n. I lliiiik it it loo had, and vui; arL" very, 
 very uukiiul to say Hueli u thing, and it's too 
 bad, 80 it Ih. And I'll never believe. .lO I 
 won't, that it really was my poor, dear 
 grandpa tliat hclraycd you, for there isn't the 
 le.ist iiarui in life in him." 
 
 '*\Vliat made hinj go away when ho saw 
 mo come ? " 
 
 Uessie clasped her hands, with a look of 
 sudden pain. 
 
 " Oh, it's lost he is ! OIi, the hitter, hilter 
 bl( w ! — grandpa darling! where are you, 
 then? — Oh, won't some of you try to save 
 him ? (iwynnio dearest — " 
 
 SIio stopped short and looked earnestly at 
 Givvn. Hut (iwyn averted his eyes. 
 
 ISIake's hist wiirds had strcngthoui'd the 
 ■uspicions whi:;h Inez had liogun to feel. Her 
 heart became hardened to IJessie. Ilor atti- 
 tude, described by Ill.ake, gavo rise to a be- 
 lief in the very worst ; nor was it liaril to sec 
 that tho one who had supplanted her at Mor- 
 daunt Manor might have betrayed licr in tho 
 Catacombs. 
 
 " Bessie," said she, and, as she spoko, her 
 voice grew cold and hard, while the indignant 
 feeling that arose witliin her drove away her 
 weakness — " llessie, what makes you anxious 
 about this Magrath ? Ilo is no relaticn to 
 you, and you have always believed tliat tho 
 Catacombs were as safe as tho upper streets." 
 
 "Oil, sure, Inez dear, but how can I be- 
 lieve they're safe now, alter that awful story ? 
 It's fairly heart-broken I am with tho terror 
 of It. And oh ! if he isn't my dear grand- 
 papa, ho is my best and kindest friend ond 
 guardian, so he is." 
 
 " What made you give that shriek ? You 
 mu.'t then have been ifruid about him." This 
 question was put by lilnke, in whose cars that 
 shriek had rung as ho i.uighi Inez In his 
 arms. 
 
 "Sure and I was afraid he'd bo lost," g.iid 
 Bessie, " for he went oir In tliu dark, without 
 his lantern." 
 
 "Then vou knew that tho 'atacnmhs 
 wero a dangerous plaoo beloro you heard Ur, 
 
 Klako's story," said Inez. " Vet you nl- 
 ways spoke os tliough they were a cimimon 
 thoroughfare.'" 
 
 " No! these lowest stories, Inesr. darling," 
 said Ilessie. " I'oor dear grandpa — for I 
 really must call him so — always made me un- 
 derstand that they were very, very danj;er.ms, 
 and really scarcely ever used. And I didn't 
 tell you, because I didn't wish to make you 
 feel badly, so I didn't, Iicz darling." 
 
 " O ILssie ! " said Inez, " I would irive all 
 I Imvo if I could feel toward you as I used to. 
 Ilut I remember o thousand little things which 
 show that you have never been candid. Why 
 did you tako tlii; name of Inez, when my poor 
 papa came homo ? ' 
 
 " Ah ! sure, Inez darling, it was that very 
 thing tliat always made mo have the sore 
 heart, and I couldn't bear to tell you ; but I 
 knew how he hated me, and I loiijed for his 
 love, ond co I met him, nut os his hatetl 
 daughter Ilessie, but os his lovetl daughter 
 Inez." 
 
 Inez turned away. ,'^Iie felt l)C'«il.lercd, 
 anil ilid not know what to say. She trusted 
 Ilessie no longer; yet Ilcssio thus far had 
 triumphantly maintained her innocence. 
 
 "His dau^rhter!" said lllake. — " Inez, 
 that is all a faluieation of our enemy Miigrnili. 
 My t.otlier has tolJ me all. Mie was with 
 your mother when she died. There never 
 was any other child but yourself and Clara. 
 And, as to the one who has taken your place, 
 do not let any sisterly feelings shield Ik r from 
 your suspicions, for, by minute ii ipiiries 
 about her, my mother feels certain that she 
 is H'.;s,.ie M.igratli, tho daughter of Kevin >!a- 
 grath. It was fur her that he labored. ."^Iio 
 thiti personated you, took your naiiie, wel- 
 comeil your father, who died believing in her. 
 She is the one who has defraiidcil y<iu out of 
 your father's home, and your falhei's heart." 
 
 .\t this Inez was so astounded that sho 
 had not one word to say. This diselosiiro 
 completed tho revolution <d° feeling that hud 
 been going on in her ; tho straago suspicions 
 «if her Toris prison wero turned from Saun- 
 ders to Ilessie ; and it seemeil now to her 
 that the niinnte knowledge which M.i^ratli 
 had po»ses:U'd of her life iiud feelings had not 
 beun c<mimunieutod to him by her serv.tnl, 
 but rather by '.ler friend nnd conlidunte. l'(>r- 
 h«ps it was her assistance lli;(i had )iat her 
 flrst in .M.tgratli's power. Ila\ lu^ Icurned the 
 truth about her father, she was now -\blc tu 
 

 CONCLUSION. 
 
 22!) 
 
 rstimalc that Paris plot to In full extent, and 
 tliu confederate whom Ma{;r;ith must linvc 
 lied Rccmcd to be Ilcssie. And yet — ai d yet 
 — HcgHle'a innoecnt face, i.er niii.iii!^ »vay», 
 her lovuig words ! — but tlx.'ii, hud ahu ndt do- 
 fraiideil her of her dearest and hulic<it treas- 
 ure — a fathcr'8 dying blessing? 
 
 Hossie heard Ulako without Intoriuptlnp 
 him, and with a ehildlike wonder. 
 
 " Well, Dr. Ulake," said she, " I'm sure 
 1 don't really see how your inanir.a can 
 know all about that, and know >>'Mer than 
 my dear grandpa. I'ra sure I've always be- 
 lieved that I was Inez. Hli/.abetli Morilaunt, 
 nnd that Mordaunt Manor was mine. I'm 
 sure dear grandpa woulcin't deceive mo so, 
 and tell such wicked, wicked storie.4, ho ho 
 wouldn't ; and I'm sure I shouldn't bo sorry 
 at all at nil, so I wouldn't, if it were to bu 
 really an you say, and if dear grandpa was to 
 turn out to be my own papa, for really I love 
 him like a papa ; and oh, where is ho now ? 
 mill why, oh, why i^'on't some one go af:cr 
 liiui ? (iwyniiic dear ! Oh, my dear darling 
 own (iwynnic! " 
 
 They nil stood looking nt her : Illako cold 
 nnd utterly unbelieving in her ; Inez a'lenatcd 
 and indignant; Kane stern nnd austere nnd 
 .solemn UH I'ato. IJut Ue.s.sic regarded only 
 (iwyn. 
 
 lie had seen i.er ns ho came up to this 
 place, but had averted hii eyes ; nor had ho 
 given her one look since. IIo had heard 
 eveiy word. Dark recoUec'.ions nnd rus- 
 pieions had arisen in tie mind of Inez, but 
 these wrro as notliitrt; when compared with 
 t'ioso that aroao witiiii his mind. He hail 
 conio and found her hcr.>, and the sight of her 
 had been enough. No', ono word of exriisc 
 or of exculpation or of explanation that she 
 had uttered, not the whito innoecneo of her 
 face, nor the ehildlike wonder of her cxpros- 
 nion nor the steadfasi and open pniA' of her 
 glori JUS eyes, nor the uneniljarra»'>i'd luso of 
 her nnnner, could shako in ttia •lightest dc* 
 f^ree the conclusion tu which ho had come. 
 As ho stood there the breach that alreaily ex. 
 isted between him and lur widened every 
 nionient with every new ihoi..:lit of his mind, 
 until nt Inst it had grown to hn a great gulf 
 fixed between them — inipasitable (orever ! 
 
 These thoughts were terrible. The centre 
 of them nil was that scene, kniinn miiy to jirr- 
 Hi'h ni'.d him, on the top of theelilY, wIutc Kane 
 hung suspended. Tlie drond suspicion thnt 
 
 then had flashed across Ids .idni'i and canset* 
 him to Ftrike her down, now rehired in all \U 
 force ; from these his mind rceurr 'd to other 
 recollections, nil of which assumed a new 
 moaning. Kvcry net if her Ule— her sudden 
 arrival nt Mordnuat Manor — her ottitudo tow- 
 nid her supposed father— her flghtfrom him. 
 self— her proposal to i;:olraet the H'.paralion 
 so as to bo with Inez — her rcqucbl that he 
 should bring Kano to Home — all rose before 
 him full of nppalling meaning. Why did sbo 
 remain witli Inez. ♦ — to bring Iter here I Why 
 did she wish him to bring linno to Homo? — 
 to use him as a decoy in completing the work 
 in Hhieh shu had failed on the ciifT! Upon 
 these conclusions his mind grew fixed ; nor 
 could the rceolleclion of her love and gentle- 
 ness and tenderness hhnko him from them. 
 
 ."^o that now, when Uessio turned from the 
 others to him, and made this direct appeal in 
 her own old t(!iio of love and conlidenee, he 
 raised his head and turned his eyes upon her. 
 Tho face which he thus turned showed ull tlie 
 anguish which ho was sufl'ering ; his brow was 
 <lark with fixed and unalterable gloom ; and, 
 ii! the stony look which met her eyes, might 
 be seen despair. It was but for a moment 
 that ho looked at her, and then he was about 
 to say something, but he was int?rrupted by 
 Kane. 
 
 " Well," sold ho, " after all, he is a fellow, 
 croaturo ; and, for my part, I ih'ii'i want him 
 to perish here. We've eorao prepared for enier. 
 genciea — so, (iwyn, what do you say ? Let's 
 unroll our string, and explore. You take tho , 
 ladder, and I'll take tho clow. Hut hadn't 
 you better all go up first? " 
 
 "Slegoup!" exclaimed Ilessie. "And 
 poor dear grandpa as good as lost, nnd mo 
 tho heart-broken girl that I am! What a 
 very, very strango proposal ! It's myself 
 that would far rfcther |i;i) w!tli you, so I would, 
 and oh, I do «•> wish that you would let me." 
 
 " No,'' ••i<l Kane ; " you would be nn in. 
 c''ml>rance. We must go alone.'' 
 
 Klake would have been glad to get Inez 
 into the upper world, but Hessio was firm in 
 her decision ; and, as they eould not Uavo her 
 here, nor let heremt'urrass Kane's movements, 
 they had to wait with Iter. SoKanetiok the 
 clew and lamp, nnd walked on, unrolling the 
 string «s he went, whili) 'iwyn follow) d, with 
 his lamp nnd the Indiln. He passed Jiessin 
 without a worti, nor did ho look ... '"•■• 
 Ihongli sho wni standing close by the i«<!d«r 
 
230 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION. 
 
 1^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 \i- 
 
 1 
 
 in'' 
 
 i' 
 
 
 1; 
 
 \'i 
 
 !' 
 
 ..n-i 
 
 II' 
 
 M ho took it down. Dos»ic watched the two 
 as they went fnr up the pnssagc-way until 
 they disappi'iircd in ihc distance. 
 
 Then she turned mound wilii a littic sigh. 
 
 "I'm (iiire," caiJ she, "one would think 
 that poor dear Gwynnic had got over all af- 
 fection for me." 
 
 After this she relapsed into silence, and 
 stood tlirre, her face Inrncd in tiic direction 
 where K.ane and Gwjn had pone. n.»sil and 
 Inez, oec'sic-.ti.ly conversed in lo> ■ wliispers, 
 bi!t th"y '^•' .cssed no remark to Bessie. So 
 those lliree remained for nearly an hour, un- 
 til nt length ft light appeared far up tlie pas- 
 Bnge-'vay, and Jessie advanced a few Mteps in 
 eager anxiety. After a time an exclamation 
 of disappointment escaped her. 
 
 There were only two figures 1 
 
 Soon Kane and (iwyn readied the spot, 
 Gwyn standing aloof. 
 
 " We have found nothinp," said Kane, 
 " and have come back to make preparations 
 for a more thorough search. I propose now 
 that we go up, and let the ladies find some 
 place of safety. Wo can then find others to 
 come down and help us here. Meanwhile, I 
 have left the clew, as far as it ran, en the 
 floor. We can al.«o leave the ladder here, 
 and some lanterns with matches." 
 
 Tills proposal was agreed to at once, and 
 they all ascondc<l. lilake led t!ic way to the 
 well-remembered opening. Inci walked by 
 his side. Bessie followed, silent and pensive. 
 Then came Kane. I.a«t of all, (Jwyn. On 
 reachiiig the house, they went to the upper 
 rooms, where lUake perceived, to his gurprisc, 
 the ifigns of long occupation 
 
 To his offer that the ladies should leave, 
 Bessie gave a positive refusal. 
 
 " Leave, is it ? " said she ; " and me ex- 
 pecting my dear grandpa evc/y minute ? Vv'hy, 
 really, how very, very absurd ! And yoj, Inez ; 
 why, what can you possibly be thinking of ? 
 You won't leave me this nay, will you, dar- 
 ling V III! bo BO very, very lonely, and so 
 awfully sad to have nobody but poor, dear 
 old Mrs. llieki' Lugrin." 
 
 Inez said but little. Blake had told her 
 of lodgings where i<lie would be sale ; he had 
 also told her of ho letter that he had written 
 to Ms mother, iiiid Ida PTpeetatinn that she 
 would come to Home. He also found time 
 to tell her about Clara. So that, even if 
 there had bciii no oiIht fo-ling, the excite- 
 ment of Inez about this long-loHt sister, and 
 
 her Intense dc^'iro to see her, would of itself 
 have drawn her away. But, apart from this, 
 it was impossible now that she should ever 
 again consent to live under the same roof with 
 Bessie. Inez, therefore, went with Basil to 
 the lodging-house olrcady mentioned, where 
 he left her. 
 
 They then communicated with the police, 
 and a detachment of men was furnished, com- 
 petent for the purpor-e, who accompanied 
 them to tho Catacombs. Here a long, pain- 
 ful, and most exhaustive search was made. 
 
 But of tho fugitive they found not a 
 trace. 
 
 The mournful news was communicated to 
 Bessie by Kane. Rwyn still held aloof. Be:i- 
 sic'a face wore a look of the deepest possible 
 distress, and siie was silent for a lonp time. 
 
 "Sure," said she, with a little sigh, "it's 
 myself that's got the sore heart, and I cannot 
 help feeling very, very uneasy ; and it's really 
 awful, you know, dear Kane; but, after all, 
 poor, dear grandpa is so awfully clever that 
 he'll find his way out of it ytt. So, I'll wait 
 here, and try to hope for the best. But, do 
 you know, Kane dear, it's awfully lonely here, 
 with only poor, dear old Mrs. Hicks Lugrin; 
 and I'm awfully sorry thnt dear, darling Inez 
 took sucli a dislike to the house, and I do 
 wish she would come and see mo, so I do; or 
 tell me where she is. And oh, how good it is 
 for you and dear, darling Uwynnlo to take 
 such pains about poor, dear grandpa I And 
 tell dear, darling (iwynnic that my poor little 
 brains have been so upset by all these long 
 sto:-ie9 that I don't know hardly where I am. 
 I'm not papa's daughter, it sccnis, and I'm no 
 relation to my darling sister; and sure, I'm 
 beginning to expect to hear next t'lat I'm not 
 dear old (Jwynnie'fl wife. And that would be 
 so very, very sad ! " 
 
 Bessie ended this in a plaintive voice, and 
 looked mournfully at Kane with her largo 
 blue eyes. They were full of jiolhos, and 
 Kane felt very much perplexed and puzzled, 
 after all, about Bessie. 
 
 Kane went away, with his mind full of 
 spreulations about Bes.sie, recalling her as he 
 hud known her at liuthven Towers, and try- 
 ing in vain to find some way by which she 
 eo'ild bo reconciled with her husband. But 
 thei-c thoughts were all driven out by new 
 ones, which were suggested by certain inior- 
 niation which he received from Blake. 
 
 Tor Blake, on leaving the Catacombs, af- 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 231 
 
 f itself 
 9tn Una, 
 
 Id over 
 oof with 
 ISnsil to 
 J, wlicre 
 
 tcr this last vain search after the missing 
 man, had gone to tlio lodgings wlierc Inez 
 now was, to inquire after lier welfare ; and, 
 on arriving there, had to his amazement found 
 his mother. Witii her was ("iara, wlio li.id 
 already made herself known to Inez, and, at 
 the very time of his arrival, the two sisters 
 were explaining to one anotlier all about 
 their respective past. Clara was not a Sister, 
 after all. She had never taken the vows, and, 
 no sooner had Mrs. Wyvernc heard this, than 
 she resolved to cfl'ect a reunion between those 
 two who had been so strangely divided, and 
 who still felt such undying love. To do this 
 in the shortest and best wiv, ;she concluded 
 to persuade Clara to accompany her to her 
 own lodgings. Tins Clara did, at'cer a brief 
 explanation to the good "Sisters." On ar- 
 riving there, Mrs. 'Wyvernc had found her 
 son's letter. She had not been able to leave 
 immeiiiatoly, but had remained behind, per- 
 suading Clara to accompany her to Rome. 
 To this Clara at length consented, and, with 
 her desire to meet her husband, was mingled 
 anxiety about her sister. The sister had been 
 found, but tlic meeting with the husband had 
 yet to be. 
 
 Mrs. Wyverne told Blake every thing, and 
 urged him to prepare Kane for the meeting 
 in whatever way he might think best. Ulake, 
 after some consideration, judged, from his 
 knowledjrc of Kane's character and feelings, 
 that the best way to prepare him would be to 
 tell him the simple truth. This he decided 
 to do; and thus, on seeing Kane, tliis was 
 the information which he gave, and which 
 put a complete stop for the time to the spec- 
 ulations of the latter about Bessie. 
 
 Over that meeting between thc?o two, who 
 had loved so well and suffered so much, it is 
 best to draw a veil. Clara's solf-rcproachcs, 
 about what she c'-" '• .cred her cowardice and 
 treachery, were not justified by the opinion 
 of the one who was most concerned ; and her 
 fears about Kane's indignation proved un- 
 founded. It was much for Kane to be freed 
 from the remorse which for years had blight- 
 ed his life; it was far more lo receive as ris- 
 ing from the dead one over wliose memory he 
 had wept, and over whose supposed grave h 
 had mourned. In tbo interchange of confi- 
 dence and the recital of tbrtr mutual experi- 
 ences much had tn bo explained; and among 
 these explanations was thut grave itself; but 
 this was nt last accounted for, satisuctorily 
 
 enough to their minds, by the peculiar char- 
 acter of Kevin Magrath, who alwoys did his 
 work thoroughly, and who, if he wished the 
 death of Clara to bo believed in, would at 
 once find some means to procure a grave 
 which might pass for hers. Kane thus found 
 that lie hod been mourning and praying over 
 the grave of a stranger, or perhaps over a 
 box of stones, at the very time when the one 
 whom he mourned had over and over again 
 crossed his path — and at the very time, indeed, 
 when she herself stood before him. 
 
 No sooner did Mrs. Wyverne hear about 
 Bessie, and Kane's report of the last inter- 
 view with her, than she determined to sec for 
 herself this young girl whose real character 
 still remained so great a puzzle. She there- 
 fore went there with Blake. Bc^sio was 
 mournful, yet amiable, and received her visi- 
 tors with sad politeness. She questioned 
 Blukc closely about his search, and still 
 evinced a "onfidenco in the return of her 
 " dear grandpa." Mrs. Wyvcrno cxprcs.sed 
 a wish to see Mrs. Lugrin, whereupon Bessie 
 at once summoned her, 
 
 Mrs. Lugrin appeared, showing no change 
 from what she had been at Mordaunt Manor. 
 She entered the room placidly, and looked 
 around, when her eyes rested on Mrs. Wy- 
 vernc. Perhaps Bessie had not understood 
 Mrs. Wyverne's true name and position ; per- 
 haps she had not given the right name to 
 Mrs. Lugrin; at any rate, Mrs. Lugrin wob 
 evidently much agitated ot the sight of her. 
 She stood for a moment staring, and then 
 sank into a chair. 
 
 Mrs. Wyverne was quite self-possessed. 
 She surveyed Mrs. Lugrin placidly, and then 
 said, in u quiet voice : 
 
 " I am very sorry to meet you under such 
 painful circumstances." 
 
 She would have said more, but Mrs. Lu- 
 grin gave her no chance, for, rising suddc.dy, 
 and without a word, she abruptly quitted the 
 room, wliilc Bessie looked on in evident won- 
 derment. After this Mrs. Wyvei ne ond Blake 
 soon retired. 
 
 " It is as I thought," said she to Blake. 
 "This Mrs. Lugrin is Mrs. Kevin Mugrath. 
 I remember her perfectly, and she remembers 
 me. Your Bessie is her daughter — Bessie 
 Magrath ! " 
 
 " 1 vtondcr how much she herself has 
 known of all this?" 
 
 " That," said Mrs. Wyvernc, " is to me a 
 
a33 
 
 AN OPEN QUESTION'. 
 
 perfect puzzle. Y<)iir account of her roakcu 
 her Hccin guilty; but her own fucu and man- 
 ner make her 8cem iuiiucfnt. I cannot ile- 
 ciile, and ii will ulwnyit rvniuin a mystery to 
 nio wlictlicr she h innocent or guilty. For 
 ^lio may have been hrouglit up iu tho belief 
 that iihu WII3 liernnl Mordaunt'a daughter, 
 aiul may have acted ihruughout in perfect 
 good faith." 
 
 llinko Buiil nothing. Ilia own opinion 
 about ilfcflsiu was mo.st decided and mcst hos- 
 tile ; yet so plausible had been lies.siu'a own 
 vindication of herself that he hardly knew 
 what to gay. 
 
 Two days after this (Iwyn received a note, 
 it wail from UeSiiic, and ran as follows : 
 
 " I have been hoping against hope, Owyn- 
 nio darling, about poor dear grandpa, but I'm 
 nfraid I must give him up. It's awfully nad, 
 no it is, and I'm quite heart-broken, bo I am. 
 I cannot bear to stay liero any loi:gcr, so do 
 not think it strange, dear, if 1 tell you that I 
 nm going away. I am going with dear old 
 Mrs. I.ugrin to her home. It is in liallyshan- 
 noM, near Limerick. Wo are poor now, you 
 and I, (jwynnie darling, and k'.cht Kano is the 
 b:ironet and tho ownor of Kuthven Towers, 
 where wo were bo happy; and dear Inez had 
 Murdaunt Manor, where dear papa died. It Is 
 uli Ko very, verv strange, and so awfidly sad, 
 tli:it it seems li..c a dieain. Hut you, (!wyn- 
 nic darling, love me still, I know well, and 
 this is tho only thing in life that comforts 
 mo. You'll have to get your own living, dear, 
 and I will be patient, and wail till you find 
 Ronu'thing to do, and can make a homo for 
 your poor Hosiiic. And I shall always ho 
 looking forward to tho time when you will 
 como for me, (Iwynnie darling, and I will bo 
 content and happy wherever you may take 
 me. I feel very sad, dear, and it soems tome 
 that you have not been <|uito so kind of late 
 as you used to be, but I know you love mo, 
 and you have all tho love of your poor little 
 girl. (live my love to darling Inez. I should 
 like to Hi'o her, but am too 8a<l. (live my 
 lovo to dear Kano also, and tell him I shall 
 never forget his kindness about poor dear 
 grandpa. You will liH mo hear from you 
 Boon, (iwynniu d.irlinjr, and como soon to your 
 poor little loving 
 
 " I}F.S.SIK." 
 
 It wa» a very Bad letter. There were also 
 blolB on it that scetncd like tonrs. linyn was 
 
 moved most deeply, and iiovcr showed it to 
 any one ; yet ho did not do as ho once would 
 liavo done — ho did not haiten away after tlic 
 beautiful young biide who had scut him su 
 mournful and so loving an appeal. Ko ; the 
 deeiiiion So which ho lud como in thu Cata- 
 combs was unaltciablc, and ho prepared with 
 Blern inlen.sity of purpose to carry it into exe- 
 cution. 
 
 This decision ho announced to Kane. It 
 was to go to America, where ho proposed to 
 work out his own fortune in any way whi'jh 
 circumstances might present. Kano tiled to 
 dissuade him, but in vain, (iwyn was not to 
 bo moved. 
 
 " It's no use," said he. " It's all up be- 
 tween her and mo. I'vo got nothing to live 
 for. Kuthren Towers is yours, and you're 
 the baronet. I'm an outcast now. You don't 
 know all that's taken place between her ami 
 mo, you know. Wo shall never meet again ; 
 and still I love her as well us ever. I can't 
 help tiiat. Don't try to persuadu me. It's 
 no use. As to money, there's enough for mo 
 in a little property of mother's that I found 
 out only hiMt year. I'll take that, and it'll bo 
 enouf;h for mo to grub along with.'' 
 
 In fact, (iwyn showed himself beyond tho 
 reach of arj^umenl, and Kane could only con- 
 clude to yield to hin> for the present, and hope 
 for better things in the future. So ho made 
 (iwyn promise to write iiini at times to let 
 him know his movements. 
 
 Gwyn left Homo on tho following day, ond 
 wont to America. 
 
 In u few days tho rest of them rcturnoil 
 to England. 
 
 Sir Kano and Lady Uuthvtnwent to Kuth- 
 ven Towers. 
 
 Uaaii Wyverno was married to Inez Mor- 
 daunt, ami lived at Mordaunt Manor. His 
 mother lived witli them. Ho found that Uen- 
 nigar Wyverne's estate was immense. How 
 much of this liad been gained froni the Mor- 
 daunt property ho could never flr.d out ; but 
 his marriage with Inez )U'eventcd him from 
 feeling any unoasiueys on iliis score. Clara 
 had superior claims to .Morduunt Manor, hut 
 to these she, as well as her husband, was ut- 
 terly indin'erent, and insisted on transferring 
 them to Inez, lly this nrrangemeiit tht; two 
 sisters wero aide to bo near one nnotlior, and 
 their husbands were also able to perpetuate 
 the warm liioii(Miip which they had first 
 formed in I'aris, 
 
 i 
 
coxcLisioy. 
 
 S33 
 
 Ld it to 
 Ic! wuuld 
 
 It'lcT tllC 
 llilll HU 
 
 t>o ; tliu 
 
 |liu Catik- 
 
 I'd with 
 
 Into cxo> 
 
 Out of all thcso crentft thrro renmined 
 two tliln(;s which never ceased to bo a puzzio 
 to Kunc Ituthvc'ii. 
 
 Olio of tiic»o wn« the clmrftctcr of ncssic. 
 His last intiTview with licr hud prodiii'cil ii 
 pruluiiiid iiii|)n'.'<.''iuii on him, uiid Iut (;i'iitlo 
 manner, her iniiocrnt words, und linr sweet 
 expression, hud revived for ii time tiio«o sen- 
 tinieiits of iineetionatc mlniinilion which he 
 Lnd coneeived toward her nt liiithveM Tow- 
 ers. Her own exculpation of lierHcIf Heemcd 
 to him to bo more just than the oihers Biip- 
 posed, and lie eoiild not hrip clingiii); to (lie 
 thoiiglit that she had tiien deceived rather 
 llian deeeivinf?. 
 
 The other puzzle was tho disappearance 
 of Kevin Mngrath. The most thorough search 
 had revealed no trace of iiiin. To Kane's 
 mind this disappearance was too utter. Ilail 
 he perlsheil, hv tli<JU}:iit that some trace of 
 bis remains would have been found. Uc could 
 
 uot help believin(» that he had recovered 
 from his lirst panic, and had foimd soino 
 mode of elVeclinj» his escape; he reflected 
 that ho was possibly as familiar with the.-o 
 passafietf as lie h;.d iirctet " 'o be, nnd that 
 so cool and lieen a sj)i.. 'ot lii<ely to 
 
 yield pernmnenlly to u shucii . .error. Con- 
 scipii'ntly Kane held the theory of Hessie's 
 innoeeneo and of Kevin Ma;;ralli's escape. 
 Moreover, ho believed that lliey were both 
 livinj; very comfortably toj;i>iiiir as father ainl 
 daughter with Mrs. Kevin Magrath, the wifo 
 and mother, somewhere in Ireland — in lluU 
 lyshannon, or some other place. 
 
 This opinion Clara sliared with him. 
 Hut all the others believed implicitly in 
 the guilt of Ilcssio and in the death of Kevin 
 Magrath. 
 
 For my own port, if I may offer nn opin. 
 ion before retiring from the ceenc, I would 
 simply rdnark that it is an ojkii qucslioii. 
 
 T u K K .N D . 
 
T 
 
 
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 COOPER'S 
 
 LEATHER-STOCKING NOVELS 
 
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 I. The Last of the Mohicans. 
 II. The Deerslayer. IV. The Pioneers. 
 
 III. The Pathfinder. V. The Praii'ie. 
 
 This edition of the "Leather-Stocking Tales" will be printed in handsome 
 octavo volumes, from new stereotype jilates, each volume superbly and fully 
 illustrated with entirely new designs by the distingaislied artist, F. O. C. Par- 
 ley, and bound in an attractive paper cover. Price, 15 cents per volume. 
 
 Heretofore there has 1 Jcn no edition of the acknowledged head of American 
 romancists suitable for general popular circulation, and hence the new issue of 
 these famous novels will be welcomed by the generation of readers that have 
 fprung up since Cooper departed from us. As time progresses, the character, 
 genius, and value of the Cooper romances become more widely recognized; lie 
 is now accepted as the great classic of our American literature, and his bookp 
 as the prose epics of our early history. 
 
 D. APPLETON & CO.. Publishers, New York. 
 
 Mi 
 
OVELS 
 
 WORKS. While thb 
 
 T IM THE HEARTS OF 
 I'HEY SHOULD FIND A 
 
 1 EDITION 
 
 rs 
 
 MANGES. 
 
 ced the publication 
 moral popular circu- 
 itocldng Tales," five 
 t intervals of about 
 
 >ioneers. 
 'rairie. 
 
 printed in handsome 
 3 superbly and fully 
 artist, r. O. C. Dar- 
 nts x>cr volume. 
 
 ed head of American 
 nee the new issue of 
 jf readers that have 
 resses, the character, 
 idely recognized; lie 
 rature, and liis l)ookp 
 
 jrs, New York.