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i t

t . -

xV,.N ( ) ! 'EN QUESTION.

A KQYMXu

JAME8 ])K MILLE,

ViV TirE ICE," "THE AMEBICAN «,UiON," ETC., ETO.

r.lUfiTnArTO:::: irJLLniJfn IliSDKKiVM'i

t:TON AKD GO MP ANT,

18'..3.

^%-

J-

Mv'

^^«.-l

AN OPEN QUESTION.

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

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»

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-

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

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,

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.

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 !

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.

: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

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.

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

AN OPEN QUESTION'.

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.

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."

AX OI'EX QUESTION'.

"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

tilii

VILLENEUVE.

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

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! ;

i.(t

VILLENEUVE.

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

'^*>

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

VILLEXEUVE.

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

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?

" 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

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

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?

ruth from her.

■ V

know it, and he

cive her. She,

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-

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-

1 at her compas-

lie, " that I could

n ? " wailed forth

ivful eyes.

e with a mournful

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

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 ■

AN OPEN QUESTION.

■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

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.

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

! i

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

'-0

.Jill

THE GOLD CRUCIFIX,

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

AN OI'EX QUESTION.

> :"ji

■ 1!

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.

■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

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."

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

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.

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

N I

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

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 :

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

!i I'

!' l:

■I

■'

A CURIOUS FANCY.

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.

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-

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

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

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.

.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

"&■

THE FATAL DRAUGHT.

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

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^ 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

"'%

AN OPEN QUESTION.

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?

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

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

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?

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-

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.

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

AN OPES QUESTION.

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

DII. m.AKE'S STIUNGE STOKV.

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

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

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

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

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-

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>

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.

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.

[■

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?"

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?

"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}

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-

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-

MUS. KLKIX.

1^1

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.

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

AX OrEN QIESTIOX.

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-

INEZ RECEIVES A LETTER.

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

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-

FATHEU MAGHATH.

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#

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.

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:"^:^

AN OPKN QUKSTIUN.

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

» »

FATIIEIl MAtlHATn.

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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Q-

I"':

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

FAMILY MATTERS.

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-

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

FAMILY MATTERS.

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

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

11
I

5I0RDAUXT MANOR.

" 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

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.

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

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.

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

' *

AN OrEN QUESTION.

it '■'

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

BBW—W

ir I

THE LOST ONE FOUND.

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,

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.

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

I !i

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

AT HOME.

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.

AN OPEN QUESTION'.

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,

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

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.

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^

AN OPES' QUESTION.

li ^li

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.

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

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

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.

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

AN OPEN QUESTION

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.

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

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.

101

AN OPEN QUESTION.

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.

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.

■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

" 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

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,

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

S14

AN OPEN' (iUESTIO.V.

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

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

i ■

1:1

I 'I.

SELF-SACRIFICE.

liy

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.

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

AN OPEN' QUESTION.

her husband's earnest solicitations, and went
with liim to take up her permanent abode at
Ruthvcn Towers.

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

AX OPEN' QUESTION'.

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.

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

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

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.

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

[ \\.

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

" 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

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.

130

AN OPEN QUESTION'.

'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

I '

; I

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.

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*

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 ■

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

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

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.

I 4 ^

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.

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-.

I fixed and un-
r such thiuRH.
\n much money
ire. Vou have
ir wife."
Gwyn. "AU,

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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

f ii

V I
t' i

1 ?

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."

154

AX OI'EX QUKSTIO.N"

1 I

i \

(

jVli

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

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.

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

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

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

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

■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-

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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

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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-

LWT

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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

"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

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.

: ^

fit!

'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

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."

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

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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SM of JOUf

iimilo 1110
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ic; 11 ml 80,
house, I lit

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10 tiifk of

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

188

AX Ol'KX QUESTION.

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

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."

190

AN OPEX QUESTION.

CHAPTER XLVI.

BEFOnE niS JUDGE.

y :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

•'

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."

" 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 ;

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

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

108

AN' (H'V.S (irilSTIO.V.

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."

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.

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,

I ■ ';■

■f I

,}r\

] l

:■.}{ [

i' <■■■

\'.

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-

»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.

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.

210

AN OrEN" (jUKSTION.

11 :

I! :

fit i

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 "

AX Ol'KS QIESTIO.V.

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.

"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-'*^.-

(iOIX(J TO PRAY AT CLAKA'S (lUAVE.

•?.;

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?

!i ■

'It

:( '.! 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

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,

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.

\i-

in''

\'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,

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 .

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COOPER'S

LEATHER-STOCKING NOVELS

•'The enduring monuments of Fenimore Cooper are his works. While thh

LOVE of country CONTINUES TO PREVAIL, HIS MEMORY WILL EXIST IN THE HEARTS OF
THE PEOPLE. So TRULY PATRIOTIC AND AMERICAN THROUGHOUT, THEY SHOULD FIND A

PLACE IN EVERY AMERICAN'S LIBRARY." — Daniel Webster.

A NEW AND

SPLENDIDLY-ILLUSTRATED POPTTLAR EDITION

OF
WORLD-FAMOUS

LEATHER-STOCKING ROMANCES.

D. ArPLETON ifc Co. announce that they have commenced the publication
of J. Fenimore Cooper's Novels, in a form designed for general popular circu-
lation. The Series will begin with the famous "Leather-Stocking Tales," five
in number, and will be published in the following order, at intervals of about
a month :

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.

OVELS

WORKS. While thb

T IM THE HEARTS OF
I'HEY SHOULD FIND A

1 EDITION

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.