WATER Mas. Henry- Wood P A R K W ATER, AND OTHEB STOBIES. V3 PAEKWATEK, AND OTHER STORIES. BY MRS. HENRY WOOD, AUTHOR OF " EAST LYNNE," 44 THE CHANNINGS," " JOHNNY LUDLOW," ETC. LONDON: RICHAKD BENTLEY AND SON, Publishers in ^rtmiarg to |§er i^ajcstg tfje ©ucen. 1890. {All rights reserved.) Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2013 http://archive.org/details/parkwaterotherstOOwood CONTENTS. PARK WATER : CHAPTEIS I. Bringing up . .., PAG 3 1 II. Home from France 15 III. Mr. Fred. Lyvett 31 IV. At Parkwater 51 V. Captain Devereux r .... 69 VI. Suspicion ... 80 VII. Sophia's Desolation ... 92 VIII. Hard Times 103 IX. The Advertisement in the "Times' ... 115 X. Warning ... 12G XI. A Stolen March ... 140 XII. The Countrywoman 154 XIII. A Fit of Shivering ... 170 XIV. An Expedition in the Dusk 183 XV. The Child ... 198 XVI. At Mrs. Cooke's 207 XVII. The Apprehension ... 222 XVIII. At Home ... 237 vi CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE XIX. Condemned ... ... . ... ... 249 XX. At Lady Harriet's ... ... .. 261 XXI. A Race with Time ... .. ... ... 272 Conclusion . . . ... ... ... .. 292 MR. NORTH'S DREAM : I. Driven forth ... ... ... ... ... 297 II. The Dream ... ... ... ... ... 307 MARTYN WARE'S TEMPTATION: PART THE FIRST. I. The Mother's Grief ... ... ... ... 337 II. Helen's Knight-errantry ... ... ... 352 PART THE SECOND. I. Mr. Vavasour's Promise ... ... ... ... 369 II. The Fall ... ... ... ... 390 FEATHERS AND SPANGLES 413 PARKVATE R CHAPTER I. BKINGING UP. In a certain quiet street of London, chiefly if not entirely filled by lawyers and their offices, there flourished some years ago the eminent firm of Lyvett, Castlerosse and Lyvett. An extensive practice had they; and certain other firms in the street would watch with an envious eye the shoals of letters and deeds delivered at their doors by the morning postman, wishing that only a tenth part of such shoals would come to them. The partners bore the character of honourable men; and certainly they were so. The three floors in the house were consecrated to business. The ground-floor was chiefly appropriated to clerks ; on the first-floor were the private and consulting- rooms of the partners; and on the next story were clerks' rooms again. This left free the kitchens, Park water. 1 2 PARKWATER. which were under-ground, and the attics in the roof ; in which apartments dwelt a man of the name of May, his wife and daughter. May was the trusty porter or messenger of the firm, took care of the house on Sundays and at nights, and was much esteemed by his employers as an honest, respectable servant. Mrs. May cleaned the offices, made the fires, and scoured the stairs ; and Miss May was a damsel of ten years old. She was being brought up — well, we shall see how. Mr. Lyvett, the first partner in the firm, was a wealthy man. Apart from the proceeds arising from a long and successful practice (which had come down to him from his father), his wife, who was of good family, had brought him a large fortune. They lived at the West-End, and mixed more in fashionable life than it is usual for lawyers to do. All Mrs. Lyvett's connections lay amidst it; and Mr. Lyvett himself was of fairly good descent. Their family consisted of two sons, James and Frederick, and several daughters. James was already taken into partnership, and his name was the third in the firm. He was married, and had a house of his own. Frederick, the youngest of the family, was not yet a partner. One winters night, a clerk chanced to remain at the office beyond the usual hour. When the rest of the clerks departed, he stayed behind. It was young Mr. Jones. He was just articled, had copied a deed care- BRINGING UP. 3 Iessly and imperfectly, and so was ordered to remain over-hours and copy it again. A strict disciplinarian was Mr. Rowley, the overlooking clerk of Lyvett, Castlerosse and Lyvett. The porter was out that evening, and Mrs. and Miss May were in the kitchen ; the former washing up the tea-things, the latter seated on a low chair, and devouring by the blaze of the fire the fresh number of Caterpillar's Penny Weekly Re- pository of Romance: Caterpillar being a popular writer with the million. " Anything new there, Sophiar ? 99 asked the mother, "Law, ma, yes! Such a splendid tale! 'The Knight of the Blood-Red-Hand/ It begins beautiful." " You'll try your eyes reading by firelight, Sophiar. Come to the candle." "I wish you wouldn't make a fuss," was Miss Sophia's answer. " You'll not read long, I can tell you. As soon as ever I have finished these tea-things, I'm a-going to clear the pianer, and you'll come and practise." The young lady gave a jerk with her shoulders, and a kick with her feet, both of which movements might be taken as emblematical of rebellion. Mrs. May was a foolish woman. To say the least of it, she was so in regard to her child. All her own spare time was devoted to devouring a certain kind of unwholesome literature, supplied then as extensively to the " million " 4 PARKWATER, as it is now ; perhaps more so. It served to fill her head with the most ridiculous notions ; and May, her husband, sanctioned them. Mrs. May had resolved that the child, Sophia, should be brought up a " lady ; edicated, and raised above her spere," as she rather often expressed it. In this resolve she was upheld not only by May, but by her own sister, a Miss Foxaby, who was a lady's-maid in a very fine family some- where up West. Sophia had no objection in the world ; she was already an incipient coquette, inordi- nately vain, and quite as much at home in the in- tricacies of the Weekly Repository of Romance as was her mother. Poor child ! Poor child ! its pernicious teachings were growing with her growth, and strengthening with her strength. Mrs. May was as good as her word. She cleared the square piano, which appeared to be laden with miscel- laneous articles of culinary utility, not generally found in association with pianos ; opened it, and put one of the wooden chairs before it. Miss Sophia, however, declined to disturb herself. " What was the good of your father a-buying of the hinstrument, and what's the good of your having a genus for music, if you don't practise ? " demanded Mrs. May. "Come, miss, no shuffling. And you have not looked at your book-lessons yet." " Ma, how you do bother ! " BRINGING UP. 5 " Come this minute, I say, or 111 put you to bed : and give them stupid romances to me," added Mrs. May, snatching the leaves out of the child's hand. " You don't call them stupid when you read them yourself ; and you don't like to be disturbed at them, though you disturb me," raved the girl, in a voice between screaming and sobbing. "The other night, when father kept asking for his supper, you were in the thick of the ' Blighted Rose/ and you wouldn't stir from it ; and he had to get out the bread and cheese himself, and fetch the beer ! " "Never you mind that, miss. You come to the pianer, as I bid you. It's not your place to reflect on me." Sophia, finding resistance useless, flung a few books on the chair to make it higher, and flung herself upon them, dashing into what she called " the scales " and her mother "the jingles." Mrs. May drew a chair before the fire, placed her feet on the iron fender, snuffed the candle on the table behind her, opened the publication she had taken from her daughter. Before however, she was fairly immersed in its beauties, or the first few bars of the jingles had come to an end, a tremendous noise overhead caused them both to start. " Sakes alive ! " uttered Mrs. May — a favourite ex- clamation of hers : " what's that ? " A somewhat prolonged noise, as of a stool or chair 6 PARKWATER. being moved violently about, was now heard. Sophia jumped off the books. " Mother ! suppose it should be an apparition ! " " Suppose it should be a robber ! " was the more practical remark of Mrs. May. " He may have stolen in to kill us, while he walks off with the law papers. I daren't go and see." " I'll go and see," answered Sophia. " I'm not afraid of robbers; and I don't suppose they'd hurt me." She took the candle from the table, hurried fear- lessly upstairs, and knocked at the front office door. Mr. Jones, the young clerk, not being used to solitary evening employment, had dropped asleep over his work, with his stool on the balance. Certain musical sounds caused him to awake with a start, when he and his stool went down together. Picking himself and his stool up irascibly, he inflicted on the latter sundry bumps on the floor, by way of revenge, and was just settling to his copy again, when the knock came to the door. " Come in," cried he, sullenly. Very much astonished he looked when the intruder presented herself : a blue-eyed, pretty child, with flaxen hair that curled on her shoulders. Dressed well, she would have been an elegant child : but, dressed as she was, in all the colours of the rainbow, fiaunty, dirty, and with a profusion of glass beads BRINGING UP. 7 glittering about her as necklace and bracelets, she looked like a little itinerant actress at a country fair. " Why ! who and what are you ? " demanded the young gentleman, " If you please, we did not know anybody was left/' replied Sophia. " When the noise came, we thought it was a robber got in, so I came up to see ; but ma was afraid." " Who on earth's ' ma ' ? " repeated Mr. Jones, unable to take his eyes off the child. " My ma. Downstairs." " Do you live here ? " " Yes/' said she, drawing herself up. " I am Miss May." " Oh, indeed ! " returned the young man. " Was not that a piano tinkling ? It was the sound of that startled me up, and sent the stool off its legs. The first time I ever heard of a piano in a lawyer s office/' " It's mine, sir. Father bought it for me." " Yours ! Where do you keep it ? " " In the kitchen," answered the little girl. " We moved the dresser out into the back place, where the copper is, to make room for it. It's opposite the windows, and I practise at night when I come home from school." a Why don't you give us a serenade in the daytime ? " demanded young Mr. Jones, delighted at the amuse- 8 PARKWATER. ment which appeared to be striking up. " We might get up a waltz when the governors are out." Miss May shook her head. "Father says it must never be opened till every- body's gone ; the gentlemen would not like it. So ma keeps dishes and things atop of it all day, for fear I should forget and unlock it, when I'm at home from school at twelve o'clock." "Well, this is a rum go!" muttered Mr. Jones to himself. " " How many brothers and sisters have you, child?" " I have not goi any of either. And that's why ma says she can afford to spend more upon me. I'm to be a lady when I grow up." "Thank you, my little girl, for the information. You look like one. I should say you might be taken for an Arabian-Nights' princess : only you are too smart." The child took the mocking compliment to be meant in earnest. She bridled her head ; her un- occupied hand stole up to twirl round the ends of her pretty ringlets. In the endowment of vanity, Nature has been prodigal to many of us, but she had been remarkably so to Sophia May. " Sophiar ! " called out a voice, timid and panting, from the lower regions. " Sophiar ! What is it ? " " Who is that ? " quickly asked Mr. Jones. BRINGING UP. 9 That's ma. She " Sophiar, I say ! Who are you talking to ? Who is there ? 99 repeated the voice. " Ma/' answered the child, putting her head out at the door to speak, " it's one of the gentlemen, not yet gone." Up raced Mrs. May, flurried and dubious. Mr. Jones recognized her as the lady he had seen on her hands and knees, cleaning the front door-step the first morning he came, when he had misunderstood the clerks' time, and had arrived an hour too early. She knew him as the young clerk recently entered, whose friends were intimate with the Lyvetts. " Bless me, sir ! I should not have took upon myself to send Sophiar in here, but we thought everj^- body was gone, and was alarmed at the noise. Sophiar, miss" — changing her tone to a very angry one — " when you saw it was all right, why didn't you come away again directly ? " "Don't put yourself out, Mrs. May; she has done no harm. What time do you get this office open in the morning ? " he added, as if struck with some sudden thought. "About half-past seven, sir, these dark mornings. I begin with this floor first. But I get all my sweep- ing over and the fires alight before I sit down to my breakfast." 10 PARKWATER. " Then I'm blest if I won't knock off for to-night, if I can get in at that hour," ejaculated Mr. Jones. " I shall have time to finish this beastly thing before old Rowley comes. But he had best mind, again, how he gives me my day's writing to do over twice, for I won't stand it. Good-night to you, Dame May. Put out the gas." " Sophy," said Mrs. May, when they returned to the kitchen, " did he hear the sound of the pianer ? " Sophy nodded in the affirmative. " What did he say ? " " He asked if the piano was here ; and I told him it was, and was ours." "Then you were a little ape for your pains. You should have told him that it was a sound from the next house ; and stood to it that it was, if he'd disputed it. Your father don't want the Mr. Lyvetts and Mr. Castlerosse to know of the pianer ; they'd make a fuss, perhaps. Never scruple to tell a fib, child, in a necessary cause." " Can I have that paper now ? " asked Sophia. " No," snapped Mrs. May, " I have hardly begun it. Get on with your jingles." From the above little episode of one evening, the reader may gather somewhat of the manner in which Sophia May was being trained. It need not be enlarged upon. Her parents were making that most BRINGING UP. 11 reprehensible and fatal mistake of rearing her to be above her station; above themselves. Such mistakes were not so common in those days as now, for what I am writing of took place many years ago ; but, as the world knows, they are springing into mad fashion at present. No training for the working classes can be more pernicious, or is likely to bring forth more dis- astrous fruits. In Sophia May's case— and hers is a true history — the error was added to by her being allowed the run of those wretched weekly romances. Sophia's parents had married late in life, and were decent, hard- working people ; and if they had had the good sense to make their child hard-working too, they would have given her comfort and content for her portion. Mrs. May had been an inferior servant in a family of distinction, had picked up some exalted ideas, and the publications she had addicted herself to reading did not tend to sober them. Undoubtedly the child was a pretty, fairy-looking little thing; and a fancied resemblance to one of the aristocratic daughters in the family in which Mrs. May had served, first put ridiculous notions for Sophia into her brain. The father was more sensible; but he was so ardently attached to this only child that he too readily fell into the snare, and upon that one point was now as extravagant as his wife. For their station they were in easy circumstances. The man's wages sufficed for 12 PARKWATER. their wants, in the humble way they were accustomed to live ; Mrs. May had saved money, and Miss Foxaby was ever ready to produce funds to be spent on her pretty niece Sophia. She furnished not only funds, but clothes. All the very smart things Sophia flourished in came from her: cast-off relics of the family she served. Strange that the father and mother could not see the incongruity of what they were doing ! The child, with her flounces and furbe- lows, her music and dancing, her pernicious romance- reading, and her fostered vanity ; and they, with their household drudgery, living amidst their kettles and saucepans and cooking and cleaning ! What an absurdity it all was ! Sophia went to a day-school in the neighbourhood, where she mixed with a rather better class of chil- dren as to position : indeed the mistress had refused to take her at first on the score of her parentage. There she picked up some learning, and left off some of her idioms. The way in which the child was dressed out on a Sunday was something wonderful to behold. Muslins in summer, satins in winter, streamers of many colours, gaudy artificial flowers, and snow-white feathers ! Nearly all of them were Miss Foxaby's gifts, and all of them had the first bloom off. In the morning of Sunday, the child would be, as the mother expressed it, " in her dirt/' BRINGING UP. 13 watching the preparations for dinner, or exercising at the piano, and at one o'clock fetching the beer from the public-house ; for May liked to take as much rest as he could get on a Sunday, even from beer-fetching. But in the afternoon she was turned out in style, and told to "walk up and down the street that people might see her ; " her father and mother, who on that day would sit at the windows of Mr. Lyvett's room on the first-floor, watching her with looks of love and admiration : the former with his pipe, and his beer in a pewter pot ; the latter with her weekly newspaper, which, however, she could scarcely coax her eyes to read a line of, so absorbed was she with that vision pacing the quiet street in her young vanity, whose long-tailed silken steamers fluttered out behind her, to the amazement of every chance passer-by. They did not go to church; they did not take her. Now and then, indeed, Mrs. May would attend evening service with Sophia ; but it was very rarely. They were moral, well-behaved people, the father and mother, but religion was not known in their house : that is, religious teaching and religious exercises. What did they promise themselves would be the end of all this when the child grew up ? — that she would be content to continue her abode with them, and live as they did ! Where else was she to live ? Poor Sophia May ! events that really did 14 PARKWATER. happen in after life were not so much her fault as the fault of her most foolish parents. And this is a true picture ; a simple narrative of events that actually occurred. ( 15 ) CHAPTER II. HOME FROM FRANCE. Several years had gone by. One Thursday night in summer, the quiet street already mentioned (and it was the dullest and quietest street imaginable after business hours, when the various lawyers and their clerks had deserted it for the night) was aroused from its silence by the echoes of a cab, which came fast down it, and pulled up at the door of Lyvett, Castle- rosse and Lyvett. What could the cab want there at that hour ? Cabs, and carriages too, might be seen before the door in the day, many of them ; but never at night. "Why, if it's not old May!" exclaimed Miss Jen- kins, putting her head out at the next-door window ; she and her sister being laundresses to that house, which accommodated several firms. " Where has he been to in a cab ? Here, Esther, come and have a look at old May in a cab ! " Miss Esther Jenkins quickly ran to the window. 16 PARK WATER. A young lady in a blue veil was folloAving old May out of the cab. " Well, I never ! " cried Miss Esther. " Who can it be, Martha ? There's the gaslight on her face now — what a nice-looking young lady ! " "Why, it must be the daughter come home ! She was expected, you know. Oh, it's nobody but her ; you may rely upon it, Esther." " I'll go in and see what she's like presently, when they are settled a bit," cried Miss Esther. " It's her, safe enough." " Safe enough " it was. Miss May, who had been for two years at a school on the French coast, had now completed her education, and returned home for good. When Miss Esther Jenkins entered, she found her sitting in the kitchen with her parents. Sophia was eighteen now, and certainly very good-looking. The long curls she had worn as a child were now twisted in a peculiar way, " French and fashionable," Miss Jenkins called it, round her head. She was above the middle height, and easy in her move- ments, very much pinched in about the waist, with fine falling shoulders, an admirably fitting dress, and a prodigious deal of pretension. Miss Jenkins stood, taking it all in at a glance, and noting various items in her mind, especially the young lady's first declaration that she did not know HOME FROM FRANCE. 17 how she should get on in London, as she had forgotten her English. Sophia turned to the place of the old piano. It was there still, and she opened it. She struck a few chords and started back with a scream. " Mais, c'est horrible, ce piano-la ! Je ne " " Do try to speak in English, Sophiar," urged Mrs. May, with tears in her eyes. " How ever shall we get along if you don't ? What is it that's the matter ? Did you see anything that frightened you ? " " It is such a — what do you call it in English ? — dreadful piano. I had as soon have touched an electric battery. It has set all my finest musical nerves on the jar : ma tete est percee. I shall never be able to touch it again : jamais." " She has not quite forgot her mother-tongue," interposed Miss Jenkins. " Which is a consolation worthy of thanksgiving." Sophia turned a sharp look upon her. There Avas a sarcastic ring in the words that she did not like. a Did you have no English girls whatever at the school, Sophiar ? " asked Miss Jenkins. " Mais oui." "Did you have no English girls whatever at the school ? " repeated the visitor, apparently determined to persevere till she received a reply she could under- stand. Park water. 2 18 PARKWATER. " Some of the young ladies were English." " And did you never talk together ? " " De temps en temps. Now and then," more hastily added Sophia, perceiving the question was about to be repeated, as before. " Then it's very singular how you can have forgot it at all," retorted Miss Jenkins, significantly, " for when schoolgirls get together they do talk." The tone brought heat into the temper of Miss May. She cast a look of scorn on the offender, and coolly turned her back upon her. " It is not agreeable to me to be troubled with strangers to-night," she said, more curtly than politely. " I am tired with my sea-voyage, Miss Jenkins, and the company of my father and mamma is as much as my nerves will support." "Then I'll make myself scarce," said Miss Jenkins, who was more inclined to laugh than to take offence ; " and come in some other time when you are in company cue, Sophia." Sophia gave only a cold nod in answer. " How can I ever again support the companionship of these wretchedly low people ? " ran her thoughts. Miss Jenkins was inwardly making her comments on her : tit for tat. " I say, Esther," whispered Mrs. May, following Miss Jenkins upstairs to fasten the door, " she don t mean HOME FROM FRANCE. 19 no offence; she's only knocked up after the sea- sickness/' " Where no offence is meant, none is took," replied Miss Jenkins. home to dine this evenino-." w You must go — you shall go ! " she exclaimed, with a vehemence that positively startled Mr. Ly vett. " I tell you, Frederick, any worry would only make me worse, and it would worry me dreadfully to know that you neglected this first invitation of your father's. It might render the breach irrevocable." " Good-bye, then/' he said, stooping to take his AN EXPEDITION IN THE DUSK. 187 farewell. " But I can tell you my going, or not going, depends upon whether you are better. And be sure don't get worrying yourself with the luggage to-day. The things can wait until to-morrow." Mr. Lyvett passed down the stairs, and as he was crossing the hall, met Mrs. Cooke. He had known her many years. Her son, now dead, had been articled to his father's house. He stopped to shake hands, and they turned into the parlour. " I am sorry to hear Mrs. Frederick Lyvett is not well," she said. " Not very. From fatigue of travelling, I believe. She says it will soon pass off. I wish you would go up and see her, Mrs. Cooke. And," he added, dropping his voice to a whisper, "if you think it anything serious, just send for a doctor, and say nothing about it to my wife until he is here." He took his departure for the day, and in a short time Mrs. Cooke went upstairs. The young wife seemed very well then. She received her landlady haughtily, not to say ungraciously; and spoke in resentful tones of her husbands having thought she needed special inquiry or assistance. Mrs. Cooke perceived the illness was not a welcome topic, and passed to another. "Did the countrywoman take away the child yesterday ? " asked she, in a friendly tone. 188 PARK WATER. " Of course she did/' was Mrs. Ly vett's reply, look- ing steadily at her. And nearly at the same moment she was taken with a fit of coughing, and had to put her handkerchief to her face. " So Ann brought me word, when I sent up to ask if you would like some food for him; but — I do not know how my sight could so far have deceived me. I saw her go away, and it seemed to me that she had nothing with her. Where he was hidden, will, to me, always be a mystery." "He was asleep in her arms, under her shawl/' "Well, no, that could hardly be. Both her arms were down. I noticed her hands : she had one brown cotton glove on, and was carrying the other." " She w^ould scarcely leave her child a present for me," returned Mrs. Lyvett, with a forced laugh. Mrs. Cooke cleared her throat, and looked another way, speaking hurriedly. "The woman mentioned to me some particulars, and said she had brought the child to leave him with you. I regret much that she should have spoken, for of course it is no business of mine; but I beg to assure you that I shall never think of mentioning the subject to any one." " I'm sure I don't know what she said to you/' was the answer, delivered in curt, discourteous tones. " And it is of no consequence. She is a woman who AN EXPEDITION IN THE DUSK. 189 is slightly deranged at times, and is then given to say strange things ; but nobody notices her. I have occa- sionally given her money in charity, and that is what she wanted yesterday. The child is her own, her youngest ; but when the mania is upon her, she dis- owns him." Mrs. Cooke said good-morning, and betook herself to her own portion of the house. She found much food for reflection that day. Was she to believe the countrywoman's tale, or Mrs. Frederick Lyvett's ? She inclined to that of the former, who not only appeared perfectly sane and sensible, but had honesty written on her face; w r hich Mrs. Lyvett had not. Moreover the countrywoman's tale carried probability with it, and bringing back the sixteen shillings, which she said she had been overpaid, corroborated it, as did the little bundle of the child's clothes. It was a disagreeable matter altogether; at least that was thef impression left on Mrs. Cooke's mind ; and somewhat mysterious. In the first place Mrs. f Cooke could have positively affirmed, if necessary, that the woman had not the child when she departed. Carrying it she certainly was not ; yet where could it have been hidden ? Under her petticoats ? No. She was of slender make, and her lavender cotton gown hung flat and scanty, as peasants' gowns generally do hang. Yet it was equally certain that the child had wo PARK WATER. gone, for Mrs. Lyvett could not have got him hidden in the house. How and when had the child departed ? Who had taken him away, if not the woman ? And yet, if Mrs. Cooke could trust the evidence of her own sight and senses, the woman had not taken him. Mrs. Cooke felt intensely mystified. However, as she repeated to herself, it was no business of hers, so she would not wonder any more about it. But the more she strove to follow this resolve, the less was she able to do it. The affair haunted her all day. Frederick Lyvett came home in his cab to dress. How long that cab and horse would be his, he knew not; he was already making preparations for their sale. He had found a great deal to do all day, what with one thing and another, and apologized to his wife for his long absence, as he stooped to kiss her, and hurried into the dressing-room. He found the closet open, and his things placed in it. His wife had done it. She appeared to have recovered, and she left her own dinner, just served, to go and talk with him. She begged of him not to leave his family for the sake of hurrying home, saying she would not wish to see him one moment before eleven. He was elated at her being so well, and descended at half-past six to his cab, which had waited for him. Mrs. Lyvett finished her dinner — with a AN EXPEDITION IN THE DUSK. 191 very poor appetite, as it seemed — and had a cup of coffee brought to her. The evening went on to dusk. Mrs. Cooke was shut up in her back parlour, which opened to the garden, the servants were in the kitchen, when Sophia Ly vett, wearing a large shawl and carrying something cumbersome, passed down the staircase in the gloom. Slowly and cautiously stole she, as if she dreaded even the creaking of a board, across the hall, whose lamp was not yet lighted, and out at the front-door. She pulled the door to, but did not close it after her, dreading perhaps the noise it would make; sped through the gate, and turned towards the Regent's Park. The road lamp flashed on her face. Its features, as seen through her veil, were white as death, and her mouth opened with every laboured breath she drew. She bore steadily on her road, but with difficulty, 0- for she was not accustomed to heavy burdens. The road is tolerably lonely there; and every now and then, when not a soul was in sight, she leaned against a dead wall, or a railing, or a stone gate-post, for rest. Once when she was well-nigh exhausted she sat down on a garden step. She had sat a minute when a police- man appeared, coming round the corner she had passed. She sprang up and darted away, helped on by unnatural strength. She came to the Regent's Park — it was no great 192 PARKWATEB. distance — and was entering it, when another policeman appeared, coming from it. She turned short round, and stood back against a dark wall. She knew her way quite well about the locality ; for, before settling at Brompton, she had tried this neighbourhood, and had stayed in it for two months, hoping to pick up pupils. The policeman did not see her ; he turned oft* the other way ; and, as the echo of his footsteps died away in the distance, she went on again and entered the Park. When she came out of it her arms were free ; what she had carried was no longer in them. Hailing a cab that chanced to be passing, she entered it, giving the driver only a word of direction ; that of the road in which Mrs. Cooke's was situated. " What part of it ? " he inquired. " Drive on. I will tell you when to stop." She sat in it, panting and breathless, shaking as she had been shaking at home on the previous evening. She let the man drive past her house some slight distance, and then stopped the cab. The fare was very trifling, but she put half-a-crown into his hand, and walked on, away still from home. Cabmen, as a whole, are suspicious men, remarkably w r ide-awake. This one glanced keenly at her face through her veil, and looked after her. Then he turned his horse round, and drove slowly back, looking out for a fare. AN EXPEDITION IN THE DUSK. 193 When the cab was out of sight, Sophia Lyvett turned and approached her home. No lights were in the drawing-room, so her husband had not returned. That was fortunate : she had not felt perfectly sure that he would not come home early, in spite of her injunction; but another circumstance was less so. The door, which she had hoped to find ajar, as she left it, was closed ; and she could not get in unseen, as she had wished to do. The hour she did not know, but thought it might be half-past ten. What should she do ? She scarcely liked to knock and enter, and face the surprise as to her proceedings, at so late an hour. An idea came over her that if she could go in with her husband it would be thought she had but gone out to fetch him. Yes, she would wait, and do that. The shutters of Mrs. Cooke's parlour windows were closed. So much the better; the pry- ing eyes of that lady could not be upon her. Sophia paced back along the garden path to the gate, and paused there, in the full light of the gas lamp. At that moment a cab drove past. She did not recognize it ; but the driver recognized her as the liberal fare he had recently set down. He had met another fare, a cab full, whom he was driving home. He turned round on his box, and noted the house : no fear that he would not know it again. Another cab came up, a private one, and stopped at Parkwater. 13 194 PARKWATER. the gate. Mr. Frederick Lyvett's. Fred jumped from it, and his groom drove off immediately. " Why, Sophia ! " he exclaimed, in the very excess of astonishment, as he entered the gate and encountered her. "Is it you?" She laughed. " I put on my great shawl, and came out to walk up and down before the gate, waiting for you. It was hot in-doors, and the night air is pleasant." But he seemed rather cross : seemed to think the proceeding an extraordinary one ; and, while they waited for admittance, recommended her not to do it again. Sophia fancied that the servants stared curiously at her ; nothing in the world is so imagin- ative as conscience. Both the servants were in the hall: the one opened the door to admit them, the other was speaking to her mistress. Mrs. Cooke was sitting in her parlour near the door, which was wide open. " Good-evening," said Mr. Lyvett, halting to speak. " A warm night, is it not ? " Mrs. Cooke rose and came forward. " Yes ; it is very warm. You gave us a fright, Mrs. Frederick Lyvett," she added : and Sophia, who was hastening up the stairs, felt at these words compelled to turn. " When Ann came up to light the hall lamp, she found a beggar boy in the hall : a young man, indeed ; AN EXPEDITION IN THE DUSK. 195 a great, strong, ill-looking fellow. He pretended to ask for bread; but it is a mercy she saw him, or we might all have been attacked in our beds to- night." " How did he get in ? " asked Mr. Ly vett. "We could not imagine how," said Mrs. Cooke, "until we found Mrs. Lyvett was out. You must have left the door open/' she added, looking at the lady. "If you will kindly take the trouble to ring when you are going out, one of the servants will be at hand to show you out, and close the door after you. Perhaps/' she continued, smiling, " Mrs. Lyvett is not accustomed to London, and little thinks that the streets and roads are infested with thieves and vaga- bonds ever on the watch for plunder." u Oh, Mrs. Lyvett has lived in London all her life," was* Fred Lyvett's reply. "Had you much trouble in getting rid of him, Mrs. Cooke ? " " No. I thought it best to conciliate the gentleman, and called the cook to give him some broken victuals. He then asked for old shoes; and I was obliged to threaten him with a policeman before he would quit the house." "It is the police who are to blame," returned Mr. Lyvett. " What right have they to suffer these fellows to be prowling about the roads at eleven o'clock at night ? " 196 PARKWATER. "Oh" said Mrs. Cooke, "it is an hour and a half ago. More, I think." " I hope you will not be troubled again with such a customer/' concluded Fred. " Good-night, ma'am." His wife had run upstairs, and he followed her. The servant had also gone up with lights. " Sophia," he said, as the girl withdrew, " you must have been out a long while. Where can you have been ? " " Only walking about, watching for you. I told you so." "Don't go letting yourself out again, my dear, in that odd sort of clandestine way. And at night, too ! Ring the servants up, and let them wait upon you. It is different here from that place you were in at Brompton. Mrs. Cooke is a gentlewoman, you know, and accustomed to proper ways. Besides, you are Mrs. Frederick Ly vett now ; don't be afraid of giving necessary trouble." Mrs. Lyvett turned the conversation off. She was very tired, she said, and should go on to her room and undress. Fred nodded, and said he would follow her presently. She had no further attack of trembling that night. But she tossed and turned from side to side in wake- ful restlessness; and, when she did fall asleep, she moaned and started so repeatedly that her husband obtained no rest. AN EXPEDITION IN THE DUSK. J 97 " I am sure/' thought he, " that honeymoon journey of ours must have been too much for Sophia ! Travel- ling does upset some people ; I suppose she's one of them." 198 PARKWATEfr CHAPTER XV. THE CHILD. On the following Monday evening there sat in a room at Rotherhithe a small collection of country people, men and women. A discontented expression was on their faces ; and not without cause. They were from Suffolk, intended emigrants to Sydney, who ought to have gone out of dock on the previous Saturday, but from some bad management, which they could not or would not comprehend, the ship was to be detained for another week ; and they rebelled at the delay. " A-boxing of us up in this here wicked London, as is full of accidents and revellings ! " cried a woman, who was spelling over a newspaper. " A poor innocent lamb they have been a-drowning of now. A pretty little fellow, with flax-coloured hair, it says." " Read it out, Goody Giles," said some one of the company. Goody Giles preferred to relate it. "He were found in a place they call the Regent's Park. A gentleman THE CHILD. 199 were a-passing along, and his dog jumped into the water and fished up a bundle, which they think had lodged on the side, without sinking. They got it out and opened it, and it were a poor little boy." " When was it ? How big was he ? " inquired one of the men. " It were last Friday morning, and he looked to be a-going on of two year," replied Goody Giles. " His frock and pinafore was of blue cotton." Another woman, seated at the window, turned round her head. " What else do it say ? " she asked, in a quick tone. "Well, I don't mind as it says much else. Tarn, take the news, and look." " Tarn " took the newspaper, and ran his eyes over the account. " Yes, it does, mother. It says as there's a reward of £20 offered. And he had got on a shirt and petticoat clumsily marked ' R P.' in grey worsted." " Hey, Mrs. Thrupp ! what's the matter of you ? " cried a man named Miles. For Mrs. Thrupp had risen from her seat at the window, and stood as if petrified. " Forgive me if I'm * wrong ! " she breathed, "but it's just the likeness of little Randy." " Thou foolish woman ! " uttered her husband. "Thy thoughts be tied on nought but that little 'un; night and noon. Thee'll get crazy about him shortly." 200 PARK WATER. " Randy wore his blue frock and pinafore the day I left him/' " For the matter of that, Mother Thrupp," interposed Peter Miles, " there be two or three hundred children in blue frocks and pinafores in this town of Lunnon alone." " And that's the very mark of his shirt and petti- coat/' persisted Mrs. Thrupp, paying no attention to the rebuke. " I thought his folks might be fashed at seeing no mark, for ladies is particular, and when I were a-mendin' up Thrupp's stockings, ready for the start, I took the needle and worsted, and marked his three shirts and his two petticoats ; R, for Randy, and P, for Penryn." "R. P. is but common letters," interposed Robert Pike, " and stands for many a name. They stands for mine." " Don't take no note of she, Robin," cried John Thrupp; "her head's turned with losing the little urchin." Mrs. Thrupp said no more. But she caught up the paper and read the account for herself. She noted the address of the police-station where application * might be made, and the body of the child seen. When she was alone with her husband at night, she told him she should go and ask to see it. " Thee'd never be so soft ! " THE CHILD. 201 u I must satisfy myself. Something keeps whisper- ing me that it's little Randy. I told you his mother shook him and hit him, a most like a dog shaking a rat." "A pretty figure thee'll cut, a-going to own a drownded child, when thee gets sight on't, and find it's one thee never set eyes on afore!" exclaimed John Thrupp. " It's only my time and a walk," remonstrated the woman ; " and my mind 11 be at rest. While we be kept a- waiting here, we have got nothing to do, now all our things is aboard." The same evening that these several labourers and their families were conversing together, there appeared at the police-station mentioned in the advertisements a shrewd-looking man, airily attired about the neck and waistcoat. He demanded to see the inspector. " What for ? " inquired an officer in attendance. " Something touching that child that has been found," was the answer. " If I can't see the inspector now, I'll come again." " Go in there," said the policeman. The man went into the room indicated, and stood before the inspector : who heard what his business was, and inquired his name. " John Ripley." " Who and what are you ? " 202 PARK WATER. " I was well-to-do once, but I got down in the world, and I have lately been reduced to drive a night cab. I tried a day one, but I had to pay sixteen shillings to its master every morning before I took it out, and I could not make it answer. I pay six shillings for the night one." " Its number, and the owner ? " continued the inspector. John Ripley satisfied him ; also in various other particulars relating to himself. Some of his answers were written down. " And now," said the officer, " what have you to say about this affair ? " " First of all, sir, I want to know whether the reward will be paid to me, if I point out the person who put the child in the water ? Because that person," shrewdly argued the man, " may not be the one who actually killed it.' " If you can indicate to us the individual who put the baby where it was found, and through that infor- mation the actual guilty party or parties be discovered and taken, you will be entitled to the reward." " And receive it ? " added the man. " And receive it," said the inspector, with a checked attempt at a smile. " Now go on." " Well, sir, last Thursday evening I took out my cab at nine o'clock, and for more than half-an-hour not THE CHILD. 203 a fare did I get. Then one hailed me, and I drove him all up to the Regent's Park, and onwards to the north side beyond it. I set my fare down, and was driving back, when a woman came out of the Park, put up her hand, and made a noise. 5 ' " How made a noise ? " " Why, she had tried to speak, but was so out of breath she couldn't, and only a noise came from her. I got down, opened the door, and she scrambled in. I have seen many a one make haste over getting into a cab," continued the speaker, " but I never saw one tumble in as quick as she did. ' Agate Road,' she said to me. "'What part of it?' I asked. " ' Drive on,' she said. ' I'll tell you when to pull up.' So I did as she told me, and " " What time was this ? " interrupted the officer. " I can't say to a few minutes. Between ten and half-past." " Proceed." " I drove up the Agate Road ; and presently she tapped at the window, and I jumped off and let her out.' I thought I should get a shilling from her, but she puts half-a-crown into my hand, and goes away, on further, up the road." "Is that all?" " Not quite. I turned back with my cab towards 204 PARKWATER. the Park, plying for a fare, and had not gone far when a gentleman, two ladies, and two children hailed me and got in. They told me to drive up the Agate Road, and I did so ; when, in passing a house, beyond which I had driven her, I saw the same woman' — or lady, whichever she was. She was standing inside its gate, looking up and down the road." " Well?" "That is all." " Did you see more of the woman ? " " No. My last fare went to the very top of the Agate Road ; and as they were getting out I took another, who wanted to go in quite a different direction." "How do you connect all this with the finding of the child ? " " Why, sir, I feel a positive conviction, in my own mind, that it was that very woman who had been placing the baby in the water. She panted and shook as she came from the Park, like one in mortal fright, as I said, and the moment she was inside the cab, huddled herself into one corner of it, like a hare run down. And why should she conceal her house from me, and make me drive past it ? She must have had some motive for that." "These circumstances amount to very little," said the inspector. THE CHILD. 205 " At all events, they look suspicious enough for the police to follow up/' quickly retorted the man, " which I suppose you'll do, sir." The inspector kept his own counsel, as inspectors are sure to do. Neither eye nor lip moved. " What house was this ? " he asked. " I cannot describe it as you would understand, and I don't know its number ; but I can point it out when I'm there." " How was the woman dressed ? " " In a big, dark shawl which nearly covered her, and a silk dress. And she kept a black veil over her face." " Should you know her again ? " " I should know her dress ; I'm sure I should. It was a grey silk, flounces edged with bands of black velvet. The shawl was a dark plaid, blue and green. I didn't see much of her features." " What age was she ? " " Young." " Was she like a lady or a servant ? " "Like a lady." The inspector wrote for a few minutes. " Are you always to be found at this address that you have given ? " " Except at night, when I'm out with my cab." He continued to write. 206 PARKWATER. " Have you talked about this ? " he suddenly demanded. " I have never opened my lips about it till now. It was only to-day, when the account of the finding the child came to my notice in the newspapers, that I began to have my suspicions.'' " Good." The inspector touched a hand-bell, and the police- man came in, " Begbie." It was the only word he spoke, but the man appeared to understand ; for he withdrew, and another one appeared in plain clothes. The inspector turned to the cabman. " You will go with this officer," he said, " and point out to him the house you have mentioned. Do not linger before it, or turn your head to look at it; just tell him which it is, and walk past it. You under- stand ? " " I should be dull if I didn't," returned the driver. " Mark it," was the inspectors brief direction to his subordinate. ( 207 ) CHAPTER XVI. AT MRS. COOKE'S. It is something marvellous — the ways and means employed by the metropolitan police when they are bent upon obtaining information. None know how they do it, or when they do it; excepting to them- selves, their inquiries are secret as ever were those of the French inquisition. By eleven o'clock the following morning the police knew all about the suspected house, what character it bore, and who lived in it. A widow lady of great respectability was its occupant, with her two servants : she had lived there for many years, About twelve o'clock on that same day a gentleman stood before the house— a tall, well-dressed, middle- aged, easy-mannered man. He knocked and rang, as though he felt himself to be some one of consequence. One of the maids opened the door. " Is Mrs. Cooke at home ? " " Yes, sir." 208 PARKWATER. Without ceremony or any kind of invitation, he walked at once into the hall. " I wish to see her." " What name, sir ? " asked the servant, preparing to show him in. " Mr. Smith.'' Whether Smith was his real name, or not, is no matter to us. It did for the servant, as well as any other. Mrs. Cooke was seated in her parlour ; a hand- some, well-appointed room. Mr. Smith saw a tall stately lady, dressed in rich black silk and a widows cap. She was looking over some account-books, but rose at the visitors entrance and laid down her spectacles. Amongst her friends was a gentleman named Smith, and she advanced to shake hands, but drew back at meeting a stranger. " Ma'am," be began, in a low, cautious tone, as soon as the door was closed, drawing, unasked, a chair near to hers, and sitting down, "I have come to seek a little private information from you. I am a member of the detective police." Mrs. Cooke was shocked and startled. A detective officer had always been associated, in her mind, with a blunderbuss and two horse-pistols. She nervously began to draw on her black lace mittens, which lay on the table, but her trembling fingers could hardly accomplish it. AT MRS. COOKE'S. 209 "Don't be alarmed, ma'am," he said, with a voice and smile tending to reassure her. ".My visit has nothing formidable in it. Look upon me as an acquaintance only, who has called to sit half-an-hour with you." " Sir," she answered, " I have lived to six-and-fifty years, and never had anything to do with the police in my life, or myjiusband either. He was in Somerset House, and I can assure you we never did anything to bring the notice of the police upon us. All we have ever done, or said, might be laid open to the world." "Had you fallen under their mark, I should not come to visit you in this private manner," was his composed reply. " I only require a little information from you ; which I think you can afford me." " Dear me ! " groaned Mrs. Cooke. " Do you live in this house alone with your two servants ? " " Until last week I did. I suppose, sir, I am com- pelled to answer your questions ? " "Madam, yes. Or you may be called upon to answer them in public : which would be less pleasant to you. Since last week, who has resided in your house ? " The intimation did not tend to reassure Mrs. Cooke. But never a thought crossed her of refusing to answer, and she resigned herself to the situation. Parkwater. 14 210 PARKWATER. u A newly-married gentleman and his wife came to reside with me last week. My house is large for me since my husband died, and they have taken part of it. They entered last Wednesday." " Respectable people, I conclude ? " " Respectable ! Sir, it is Mr. Frederick Lyvett, a son of the great Lawyer Lyvett ; their firm is one of the highest in London. The Lyvetts live in great style at the West-End." "I know them/' nodded the officer. " Lyvett, Castlerosse, and Lyvett. Just married, are these parties ? " " About a fortnight ago." " Who was the lady ? " " I know very little of her. I believe she was inferior in position to Frederick Lyvett, and his friends were against the match. She was a Miss May, and resided somewhere in Brompton. But, sir,'' added Mrs. Cooke, while the stranger was making a note of her last words, " I feel there is something mean and dishonourable in thus giving information of the affairs of other people. It is what I have not been accustomed to do." " Nevertheless, it is necessary," he answered, in a semi-impatient but very decisive tone, as if ignoring the scruples. "They came in on Wednesday after- noon. Did they bring any children with them ? n AT MRS. COOKE'S. 211 "Oh clear no. I said they were just married." " Did any children, or child, come to visit them that day or the next ? Any young boy — say two years old, or approaching to it ? " What doubt, what feeling came over Mrs. Cooke at this question, perhaps she could not herself have explained. She did not answer it, but her face grew white, and she sat gazing at the officer. Did the account she had read of the little child in blue who was found in the Regent's Park arise unaccountably before her ? He drew his chair closer and his voice took a sound of confidence. u Mrs. Cooke," he said, " by the expression of your face, I think you now begin to suspect the drift of my questions. A sad deed has been committed by some one, and certain facts which have come to our know- ledge would seem to point to a suspicion that an inmate of your house may have been connected with it. It is your duty to throw upon this matter any and every light that may be in your power ; and the law will demand it of you." w What deed is it ? " ejaculated Mrs. Cooke. "I ask if you saw any child here with your lodgers ? " he continued, passing by her question. " Did you see any child with them ? " " A woman, evidently a country woman, saying she was from Suffolk, did bring a child here on the 212 PARKWATER Wednesday, an hour or two before they came home/' replied Mrs. Cooke, unmistakably much pained at vouchsafing information, yet afraid to withhold it. " Yes. Well, ma'am ? Pray proceed/' " She said the child was one that Mrs. Ly vett had placed at nurse w r ith her, but she could no longer keep it, because she and her husband were going out to Australia. Sir, suppose I decline to furnish these particulars — to answer these questions ? Have you the power to compel me ? " " Yes, madam. At a police-court, before a magis- trate." The alternative was not palatable, and Mrs. Cooke resigned herself to her fate without further struggle. " The woman wanted to leave the child in my charge," she continued. " Did you take it ? " " Of course not. I allowed the woman to \yait here until they arrived, and she then carried the child upstairs to Mrs. Lyvett." " Was Mr. Lyvett there ? " " He was gone out. The woman stayed with Mrs. Lyvett in her bedroom, and we heard the child crying. Afterwards, one of my servants, in passing the rooms, heard the woman hushing him to sleep. After that, the woman left the house." " How long was she with Mrs. Lyvett ? " AT MRS. COOKE'S. 213 " About — I should think, three-quarters of an hour. Nearly that." " And what became of the child ? " "I don't know. I wondered what did become of him ; for when the woman left I saw no child with her. I asked Mrs. Lyvett about him the following morning, and she replied that the woman had taken him with her. She had said the same thing the night before to one of my maids, who went up to ask whether anything should be prepared for the baby's supper. It surprised me very much; for though I saw the woman leave, I did not see the child. Still, I supposed that it must have been so, for we certainly neither saw nor heard traces of the child after her de- parture." " Neither saw nor heard any ? " repeated the officer. " None whatever." " Did you' chance to hear the woman's name ? " " She told me it was Thrupp." " Now, madam, bring your thoughts to bear, if you please, on the following evening, Thursday. Did Mr. and Mrs. Lyvett dine at home ? I presume their dinner-hour is late ? " " Six o'clock. Only Mrs. Lyvett dined on. Thursday evening. Mr. Frederick went to his father's to dine." " She was alone, then ? " 214 PARK WATER. " Yes." The officer stopped for a minute, considering. When he resumed, the tone of his voice was low and grave, as if conscious that he was asking a grave question. " Did you happen to know whether Mrs. Frederick Lyvett went out that night ? " Mrs. Cooke hesitated. She would have given all the world to avoid this. " Madam," said the officer, somewhat sternly, " you must speak, and speak freely." "Mrs. Lyvett did go out. She went out without any one's knowing it, and left the hall-door open. By which means a tramp got inside the house and startled us." " At what hour did she go out ? " "It is impossible to say precisely. The servant fetched down her coffee-cup before nine, and it was between half-past nine and ten when we found the tramp in the hall." " What time did she return ? " " She returned with her husband. It was getting on for eleven." " With her husband ? " he repeated quickly, and possibly in surprise, only that the tone of a wary police-officer rarely betrays any. • " Yes, with her husband. I was sitting here and heard his cab stop. They came in together." AT MRS. COOKE'S. 215 " They may have met at the gate," mused the in- spector to himself. " Did you observe how she was dressed, madam ? " "Not particularly. Except that she wore a very large, dark shawl, which I thought she must be smothered in, so hot a night." " And a veil ? " "Yes; for she kept it down. Mr. Lyvett stopped to say good-evening, as they passed this door, and I spoke to Mrs. Lyvett about the beggar, and requested her in future to ring for a servant to show her out." The detective looked over his note-book. " I have forgotten one question in its order," he said. " What clothes did the child wear ? " Mrs, Cooke's voice sank to a whisper. " When his cape was off, I saw he wore a blue frock and pina- fore." " Did you perceive anything strange in Mrs. Ly vett's manner between Wednesday, when the country- woman was here, and Thursday evening ? " "Nothing strange. She had an attack of illness once or twice, which was attributed to the fatigue of travelling." " What sort of illness ? " " Ann, who saw*her, said she shook worse than one with ague, and had a cold, white look." The officer coughed a peculiar cough. "The rooms 216 PAEKWATEE. they occupy were open, I suppose, to your servants on the Wednesday and Thursday ? " " Quite so. As they are now. It is Ann only who waits on them." " Is Ann a discreet girl ? " " Discreet, sir ! In what way discreet ? " " Can she keep a silent tongue ? " " I think she can. She is a very good girl." " Allow me to ring for her," he said. And without waiting for permission, he rose and rang the bell. Ann herself answered it, and stood with the door in her hand. "Come in," said Mrs. Cooke, and the officer rose and closed the door behind her. She looked surprised, half-frightened; a short, pale, quiet-mannered young woman. " Ann," began her mistress, " this gentleman wishes to ask you a question or two. Be particular in replying." She turned to face the stranger, who looked at her keenly as he entered on his inquiries. " You wait upon Mr. and Mrs. Ly vett, I am informed by your mistress." " Yes, sir." " Make beds, sweep rooms, and such work ? " " Yes, sir." "Last Wednesday, after they came here, and the day following, were the rooms quite open to you ? " AT MRS. COOKE'S. 217 " Open, sir ? " repeated the girl, as if she scarcely understood the question. " Yes, they were open." " You saw nothing to induce you to suppose any- thing was lying hidden — any bundle, for example ? " " I never thought anything about it, sir," was Ann's answer, wondering to herself what the drift of all this was. " There was nothing hid that I noticed." " Closets, cupboards, were all open ? " " Yes, I think so — except one closet," added the servant, carelessly, as if she thought that of little consequence. " The key of it was mislaid." " Ah ! " remarked the officer, briskly, a keen look of intelligence rising to his countenance and fading again. " When was that ? " " On the Wednesday evening, sir. I was going to hang the dresses up which the lady had left about, and I could not find the key of the closet, the one in the dressing-room, where the pegs are. It was locked, and the key gone." " Did you ask for the key ? " " No, sir ; on the following morning, Mr. Ly vett rang the bell and asked me for it. And then the lady said she might have taken it out unintentionally and had put it somewhere. She would look and see after breakfast, she said, and I came down again." " Did she speak readily ? — at once ? " " No. Not till Mr. Lyvett pressed for the key, and 218 PARKWATER. seemed displeased, telling me I must find it. He seemed to think that I must have taken it out." "Was that closet open, do you remember, during the clay, Thursday ? " " I am sure it was not open, sir, when I made the bed. It may have been when I put the rooms straight at night, but I did not notice. The next morning I saw it was open, and Mr. Lyvett's things were placed in it." " Mrs. Ly vett was ill on one, or both of these days. What was the matter with her ? " " She said she was tired with the railway journey. She shook a good deal." " Did she look terrified ? " " Well, she did, sir," was the servant's reply. " At least, so it struck me." The officer asked a few further questions, but she could say no more of importance. He rose from his chair, drew up his form to its full height, and placed his hands upon her shoulders. " Now, my girl, do you know what I am ? I am an officer in the detective police force, and you have been under private examination. You must observe strict silence as to what has passed in this room, to your fellow-servant and to every one else. Shall I swear you to it ? " The girl gasped, and looked for help to her mistress. AT MRS. COOKE'S. 219 He saw his end was gained. Little need to swear her, even had he seriously meant it. A few minutes longer with Mrs. Cooke, whom he left with a pale, distressed, uneasy face, and the officer went straight back to the station. There he found a countrywoman waiting. She also had come about the matter — a Suffolk woman, who gave her name as Thrupp, and said she had nursed a child whom she fancied answered to the description of the one in the advertisement — could she see it ? Yes ; she was taken to see it. It was lying in its little blue clothes, just as it was found. The woman gave one look, and fell into a passion of grief upon the board. It was indeed the same child. Mr. Smith waited until her grief had spent itself, and then took her away and inquired particulars. Mrs. Thrupp gave them willingly and eagerly, telling all she knew. Mr. Smith listened, and made notes. "You don't know the mother of this little child, you say ? " " We was never told, sir, who his mother was. The lady was in a fine way with me for bringing him up to Lunnon unexpected, as she called it, and said, what was she to do with him till his mother came back to town ? She offered me money to take him with me in the ship, or to get him a place to be at in Lunnon — a handful o' gold she showed me. But I told her 220 PARKWATER how it was with me — that I was put to it myself for time to get things ready for the start ; and I left him there with his little bundle o' clothes." " He was alive then — when you left him ? * "Alive, sir ! Bless him, he was alive, and sleeping sweetly on the grand high bed where I laid him. The tears were wet on his cheeks, though, for the lady had been in a fierce temper with him ; but he'd have forgot it all when he awoke." " Mrs. Lyvett was in a temper, was she ? " " Yes, sir, she seemed sadly put out at my taking him back. Like enough, sir, she have a good temper in general ; but the best o' tempers gets ruffled at times." " I must inform you of one thing," said the officer, as a parting word. "You are not the first in the field — as to the reward." "Ay," she mused, "I do mind me that the news- sheet spoke of a reward. What did you please to say, sir ? " "Another has been here before you, and given information which led us on the same scent, so that the reward will be his, not yours." " The reward mine ! " uttered the poor woman, aghast. " Sir, do you think I would touch a reward for telling out about the killing of little Randy ? No, never ! Let them take it that has got heart AT MRS. COOKE'S. 221 to do it, but it shall never trouble me nor my husband." The officer had done with Mrs. Thrupp for the present ; she was at liberty to return to Rotherhithe. But the same day she and her husband received an intimation that they could not sail for Australia in the vessel about to quit the docks on Saturday : they must wait for a later one. The delay, however, would not be at their own cost. 222 PARKWATER. CHAPTER XVII THE APPREHENSION. The morning above spoken of is not yet done with or the day either. Ann, Mrs. Cooke's housemaid, allowed Mr. Smith to show himself out of the house. The girl had retreated to the kitchen, and was leaning against the ironing-board, not quite sure whether she stood on her head or her heels. Her faculties were in a state of utter confusion : it would have been something could she have unburthened herself to her fellow-servant, at that moment making a tart on the table ; but the relief was denied her. " Be you asleep ? " suddenly demanded the tart- maker. " Because that was the drawing-room bell that rang." Ann started from her reverie, and ran upstairs to answer it. Mrs. Lyvett had sat down to the piano and was trying some new music. Ann was kept waiting her pleasure for some minutes, door-handle in hand. That was just Mrs. Sophia Lyvett's way. " Oh," she said when she condescended to turn THE APPREHENSION. 223 round, "in ordering dinner I forgot to say that we shall want it earlier than usual." " At what time would you like it, ma'am ? " " Five o'clock. Who was that gentleman ? " care- lessly added Mrs. Lyvett, striking a few notes as she spoke, and keeping her face turned on the music. " Gentleman ? " faltered Ann. " The one who has just been here. He paid a pretty long visit." "It was— it was a gentleman to see my mistress, ma'am/' replied Ann, making the best answer she could, and intensely wondering that Mrs. Lyvett should chance to speak on that one subject. " To see your mistress ! What was his business with her ? " " I don't know, I'm sure, ma'am." " Oh, it is of no consequence. I saw him come in at the gate, and fancied I knew him — that's all. Dinner at five, mind." Now in reality Mrs. Lyvett had not fancied that she knew the gentleman ; but her mind was in a very uneasy state just then, and she suspected an enemy in every bush. Looking from the window, she had seen the stranger come in, and she watched for his going away, restlessly marvelling all the while what it was he wanted. They were going that night to one of the theatres. 224 PARKWATER. Frederick Ly vett had engaged a box the previous day, bringing the tickets home as a little surprise for his wife. The day wore on. In the afternoon Mrs. Lyvett went out. She did a little shopping, bought a shell wreath for the hair — shell wreaths were then in fashion — bought a few other pretty trinkets which took her fancy, ordered home some fine fruit, regard- less of the cost, set down her name as a subscriber to a new and expensive work just coming out, and also became a first-class subscriber to one of the large circulating libraries, which had a depot in the neigh- bourhood, paying for the year in advance : five guineas. She seemed determined to make use of her husband's money. She told them she should want books changed every day, and they must hold themselves in readiness to send to her as often as she required. She looked out six or eight volumes to take with her then, had a cab called, and went home in it. It was then nearly half-past four. Sophia hurried into her bedroom, intending to dress for the theatre before dinner, sat down to the glass and did her hair, placing in it the ornamental flowers she had bought, and then rang for Ann to help her with her gown. Frederick Lyvetfc came home and dressed also. They kept dinner waiting. It was nearly half-past five when they sat down to it. When the cloth was removed, Ann placed the wine THE APPREHENSION. 225 on the table, then ran downstairs to fetch up the coffee which had been ordered. She placed the waiter, with the two cups and the silver coffee-pot, before Mrs. Lyvett. " And now, Ann," Mr. Lyvett said, " you must go to the stand for a cab. Choose a nice one." The servant did as she was ordered : went to the stand, chose a cab, and returned in it. As she got out of it a gentleman came up to the gate. Ann recognized him as the one who had given her such a fright in the morning — Mr. Smith. His dress was altered, and he had now an official look. Two police - men were sauntering up behind : the girl thought they belonged to him, and her heart leapt into her mouth with alarm. " For whom have you fetched that cab ? 99 he inquired. u For Mr. and Mrs. Lyvett, sir," she answered, in a tremor. " They are going to the theatre." " Good. We may want it. Consider yourself engaged to me, my man." The driver touched his hat, and looked on with curiosity. He also had noticed the policemen, and knew they were not on ordinary duty : a cabman's instinct is sharp on these points. * Ann flew up the path to the door, which she opened with her latch- key. It crossed her mind to lock and bar it against Farkwater. 15 226 PARKWATER. those dreaded officers : but she did not dare to do it. She held it open for Mr. Smith to enter ; it was only he who had as yet passed in at the gate. What could his business be, thought Ann, in a flutter : but she had a vague consciousness that it related to Mr. or Mrs. Lyvett. " Don't shut the door," said Mr. Smith to her. " Leave it on the latch." Mrs. Cooke had seen the officer's approach from her parlour window ; the cook, who happened to look up from the kitchen area, saw it also ; the former came out of her room, and the latter came peeping up the stairs. Ann had observed " silence " according to orders ; but it was beyond human nature not to be a little mysterious as to the visit of the gentleman in the morning, and the other servant's curiosity had been aroused in regard to him. s - Mr. and Mrs. Lyvett are in their sitting-room, I believe, madam ? " he remarked to Mrs. Cooke, who had stepped forward to meet him in the hall. " Yes," she answered, her hands working nervously one over the other. " I believe they are." He turned to Ann. " Step up and announce me : Mr. Smith. I'll follow you." " Oh, sir — if you please— ?mts£ I do it ?" she stam- mered, with a white face and chattering teeth : for she had now become thoroughly frightened. THE APPREHENSION. 227 He looked at her. " No. You would do more harm than good. I will announce myself." He went softly up the stairs as he spoke, and the three frightened women clung to the balustrades and gazed after him. Suddenly the cook caught hold of her mistress, and gave a smothered cry. Standing against the wall by the hall-door were the two police- men, who had quietly entered. Mr. Lyvett was still in his place at table. Mrs. Lyvett had drawn away from it, and leaned back in an easy-chair. The detective glanced at her with a detective's critical eye. He saw a handsome young- woman in a rich evening dress, gold ornaments on her fair neck and arms, and the braids of her fair hair interspersed with a wreath of white flowers. Mr. Lyvett rose in surprise. As well he might, to see a stranger walk coolly in, and close the door after him. His first impression was, that some friend of Mrs. Cooke's had entered their room by mistake. But he was abruptly undeceived. " I am deeply grieved to come here on my present errand," said the officer, " and apologize for the in- trusion ; but the law knows no favour. My business is with this lady." " What business ? " haughtily demanded Frederick Lyvett. " I am sorry to say I have a warrant for her apprehension." 228 PARKWATER. " What do you mean ? " broke from Mr. Lyvett, after a pause of consternation. "This lady is my wife." " I know it. And I can only say I hope that things, which at present look — look dark, may be satisfac- torily cleared up, so that Mrs. Frederick Ly vett may be restored to her friends." Frederick Lyvett, his mind in a state of confusion, spoke a few passionate words. How dared an insolent policeman invade his house — how dared he insult Mrs. Lyvett ? Their purport was something to that effect. " I am not an ordinary policeman, Mr. Lyvett," was the calm answer. " There is my card : you will see what I am. I have the pleasure of being acquainted with your father and Mr. Castlerosse : not that they have any knowledge of the present matter: and I came here myself this evening, instead of despatching my subordinates, that this arrest — which must be made, understand me — should be accomplished with as little offence to your feelings as is possible." The officer's address and manner were so business- like and temperate, that Frederick Lyvett insensibly calmed down. A sudden thought occurred to him. " Should my wife, as Miss May, have contracted a debt, or debts," he said, " your recourse will be against me now : not against her." THE APPREHENSION. 229 " It is not an affair of debt/' answered the detective. "I wish it was. The warrant sets forth a criminal charge." " Nonsense ! " contemptuously rejoined Mr. Lyvett, when he had taken in the sense of the words. " Criminal charge ! I tell you, that you must be labouring under some extraordinary delusion. You have mistaken my wife for somebody else." The officer drew a paper from his pocket, and opened it. " The warrant/' he said, " is against Sophia Lyvett, otherwise May, otherwise Penryn." Mr. Lyvett, somewhat staggered, turned his eyes on his wife, as she cowered in her chair. He never saw a countenance express so much horror. It was perfectly livid. And the dark circles which he had observed round her eyes once before, but some three or four days ago, had reappeared. " Come, madam/' said the officer, " the quicker these things are concluded, the less pain they bring. I pledge you my word that all shall be done as con- siderately as possible. No one shall go inside the cab but myself, unless you wish your husband to go. Allow me to ring for a shawl, or cloak." " I will never go with you," she gasped, whilst her husband stood spell-bound. " I dare you to arrest me." " Madam, you are already arrested, and it will be well to accompany me quietly. I have policemen at 230 PARK WATER. hand, but I do not wish to call for their aid, unless you compel me." She made a movement to rise, probably in resistance, but sank back again, motionless and breathless. " You have killed her ! " exclaimed Frederick Ly vett, in agitation, quite beside himself with a most horrible perplexity. It was his wife's aspect that confounded him : if ever a face and manner spoke of conscious dread, hers did. But he thought still it must be some preposterous error. " How dare you come here with your wicked and absurd tales, sir ? " he demanded. " Help ! help ! " he added, ringing the bell. " Hush-ssh ! " quickly interrupted the officer. " Pray don't get the room full ; for her sake ; for yours. Raise her head up. Only a little water," he called out, darting to the door, and looking down the well of the staircase. " One of you can bring it up." It was Mrs. Cooke who entered with it, either from a feeling of curiosity or the more considerate one of shielding Mrs. Lyvett from the gaze of servants. Mr. Smith nodded in approval, and closed the door the instant she was in the room. "A pretty disgraceful business this is," exclaimed Mr. Frederick Lyvett to her. "That police-officers should be permitted to enter houses as they please " " I would have given any money, Mr. Lyvett, rather THE APPREHENSION. 231 than it should have happened here/' she interrupted. " It will be a stain upon my house for ever." The words — nay, it was the tone, rather than the words — struck oddly upon the confused mind of Frederick Lyvett. " What is it you accuse my wife of ? " he asked, turning to the officer. " The charge is that of " " What ? " cried Frederick Lyvett ; for the con- cluding word was spoken in so low a key that he did not catch it. " Yes/' said the man, repeating it in his ear. " That is the charge, Mr. Lyvett. I do not, you understand, take upon myself to say it can be substantiated." The poor young husband staggered back to the seat opposite his wife, his lips as blanched as her own. " What does it all mean ? " he gasped. " Well," returned the officer, willing to spare his feelings, " the accusing circumstances are not pleasant. I would not advise you to inquire into them to-night, Mr. Lyvett." (< But I will inquire into them — ay, and refute them," retorted Fred Lyvett. " It is wild — pre- posterous. Why don't you arrest me for high treason ? — or for housebreaking? — it would be as much in accordance with probability." Mr. Smith came to the conclusion that, to avoid 232 PARKWATER. further trouble, it might be better, after all, to whisper a few details to the young man ; and he took him aside for the purpose. Frederick Ly vett turned hot and cold as he listened, and passed his handkerchief nervously over his brow ; for, even while the officer spoke, certain little matters connected with the previous Wednesday evening rose up in his memory, and they seemed to confirm the tale. The colloquy between his wife and the maid outside the drawing-room door : and then those unaccountable shivering fits ! But he would not give in one inch ; and, indeed, his mind was in so bewildered a state that he did not comprehend half that was said to him. " Who would be likely to bring a child here, and leave it with my wife ? " he demanded. " I should think Mrs. Cooke can refute that." "On the contrary, I fear Mrs. Cooke can confirm it," spoke the officer, with suavity. " Madam, I must beg of you to speak." Mrs. Cooke turned round her distressed face. She was bending over the unhappy wife, who lay back in her chair, apparently in a state of semi-consciousness. " I am very, very sorry to be obliged to confirm it," she said. " I would give half I am worth not to be able to do it. When you arrived here on Wednes- day, Mr. Frederick Lyvett, the woman was waiting with the child." THE APPREHENSION. 233 " Whose child was it ? " " Sir, I only know what the woman said. I think it is very cruel that I should be obliged to relate this." "Madam/' interposed Mr. Smith, "you must see that there is no help for it." ? There is none," added the young man, in his ex- citement. " What did the woman tell you ? " "The woman did not precisely know whose child it was — she had never been told, she said. But she believed it to be a Mrs. Penryn's — a relation of your wife's." Frederick Lyvett looked from one to the other in perplexity, and his face grew suddenly hot. Mr. Smith had just whispered to him that Miss May had occasionally given her name as Mrs. Penryn. Still he did not comprehend the details that were being told to him. " If the woman did bring a child here, she must have taken it away again." "Well, no," said Mrs. Cooke. " I — I believe she did not," " Go on. Tell all," wailed Frederick Lyvett. " Whether the tale be true or false, it must be grappled with." " When the woman came downstairs from her inter- view with your wife, Mr. Lyvett, and left the house, I spoke to her from my sitting-room window. So 234 PARKWATER. far as I saw, she had certainly not the child with her, and I assumed that it was left with Mrs. Lyvett. After your dinner, I sent Ann up to ask whether she should make the baby some food. Mrs. Lyvett's answer was that the child had left with the woman. It surprised me very much ; for I thought I could have taken upon myself to say most positively that the child did not leave with the woman ; that it had remained upstairs, and was still in the house then." " And — where was the child? " asked Mr. Lyvett. " That is the chief point," said the officer, for Mrs. Cooke seemed determined not to reply. " The child appears to have been brought into this house, and never to have left it — alive. The woman tells me— I saw her this morning — that she got it to sleep, and placed it on Mrs. Lyvett's bed. When next seen it was in the park, dead." The face of Frederick Lyvett was distressing to look upon. Bit by bit, the story was gaining upon him. In her compassion for him, Mrs. Cooke strove to say a few words — ideas that had occurred to her- self — in exculpation of the unhappy wife. And it was very probable that she hit upon the truth. " Mrs. Lyvett was evidently very ill that evening, as you must remember, sir; and I think — I do think — she might not have been accountable for her actions. It is possible that in a moment of temptation — of THE APPREHENSION. 235 embarrassment — having a child, she perhaps knew not how to account to you for, thus thrown upon her hands " Frederick Lyvett shook his head. " No child could have been here a night and a day without my know- ing it, as you " — turning to the officer — " wish to make out that this one was." "Alive, probably not," was the answer. "A dead child could be concealed anywhere. Say in a cup- board — or closet." The tone was significant. Recollection flashed over Frederick Lyvett of the disappearance of the closet key, and his wife's agitation when he inquired for it. Not much less agitated was he now. Point after point seemed clearing itself terribly to his mind ; objection after objection seemed to slip from his hands. "But the child you speak of was found in the Regent's Park, not here," said he, still somewhat bewildered. " I suppose it was carried there " — and Mr. Smith coughed as he spoke. " A cab-driver has testified that he took a lady up at the park gate on Thursday night, and brought her up this way. She appeared to be agitated, he says; and — and in short, it has been proved that the lady was your wife, sir." Frederick Lyvett suppressed a groan. Had he not seen her outside in that large, hot shawl, when he 23G PARKWATER. drove up from dining with his father ? — and had he not gathered that she had been out for a considerable time ? Hope did in truth seem to be slipping totally away from him, and he resigned himself to what must be. Poor Sophia Lyvett, more dead than alive herself, was made ready for her departure, Mrs. Cooke assist- ing to change her gala robes for a dress more suitable. Thus she was conveyed to a place of detention for the night; Mr. Smith entirely declining to comply with the request urged upon him, that she should be allowed to stay where she was until the morning. He and her husband went inside the cab with her as far as the doors, one of the policemen sitting with the driver. f 237 ) CHAPTER XVIII. AT HOME. Mrs. Lyvett was at home alone. Her husband had gone out to dinner that evening, her daughters were at their brother James's. She sat at the drawing-room window in the twilight, looking rather abstractedly down on the lighted square below. Some entertain- ment appeared to be taking place at one of the houses close by, for the carriages were bowling up quickly. A small, pale gentlewoman, Mrs. Lyvett looked younger than her years; she had been taken more than once for her big son James's sister. She wore a cool muslin gown, its loose sleeve falling from her slender wrist, as her right hand was raised to support her cheek, which pushed back her light hair. In her blue eyes there was quite a touching look of sadness, and she sighed repeatedly. For the past two or three weeks her musings had been all sad. Of all her children, boys and girls, the youngest, Frederick, had been the dearest to her : she had 238 PAIIKWATER. fondly believed him the one most implicitly obedient and dutiful, and j r et he had gone in direct opposition to her, to his father, to them all, and made that low marriage ! It came upon her as a blow, and had left her with a perpetual heartache. It was not so much the unsuitability of the con- nection for Frederick that distressed her ; it was the girl herself. Had Sophia May been everything that was desirable, why, the fond mother mentally whispered, they would have looked over her birth and rearing. At least, she would ; yes, and she believed that her husband would also in time. In time. But from all that Mrs. Lyvett had heard of Sophia May, she judged her to be eminently unsuit- able to be the wife of an unsuspicious, honourable young man. She had never seen Sophia May, but she had heard of her from her husband and Mr. Castlerosse and James. She knew of the ridiculously absurd way in which she had been reared; of her airs and graces ; of the concocted letters and recom- mendations by which she had obtained entrance to Lady Tennygal's household, as governess, and of her being turned from thence on the discovery of the fraud. All this (Mrs. Lyvett knew of nothing worse) was sufficient to render her the kind of woman especially to be avoided as a wife. But Frederick had married AT HOME. 239 her, and Mrs. Lyvett felt for him to her heart's core. It seemed to her that the girl was not calculated to make him happy, and that he would probably live a whole life of repentance — and these things try a mother. Mrs. Lyvett was feeling it all very especially and bitterly this evening- she knew not why. Sigh , after sigh burst from her. " There's an old saying," she murmured, " and how true it is ! "When our children are young they tread upon our toes, but when they grow older they tread upon our hearts. Ah me ! Will my heart ever be light again V A fortnight before, when Mrs. Lyvett's grief was fresh upon her, a lady who had been the companion of her girlhood, and who was about her own age, came to spend the day with her. It was a Miss Champion. Seated together in confidential chat, their minds had opened to one another as they had never opened before ; and Mrs. Lyvett, her heart aching and her eyes dropping tears for her misguided son's sake, spoke freely. " Lots are more equally balanced in this world than we suspect, Fanny,'' she observed. " You, I know, have envied me my married life — the great blessing, as you have looked upon it, arising from the com- panionship of my husband and children. You have secretly rebelled — and bear with me my dear friend, 240 PARKWATER. while I say it — at your own unwedded lot, almost questioning Heaven's judgment in decreeing it. But which fate is the happier, think you, when children bring these dreadful sorrows upon their parents ? Oh ! Fanny, believe me, many a poor wife, smarting under her sea of trouble, would be thankful to that same Heaven never to have had a husband, to have borne children. She envies you single women then, and wishes with her whole heart that she could be as you are. Yes ; be assured, Fanny, that there is compensation everywhere — that our destinies are pretty exactly equalized. Though you are debarred from this more active life of matrimony, its advan- tages and pleasures, if you like to call them such, you are free from its troubles and its cares." If Mrs. Lyvett could say that, and feel its truth, a fortnight before, when the comparatively light trouble of Frederick's marriage was alone upon her, how much more earnestly and painfully would she soon have cause to say it now ! A servant came into the room, and she turned her head. " What is it, Thompson ? " " I was going to light the gas, ma'am." " Let it be at present. My head aches." So the man closed the door, and left her alone in the twilight as before. Amidst the clash of carriages AT HOME. 241 clashing up to the neighbouring house, she did not hear the quiet wheels of a slow cab, approaching hers. The evening star was beginning to twinkle in the western sky. Had Thompson come back ? Mrs. Lyvett turned quickly, for the door had opened again. She could not see very well in the dusk. " Why, Frederick ! Is it you ? " It was he, but he did not answer the question. Shutting the door, he came forward in silence. That all the particulars of the arrest just made — for it was the same ill-fated evening told of when the last chapter broke off — would be in the newspapers on the morrow morning, together with the names in full, and go circulating around the length and breadth of London, Frederick Lyvett knew quite well. Amongst other people that they would reach were his own family : his father, mother, brother, and sisters. Amid all the terrible anguish that the affair was already costing him, this immediate fact held no light share. After parting with his unhappy wife, when the doors of the place of detention were securely closed on her for the night, he had a long conversation with the detective officer, Smith. That individual gave him the details of the affair, so far as they had come to his knowledge, more fully than had been given Park water. 16 242 PARK WATER. him before; and not a shade of doubt could, or did, rest on Frederick Lyvett of his wife's guilt. The examination was fixed for the following day at Mary- lebone Police-court, when she would be committed for trial. As the officer observed, they had the whole facts before them, and there would be no need of a remand. The coroners inquest was also to be held on the morrow. Mr. Smith left him standing in the street — for they had just paced up and down the pavement whilst they talked. Frederick Lyvett lifted his hand to his bewildered head, and strove to think what next to do, where next to go. The recollection of his father and mother flashed over him. Obviously his present duty was to break it to them, so that the morning newspapers might not be the first to inflict the shock. But oh, what a task it was ! what a task ! no living- being would ever know how he recoiled from it. His mother ! his dear, ever-loving mother ! Would to Heaven — he said it as he stood, lifting his hands in bitter anguish — that he had died before he had brought this disgrace upon her and bers ! But it must be done. That duty at least lay imperatively upon him. He stepped into a passing cab, and directed it to the home dwelling-house. " Is my father at home ? " he asked of Thompson, when he arrived there. AT HOME. 243 " No, sir. There's nobody at home, but my mistress. The young ladies are out this evening." " Will my father be in soon, do you know ? Where's he gone ? " " He is dining at Mr. Castlerosse's, sir/' replied the man. And the answer was a sort of check-mate to Frederick's purpose. For sometimes, when the two partners dined together, they sat very late, talking of business. After all, he should be obliged to make the disclosure to his mother. Mr. Lyvett might not be home on this side midnight. " My mother is alone, you say, Thompson ? " " Yes, sir ; she's in the drawing-room, with a head- ache. I went up just now to light the gas, but she told me to leave it alone for a bit." Passing upstairs to the drawing-room, he entered and closed the door. As he went forward, Mrs. Lyvett held out her hand. He took it in silence, drew a chair close to her, and sat down, retaining the slender hand in his. Mrs. Lyvett, gazing at him in the dusk, saw that his face looked strangely pale. "How good of you to come in, Frederick ! just as though you had known I was alone." Still he never spoke a word. His breath seemed to be a little uncertain, as if he were in some agitation, and his hand, she now felt, was cold as death. " Are you not well, my dear ? " she asked, quickly. 244 PARKWATER. "I shall never be well again, mother," was the answer he made, in tones that brought to her she knew not what of alarm. His agitation increased : there was no mistaking it now. Mrs. Lyvett's temples, already throbbing, began to beat violently. " Something must have happened ! " she exclaimed. " What is it ? Oh, my dear, don't keep me in suspense." " I have come in to tell you," he answered. " I meant to tell my father, not you, but he is out, I find, and may not be home whilst I stay. And — mother — had I the choice given me of telling you, or of having my lips closed for ever, I would choose the latter." " Something has happened," she repeated, in no less agitation than himself, holding his hand between both her own. " Something dreadful has happened, mother. Some- thing more than dreadful. I don't know how to find words to relate it in. Oh, rather than do it, it would seem to me a light task to throw myself from this open window to be crushed to death on that pavement below." Mrs. Lyvett gazed on him. She could not under- stand. Frederick had sometimes been given to use flowery language, but she had never heard such as this. A sudden idea flashed over her that some AT HOME. 245 accident must have happened to her daughters. Had their carriage " No, no," interrupted Frederick. " What I have to say concerns myself only, and — and my wife." Mrs. Lyvett dropped his hand and leaned back in her chair. The mention of the latter individual did not bring her pleasure, but it did ease her fears. She remembered to have heard that Miss May's temper was not good. Had she and Frederick been quarrelling ? But she was startled out of this thought, and out of her restored coolness together. Frederick had suddenly bent his face upon her shoulder, and burst into a storm of tears. The strain upon his feelings of what he had that evening been obliged to undergo, had now reached its extreme tension, and unmanned him. Aghast, frightened, Mrs. Lyvett would have risen to call for restoratives, but he held her where she was. "Just a minute or two — mother! Bear with me a minute or two — and then I'll tell you." And how he accomplished his task and did tell her, he never knew. Looking back at that hour in after- life, it never seemed to him but as so many prolonged minutes of horror whose very recollection could only be shuddered at. Mrs. Lyvett grew cold as a stone as she listened. 246 PARKWATER. He did not tell her the worst then — namely his own conviction of the truth of the accusation. Rather he led her to infer that it must be some terrible mistake which investigation would disprove. For his mothers sake he did this ; ay, and perhaps also for his unhappy wife's. But Mrs. Lyvett seemed to have grasped at the worst aspect, as if by instinct. Whether true or false, whether to be proved or disproved later, it was a fea,rful disgrace to have fallen upon the family ; one that would make their name a by -word in the mouths of men. No wonder that Frederick Lyvett, prostrate with the blow, should give vent to his feelings as does a woman. " Oh, mother/' he sobbed, " forgive me that I have brought it upon you. In knowing that the wretched- ness, the ignominy, cannot fall solely on myself, lies my chief punishment. It seems to me greater than I can bear." How can a mother, a loving, gentle mother as was Mrs. Lyvett, resist her boy s penitence, his tears ? She bent down her head and cried with him. " If you would but reproach me ! If you would but blame me, mother ! " " My dear, I cannot reproach you ; that I shall never do," she answered, the bitter tears raining from her eyes. " It is for you I feel, for you that my heart is aching. But if you had only listened to your father, AT HOME. 247 when he said that person was not a fitting wife for you, how different things would have been ! If you had only listened to me when I prayed you to wait the changes that time might bring about; to have patience; not to be betrayed into a self-willed and disobedient marriage ! I told you, then, my darling, that a blessing would not attend such. It never does." Frederick Lyvett groaned. His heart was torn with remorse and anguish, and he hid his face away from his mother. " Where are you going now ? " she asked, when, the interview over, but not the distress, he rose to leave. In truth he did not know. To return to his rooms at Mrs. Cooke's, with their attendant remembrances, seemed more than he could that night bear. " Will you stay here to-night, in your own room, Frederick ? " " No, no," he hastily replied. " But thank you all the same, mother." Wringing her hand with a farewell pressure, he quitted the room. It was then nearly eleven. But Frederick Lyvett had lingered too long. Thompson was opening the hall-door to admit his sisters. He slipped within a small room on one side the hall, that they might pass without seeing him. But if Mrs. Lyvett was lenient to her son, Mr. 248 PARKWATER. Ly vett was not. She gave compassion ; he reproaches. Most frightfully did he feel the blow, and the disgrace it brought with it. "Father/' spoke Frederick, in his humility and distress, " I deserve all you can say, and more. The repentance of my whole life will not suffice to atone for it." The examination took place before the magistrates, and certain facts were testified to. Upon which Sophia Lyvett, otherwise May, otherwise Penryn, was committed to take her trial. " Why, the very plurality of names would be dis- grace enough, let alone anything worse," exclaimed Mr. Lyvett to his friend and partner, Henry Castlerosse. ( 249 ) CHAPTER XIX. CONDEMNED. The trial was just over, and the suffocating court began to empty itself. What with the intense heat of the weather, the crowded arena, and the close, tainted atmosphere, even the calm judges themselves thought they should never be cool again, v. The judges had retired quickly from the scene, the oldest and gravest of them with the tears yet wet upon his cheeks, for he had been moved to no ordinary emotion while passing the awful sentence of death upon the young and lovely woman who stood in the dock before him. It was no common case which had brought the public together that day, and the prisoners was no common crime. Sure, never had a dark deed been committed involving so great an interest, or whose attendant circumstances comprised so mysterious a field of romance. What had been the previous career of the lady (let us call her so: she held that position when arrested), people could 250 PARKWATER. not exactly learn. Some told one tale, and some another : in these unhappy cases, the most outrageous stories get promulgated. All they knew for certain was, that she was now found guilty of the great crime for which she had been tried, and was con- demned to death. Not a single word was said of recommending her to mercy. The jury had considered that there were no extenuating circumstances. Poor Sophia Ly vett ! Could Mrs. Cooke's theory have been the truth — that she had not been herself when she committed the fatal act ? One would indeed think so. . Oh, unhappy, mistaken criminals ! When you do these things in the silence and secrecy of the dark night, and think that there is no eye upon you, that in this world, at least, you are safe from detection, you forget that there is ONE eye, above, which never slumbers nor sleeps ; that the ways of the avenging angel are not as your poor, narrow-sighted ways, and that what you deemed was a secret between you and the darkness shall speedily be proclaimed upon the house-tops ! So it was here. This one was arrested, committed, and had this day taken her trial ; been found guilty, and condemned to death. Never was guilt more conclusively brought home to man or woman. The deceit she had practised upon him who was now her husband, Frederick Lyvett, also came CONDEMNED. 251 in for its share of opprobrium. Not one, on not one, had been found to pity or excuse her, in spite of her youth and beauty. The learned judge had said, in passing sentence, that never had he tried a woman whose crime, as it seemed to him, was of a deeper dye, or upon whom punishment would be more justly inflicted ; and he adjured her — and it was here his feelings gave way — to give her mind wholly to repentance and to pre- pare for death, for that no mercy whatever would be accorded her in this world. The unfortunate creature was hissed by the idlers outside when she was removed from the court, as she had been hissed at her appearance there, and people gloried in saying to each other that they would gladly walk ten miles to see her hanged. Public indignation spoke out loudly against the miserable Sophia Lyvett. A small knot of men stood talking together, ere they left the court, some of them in barristers' gowns. The counsel engaged in the case had hastened away, but others lingered. Amidst them stood young Mr. Jones the lawyer, junior partner in the eminent firm of Lyvett, Castlerosse, and Lyvett. Mr. Jones was a lion that day. "Of course," observed Mr. Jones, who was uncom- monly fond of the sound of his own tongue, " there was no hope from the first that she would get off ; 252 PARKWATEB. but it will be an awkward stain, mind you, to have clinging to the family. James Lyvett — it's true, he is the very incarnation of pride — will never hold up his head again." " It's bad enough for him, but what must it be for Fred himself ? " quoth a grave Queen's counsel, who was intimate with the Lyvetts. "Poor fellow!" responded Mr. Jones. "He has never held up his head since she was taken." " Is he disenchanted yet, Jones ? " demanded Mr. Dunn, a very young man in a wig, who had begun life in the office of Lyvett, Castlerosse, and Lyvett, side by side with Mr. Jones, but had afterwards gone to the bar. "I should think so. It was an awful piece of duplicity to palm off upon him." " The marriage, you mean." Mr. Jones nodded. "But Fred did play the fool richly, there's no denying it." "Every man does, when he makes a low woman his wife," observed the silk gown. " And Fred has the pleasant consolation of knowing that he plunged into it of his own accord," returned Mr. Jones. " Mr. Lyvett said the other day, that he must be — what was it ? — a martyr to remorse, or some such poetical sentence. They said all they possibly could to him, Mr. Lyvett and James, and CONDEMNED. 253 his mother too, I believe, to dissuade him off the girl, and the more they said, the more obstinately Fred was bent on marrying her. They told him she would bring on him a life's disgrace : and she has brought it." "But they could not have known about the — the antecedents ? " cried Mr. Dunn. "What a dolt you are, Dunn!" was Mr. Jones's answer, its complimentary tone being accounted for by the fact that he and the gentleman had remained close friends. " If they had known anything of them, they would have locked Fred up in a lunatic asylum first; and Fred himself would have gone to one, rather than have done it. Fred's not deficient in honour ; only in brains." " There's many a one with ]ess brains than Frederick Ly vett who contrives to make a show in the world," remarked the Queen's counsel, significantly. " You know old Castlerosse, most of you," resumed Mr. Jones ; " know how hot-headed he is ? " A general nod from the hearers. "Well, old Castlerosse, by the strangest accident, happened to be down at the country place where Fred went to get married. Fred thought he should do the job all quietly, in an out-of-the-way rustic parish, and nobody be any the wiser. The ceremony was on, and the parson had come to the interesting 254 PARK WATER. sentence, 'Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife/ when old Castlerosse started forward, like the ghost in the play, and forbade the marriage. Charley Castlerosse says he wished himself up in heaven just then." " Charley Castlerosse ! " "He was down there, acting bridegroom. No — what do you call it ? — groomsman. Charley told me he knew it was all up with him the moment he heard his uncle's voice. And so it has proved ; for old Castlerosse won't do the least earthly thing for him since, and the fact has got about ; and Charley, poor fellow, dare not walk through Middlesex for fear of the writs. But I was going to tell you. Old Castle- rosse, in his rage, nearly lifted the church roof off with noise; and finding that did not do, he calmed clown to entreaty, and did all but go prostrate on his knees to Fred, praying him to stop the marriage, or at least to delay it till Mr. Lyvett's appearance, who was speeding down on the telegraph wires. It was of no use. Fred was like a mule in his obstinacy, and would hear no reason. He ordered the parson to proceed : and the parson, finding the papers were in order, and both of them of age, had no plea for refusing. So Fred and the girl were made one, old Castlerosse protesting against it, and telling him he was entering on perdition." CONDEMNED. 255 " Perdition it has turned out, and no mistake," said Mr. Dunn. " There can only be one thing worse than having your wife hung, and that's your mother. I wonder Fred Lyvett does not hang himself, and get out of it all." "Fred's going on the Continent, there to hide his diminished head," said Mr. Jones. " He was only waiting the result of the trial. Had it been an acquittal- " " It never could have been an acquittal," interrupted Serjeant Wrangle. " The proofs were too clear." " Well, but there's an ' if ' in all cases, and the law deals in flaws and miracles," persisted Mr. Jones. " Had an acquittal been pronounced, Fred would have stopped in England until he had rid himself of her by a legal process. If he could rid himself, that is : my opinion's against it. When you marry a woman you marry her with all her antecedents, you see : it is a different thing from anything that may happen afterwards. However, the law will relieve him of her by a more summary act, and Fred starts directly. Fred's travels were finally decided upon in a family conclave, which Mr. James refused to attend. He is awfully incensed against him, is James." " How does he mean to live ? " " He has an income, and the family will make it more. So he means to vegetate in Poland, or Siberia, 256 PARKWATER. or Hungary; anywhere the English don't congregate, and there expiate his follies." " Will he never come back again ? " " Oh, some time, I suppose, when the remembrance of the affair has died out of men's minds." "Well, it is a terrible calamity to have fallen on him," remarked the grave Q.C. " I always liked Fred Lyvett." "I say, Jones," cried Mr. Dunn, watching the de- parture of the elder and higher men of the profession, " did you not know Miss May once ? I never saw her that I remember." "Oh, she was only a child when you were there, Dunn. Yes, I knew her." "And went in for some spooning, didn't you ? " " No. I might have gone in for some, but she cured me of the inclination beforehand." " How did she cure you ? " " Threw a lot of poison over me." " Poison ! " "In the shape of a basin of coffee-grounds. It ruined my waistcoat. And all because 'I just spoke a civil word to her : ' How are you, Miss May ? 1 or something of the kind. That's what she did, Dunn." " By Jove ! a nice young lady ! I should think Fred Lyvett will put on mourning for her I By the CONDEMNED. 257 way, Jones, is there any truth in the report that she was really married before ? " " I don't know. Some people say she was. It has not been proved. Nothing certain has come out about it." " I wonder if Fred Lyvett knows ? And now I am off, Jones. You may as well give a look in at my chambers to-night." " All right, Dunn." Sophia Lyvett had never attempted to deny her guilt. She may have thought the proofs of it were too overwhelming to admit of dispute. Both before the trial and especially after it, she seemed to be sunk in a state of prostrate apathy, wdiich the authorities set down to the score of sullenness, but which was probably the effect of despair. Only once, and that was to her husband, did she enter upon any extenua- tion of herself. It was in one of the interviews he was allowed to hold with her in prison. In his delicacy of feeling — and of that Frederick Lyvett had a great deal, and was essentially a gentleman — he had abstained from questioning her as to the episodes of her past life which she had kept concealed from him; not once did he mention the unfortunate child who had come to light so unexpectedly. He retained for her his tenderness and consideration of Parkwater. 17 258 PARKWATER manner when with her, and on this day she had broken out into sobs as she spoke with him. " Don't think of me worse than you can help," she whispered softly, lest the words might reach the ears of one of the keepers of the prison, who stood within sight, but was looking the other way. " I was mad when I did it, Frederick, I was quite mad." And he found she was alluding to the deed for which she would have to suffer. " The bringing home of the little boy on that day, when you and I had only just got home ourselves, terrified me nearly to death. Had I known where my mother was to be found, I should have taken him to her, and no ill would have come of it. But I did not know. I had no friend or acquaintance in all the wide wilderness of this great city whom I could trust, or to whom I could take him. The woman left him asleep on the bed, and after watching him for some time I ran away into the drawing-room, and sat down with my despair, asking myself what I could do. Once it came into my mind to try and make a friend of Mrs. Cooke, and beg her to allow him to be taken care of by her servants in private, until I could make other arrangements for him." " Oh, that you had ! " broke from the dry lips of Frederick Lyvett. " But I feared she might refuse— I knew she was CONDEMNED. 259 an old friend of your family's. The most improbable ideas kept surging through my brain : that I would carry him off to the nearest workhouse, and leave him there on its steps with some gold tied round him; that I would knock at the door of some poor cottage dwelling, and beg of the people to take care of him for a week or so, and offer them a guinea a day for it ; that I would go back to the lodgings I had occupied at Brompton, and put him and a bag of money into the landlady's hands, and say, ' I am in a strait ; keep him for me for a little while/ Whilst these thoughts w^ere surging through my brain, I heard a double knock at the front-door, and thought it was you. I started from my chair in awful terror, and clasped my hands, wondering what I could do. At that self-same moment the child burst into a loud cry, and I thought all was over with me. I rushed into the next room where he was lying, locking the door behind me against you, and ran to the bed, and put my hands on his mouth to deaden bis cries. Oh ! Frederick, as truly as that heaven is above me, I believe I was in that moment mad — driven mad by terror and per- plexity. I declare that I have no true and clear recollection of what I did. And when I came out of my delirium the little boy was dead ; and you — you had not, I found, come home at all. Oh, the dreadful fear and agony then ! What I was to do I knew not. 260 PARKWATEE. And when I at last got up, sick and faint, and set about what must be done for your sake as well as mine, I have no recollection how I did it. Don't you pity me ? Oh, don't you pity me ? " "With my whole heart," he said, with a wail. " But, Sophia, when matters had come to this pass that day, and the child was brought home and left upon your hands, why did you not make a confidant of me ? Who knows but I — might have forgiven even that ? I had made you my wife." " And who knows but you might have thrust me out into the street ? I should have expected it." " No," he answered, " I should not have done that. I should, at any rate, have provided for you, and tried to shield you from the frowns of the world — not thrust you upon it." He asked not another question; he inquired not, then or later, into matters of the past. The lines in his brow were deep with pain, and perhaps always would be. And that was the only time Sophia Ly vett alluded in any way to the calamity which had brought her where she was. During the other interviews her husband was permitted to hold with her, she was studiously reserved and self-contained, taking little more notice of him than she took of the gaoler. ( 261 ) CHAPTER XX. at lady Harriet's. It wanted but three days to that fixea for the exe- cution, and the wretched prisoner, Sophia Lyvett, was in the condemned cell. Since the trial she had been remarkably quiet ; was deemed, in fact, morose and sullen by those about her. Whatever her inward anguish might be, it was not betrayed to them. The chaplain could make no impression on her whatever ; his visits, his conversations, were suffered, not wel- comed : even her father and mother, who had been allowed an interview, were received by her with the same callous demeanour. Poor old broken-down and broken-hearted people, who were convulsed with grief. The shock had reached them through the news- papers ; by that medium alone had they first become acquainted with the position their daughter was placed in. On this day, Friday, the prisoner's mood changed. Whether it was the near approach of the end that 262 PARKWATER. was startling her to feeling, or whether — as may be inferred— it was that a sudden loophole of escape presented itself, most unaccountably overlooked be- fore, cannot be told. Certain it is, that early on this day she grew strangely excited, demanding that her mother should be sent for without an instant's delay. In compliance with her wish, urged in terms that almost startled the authorities, the mother was sum- moned. It would appear that the prisoner then alluded, but not clearly, to certain matters and people connected with her previous history, not known be- fore. She spoke in an undertone; and those whose duty it was to be present caught but a word here and there. The prisoner was urging her mother to some step, some exertion in her behalf. "Sophiar," wailed the poor woman, through her tears, " I would go to all the great folks in the land, I would go to the Queen herself, I would walk my legs off, if I thought it would be of any avail to save or even lengthen your life, poor child ! " " Don't I tell you it will save my life ? " feverishly uttered the prisoner ; " it must save it. After all I have now said, do you think this gentleman will refuse ? Why do you stop here, mother, losing time ? It is short enough for what has to be done." " Give me a moment, child. Let me think over AT LADY HARRIET'S. 2G3 what you have said, and see my way clear. It has bewildered me/' The prisoner turned impatiently away, and the mother sat thinking, her head down, moving first one hand and then the other, as the various points of what she was deliberating upon presented themselves to her mind. "If your Aunt Foxaby was but with us now, Sophiar ! " she suddenly exclaimed, raising her head. " She might help to some purpose in this. Her people was great folks theirselves." "You don't want my Aunt Foxaby or any other help," repeated Sophia, in her sudden access of excite- ment, all the more uncontrollable from her previous apathy. " No one can do me any good but he ; and you are enough to go to him. And if you don't, mother, and don't get his promise to act and I suffer on Monday, you will be guilty of my murder." Mrs. May rose, heaving a deep sigh. Most anxious, indeed, was she to do what she could for her un- fortunate daughter : but she did not altogether com- prehend what was to be done, or how to set about it. "The first thing I suppose, Sophiar, is to find out where he lives. You say it is near Belgrave Square." " I say it used to be some street or square in that neighbourhood. I forget its name and. number. I" — the unfortunate prisoner looked round, as if, in a 264 PARKWATER. moment of aberration, she forgot that her desk and things were not at hand, as in her own drawing-room — " I had the address ; but it is not here. Get a ' Court Directory : ' you'll find it there." " A what ? " asked Mrs. May. " A book called the ' Court Directory/ " explained the prisoner : and her tone was one of irritation; for in her present awakened excitement every moment that was lost seemed of more value than gold. " They will let you look at one in a bookseller's shop : if not, you must go to the expense of buying one. You will not grudge that to save me." " Oh, child ! " uttered the mother, with a rush of tears, " how can you say these cruel things ? I would give my own life thankfully to save yours." " You will not forget the name ? " said the prisoner. The poor woman shook her head. "I shall re- member it only too well. Is he married ? " " What has that to do with it ? " cried the prisoner, exasperated at the unnecessary question. " No, he is not." No ! How could she utter so deliberate an untruth ? she, so near the grave ! Mrs. May waited to ask no more. She departed, and proceeded to her work — which was a task of delicacy. Later in the day, she found herself in the aristocratic regions of Belgrave Square. She had AT LADY HARRIET'S. 265 apparently discovered the address required, for she ascended the steps of a house there without hesitation. A formidable footman, all splendour and powder, threw open the door. " Does Captain Devereux live here ? " " No, he don't." " No ! " repeated Mrs. May, with a petrified, scared look. " Where does he live then ? " " Colonel Devereux lives here." u Colonel Devereux ! Perhaps it is the same," she added, after a pause. " I'm sure, though, it was Captain Devereux I was told to ask for. Even so. Sophia had unwittingly spoken of him by the name most familiar to her mind. " Colonel Devereux was Captain Devereux once," the man condescended to add. " What do you want ? " "I want to see him," she replied, making as if she would enter. " Not so fast, my good woman. The colonel is not to be seen." " Oh, but I must see him ! I must see him ! " she returned, in excitement. " Please, sir ! good sir ! let me enter ! " Her tears fell, her voice rose to a wail ; she pressed forward, and the man pushed her back. In the midst of this commotion, two ladies, who had alighted from a carriage, came up the steps. 2GG PARKWATER. " Is anything the matter ? " inquired one of them, turning a plain but very kind face upon the applicant. " This person wants to see the colonel, my lady. I told her he was absent, but she does not believe me." " Oh, ma'am ! oh, my lady ! " cried Mrs. May, her ears catching unconsciously at the title, as her equally unconscious hands caught humbly at the arm of Lady Harriet Devereux, " let me see Colonel Devereux, and I will bless you evermore. I come upon an errand of life and death." " Colonel Devereux is not here at present," returned Lady Harriet. "But is it anything in which I can aid you ? Step in ; you seem to be in great distress." She led the way to a room, the other lady entered with her, and the applicant followed. Lady Harriet untied her bonnet, and sat down. Mrs. May stood beyond the table, nervously rubbing one hand over the other. " What is the matter ? " inquired Lady Harriet. " What did you want with Colonel Devereux ? " " To see him ; to see him. Oh, ma'am, please to let me see him ! " " Colonel Devereux is not in England," said Lady Harriet, whose composure of manner presented a very great contrast to the excitement of the unfortunate applicant. "He is expected shortly. He may be AT LADY HARRIET'S. 267 home ever to-day, or he may not be home until next week." "Next week!" groaned Mrs. May, the last words speaking to her a volume of despair. "Then it would be too late, for she would be in her dreadful grave." " Can you not explain your business ? " resumed Lady Harriet, surprised at the words, and interested in the stranger's deep and evident tribulation. " You had better sit down. Who are you ? " " My lady, if I tell you who I am, perhaps you will turn from me with horror," she answered, the tears dropping from her eyes, and quite ignoring the permission to be seated. "You will, maybe, order your servants to fling me down the steps of your house." " I think not," said Lady Harriet. " I can feel for distress, no matter what may have led to it. Speak out." " There's a poor creature — you must have seen it in the newspapers, my lady, for they've been all full of nothing else — now lying in prison, a- waiting to suffer," whispered Mrs. May, putting up her hands to shield her face. " Sophia Ly vett," interrupted Lady Harriet, " for- merly Sophia May. Yes, I have read somewhat of it," she added, in slight hesitation. And the other lady, one younger and far prettier, who had stood at 268 PARK WATER. the window looking out, glanced hastily round. It was no other than our old acquaintance from Park- water, the Countess of Tennygal. "I am the prisoner's most unhappy mother," said Mrs. May. " Oh, ma'am ! don't despise me more than you can help. Indeed, we have always lived respect- able until now, and I and her father would have died to save Sophiar from committing such a wicked crime." "I respect your grief, my poor woman," observed Lady Harriet, after a pause of astonishment, " but what is the purport of your application to me — to Colonel Devereux ? " "I brought him a message from her. If I could deliver it to him, it might lead to the saving of her life. She thinks he might speak for her, and save her." " Speak for her to whom ? " "Oh, ma'am, I don't much understand; he would know, she said. To some high and mighty man, who has great power under the Queen." Lady Harriet caught at the meaning. She supposed that the prisoner wanted the colonel to intercede with his father, Sir Archibald Devereux — who was the Home Secretary — to spare her life. And this was the exact truth. " Indeed, I fear she is altogether mistaken," returned AT LADY HARRIET'S. 2G9 Lady Harriet. " The case is of far too grave a nature for Colonel Devereux to interfere with." "My poor child says she knew the colonel once, ma'am — though, indeed, she called him captain, not colonel. It was while she was out as governess with a grand family in Ireland." " Yes, at Lady Tenny gal's," interposed the countess, glancing across at Lady Harriet. Mrs. May turned round ; in her tribulation she had forgotten that any one else was present. "Like enough it was, ma'am," she answered. " Sophiar, poor thing, was fond of keeping her doings and her places a secret from us. She says the colonel can save her life if he will, and that he must for their old acquaintance's sake." A pause. Neither of the ladies made any comment. Curious ideas, disagreeable reminiscences, were arising to each of them. Lady Harriet flushed crimson to the roots of her hair. "Let me deal with this, Harriet," somewhat sharply spoke Lady Tennygal, as she turned to the applicant " It is impossible that Colonel Devereux could help your daughter, though he were here, and his will ever so good. No one, I fear, can do that. Not all the country could save her." "Ma'am, perhaps he might," returned poor Mrs. May. " She says he can. Oh, let me try him ! let 270 PARKWATER. me try him ! " she beseechingly added, clasping her hands. "Ladies, if you had a child condemned to death, you would be as anxious as me not to leave a stone unturned to save her. I don't know what you may be to Colonel Devereux — perhaps his sisters — but I ask you, for dear humanity's sake, to let me see him if he comes home in time. She says that it is a duty that will lie upon him, and that he knows why." "Yes," interposed Lady Harriet, rising from her chair, " I promise that you shall. Though I see no possible chance of aid for your daughter, and I think that you must be labouring under a delusion to hope for it; you shall see Colonel Devereux if you will. Poor woman, it is no fault of yours." " Oh, my lady ! Fault of ours ! Will you believe that till my poor child was taken, me and her father never knew she had been in any misfortune ; and then we did not believe it. It is gospel truth that I am telling you," she sobbed, the hot tears raining from her eyes. "You shall see him," repeated Lady Harriet, in kind tones. "If Colonel Devereux returns home in time, you shall certainly see him if you will." And the unhappy woman quitted the room, leaving her thanks behind her. "Don't let us think about it, Harriet ! " cried Lady Tennygal, with impulsive quickness. " Of course one AT LADY HARRIET'S. 271 cannot quite help thoughts — they rise unbidden, as I saw they did to you — or quite shut the eyes to the fact that this would seem to bear upon certain old suspicions at Parkwater ; but we don't know" Lady Harriet did not immediately answer. " I don't care to defend Tody, as you know, Harriet ; I gave that up long ago. But, as I say, we do not know; and it is always better to look on the bright side than the dark one. Indeed the dark one in this case would be too horribly dark." A murmur, half assent, half groan, which she could not entirely suppress, was the only answer given by Lady Harriet Devereux. She alone knew, or ever would know — for she was one to hide her sufferings away with heaven — how many wrongs and trials her husband wrought upon her. She bore it all, striving ever to be patient and pleasant, even with him ; for the sake of her two little girls, she would not bring about a rupture with their father. And so she bore, as many another gentle wife has to bear. 272 PARK WATER. CHAPER XXI. A RACE WITH TIME. As if to give the unhappy prisoner the chance of life she was struggling to find, Colonel Devereux landed in England on that self-same day. The yacht, which belonged to a friend of his, Major Courtney, put in at Deal. They, and sundry more friends (choice spirits all, and Colonel Devereux the oldest and the choicest), had come back from a long cruise. The yacht had been for the greater part of the time out at sea, only touching now and again at some foreign port for provisions. Home news was therefore fresh to them. Colonel Devereux and one of the others, Viscount Dooham, purposed getting up to town at once, and, while waiting for a train, solaced themselves with some bitter beer and the newspapers. " Hallo ! " cried the viscount, a very young man, in his teens yet ; " here's a woman going to be topped on Monday." " Ah ! " carelessly remarked Colonel Devereux, who was glancing over the military news. A RACE WITH TIME. 273 " I say, waiter," said the viscount, halting in his reading, and looking up from the newspaper, " what did she do ? It says she is young and handsome." " Who, sir ? " asked the waiter, who had not been attending. "This — what's the name — Sophia Lyvett. She is to be hung on Monday." " It's a lady who killed her child, sir. That is, a child," added the man, striving to be correct. " Some say she was only its aunt, or a relation of that kind." " A lady!" repeated the viscount, lifting his eye- brows, and kicking Colonel Devereux's feet, that he might take note of the amusing waiter. "Yes, sir, a lady. Leastways, her husband was a gentleman. She was just married, and nobody knew anything about this child ; which it was a previous marriage she had made, report says, if it was her child. The child was brought home to her unexpected by the woman who had it at nurse, and the lady got afraid, and took its poor little life. It's said that when the police went to take her she was going to a ball, dressed out in satin and diamonds." " Was she tried in that ? " asked Colonel Devereux, yawning. The news did not interest him. " In what, sir ? " " The satin and the diamonds. Dooham, she must have created a sensation in court" Parkwater. 18 274 PARK WATER. The waiter shook his head. " I don't think she was, sir, or the papers would have mentioned it. She was remarkably handsome. Educated too : plays and sings beautiful, it's said. It has made a great deal of stir, I assure you, gentlemen." " Young and handsome ! " cried Lord Dooham. "Perhaps she'll get off." " Oh no, sir, there's no chance of that. She's to be hung on Monday morning without fail. I know some gents as talk of going up to see it." " What, all the way from here ? " "Well, you see, sir, it's a case quite out of the ordinary." " Devereux," resumed Lord Dooham, as the com- municative waiter went away, " did you ever see a turning-off ? " Colonel Devereux nodded. "I never did," said the viscount, deprecatingly, almost ashamed to avow the fact. " Suppose we go and see this one ? " " You can go," said the colonel, " I shan't. The last I went to was enough for me ; I said then I'd never go to another." " Well, I should like to go." " It's not worth it. I wonder how long this train means to be ? " The colonel got up and stretched himself, utterly A RACE WITH TIME. 275 unconscious that the ill-favoured affair under discussion could in any possible manner concern him. " By Jove, I hear the train ! " cried Lord Dooham. " Come on, colonel." Colonel Devereux took his seat in the train, and went steaming up to London. It was growing dusk when he reached his home. A woman, who had waited, in her patience, outside that house for many hours, saw the cab drive up, and watched him in. He greeted his wife with cool indifference ; it was the best greeting he ever vouchsafed her. That Lady Harriet received him this night with unusual coldness, he did not notice, and would not have cared for, if he had noticed it. Ordering lights into the library, he went in, and Lady Harriet let her aching head fall upon her hand. There were moments when her hard lot pressed poignantly upon her : it did this night. Not a loving word for her after his many weeks' absence ; not a greeting kiss ! And the unpleasant episode of the day had made her head ache violently. She was interrupted by the entrance of the footman. He whom we saw at the door in the afternoon. "My lady,' 7 he cried, "'here's that woman come again. I believe she has been waiting outside all this time. She will not go away, and she says your lady- ship promised her she should see the colonel." " Yes ; I did promise. Show her at once into the 276 PAKKWATER library. It is right that she should see him," Lady- Harriet added, in a murmur to herself — " right, in justice and in mercy." Mrs. May took Colonel Devereux by surprise. The servant said, as he threw open the door, " A person to see you, sir," for she had refused to give her name, and then he closed it again. The colonel was standing before two wax-lights, reading letters. Mrs. May looked at him : a dark, repulsive-faced man, who stared at her in astonishment. At least, the heavy frown on his face caused it to be repulsive then. For Colonel Devereux was not in the habit of allow- ing this kind of impromptu intrusion, and felt wroth both with the intruder and his servant. Mrs. May stood trembling just within the closed door. " Who are you ? " he demanded, haughtily. " What do you want ? " "Oh, sir, don't be harsh with me !" she implored, stepping forward. " If all that I suspect is true, you ought not to be. I have come with a message from her." He began to think this woman must have escaped from Bedlam. Truly she looked wild enough : and trouble was rendering her incoherent. " From her, sir. My poor child, Sophiar Ly vett, who is in Newgate a-waiting for her execution." A recollection of Lord Dooham's conversation with A RACE WITH TIME. 277 the waiter at Deal recurred to Colonel Devereux. He connected the woman's words with that, as having reference to the same subject, but he connected them with nothing else. " Waiting for her execution ! " he repeated, when his surprise allowed him to speak. " Sophia Lyvett! — what have I to do with it, if she is ? She is nothing to me." " She ought to be something to you," retorted Mrs. May, indignant at what she thought was his want of humanity. " She was something to you when she was Sophiar May — if 'twas only as an acquaintance living in the same house." " So-phi-a May ! " he repeated slowly, his haughty tone changing to a subdued one. " It is not Sophia May who — who is condemned, is it ? " " It is nobody else, sir," answered the mother, burst- ing into tears. " She had just been married to young Mr. Lyvett." The flush that had suddenly heated the colonel's face turned cold again. He sat down, and passed his handkerchief across it. "I don't know that I understand," he said. "I heard — certainly — there was some young person left for execution. The — the crime was the killing of a child, was it not ? " " Yes, sir. A little boy that would have been, it is 278 PARKWATER said, two years old come September. Sophiar saj r s you can save her, sir/' replied Mrs. May, her voice dropping to somewhat of a confidential tone ; which tone would of itself alone have roused the colonel's ire. " She says that you are related to some great man, an officer of state, I think she called him, who can pardon or hang criminals, according to his will ; and she bade me say, sir, that you must ask for her pardon from him, and get it." " I cannot do it," returned Colonel Devereux, aghast. " The — the person you allude to would not listen to me. I — I don't know any person ; I don't know what you mean," he added, speaking his contradictory words with hesitation. "Oh, sir, she says you can. I believe, from your own manner, that you can : and may you find mercy yourself in your dying hour, as you now — if it be in your power— show mercy for my poor condemned child ! " " Don't introduce any of that trash," was the inter- ruption, for any allusions that bore reverence were never acceptable to Colonel Devereux ; and just now he was feeling frightfully annoyed. " It will not weigh with me ; quite the contrary. It is impossible that I can attempt to save her." His tone of irritation, his apparent refusal, told harshly on Mrs. May, and she could have found, in A RACE WITH TIME. 279 her heart, to strike him as he sat. As to himself, his temper was always bad, and he had never been driven into such a corner as this. "I can't do it," repeated Colonel Devereux. And he believed that he could not. " Then, sir, am I to go back to the prison to-morrow, to that unfortunate girl, who is beside herself with hope and excitement, and tell her that you refuse to help her? That will be a bad finish to my day's work. Sir, I have stood outside this house ever since noon, pacing about in the broiling sun and sitting down upon the opposite door-steps, with no comfort but my weary heart." "No one asked you to do it," was the colonel's rejoinder. " Perhaps not," she resentfully replied. " But the lady gave me hope that you might be home to-night, and I should have waited there all night, and to- morrow, and the next night, if you had not come." " What lady ? " he hastily inquired. "One that came up to the door when the grand footman with the white head would have drove me from it. He called her ' my lady,' and she brought me in, and heard my story, and was sorry for me : and I think, sir, it was she that gave leave for me to enter to-night. Sophiar said you had no wife, sir, but it struck me the lady must be your wife, and I took 280 PARKWATER. the liberty to ask the man just now, and he said, Yes, it was." Colonel Devereux was frowning ominously. "And now that I know it is your wife, sir, I'm thankful that I did not say all that was in my thoughts, for I am sure she had a kind heart, and it would have troubled it. Truth is, I knew it might do my poor Sophiar no good with such great ladies. There was another lady with her, younger." " You had no business to come to my house at all," he exclaimed in his great irritation. " I cannot help you. You can go." " Oh, sir, pray don't say so ! " Colonel Devereux rose and pointed to the room door. "Your coming here has been a mistake," he said. " I feel sorry for your daughter, but I have no power to save her. She labours under a delusion in supposing I have. Tell her so." " Sir," cried Mrs. May, preparing to depart, " you best know. But if ever so little power rests with you, and you mean to sit down with your hands afore you and not try to use it, but let her go uncared for to her cruel death, I can only say that you will deserve to suffer as much as she does; and so the public will say when they come to know the truth. Yes, sir : for I'm sure that what I suspect in my mind is the truth. Sophiar has been silent, and kept your A RACE WITH TIME. 281 name and the past from the world; but it is more than me and her father will do if she dies without your bestirring yourself to save her. We " " Will you go ? " sternly interrupted Colonel Devereux, whose hand was still pointing to the door. " We will publish the story abroad, sir : it shall be in all the newspapers in this blessed town. I'll tell it out aloud as long as there's a soul left to listen to me." Mrs. May dropped a curtsy, for she never forgot her respect to her betters, turned, and left the room. Had the natural lines of his face not been so un- sympathetic, his black eyes so hard, she would have fallen down prostrate and clasped his knees, and besought him with tears to accord her prayer. But she saw him at his worst; and she believed that there was neither goodness nor humanity, no, nor a spark of compassionate feeling, to arouse in Colonel Devereux. Colonel Devereux's first movement, on being left alone, was to take a few strides on the library carpet, and give vent to sundry uncomfortable ejaculations. When he had, by these means, a little cooled his wrath and perplexity, he sat down to deliberate. His imagination took him, and would take him, to the next Monday morning, to the sight which Lord Dooham had invited him to go and witness. The various points rose up before him, one after another, 282 PARKWATER. like the pictures in a phantasmagoria. Colonel Devereux, in spite of himself, shuddered a little ; what feeling he possessed was for once touched. Self was always prominent with him ; and Mrs. May's concluding words made, perhaps, more impres- sion on him than all the rest — that the truth, if Sophia died, should go forth to the world ; at least, what she was pleased to think the truth. That, at any rate, must be stopped, if possible. To have his name bandied about in conjunction with this extra- ordinary and sensational affair would be, to say the best of it, inconvenient. Presently he rose up suddenly, as if some plan of action had occurred to him, and went into the drawing-room. His wife was sitting there. " Do you happen to know whether Sir Archibald is in town ? " he demanded. "He is," answered Lady Harriet. "And complain- ing of having too much to do to leave it. So your sister said to-day when she came home with me." So ! It was Lady Tennygal, then, who had been the second lady spoken of by Mrs. May ! And he had passed his word to her and Tennygal in those old days at Parkwater He turned, impatiently, to leave the room. " Are you going out ? " asked Lady Harriet. " I am. What of that ? " A KACE WITH TIME. 283 « Nothing," she sighed. " Shall you be late ? " " Very possibly. I may not be in at all to-night." "To neglect me is nothing new," thought poor Lady Harriet; "but he has never once asked after the children ! " Colonel Devereux proceeded to his fathers residence, and learnt that Sir Archibald was dining out. Lady Devereux was at home, the servant said. " Alone ? " he inquired. " No, sir. Lady Tennygal is with her." With a muttered word, Colonel Devereux turned to leave the house again. " Sir Archibald breakfasts early, as usual ? " he looked back to say. " Oh yes, sir." So the colonel returned home again. He took some refreshment, which he had not yet done since leaving Deal, passed an hour in the library with his large accumulation of letters, and then went to bed. Early rising was not amongst the virtues of Colonel Devereux. Besides, he had passed a remarkably rest- less night, and towards morning he dropped into a heavy sleep. It was past eight when he awoke. With uncommon speed he dressed, went out without breakfasting, and threw himself into a hansom, desiring to be driven to Sir Archibald Devereux's. The man whipped up his horse that it might go its 284 PARK WATER. best, as behoved it when taking a fare to the great Sir Archibald's, her Majesty's Secretary of State. Colonel Devereux paid the man, and bounded into the house. "Is Sir Archibald in his breakfast-room ? " " Sir Archibald has breakfasted and gone out, sir." "Gone out!" " Twenty minutes ago, sir." " Hallo ! " called out Colonel Devereux, rushing out again. "Stop the cab." The man was driving off, but turned his horse round at the call. Colonel Devereux got into the cab. " Where to, your lordship ? " asked the man, putting on the title at a venture. The question was a poser to Colonel Devereux. The wide world of London was around him, and he knew not in what little spot of it to find Sir Archibald. "Wait," he said to the driver, and went into the house again. His brother Lionel, who acted as Sir Archibald's private secretary, was in the library, opening letters. " Lion, where's the governor ? " " What, is it you ! " exclaimed Lionel Devereux, raising his head. " When did you get back ? " " Last night. Where is he gone to, I ask ? " " He did not say. Something troublesome is up, I expect, for he swallowed his breakfast at a mouthful, A RACE WITH TIME. 285 and was off. My opinion is that the Ministers are on their last legs, Tody. He was with Harebury the best part of yesterday." Colonel Devereux paused to reflect. It was possible — not likely, but just possible — that his mother might know. She was not downstairs, he heard; so he ascended a flight higher, and knocked at the door of her chamber. " Come in," answered her ladyship, who was yet in bed. She supposed it to be her maid, and when the door opened and a black head presented itself, she shrieked out and buried her face under the clothes. " Don't be alarmed," said the colonel, " it's only I. Sir Archibald is out, I find. Do you know where he is gone to ? " " Good gracious, Theodore ! What in the world do you come startling me like this for ? " " I am in a hurry. I want particularly to see my father, and my business with him will not bear delay. Have you any idea where he is gone ? " " How should I have ? " returned Lady Devereux. " He does not w r orry me with his business affairs, and his politics." Colonel Devereux went down to the cab again. " Downing Street." Sir Archibald was not in Dow T ning Street — had not been there. From thence he drove to the 28G PARKWATER. Premier's, Lord Harebury. Lord Harebury had gone out of town the previous afternoon. The cabman had a rare fare, for once. Until past noon he was driving the colonel about from place to place. All in vain : no tidings could be heard any- where of the Home Secretary. Whether Colonel Devereux's conscience had come to him in his restless night, or that Mrs. May's threat was preying upon him, certain it was he was now feverishly bent upon obtaining the reprieve of that poor unhappy woman left for execution. Hot, jaded, irritated, he drove once more to his father's house. Sir Archibald was in ; had been in since ten o'clock ; and Colonel Devereux, when he heard it, gave the cabman his fare, and a hard word or two to the world in general. Sir Archibald was alone, and his table was covered with papers. " Ah, Tody ! So you are back again." " I have been out looking for you all the morning, sir, and a pretty fine hunt I have had of it. Can you spare me five minutes ? " " No," answered Sir Archibald. " I am too busy." " But I must demand it — I must'/ returned the colonel ; and Sir Archibald felt some surprise, for his voice had a sound of emotion in it. "It is on a matter of life or death," said the colonel, abruptly. " Well ; two minutes, then. I can't give you more." A RACE WITH TIME. 287 " There's a girl to be hung on Monday morning at Newgate.'' "Ah, there is," replied Sir Archibald, supposing that his son ignored his injunction, and was entering on a little prefatory gossip. "A sad affair! It is the same young woman who once got into Bessie's house as governess, by means of false certificates. I told you I was busy." " Is she sure to suffer ? " " Sure ! What do you mean ? " " She is young to — let the law take its course, as they call it." " Young in years ; I fear old in iniquity. Of course the law will take its course. Theodore," continued Sir Archibald, imperatively, "I am short of time. What is your business ? " " Sir, this is my business," answered Colonel Devereux, dashing at once to the point. " I have come to ask you to save her." " Save her ! " echoed Sir Archibald. " Yes, sir, to save her." " You cannot know what you are saying. I could not save her life if I would. There has been enough hullaballoo raised lately over this kind of thing, as you must know, and clemency is stopped for a time." Theodore Devereux did know it. It had been the fashion for some time to pardon every prisoner left 288 PARKWATER. for execution, no matter of how deep a dye their crime; the public had cried out about it, and the Home Secretary had in consequence found himself in a little hot water. "Why, in the name of wonder, should you make this senseless application to me ? " he demanded of his son, who was evidently ill at ease. " What have you to do with the hanging or non-hanging of criminals ? " " I have something to do with this one," returned Colonel Devereux, bending his face, as if to examine some of the papers on the table. "At least, I wish to have." " Well ? " For he really had the grace to hesitate, not at all liking to say to his father what he had to say. " Well ? " repeated Sir Archibald. And the other spake a few words in a low tone. Sir Archibald Devereux sat gazing at his hopeful son, and there ensued a dead silence. " If you never accord me a petition from henceforth, sir, you must accord me this," urged Colonel Devereux. ff She has sent to me, from Newgate, to save her life ; to intercede with you to spare it. She says I owe so much to her. Perhaps I do." A great scowl had gathered on Sir Archibald's brow. " Have you been cognizant cf this all along ? — since the woman was first apprehended ? " A RACE WITH TIME. 289 "I never heard a syllable of the matter until yesterday when I got home : and then I did not know who the condemned person was. Her mother came to me last night. Sir, you must save her." " The thing is not possible/' returned Sir Archibald. " It can be made so, sir. The power rests with you. "The whole country would cry out against it. There would be one universal feeling of indignation raised against me. The woman is detested for what she has done, and receives no pity. A poor little harmless sleeping child ! say the public. And when they demanded — as they naturally would demand — upon what grounds I had acted, I should have none to give. No, it would damage me too much." " Stand it, stand the damage," pleaded Colonel Devereux, pushing his hair from his brow. " Sir, I dare not let her suffer. Whatever may be the con- sequences, consent to risk them. At the worst, they can be but trifling — none at all to you personally : a little passing wonder, a little blame from the cursed press." " If this woman get off, every one that has suffered before her was murdered ! " emphatically exclaimed Sir Archibald. " What if they were ? But none too many have suffered lately, sir," continued the colonel. "Let this Park water. 19 290 PARKWATEK. one be reprieved after the example of the others : you can begin to draw the line with the next one. If she suffers, I shall have her family upon my back, demand- ing retribution. It is hard to say what horrible stories will not be concocted and blazoned forth to the world. I could not remain to face them." " Whom have you to thank for all this ? " harshly demanded Sir Archibald Devereux. " Myself, I suppose you wish me to say/' returned the son. "I do. You have been a bad man all your life, Theodore ; and, unless you change wonderfully, you will die a bad one. You have brought. me trouble always : I suppose you will bring it until I am in my grave. What evil possesses you ? " " Whether good or evil possesses me, it is my own look out/ 5 was Tody Devereux's sullen answer, for he had a mortal enmity to being told of his faults ; "and that is not the consideration now. Sir, you will save her ? " " Leave me," returned Sir Archibald. " I will reflect upon it." " It does not need reflection, and there is no space for it/' he persisted. " I don't understand the routine of these things ; but, if her Majesty has to be seen, it will be a race with time. To-morrow is Sunday morning, and they are beginning to erect the scaffold." A RACE WITH TIME. 291 " Theodore ! " impulsively repeated Sir Archibald Devereux, " I would sooner have cut oft* my right hand than have heard this." " Give me your promise, sir, before I leave/' the son continued to urge. " It will cost you nothing — only the stroke of a pen. You will retain the after con- sideration of knowing that, if you have erred, it was on the side of humanity." There was a faint tinge of banter in the last sentence, which Sir Archibald Devereux detected not. In a moment of less perplexity he would have caught it fast enough. A few minutes more, and Colonel Devereux went out from his presence. 292 PARKWATER. CONCLUSION, At six o'clock on Monday morning Newgate was aroused from its stony propriety by the arrival at its gates of a state messenger. He bore a reprieve for the unhappy woman, Sophia Ly vett ; and when the sheriffs and the other officials reached the prison, in pursuance of their functions, to attend the execu- tion, there was to be no execution to attend. The mob had the worst of it, and those who had hired windows : among whom was probably Viscount Dooham : the one lost their money, given in hire, and the other enjoyed a few hours' soaking, for the morning had risen pouring wet : not to speak of the disappointment, in which all alike participated. When the later editions of the daily papers reached the country towns, people made a sudden rush for them, eager to read of the last moments of Sophia Lyvett, her dying speech and confession. Instead of which, they had the negative satisfaction of perusing the short fact of her reprieve. CONCLUSION. 293 The world and his wife rose up in wonder. Reprieve her ? Why, she really deserved hanging ! What mania was it that had laid hold of Sir Archibald Devereux ? the newspapers as good as asked him. They received no answer. They never knew. Shrouded in mystery was that unaccountable act (and entirely unaccountable, save to the three or four behind the scenes, it really was), and would ever remain so. The Lyvetts had most cause to ask the question, for Frederick was not now legally relieved of the wife he had so hastily and rebelliously wedded. More than ever need did there seem to be for hiding his head in exile. " Keep up your heart, Frederick, my darling," said his mother, as she sobbed her farewell on his breast, the morning of departure. "We know not what blessings the future may hold in store for you. Years bring about wonderful changes : the darkest day be succeeded by a bright morrow. You never were guilty wilfully but of that one undutiful act, and surely your punishment has been heavy ; how heavy Heaven sees — and it is always merciful. We may have you again with us sometime, free and happy." "And at peace," sighed poor Frederick Lyvett, in his inmost heart. And the unhappy woman herself? Did the reprieve 294 PARKWATER. which she had so feverishly pressed for bring to her the relief she had sought ? Was the life of labour, to which her sentence was commuted, a more tolerable fate, seen in the vista of the future stretching out before her, with its dreadful remembrance, its wearing monotony, its hopeless despair ? We cannot know. She refused to see her father and mother. Before her final departure from Newgate, permission for an interview with her was accorded to them at their earnest prayer ; but she sullenly declined it. " Oh, May," groaned the mother, in the bitterness of her anguish, as she sat on the edge of the bed in their one solitary room, " I'm afraid it was a frightful mistake." " What was a mistake ? " asked May. "Her bringing up. If we'd not made her into a lady and edicated her according, she'd not have despised us, and all this might never have happened. We stuck her up into a wrong spere, don't you see, May; and the poor thing seemed to have no right standing of her own. She was neither one thing nor t'other ; she couldn't be one of us, and she couldn't be one of them above us ; and so she had no nat'ral spere in the world to make herself contented in. It was a fatal mistake." THE END. MR NORTH'S DEE AM. MR. NORTH'S DREAM. i. DRIVEN FORTH. The house stood in the midst of extensive grounds in one of the many suburbs of South London, a green lawn dotted with shrubs lying before the front- entrance. Land was at a discount there in the old days, and Mr. North had bought the place for a com- paratively small sum. He was a man of some con- sideration in the city, of high commercial and private character, well regarded by his fellow-merchants. The lawn lay steeped in the lovely twilight of a midsummer evening. The moon glittered on the leaves of the laurels ; the flowers, closing their petals, threw out their sweet scent, so that the air was rich with perfume. It was wafted to the open glass-doors of a small sitting-room, where stood a young girl; and her heart, as she inhaled it, grew more rapturously 298 MR. NORTH'S DREAM. joyful than it had been before, if such a thing were possible. It was Millicent Garden, the niece of Mr. North's wife, and his ward. A merry, guileless, loving girl of seventeen; not quite eighteen yet; gay, careless, sweet-tempered. Her face was fair and refined, with a bright bloom just now on the delicate features; her light brown hair, unconfined by comb and fashion, fell in silken curls. Mrs. North had gone out that night, taking her daughters, Frances and Amy. Mr. North, his son, and his nephew, Archie, were in the dining-room, for they had been delayed in the City, and came home late. The glow on Millicent's face was only a reflection of the glow that illumined her heart ; nay, her whole being. For she had learned to love one with a strange fervour; and in such a nature as hers — deep, silent, ardent — love changes the whole current of life, and is as a very ray snatched from Eden. The room-door opened and some one came in. Millicent did not turn ; she stood where she was, and began to hum a tune carelessly ; but her pulses leaped up with a bound, and the cheeks' glow increased to crimson. " Why, Millicent ! I thought you were going with the rest." Ah, she could turn calmly now. The colour faded. DRIVEN FORTH. 209 The pulses became sober again. It was only John North. "I did not care to go, John. And your mother thought we should be too many." "Then I hope my mother made an apology for leaving you. Frances or Amy might have stayed at home." " Frances and Amy are ages older than I. Don't look so solemn, John : it was my own wish to remain ; I proposed it myself. Is my uncle not going ? " "Yes. But not with me: later. He has some — matters to settle first with Archibald. I'll go out this way, I think. Good-night to you, cousin mine." John North had made the pause in reference to the matters his father had to settle with Archibald. Miss Garden had thought nothing of it. If she had momentarily thought there was anything strange in the words, it was the name Archibald — for she had never heard him called anything but Archie. She watched John North cross the lawn in his evening dress. He was a tall, fine man of three-and-twenty, and had just been made a partner with his father. The young lady stepped out on the gravel and silently executed a dancing-step. " You good old John ! As if I should want to go when they did not invite him ! As if I would go, unless my aunt had made me ! I fancied John 300 MR. NORTH'S DREAM. suspected something last week, though," she pursued, more thoughtfully, bringing her dance to a conclu- sion; "he looked so hard at us that evening when he came up and saw us in the laurel walk. Oh, how beautiful the night is ! how lovely everything is in the whole world ! " Stooping, she plucked one of the sweet June roses, and put it within the folds of her light summer dress, her hands and arms looking so fragile and faultless in the moonlight. Then she stepped back indoors, and stood gazing out on the fair scene. Things were so still ! Not a sound broke the solitude ; and railways, with their shrieks and turmoil, had not quite cut up the place then. As the light in the west grew darker and the moon brighter, the nightingales began their song in the neighbouring trees; the twinkling stars came out in their canopy ; the light on the laurels turned to silver. Insensibly the girl herself broke softly into melody. Six months before, Archie North had given her " Lalla Rookh ; " she had soon learned its seductive songs by heart. " There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long ; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream To sit in the roses, and hear the bird's song." The striking of the clock interrupted her. Ten. Ten! Why, what could they be about so long in the dining-room ? With a light step, she went along DRIVEN FORTH. 301 the gravel walks, and so round to the dining-room window. It was closed. Closed that hot summer night : and her uncle, Mr. North, was so fond of air, having the windows always open, except in the dead of winter ! Millicent looked into the lighted room, and what she saw caused her heart to beat wildly. Archie North stood against the wall ; his arms folded, his head bowed, his good-looking face inflamed with tears, his whole aspect one of humiliation — of intense shame. He was as tall as his cousin John, but younger — only twenty. Only twenty ! And exposed at that age, without a home (excepting lodgings) to the snares and temptations of a London life ! On the table lay some papers ; they looked like bills ; and Mr. North stood opposite Archie, talking, with his right hand outstretched, and an awful look of severity upon his face. Millicent turned sick with undefined fear, and crept back to the little room. What could the shame be ? The dining-room door opened, and voices were heard in the hall. Millicent, trembling from head to foot, looked out of this room cautiously. Archie had taken up his hat and a light over-coat, that he wore to protect his clothes from the summer dust. " Never attempt again to cross my threshold," Mr. North was saying, in the cold stern tone of an irre- 302 MR. NORTH'S DREAM. vocable decree. " You are a disgrace to the name of North, and I cast you off for ever from me and mine.'' Archie went out without an answering word, and North shut the hall-door upon him. Then he crossed the hall and went up the stairs, his boots creaking. Mr. North's boots always creaked ; it had a pompous sound, like himself, for he was a pompous man, He was dark, upright, portly, with a head well thrown back ; eminently respectable, eminently self- important : doing his business strictly, as respectable men like to do ; a large subscriber to charities, a good husband and father ; but, in the midst of it all, very hard. Millicent went back to the open window, and saw Archie North crossing the lawn, the light coat swung on his arm. "Was he going away for ever ? With a heart sick to faintness, with a mental confusion that seemed to put everything into a tumult, she ran after him, conscious of nothing but the moment's impulse. " Archie ! Archie ! " Archie North turned rouna. He was not her cousin; was not in fact related to her. If he had begun to love her, however deeply and encluringly, he knew it must all be at an end now. " What is the matter, Archie ? " " I thought you were out to-night, Millicent." DBIVEN FORTH. 303 " No. The others went ; I did not care to go. My uncle is angry with you : what is it ? " " Angry!" he repeated, as if the word were a perfect mockery to illustrate Mr. North's state of feeling towards him. " Yes ; he is angry." " But you have not deserved it." " I have deserved it all ; and worse." With his hand upon her shoulder he went back across the lawn to the room she had quitted. Stand- ing just within the open window, he looked down upon her while he spoke. The moonlight played upon his troubled face, hard now almost as his uncle's, and lighted up the blue eyes that seemed filled with nothing but a dogged obstinacy. " I am going away, Millicent. London can no longer hold me, so a distant quarter of the globe must do so. I have been upon the wrong track this long time. God forgive me ! I never meant it to come to this." She tried to speak, but not a word came in answer. Her lips were white, her throat beating. " On my soul, I had resolved to do better ! — to set about redeeming the past. For your sake, Millicent ; for your sake. And I should have carried it out, Heaven helping me. When I am far away, my darling ; when they tell you wicked stories of me — and yet not wicked in one sense, for they are true — remember this : it was you who awoke me to better 304 MR. NORTH'S DREAM. things. It has been just one faint glimmer of light in a dark career : dark before ; doubly dark after, for that's what it will be. God bless you, Millicent." He clasped her to him with a close pressure and kissed her unresisting face, down which the tears were flowing. What Millicent said she did not fully know at the time, and never remembered afterwards ; confused words of redeeming the past, of allowing her fortune to help him to redeem it.