St Cyr; and who-poor, brave young fellow had won his epaulettes. He is dead now, thank Heaven for it! He will meet me where our errors are more wisely looked at than by human eyes. He was happy when he died, in some sharp fray in Africa; happy-with the name of his sister, his widowed sister, on his lips-that he gave his life to France. Francedear, sweet France! I have been long away from her, in this cold land of my adoption. My dear, sweet mother country! I did not love her well enough; but now her sunshine and blue skies come back to me so plainly, so vividly: there seems to rest once more a gleam of her bright sunshine on my bed." The doctor well knew the meaning of this, and gave the invalid more wine. It was useless trying to stop her, or to give her rest. Rapidly the sweet voice, so low and so clear in its enunciation, poured forth its words, as if the invalid knew that she was making her last shrift in this troublous world. "But our boy, when he came back to me, seemed to have come with an altered nature," she continued. "He grew up outwardly all that a fond mother could wish; but inwardly cold, reserved, and clever-but with that cleverness which regards only self. He worked at his tasks steadily and with industry-accumulated knowledge, but it was for himself. For years I did not let him know his history. He was "He was ambitious, and chose his own career. determined to study the law; for he saw that in that there lay more advancement in the world than in anything else, and that he might thereby take advantage of the weakness and the follies of mankind. He said so, calmly and with purpose, to me. I hoped that, as he grew up, some strong passion of love might lay hold of him, and purify his nature; but I found that youth passed away without this relief. He never told me anything was coldly polite to me, but never confided in me. The love which I had fondly dreamed he would, from his father's nature, shower upon me, was withheld. He was so constant at his studies, so determined to win his way. Alas! the very faultlessness which others saw in him was to my fond heart his greatest fault itself. "At last, in an evil hour, some six months ago, thinking to move him, I told him all. I was ill then, and I fancied that I might not live; and I thought that I should not like to die without his knowing his mother's story and his father's name. "The revelation did not seem either to distress him or to surprise him. He heard me coolly to the end-telling him, with broken voice, the sad story of my love and my punishment." Even here the poor dying creature said no harsh word. She might have told her cruel wrongs-and so the little group that heard her thought. Her reticence made the story more pathetic; and Lord Chesterton felt in his heart her great charity to be a blow and a reproof. "He listened calmly, but said no word of sympathy; while he complained bitterly of the wrong done to him. Oh, how every word of his wounded me! My punishment was indeed bitter it was more than I could bear. : "Some time after that he obtained some of the letters which you had sent me-those letters which were a proof of what I had said, and which, while they revealed to him his birth, told him also of the love you bore him. He complained coolly, but in strong terms, that I had thwarted your schemes. He never uttered what my heart longed for-the generous approval of a son of a sorely tempted mother who had refrained from crime." The poor lady again paused, and the nurse refreshed her by putting some wine and water to her lips. Edgar Wade had in the meantime-for we must pause here to return to him-seen Mr Horton, whom he found quite willing to believe in Lord Wimpole's innocence. But Edgar was anxious to get away, and he assented to all Mr Horton surmised, merely gathering from him the result of his inquiries. He had promised to call there, and he performed his promise methodically; but even while the magistrate was talking, and he was listening, his heart was in the sick room with Mrs Wade. With a few complimentary words he arose and left, and walked hurriedly round to Queen Anne Street. He let himself in by his key, and walked up-stairs softly. He had a quiet, careful step, which he seemed to have cultivated. When he reached the landing outside the door of the invalid, he waited for a time and listened. His ears were preternaturally acute. He noted a pause, as if the conversation had been interrupted—a soft rustling, and the undertones of the doctor, and—heavens !— the voice of Mrs Wade. Quietly turning the handle of the door, he entered softly-so softly, that no one of those so intently listening to the sad shrift of the speaker heard him. But the invalid felt his presence, although her eyes were unopened. Her whole frame shuddered, and seemed dilated with an angry agony. She rose forward, and concluded what she was saying-which had been some guarded statements of a proposition made by her son-and said "He is here. I feel his presence. He is my bane, my punishment. He is a murderer!" CHAPTER XLV. "Fata viam inveniunt."-Virg. Æneid, iii. 395. THE grand and spacious assembly of the Fraternity of Cogers seemed to swim away into space before the eyes of one of its most eloquent members, as he made that astonished ejaculation lately recorded. As he stared, so said Mr Slammers, like a "stuck pig," that very good-natured Bohemian, who was of an iron constitution, and proof against all accidents arising from convivial meetings, at once saw what to do. Mr Slammers was as ready with his help as he was with his penand, poor fellow, with his money; that is, he was too ready with the two last. The journalist suffered from a fatal facility of writing and of giving. No one more ready with a paragraph or with a shilling. The consequence was, that neither -from "B. Slammers, Esq."-seemed to be appreciated. In any journal, or in any list of charitable donations, his clear, simple, and incisive paragraphs, and his small and modest subscriptions, were to be found. The first were said to be worth nothing; the second were given, said his charitable friends, for the sake of advertising the initials of B. S. Neither the talent nor the good heart of the man was appreciated; but he never wanted employment, and almost as seldom a shilling. He was fed, as he observed, as the little birds were, by crumbs, He might have added that he was the most industrious of birds himself- always looking after the early worm, and never refusing a crumb, however humble. Hence, as the world never can and never will appreciate ready, modest talent or genius, this jolly old Bohemian, who could have beaten the brains out of the ordinary Quarterly reviewer, as he then stood -we do not speak of Sydney Smith, Jeffrey, Macaulay, or Southey, but of the ordinary reviewers in the old volumessank down to be a mere reporter on a daily paper-or rather for the daily papers. "Come along, my young friend," said Barnett, as Mr Scorem let his head fall on his shoulder. "The chair has its eye on you. Turn round, face it, and look round. Here is a reviver." So saying, Barnett-with an agility arising from practiceflicked half a pinch of high-dried Scotch snuff into the nostrils of the clerk, and even managed to send a grain or two into his eyes. Scorem was right in a moment. He sneezed violently; and, as a tour de force, rose and made a humorous adieu to his adversaries and supporters, and beat a retreat with all the honours of war. But when Barnett and Mr Checketts got him into the open air, the "poor old man, the aged, and the experienced one," as he called himself-the one who knew the world and its little ways-collapsed, and could hardly find his way home. Barnett stuck by him. Checketts, with many apologies, was obliged to withdraw. This was painful to Scorem, because the "fresh air"—so Slammers accounted for it-had only triumphed over his tongue, his legs, his eyes, which had an indistinct vision, and his body generally. As for his brain, that was as clear as ever. 'My dear young fren'," he ejaculated, looking solemnly at Checketts, "let me be a warn'n', a sp'c'l warn'n'." "Bless me," laughed Checketts, "I'm fly, sir-quite fly. A little overcome, like old Gurgles." And then, to cheer his friend, he struck up with his misquotations: "For the best of all ways For to lengthen our days, Is to go to bed early at night, my dear. "I' dus'n't! 'ts gaz, the new lights. Your fren' Gug'l's crib'd Tom Moore. But's improved him-I say, 'prov'd him." Then he seemed to lose all that he wished to say, and suddenly adjured Checketts not to waste his youth, nor to bring himself to an early and a repentant grave, as the aged individual before him was about to do. "Do you know where he lives?" asked Slammers, who had, with a workmanlike way, got him into Bride Court, and near "Just work away at that." a pump. Checketts soon produced a rush of cold water; and Slammers, taking out a gaily printed pocket handkerchief, soaked it, and wrapped it round the clerk's head. "My address!" said that individual, quite soberly and with. an effort. "Mr Checketts, good night-it is late for you." He produced a square piece of blue paper, on which was written his name and residence, beautifully engrossed; and Checketts, hearing Slammers promise that he would see his friend all right, sped homewards. I am glad he is gone," said the clerk, quite plainly. "I shall be well soon." "Of course you will, old fellow. You mixed your liquors, I suppose; and hot rooms and excitement did the rest." "It's not only that," answered Scorem. "Come along with me, Mr Slammers. I want you. Give me your arm. My eyes are not quite right yet. Curious, is it not? I never was more sober in my life! Come along." So saying, they struck into Shoe Lane, passed through New Street Square and Fetter Lane, and by the time they reached the home of Mr Scorem, at the top of Gray's Inn Lane, and nearly opposite Theobald's Road, Scorem was as sober as the proverbial judge. The good-humoured reporter wished to go home; but the clerk was profuse in his thanks, and especially desired to ask his advice. "I have a bit of cold mutton and a pickle up-stairs, if you will please to walk in. Do be so kind, if you will do me so much honour." "It's not "I'm honoured myself," returned the reporter. every one who would give me cold mutton and a pickle." |