a touch or two, she described Mr Tom Forster. "I told him to tell you to come here no more." The barrister turned a deadly pale colour, and then, by a sudden rush, the blood came back. He seemed choking with passion. "Natalie," he cried, "you know what you have done. You marry this man for his rank. Mine is higher than his. I, too, shall be an earl! I was working, striving for this and for you; and now, when all seems fair before us, you have cast me off. You have killed me!" The tone he said this in was so full of despair, that it commanded some respect from the two worldlings who stood before him. "Pray," said Montcastel, more politely, and even with more calmness than the intrusion seemed to warrant, but at the same time with a sneer- 66 Pray, may I ask what title you lay claim to when you come into your rights?" "The earldom of Chesterton," answered the barrister, proudly-again white with sickness, hatred, and despair; and then he walked slowly, still looking at Natalie, from the room. Out into the cold air-choking with passion, so that he loosened and tore off his heavy cravat, Edgar Wade hurriedly untied his horse's bridle, and led him forth. The cold, sharp, biting air—for it was a sharp and early frost-seemed for a moment to revive him. He pressed his heels to the sides of his horse, and galloped wildly away, the keen air cutting his bared neck like an icy knife; but he felt it not. The pair inside the little house listened to the retreating footfalls of the horse; and then the Earl, passing his arm round Natalie's waist, laughed noisily, but without mirth. "There's one poor devil out of the lot that you've sent mad, Natalie! The earldom of Chesterton !-why, his lordship is alive-as good a life as mine, too-and has a son who will succeed him. Mad-poor devil!-mad as a March hare.” CHAPTER LII. "Ye barren lawyers, bring your evidence, POOR human nature, over which the philosopher meditated, and into one or two of whose secrets he had penetrated, was sometimes too many for him; and in this case she furnished him with an instance in which he was defeated. Each single instance in the evidence he had so closely fitted to the person of Lord Wimpole, Old Daylight found might equally well fit another person, and that person was Well, he did not like to think over it. Unlike most persons of restricted and narrow affections-who, when they minimise their love for the world, lessen it also even to those few upon whom they do bestow it-Mr Forster loved those whom he did love with a steady, quiet, deep affection, which grew the stronger under difficulties, and flourished-like the British Government-beneath the blows of a strong Opposition. Thus, even while Edgar Wade was so bitter against the poor invalid who lay at his house, Tom Forster loved her more fondly than ever; and when, in his turn, Edgar himself began to be covered with the thick cloud of suspicion, the poor old gentleman cursed the day when he first took up with his hobby, and blamed his unlucky stars that ever he came to visit KensalGreen or its neighbourhood. That day, which was so full of events to Mr Tom Forster and all concerned, was followed by a night not less eventful. When the old gentleman got home, revolving many things in his mind, he found the poor invalid dead, the nursing sister gone away, and replaced by some one who watched, and paid the last sad offices to the poor dead J lady; and the room arranged with crucifix and candles, and that unmistakable atmosphere pervading it-felt at no other time, and not to be passed by-which is inseparable from the room wherein lies the newly dead. The old man did not know all that had passed between Mrs Wade and the barrister at the last interview; and, moreover, as the reader knows, was strongly impressed with belief in all that he had said. He thought that-moved and urged beyond her strength-the poor lady had yielded to temptation. But as she lay there dead, all his old respect and love came back, and she was forgiven. "Poor thing," he thought, "if there be penance in the decrees of Heaven, her life was one long penance for her sins. How calmly she lies now! Who would not forgive her? What was her life but a trial and a punishment? Is not all life the same?" The tears were rolling down the deeply-lined face of Old Forster as he said this, and they continued to fall as he walked slowly down-stairs, and sat down in his easy chair. "I shall wait," he said to himself, "till this unhappy man comes home. What is life? Is it worth having? After all, is it not a game of chess against a superior player, the afterconduct of which depends upon the first moves which he makes?" "There's old Robert Owen-a fantastic old fellow," he continued to himself, "wanting men and women to live after one model, and all to dress alike, in pink flannel garments, like the Noah's ark men and women we buy at a toy shop. And he says, in his new gospel, that man is the creature of circumstances, over which he has no control. If I thought that were true, I would sell this London house, and go and live with his people in New Lanark—and I might as well." Here he walked a while up and down, took out his heavy leathern pocket-book, looked at the little legal instrument with which it was furnished, and felt very much as if he should like to put it in the fire. But he was restrained by the respect he felt for English law, and for other reasons too. "After all," he muttered, "it had better come from my hands; and then He will hate me for ever after; and yet I would rather break it to him. Why not? Why should he not hate an old fool like I am, who has certainly done no good by poking his nose into the business of other people? "It's about all over with me," continued Old Daylight. "This is the one grand mistake I have made; and that mistake is a knock-down blow. I am too old to recover it. "I went up like a rocket,' as Dr M'Phie has it, in Rolt's paper, and I come down like a stick.' That's what I do." He To comfort himself, Old Daylight mixed a glass of that which teetotallers call "alcoholic poison." Happily, he lived in the days before teetotalism became rampant, and had not even a suspicion that he was doing an evil thing; on the contrary, he felt refreshed, and somewhat renovated; but the events of the day weighed upon him, and he knew not where to turn for comfort. So he sat down in his easy chair-one which modern luxury, by the way, would deem uncomfortable -and read some pages of Shakespeare for a consolation. sat there a long time. His candles burnt lower and lower; and Edgar Wade did not return. He summoned his housekeeper, and from that astute lady learned as much as he could from anybody as to the very moment when the Earl of Chesterton and a lady had called, how long they had remained, and almost what had passed in their presence. But, as we have seen, the dying lady spake in so low a tone, that the most acute listener in the vast and well-built old house could have learnt but little; and Mr Forster felt that, to do her justice, the housekeeper told all that she knew, and that it was rather her misfortune than her fault that she knew no more. "And Mr Edgar Wade-was he present when the poor lady died?" "I think not, sir; he went into the room while the nurse was yet there, but some time after the sad affair." "Sad affair!" muttered Forster. "That is one way to mention it. Happy release, I should call it. And did he stay long in the house afterwards?" "No. He came down-stairs at once, and went through the garden into the stables, where he keeps his horse." "I see. for him." That will do. You can go to bed. I will wait up The housekeeper, subdued and quiet, as most servants are when there is a death in the house, went away, nothing loath. She had thought much more of her master since a real Earl had called there, taking a pleasure in "carriage company," and feeling somewhat exalted by the fact. Still, she was perpetually haunted by her master's mysterious business; and, being unable to penetrate the mystery, put her worst construction on it. She passed into the room furtively almost, and on tiptoe, where the watcher sat, and the dead lay with the candles burning; and, nothing afraid, expressed herself delighted that all was "nice and comfortable," and then stole up to bed. Old Daylight placed his bandana on his head, and settled himself in his chair, and in due time fell asleep. He had taken the precaution to put the chain of the door up, so that his friend and protégé could not enter without awaking him. In some hours he awoke cold and chilly. The rushlight he had taken the precaution to set light to had burnt-in the sulky, sullen manner peculiar to those nearly extinct luminaries—almost to its socket, and was throwing from its position the pattern of its pierced tin guard, in little dim round holes of light, not only on the floor, but on the ceiling. "God bless me !" ejaculated the old man. have been asleep." "Why, I must How is it that we assure ourselves thus apologetically of any slight dereliction of duty? Old Forster had been asleep, and to his own satisfaction. He felt cold and chilly; and rubbing and chafing his hands, he lighted a candle, and went to the street door. The chain was still up; no one had passed through; and the old gentleman-undetermined and dissatisfied as we always are when we have been watching, and are disappointed-opened the door and looked out. The morning was cold and very dark. Queen Anne Street looked even more dull than it did on ordinary occasions. Round the corner, in the next street, and at some distance, the watchman -not yet disused, and kept up as a monument of parochial charity as well as of ornament, or principally for the reason that the parish really did not know what else to do with the poor, old, used-up specimen of humanity-was calling out, "Half-past four of a frosty morning;" and Old Forster listened. to the "linked weakness, long drawn out," of the old fellow's cry till he felt chilled. He shut the door, drew the bolts, and came in and sat down for a moment, to think. "He 66 Why, he can't have come in," said he to himself. can't have come in." |