Chapter Eight.

Chapter Eight.As arranged by Lady M—, the next day we went to Harking Castle, the family seat, in Dorsetshire, and I was not sorry to be again quiet, after the noise and bustle of a London season. As Lady M— had observed, the young ladies were sadly jaded with continual late hours and hot rooms, but they had not been a week in the country before they were improved in appearance and complexion. They certainly were amiable, nice girls; clever, and without pride, and I soon became attached to them. I attended to their music, and they made great progress. I also taught them the art of making flowers in wax, which I had so lately learned myself. This was all I could do, except mildly remonstrating with them when I saw what did not appear to me to be quite correct, in their conduct and deportment. Lady M— appeared quite satisfied, and treated me with great consideration, and I was in a short time very happy in my new position.For the first month, there were no visitors in the house; after that, invitations were sent out. Lady M— had said that she would have a month’s quiet to recover herself from the fatigues of the season, and I had no doubt but that she also thought her daughters would be much benefited, as they really were, by a similar retirement. It was on the Monday that company was expected, and on Friday Lady M— desired Augusta, the eldest daughter, to put on a new dress which had just been made by the two lady’s-maids, and come down in it that she might see it on. When Augusta made her appearance, and her mother had surveyed the dress, she said, “I do not quite like it, Augusta, and yet I do not exactly know where it’s wrong; but something requires to be altered: it does not hang gracefully.”As she said this, I was reading a book, and I naturally looked up, and immediately perceived the alteration which the dress required. I pointed it out, and with a few pins made the dress sit well.“Why this is a new talent, my dear Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, one that I had no idea that you possessed; although I admit that no one dresses more elegantly than you do,” said Lady M—. “How much I am obliged to you for taking so much trouble.”“I am most happy to be of any service, Lady M—, and you may always command me,” replied I. “I have the credit of being a very good milliner.”“I believe you can do anything,” replied Lady M—.“Augusta, go up to Benson and show her the alterations that are required, and tell her to make them directly.“After all,” continued Lady M—, to me, “it is bad economy making dresses at home, but I really cannot afford to pay the extravagant prices charged by Madame Desbelli. My bills are monstrous, and my poverty, but not my will, consents. Still it does make such a difference in the appearance, being well-dressed, that if I could, I never would have a dress made at home; but the saving is astonishing—nearly two-thirds, I assure you.”“If you will allow me to interfere a little, my lady,” replied I, “I think you can have them as well made at home as by Madame Desbelli. I think I can be useful.”“You are very kind, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, but it will be taxing you too much.”“Not at all, Lady M—, if I have your sanction.”“You shall do just as you please, my dear,” replied Lady M—; “I give you full authority over the whole household, if you wish it; but indeed I think Benson will be much obliged to you for any slight hint that you may give her, and I am sure that I shall; but the carriage is at the door—do you drive to-day?”“Not to-day, I thank you, Lady M—,” replied I.“Well, then, I will take Hortense and Amy with me, and leave Augusta with you.”After Lady M—’s departure, I went up to the room where the maids were at work. I altered the arrangement of Augusta’s dress so as to suit her figure, and cut out the two others for Hortense and Amy. Wishing to please Lady M—, I worked myself at Augusta’s dress, and had it completed before Lady M— had returned from her drive. It certainly was now a very different affair, and Augusta looked remarkably well in it. She was delighted herself, and hastened down to her mother to show it to her. When I came down to dinner, Lady M— was profuse in her acknowledgments; the two other dresses, when finished, gave equal satisfaction, and from that time till the period of my quitting Lady M—, all the dresses, not only of the young ladies, but those of Lady M—, were made at home, and my taste and judgment invariably appealed to and most cheerfully given. I felt it my duty to be of all the use that I could be, and perhaps was not a little gratified by the compliments I received upon my exquisite taste. Time passed on; during the shooting season, Augusta, the eldest daughter, received a very good offer, which was accepted; and at the Christmas festivities, Hortense, the second girl, accepted another proposal, which was also very favourable. Lady M— was delighted at such success.“Is it not strange, my dear Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, that I have been fagging two seasons, night and day, to get husbands for those girls, and now alone here, in solitude and retirement almost, they have both obtained excellent establishments. I do really declare that I believe it is all owing to you, and the delightful manner in which you have dressed them.”“I should rather think that it is owing, in the first place, to their having so much improved in personal appearance since they have been down in the country,” replied I; “and further, to the gentlemen having now an opportunity of discovering their truly estimable qualities, which they were not likely to do at Almack’s or other parties during a London season.”“You may think so,” replied Lady M—, “but it is my conviction that all is owing to their being so tastefully-dressed. Why every one admires the elegance of their costume, and requests patterns. Well, now I have only Amy on my hands, and I think that her sister’s high connections will assist in getting her off.”“She is a sweet girl, Amy,” replied I, “and were I you Lady M—, I should be in no hurry to part with her.”“Indeed, but I am,” replied Lady M—, “you don’t know the expense of girls, and my jointure is not so very large; however, I must not complain. Don’t you think Amy looks better in lilac than any other colour?”“She looks well in almost any colour,” replied I.“Yes, with your taste, I grant,” replied Lady M—. “Are you aware that we go to town in a fortnight? We must look after thetrousseaux. It was arranged last night that both marriages shall take place in February. Amy will, of course be one of the brides’-maids, and I trust to you, my dear Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, to invent something verydistinguéfor her on that occasion. Who knows but that it may get her off? but it’s late, so good-night.”I could not admire Lady M—’s apparent hurry to get rid of her daughters, but it certainly was the one thing needful which had occupied all her thoughts and attention during the time that I had been with her. That it was natural she should wish that her children were well established, I granted, but all that she appeared to consider was good connection, and the means of living in good style, every other point as to the character of the husbands being totally overlooked.A fortnight after Christmas we all went to London, and were, as Lady M— had observed, very busy with thetrousseaux, when one day the butler came to say that a young gentleman wished to see me, and was waiting in the breakfast parlour below. I went down, wondering who it could be, when to my surprise, I found Lionel, the page of Lady R—, dressed in plain clothes, and certainly looking very much like a gentleman. He bowed very respectfully to me when he entered, much more so than he had ever done when he was a page with Lady R—, and said, “Miss Valerie, I have ventured to call upon you, as I thought when we parted, that you did me the honour to feel some little interest about me, and I thought you would like to know what has taken place. I have been in England now four months, and have not been idle during that time.”“I am certainly glad to see you, Lionel, although I am sorry you have left Lady R—, and I hope you have been satisfied with the result of your inquiries.”“It is rather a long story, Miss Valerie, and, if you wish to hear it, you will oblige me by sitting down while I narrate it to you.”“I hope it will not be too long, Lionel, as I shall be wanted in an hour or so, to go out with Lady M—, but I am ready to hear you,” continued I, sitting down as he requested.Lionel stood by me, and then commenced—“We arrived at Dover the evening of the day that we left, Miss Valerie; and Lady R—, who had been in a state of great agitation during the journey, was so unwell, that she remained there four or five days. As soon as she was better, I thought it was advisable that she should settle my book, and pay me my wages before we left England, and I brought it to her, stating my wish, as the sum was then very large.“‘And what do you want money for?’ said she, rather angrily.“‘I want to place it in safety, my lady,’ replied I.“‘That’s as much as to say that it is not safe with me.’“‘No, my lady,’ replied I. ‘But suppose any accident were to happen to you abroad, would your executors ever believe that you owed more than 25 pounds, besides a year’s wages to a page like me; they would say that it could not be, and would not pay me my money; neither would they believe that you gave me such wages.’“‘Well,’ she replied, ‘there is some truth in that, and it will, perhaps, be better that I do pay you at once, but where will you put the money, Lionel?’“‘I will keep the check, my lady, if you please.’“‘Then I will write it to order and not to bearer,’ replied she, ‘and then if you lose it, it will not be paid, for it will require your own signature.’“‘Thank you, my lady,’ replied I.“Having examined my accounts and my wages due, she gave me a check for the full amount. The next morning, the packet was to sail at nine o’clock. We were in good time, and as soon as Lady R— was on board she went down into the cabin. Her maid asked me for the bottle of salts which I had purposely left under the sofa pillow at the Ship Hotel. I told her that I had left it, and as there was plenty of time would run and fetch it. I did so, but contrived not to be back until the steamer had moved away from the pier, and her paddles were in motion. I called out ‘Stop, stop,’ knowing of course that they would not, although they were not twenty yards away. I saw Lady R—’s maid run to the captain and speak to him, but it was of no use, and thus I was left behind, without Lady R— having any suspicion that it was intentional on my part.“I waited at the pier till the packet was about two miles off, and then walked away from the crowd of people who were bothering me with advice how to proceed, so that I might join my mistress at Calais. I returned to the hotel for a portion of my clothes which I had not sent on board of the packet, but had left in charge of the boots, and then sat down in the tap to reflect upon what I should do. My first object was to get rid of my sugar-loaf buttons, for I hated livery, Miss Valerie; perhaps it was pride, but I could not help it. I walked out till I came to a slop-seller’s, as they call them at seaports, and went in; there was nothing hanging up but seamen’s clothes, and on reflection, I thought I could not do better than to dress as a sailor; so I told the man that I wanted a suit of sailor’s clothes.“‘You want to go to sea, I suppose,’ said the man, not guessing exactly right, considering that I just refused to embark.“However, I bargained first for a complete suit, and then sold him my liveries, exchanging my dress in the back parlour. I then returned to the tap, obtained my other clothes, and as soon as the coach started, got outside and arrived in London. I called upon you at this house, and found that you were in the country, and then I resolved that I would go down to Culverwood Hall.”“And now you must leave off, Lionel, for the present,” said I, “for I must go out with Lady M—. Come to-morrow, early, and I shall have leisure to hear the rest of your story.”The following morning Lionel returned and resumed his history.“Miss Valerie, little things often give you more trouble than greater; and I had more difficulty to find out where Culverwood Hall was than you may imagine. I asked many at the inn where I put up, but no one could tell me, and at such places I was not likely to find any book which I could refer to. I went to the coach offices and asked what coaches started for Essex, and the reply was, ‘Where did I want to go?’ and, when I said Culverwood Hall, no one could tell me by which coach I was to go, or which town it was near. At last, I did find out from the porter of the Saracen’s Head, who had taken in parcels with that address, and who went to the coachman, who said that his coach passed within a mile of Sir Alexander Moystyn’s, who lived there. I never knew her ladyship’s maiden name before. I took my place by the coach, for I had gone to the banker’s in Fleet Street, and received the money for my check, and started the next morning at three o’clock.“I was put down at a village called Westgate, at an inn called the Moystyn Arms. I kept to the dress of a sailor, and when the people spoke to me on the coach, kept up the character as well as I could, which is very easy to do when you have to do with people who know nothing about it. I shivered my timbers, and all that sort of thing, and hitched up my trousers, as they do at the theatres. The coachman told me that the inn was the nearest place I could stop at, if I wanted to go to the hall, and taking my bundle, I got down and he drove off. A sailor-boy is a sort of curiosity in a country village, Miss Valerie, and I had many questions put to me, but I answered them by putting others. I said that my friends were formerly living at the hall in the old baronet’s time, but that I knew little about them, as it was a long while ago; and I asked if there were any of the old servants still living at the place. The woman who kept the inn told me that there was one, Old Roberts, who still lived in the village, and beenbedriddenfor some years. This of course was the person I wanted, and I inquired what had become of his family. The reply was, that his daughter, who had married Green, was somewhere in London, and his son, who had married Kitty Wilson of the village, had gone to reside as gamekeeper somewhere near Portsmouth, and had a large family of children.“‘You’re right enough,’ replied I, laughing, ‘we are a large family.’“‘What, are you old Roberts’ grandson?’ exclaimed the woman. ‘Well, we did hear that one of them, Harry, I think, did go to sea.’“‘Well, now, perhaps you’ll tell me where I am to find the old gentleman?’ replied I.“‘Come with me,’ said she, ‘he lives hard-by, and glad enough he’ll be, poor man, to have any one to talk with him a bit, for it’s a lonesome life he leads in bed there.’“I followed the woman, and when about a hundred yards from the inn, she stopped at the door of a small house, and called to Mrs Meshin, to ‘go up and tell old Roberts that one of his grandsons is here.’ A snuffy old woman made her appearance, peered at me through her spectacles, and then stumped up a pair of stairs which faced the door. Shortly afterwards I was desired to come up, and did so. I found an old man with silver hair lying in bed, and the said Mrs Meshin, with her spectacles, smoothing down the bed-clothes, and making the place tidy.“‘What cheer, old boy?’ said I, after T.P. Cooke’s style.“‘What do you say? I’m hard of hearing, rather,’ replied the old man.“‘How do you find yourself, sir?’ said I.“‘Oh, pretty well for an old man; and so you’re my grandson, Harry; glad to see you.—You may go, Mrs Meshin, and shut the door, and do you hear, don’t listen at the key-hole.’“The stately lady, Mrs Meshin, growled, and then left the room, slamming the door.“‘She is very cross, grandson,’ said the old man, ‘and I see nobody but her. It’s a sad thing to be bedridden this way, and not to get out in the fresh air, and sadder still to be tended by a cross old woman, who won’t talk when I want her, and won’t hold her tongue when I want her. I’m glad to see you, boy. I hope you won’t go away directly, as your brother Tom did. I want somebody to talk to me, sadly; and how do you like being at sea?’“‘I like the shore, better, sir.’“‘Ay, so all sailors say, I believe; and yet I would rather go to sea than lie here all day long. It’s all owing to my being out as I used to do, night after night, watching for poachers. I had too little bed then, and now I’ve too much of it. But the sea must be grand. As the Bible says, “They who go upon the great waters, they see the wonders of the deep.”’“I was glad to find that the old man was so perfect in all his mental faculties, and after having listened to, rather than replied to, observations about his son and my supposed brothers and sisters, by which I obtained a pretty accurate knowledge of them, I wished him good-bye, and promised to call and have a long talk in the morning.“On my return to the inn, I was able to reply to all the interrogatories which were put to me relative to my supposed relations, thanks to the garrulity of old Roberts, and put many questions relative to the family residing at the hall, which were freely answered. As the evening advanced, many people came in, and the noise and smoking were so disagreeable to me, that I asked for a bed, and retired. The next morning I repaired to old Roberts, who appeared delighted to see me.“‘You are a good boy,’ said he, ‘to come and see a poor bedridden old man, who has not a soul that comes near him perhaps in a week. And now tell me what took place during your last voyage.’“‘The last vessel I was on board of,’ replied I, ‘was a packet from Dover to Calais.’“‘Well, that must be pleasant; so many passengers.’“‘Yes, sir; and who do you think I saw on board of the packet the other day—somebody that you know.’“‘Ay, who?’“‘Why Lady R—,’ replied I, ‘and that young gentleman who, I heard say, once lived with her as her servant.’“‘Ay!’ said the old man, ‘indeed! then she has done justice at last. I’m glad on it, Harry, glad on it, for it’s a relief to my mind. I was bound to the secret, and have kept it; but when a man is on the brink of the grave, he does not like to have a secret like that upon his mind, and I’ve more than once talked to my daughter about—’“‘What, aunt Green?’“‘Yes, your aunt Green; but she would never listen to me. We both took our oath, and she said it was binding; besides, we were paid for it. Well, well, I thank God, for it’s a great load off my mind.’“‘Yes, sir,’ replied I, ‘you need not keep the secret any longer now.’“‘And how has he grown up?’ said the old man; ‘is he good-looking?’“‘Very much so, sir,’ replied I, ‘and looks very much like a gentleman.’”I could not help laughing at this part of Lionel’s story, although I could not but admit the truth. Lionel observed it, and said, “You cannot be surprised at my giving myself a good character, Miss Valerie, for, as they say in the kitchen, it’s all that a poor servant has to depend upon.”“Go on,” replied I.“‘He was a very fine child while he lived with us; but he was taken away at six years old, and I have never seen him since.’“‘Some people say that he is very like Lady R—.’“‘Well, why should he not be? ay, she was once a very beautiful young person.’“‘Well, grandfather, I have never heard the rights of that story,’ said I, ‘and now that you are at liberty to tell it, perhaps you will let me have the whole history.’“‘Well,’ said the old man, ‘as there is no longer a secret, I do not know but that I may. Your aunt Green, you know, was nurse to Lady R—, and remained in the family for years afterwards; for old Sir Alexander Moystyn was confined to his room for years with gout and other complaints, and your aunt Green attended him. It was just as Sir Alexander had recovered from a very bad fit, that Miss Ellen, who was Lady R—’s sister, and years younger than she was, made her runaway match with Colonel Dempster, a very fashionable, gay young man, who had come down here to shoot with the present baronet. Everyone was much surprised at this, for all the talk was that the match would be with the eldest sister, Lady R—, and not the youngest. They went off somewhere abroad. Old Sir Alexander was in a terrible huff about it, and was taken ill again; and Lady R—, who was then Miss Barbara, appeared also much distressed at her sister’s conduct. Well, a year or more passed away, when, one day, Miss Barbara told your aunt Green that she wished her to go with her on a journey, and she set off in the evening with four post-horses, and travelled all night till she arrived at Southampton. There she stopped at a lodging, and got out, spoke to the landlady, and calling my daughter out of the chaise, desired her to remain below while she went upstairs. My daughter was tired of staying so long, for she remained there for five hours, and Miss Barbara did not make her appearance, but they appeared to be very busy in the house, running up and downstairs. At last a grave person, who appeared to be a doctor, came into the parlour, followed by the landlady—in the parlour in which my daughter was sitting.’“‘It’s all over, Mrs Wilson,’ said he, ‘nothing could save her; but the child will do well, I have no doubt.’“‘What’s to be done, sir?’“‘Oh,’ replied the doctor, ‘the lady above stairs told me that she was her sister, so of course we must look to her for all future arrangements.’“After giving a few directions about the infant, the doctor left the house, and soon after that Miss Barbara came downstairs.“‘I’m quite worn out, Martha,’ said she, ‘let us go to the hotel as fast as we can. You sent away the carriage, of course. I would it had remained, for I shall hardly be able to walk so far.’“She took her arm, and as the landlady opened the door, she said, ‘I will call to-morrow, and give directions about the infant, and everything which is necessary.’—‘I never went through such a trying scene,’ said Miss Barbara; ‘she was an old school-fellow of mine, who entreated me to come to her in her distress. She died giving birth to her infant, and it was, I presume, with that presentiment, that she sent for me and entreated me, on her death-bed, to protect the unfortunate child, for she has been cast away by her relations in consequence of her misconduct. You have never had the small-pox, Martha, have you?’“‘No, miss,’ she replied, ‘you know I never have.’“‘Well, it was having the small-pox at the same time that she was confined, that has caused her death, and that was the reason why I did not send for you to come up and assist.’“‘My daughter made no answer, for Miss Barbara was of a haughty temper, and she was afraid of her; but she did not forget that the doctor had told the landlady that Miss Barbara had stated the lady to be her sister. My daughter had thought it very odd that Miss Barbara had not told her, during their journey, where she was going, and who she was going to see, for Miss Barbara had wrapped herself up in her cloak, and pretended to be asleep during the whole time, only waking up to pay the post-boys; but Miss Barbara was of a very violent temper, and had, since her sister’s marriage, been much worse than before; indeed, some said that she was a little mad, and used to walk at moonlights.“‘When they arrived at the hotel, Miss Barbara went to bed, and insisted upon my daughter sleeping in the same room, as she was afraid of being alone in an hotel. My daughter thought over the business as she lay in bed, and at last resolved to ascertain the truth; so she got up early the next morning, and walked to the lodging-house, and when the door was opened by the landlady, pretended to come from her mistress to inquire how the infant was. The reply was that it was doing well; and then a conversation took place, in which my daughter found out that the lady did not die of the small-pox, as Miss Barbara had stated. The landlady asked my daughter if she would not like to come up and look at the corpse. My daughter consented, as it was what she was about to request, and when she went up, sure enough it was poor Mrs Dempster, Miss Ellen that was, who had run away with the colonel.“‘An’t it a pity, ma’am,’ said the landlady, ‘her husband died only two months ago, and they say he was so handsome a man; indeed, he must have been, for here’s his picture, which the poor lady wore round her neck.’“‘When your aunt had satisfied herself, and cried a little over the body, for she was very fond of Miss Ellen, she went back to the hotel as fast as she could, and getting a jug of warm water from the kitchen, she went into Miss Barbara’s room, and had just time to throw off her bonnet and shawl, when Miss Barbara woke up and asked who was there.“‘It’s me, miss,’ replied my daughter, ‘I’ve just gone down for some warm water for you, for it’s past nine o’clock, and I thought you would like to be up early.’“‘Yes, I must get up, Martha, for I intend to return home to-day. It’s no use waiting here. I will have breakfast, and then walk to the lodgings and give directions. You may pack up in the meantime, for I suppose you do not wish to go with me.’“‘Oh, no, miss,’ replied your aunt, ‘I am frightened out of my wits at having been in the house already, now that I know that the lady died of the small-pox.’“Well, Miss Barbara went away after breakfast and remained for two or three hours, when she returned, a servant bringing the baby with her. My daughter had packed up everything, and in half-an-hour they were on the road back, the baby with them in my daughter’s arms. Now, you see, if it had not been for the accidental remark of the doctor’s in your aunt’s presence, she would have been completely deceived by Miss Barbara, and never would have known whose child it was; but your aunt kept her own counsel; indeed, she was afraid to do otherwise.“‘As they went home, Miss Barbara talked a great deal to your aunt, telling her that this Mrs Bedingfield was a great friend of hers, with whom she had corresponded for years after they had left school; that her husband had been killed in a duel a short time before, that he was a gambler, and a man of very bad character, nevertheless she had promised Mrs Bedingfield before she died, that she would take care of the child, and that she would do so. She then said, “Martha, I should like your mother to take charge of it, do you think that she would? but it must be a secret, for my father would be very angry with me, and besides, there might be unpleasant reports.” Your aunt replied, “that she thought that her mother would,” and then Miss Barbara proposed that your aunt should get out of the chaise when they stopped to change horses at the last stage, when it was dark, and no one could perceive it, and walk with the infant until she could find some conveyance to my house.“‘This was done, the child was brought to your grandmother, who is now in heaven, and then your aunt made known to us what she had discovered, and whose child it was. I was very angry, and if I had not been laid up at the time with the rheumatism, would have gone right into Sir Alexander’s room, and told him who the infant was, but I was over-ruled by your grandmother and your aunt, who then went away and walked to the hall. So we agreed that we would say exactly what Miss Barbara said to us when she came over to us on the next day.’”“Well, then, Lionel, I have to congratulate you on being the son of a gentleman, and the nephew of Lady R—. I wish you joy with all my heart,” said I, extending my hand.“Thank you, Miss Valerie. It is true that I am so, but proofs are still to be given; but of that hereafter.”“Lionel, you have been standing all this while. I think it would be most uncourteous if I did not request you to take a chair.” Lionel did so, and then proceeded with the old man’s narrative.“‘About a month after this, Sir Richard R— came down, and after three weeks was accepted by Miss Barbara. It was a hasty match everyone thought, especially as the news of Mrs Dempster’s death had, as it was reported, been received by letter, and all the family had gone into mourning. Poor old Sir Alexander never held up his head afterwards, and in two months more he was carried to the family vault. Your aunt then came home to us, and as you have heard, married poor Green, who was killed in a poaching business about three months after his marriage. Then came your poor grandmother’s death of a quinsy, and so I was left alone with your aunt Green, who then took charge of the child, who had been christened by the name of Lionel Bedingfield. There was some talk about the child, and some wonders whose it could be; but after the death of Sir Alexander, and Miss Barbara had gone away with her husband, nothing more was thought or said about it. And now, boy, I’ve talked enough for to-day, to-morrow I’ll tell you the rest of the history.“Perhaps, Miss Valerie, you think the same of me, and are tired with listening,” observed Lionel.“Not at all; and I have leisure now which I may not have another time; besides your visits, if so frequent, may cause inquiries, and I shall not know what to say.”“Well, then, I’ll finish my story this morning, Miss Valerie. The next day, old Roberts continued: ‘It was about three months after Sir Alexander’s death, when her brother, the new baronet, came down to Culverwood Hall, that Miss Barbara made her appearance again as Lady R—. Your grandmother was just buried, and poor Green had not been dead more than a month. Your aunt, who was much afflicted at the loss of her husband, and was of course very grave and serious, began to agree with me that it would be very wicked of us, knowing whose child it was, to keep the secret. Moreover, you aunt had become very fond of the infant, for it in a manner consoled her for the loss of her husband. Lady R— came to the cottage to see us, and we then both told her that we did not like to keep secret the child’s parentage, as it was doing a great injustice, if injustice had not been done already. Lady R— was very much frightened at what we said, and begged very hard that we would not expose her. She would be ruined, she said, in the opinion of her husband, and also of her own relations. She begged and prayed so hard, and made a solemn promise to us, that she would do justice to the child as soon as she could with prudence, that she overcame our scruples, and we agreed to say nothing at present. She also put a bank-note for 50 pounds into my daughter’s hands to defray expenses and pay for trouble, and told her that the same amount would be paid every year until the child was taken away.“‘I believe this did more to satisfy our scruples than anything else. It ought not to have done so, but we were poor, and money is a great temptation. At all events, we were satisfied with Lady R—’s promise, and with her liberality; and from that time till the child was seven years old we received the money, and had charge of the boy. He was then taken away and sent to school, but where we did not know for some time. Lady R— was still very liberal to us, always stating her intention of acknowledging the child to be her nephew. At last my daughter was summoned to London, and sent to the school for the boy; Lady R— stating it to be her intention of keeping him at her own house, now that her husband was dead. This rejoiced us very much; but we had no idea that it was as a servant that he was to be employed, as your aunt afterwards found out, when she went up to London and called unexpectedly upon Lady R—. However, Lady R— said that what she was doing was for the best, and was more liberal than usual; and that stopped our tongues.“‘Three years back your aunt left this place to find employment in London, and has resided there ever since as a clear-starcher and getter-up of lace; but she often sends me down money, quite sufficient to pay for all the few comforts and expenses required by a bedridden old man. There, Harry, now I’ve told you the whole story; and I am glad that I am able to do so, and that at last she has done justice to the lad, and there is no further a load upon my conscience, which often caused me to lay down my Bible, when I was reading, and sigh.’“‘But,’ said I, ‘are you sure that she has acknowledged him as her nephew?’“‘Am I sure! Why, did not you say so?’“‘No; I only said that he was with her, travelling in her company.’“‘Well, but—I understood you that it was all right.’“‘It may be all right,’ replied I, ‘but how can I tell? I only saw them together. Lady R— may still keep her secret, for all I can say to the contrary. I don’t wonder at its being a load on your mind. I shouldn’t be able to sleep at nights; and, as for my reading my Bible, I should think it wicked to do so, with the recollection always before me, that I had been a party in defrauding a poor boy of his name, and, perhaps fortune.’“‘Dear me! dear me! I’ve often thought as much, Harry.’“‘Yes, grandfather, and, as you say, on the brink of the grave. Who knows but you may be called away this very night?’“‘Yes, yes, who knows, boy,’ replied the old man, looking rather terrified; ‘but what shall I do?’“‘I know what I would do,’ replied I. ‘I’d make a clean breast of it at once. I’d send for the minister and a magistrate, and state the whole story upon affidavit. Then you will feel happy again, and ease your mind, and not before.’“‘Well, boy, I believe you are right, I’ll think about it. Leave me now.’“‘Think about your own soul, sir—think of your own danger, and do not mind Lady R—. There can be but a bad reason for doing such an act of injustice. I will come again in an hour, sir, and then you will let me know your decision. Think about what the Bible says about those who defraud the widow andorphan. Good-bye for the present.’“‘No, stop, boy, I’ve made up my mind. You may go to Mr Sewell, the clergyman, he often calls to see me, and I can speak to him. I’ll tell him.’“I did not wait for the old man to alter his mind, but hastened as fast as I could to the parsonage-house, which was not four hundred yards distant. I went to the door and asked for Mr Sewell, who came out to me. I told him that old Roberts wanted to see him immediately, as he had an important confession to make.“‘Is the old man going, then? I did not hear that he was any way dangerously ill?’“‘No, sir, he is in his usual health, but he has something very heavy on his conscience, and he begs your presence immediately that he may reveal an important secret.’“‘Well, my lad, go back to him and say that I will be there in two hours. You are his grandson, I believe?’“‘I will go and tell him, sir,’ replied I, evading the last question.“I returned to old Roberts, and informed him that the clergyman would be with him in an hour or two, but I found the old man already hesitating and doubting again:—“‘You didn’t tell him what it was for, did you? for perhaps—’“‘Yes, I did. I told him you had an important secret to communicate that lay heavy on your conscience.’“‘I’m sadly puzzled,’ said the old man, musing.“‘Well,’ replied I, ‘I’m not puzzled; and if you don’t confess, I must. I won’t have my conscience loaded, poor fellow that I am; and if you choose to die with the sin upon you of depriving the orphan, I will not.’“‘I’ll tell—tell it all—it’s the best way,’ replied old Roberts, after a pause.“‘There now,’ said I, ‘the best thing to be done is for me to get paper and pen, and write it all down for Mr Sewell to read when he comes; then you need not have to repeat it all again.’“‘Yes, that will be best, for I couldn’t face the clergyman.’“‘Then how can you expect to face the Almighty?’ replied I.“‘True—very true: get the paper,’ said he.“I went to the inn and procured writing materials, and then returned and took down his confession of what I have now told you, Miss Valerie. When Mr Sewell came, I had just finished it, and I then told him that I had written it down, and handed it to him to read. Mr Sewell was much surprised and shocked, and said to Roberts, ‘You have done right to make this confession, Roberts, for it may be most important; but you must now swear to it in the presence of a magistrate and me. Of course, you have no objection?’“‘No, sir; I’m ready to swear to the truth of every word.’“‘Well, then, let me see. Why, there is no magistrate near us just now but Sir Thomas Moystyn; and as it concerns his own nephew, there cannot be a more proper person. I will go up to the Hall immediately, and ask him to come with me to-morrow morning.’“Mr Sewell did so; and the next day, he and Sir Thomas Moystyn came down in a phaeton, and went up to old Roberts. I rather turned away, that my uncle, as he now proves to be, might not, when I was regularly introduced to him, as I hope to be, as his nephew, recognise me as the sailor lad who passed off as the grandson of old Roberts.”“Then, you admit that you have been playing a very deceitful game?”“Yes, Miss Valerie. I have a conscience; and I admit that I have been playing what may be called an unworthy game; but when it is considered how much I have at stake, and how long I have been defrauded of my rights by the duplicity of others, I think I may be excused if I have beat them at their own weapons.”“I admit that there is great truth in your observations, Lionel; and that is all the answer I shall give.”“I remained outside the door while old Roberts signed the paper, and the oath was administered. Sir Thomas put many questions afterwards. He inquired the residence of his daughter, Mrs Green, and then they both went away. As soon as they were gone, I went in to old Roberts, and said, ‘Well now, sir, do you not feel happier that you have made the confession?’“‘Yes,’ replied he, ‘I do, boy; but still I am scared when I think of Lady R— and your aunt Green; they’ll be so angry.’“‘I’ve been thinking that I had better go up to Mrs Green,’ I said, ‘and prepare her for it. I can pacify her, I’m sure, when I explain matters. I must have gone away the day after to-morrow, and I’ll go up to London to-morrow.’“‘Well, perhaps it will be as well,’ replied old Roberts, ‘and yet I wish you could stay and talk to me—I’ve no one to talk to me now.’“Thinks I, I have made you talk to some purpose, and have no inclination to sit by your bed-side any longer; however, I kept up the appearance to the last, and the next morning set off for London. I arrived three days before I saw you first, which gave me time to change my sailor’s dress for the suit I now wear. I have not yet been to Mrs Green, for I thought I would just see you, and ask your advice. And now, Miss Valerie, you have my whole history.”“I once more congratulate you, with all my heart,” replied I, offering my hand to Lionel. He kissed it respectfully, and as he was in the act, one of the maids opened the door, and told me that Lady M— had been some time waiting to see me. I believe I coloured up, although I had no cause for blushing; and wishing Lionel good-bye, I desired him to call on Sunday afternoon, and I would remain at home to see him.It was on Thursday that this interview took place with Lionel, and on the Saturday I received a letter from Lady R—’s solicitor, by which I was shocked by the information of her ladyship having died at Caudebec, a small town on the river Seine; and begging to know whether I could receive him that afternoon, as he was anxious to communicate with me. I answered by the person who brought the letter, that I would receive him at three o’clock; and he made his appearance at the hour appointed.He informed me that Lady R— had left Havre in a fishing boat, with the resolution of going up to Paris by that strange conveyance; and having no protection from the weather, she had been wet for a whole day, without changing her clothes; and, on her arrival at Caudebec, had been taken with a fever, which, from theignorance of the faculty in that sequestered place, had proved fatal. Her maid had just written the intelligence, enclosing the documents from the authorities substantiating the fact.“You are not, perhaps, aware, miss, that you are left her executrix.”“I her executrix!” exclaimed I, with astonishment.“Yes,” replied Mr Selwyn. “Before she left town, she made an alteration in her will; and stated to me that you would be able to find the party most interested in it, and that you had a document in your hands which would explain everything.”“I have a sealed paper which she enclosed to me, desiring I would not open it, unless I heard of her death, or had her permission.”“It must be that to which she refers, I presume,” replied he. “I have the will in my pocket: it will be as well to read it to you, as you are her executrix.”Mr Selwyn then produced the will, by which Lionel Dempster, her nephew, was left her sole heir; and by a codicil, she had, for the love she bore me, as she stated in her own handwriting, left me 500 pounds as her executrix, and all her jewels and wearing apparel.“I congratulate you on your legacy, Miss de Chatenoeuf,” said he; “and now, perhaps, you can tell me where I can find this nephew; for I must say it is the first that I ever heard of him.”“I believe that I can point him out, sir,” replied I; “but the most important proofs, I suspect, are to be found in the paper which I have not yet read.”“I will then, if you please, no longer trespass on you,” said Mr Selwyn, “when you wish me to call again, you will oblige me by sending word, or writing by post.”The departure of Mr Selwyn was quite a relief to me. I longed to be alone, that I might be left to my own reflections, and also that I might peruse the document which had been confided to me by poor Lady R—. I could not help feeling much shocked at her death—more so, when I considered her liberality towards me, and the confidence she reposed in one with whom she had but a short acquaintance. It was like her, nevertheless; who but Lady R— would ever have thought of making a young person so unprotected and so unacquainted as I was with business—a foreigner to boot—the executrix of her will; and her death occasioned by such a mad freak—and Lionel now restored to his position and his fortune—altogether it was overwhelming, and after a time I relieved myself with tears. I was still with my handkerchief to my eyes when Lady M— came into the room.“Crying, Miss Chatenoeuf,” said her ladyship, “it is at the departure of a very dear friend.”There was a sort of sneer on her face as she said this; and I replied—“Yes, my lady, it is for the departure of a dear friend, for Lady R— is dead.”“Mercy, you don’t say so; and what are these gentlemen who have been calling upon you?”“One is her solicitor, madam,” replied I, “and the other is a relative of hers.”“A relation; but what has the solicitor called upon you for? if it is not an intrusive question.”“No, my lady; Lady R— has appointed me her executrix.”“Executrix! well, I now do believe that Lady R— was mad!” exclaimed Lady M—. “I wanted you to come up to my boudoir to consult you about the pink satin dress, but I fear your important avocation will not allow you at present, so I will leave you till you are a little recovered.”“I thank you, my lady,” said I, “I will be more myself to-morrow, and will then be at your disposal.”Her ladyship then left the room. I was not pleased at her manner, which was very different from her usual courtesy towards me, but I was not in a state of mind to weigh well all that she said, or how she said it. I hastened to my room to look for the paper which Lady R— had enclosed to me previous to her departure. I will give the whole contents to my readers.“My dear Valerie,“I will not attempt to account for the extreme predilection which I, an old woman in comparison, immediately imbibed for you before we had been an hour in company. Some feelings are unaccountable and inexplicable, but I felt a sympathy, a mesmeric attraction, if I may use the term, which was uncontrollable at our first meeting, and which increased every day during our residence together. It was not the feeling of a mother towards a child—at least I think not, for it was mingled with a certain degree of awe and presentiment of evil if ever we parted again. I felt as if you were myfate, and never has this feeling departed from me. On the contrary, now that we separate, it has become stronger than ever. How little do we know of the mysteries of the mind as well as of the body! We know that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, and that is all. That there are influences and attractions uncontrollable and unexplained I feel certain. Often have I reflected and wondered on this as I have lain in bed and meditated ‘even to madness,’ but have been unable to remove the veil. (Alas, poor Lady R—, thought I, I doubt it not, you were madder than I thought you were.) Imagine, then, my grief and horror when I found that you were determined to leave me, dear Valerie. It was to me as the sentence of death; but I felt that I could not resist; it was my fate, and who can oppose its decrees? It would indeed have pained your young and generous heart if you knew how I suffered, and still suffer from your desertion; but I considered it as a judgment on me—a visitation upon me for the crimes of my early years, and which I am now about to confide to you, as the only person in whom I feel confidence, and that justice may be done to one whom I have greatly injured. I would not die without reparation, and that reparation I entrust to you, as from my own pen I can explain that without which, with all my good intentions towards the party, reparation might be difficult. But I must first make you acquainted with the cause of crime, and to do this you must hear the events of my early life.“My father, Sir Alexander Moystyn, had four children, two sons and two daughters. I was the first-born, then my two brothers, and afterwards, at an interval, my sister, so that there was a difference of eight years between me and my sister, Ellen. Our mother died in giving birth to Ellen; we grew up, my brothers went to Eton and college. I remained the sole mistress of my father’s establishment. Haughty by nature, and my position, the power it gave me, the respect I received—and if you will look at the miniature I enclose with this, I may, without vanity, add, my beauty, made me imperious and tyrannical. I had many advantageous offers, which I rejected, before I was twenty years of age. My power with my father was unbounded, his infirmities kept him for a long time a prisoner in his room, and my word was law to him, as well as to the whole household. My sister Ellen, still a child, I treated with harshness—first, I believe, because she promised to rival me in good looks; and secondly, because my father showed greater affection towards her than I liked. She was meek in temper, and never complained. Time past—I refused many offers of marriage. I did not like to resign my position for the authority of a husband, and I had reached my twenty-fifth year, and my sister, Ellen, was a lovely girl of seventeen, when it was fated that all should be changed.“A Colonel Dempster came down with my eldest brother, who was a captain in the same regiment of guards—a more prepossessing person I never beheld, and for the first time I felt that I would with pleasure give up being at the head of my father’s establishment to follow the fortunes of another man. If my predilection was so strong, I had no reason to complain of want of attention on his part. He courted me in the most obsequious manner, the style more suited to my haughty disposition, and I at once gave way to the feelings with which he had inspired me. I became fervently in love with him, and valued one of his smiles more than an earthly crown. Two months passed, his original invitation had been for one week, and he still remained. The affair was considered as arranged, not only by myself, but by everybody else. My father, satisfied that he was a gentleman by birth, and being able to support himself by his own means in so expensive a regiment, made no inquiries, leaving the matter to take its own course. But, although two months had passed away, and his attentions to me were unremitting, Colonel Dempster had made no proposal, which I ascribed to his awe of me, and his diffidence as to his success. This rather pleased me than otherwise; but my own feelings now made me wish for the affair to be decided, and I gave him every opportunity that modesty and discretion would permit. I saw little of him during the mornings, as he went out with his gun with the other gentlemen, but in the evenings he was my constant and devoted attendant. I received many congratulations from female acquaintances (friends I had none) upon my having conquered one who was supposed to be invulnerable to the charms of our sex, and made no disclaimer when spoken to on the subject. Every hour I expected the declaration to be made, when, imagine my indignation and astonishment, at being informed one morning when I arose, that Colonel Dempster and my sister Ellen had disappeared, and it was reported that they had been seen in a carriage driving at furious speed.“It was but too true. It appeared that Colonel Dempster, who had been informed by my brother of my temper and disposition, and who was aware that without paying court to me, his visit would not be extended, and who had fallen in love with Ellen almost as soon as he saw her, had practised this dissimulation towards me to enable him, without my knowledge, to gain my sister’s affections; that his mornings were not spent in shooting with my brother, as was supposed, but in my sister Ellen’s company; my brother, to whom he had acknowledged his attachment, conniving with him to deceive me. A letter from the colonel to my father, excusing himself for the step he had taken, and requesting him to pardon his daughter, was brought in the same morning and read by me. ‘Very foolish of him,’ said my father; ‘what is the use of stealing what you may have for asking. He might have had Ellen if he had spoken to me; but I always thought that he was courting you, Barbara.’“This letter, proving the truth of the report, was too much for me; I fell down at my father’s feet in a violent fit, and was carried to my bed. The next day I was seized with a brain fever, and it was doubtful if ever my reason would return. But it did gradually, and, after a confinement to my room of three months, I recovered both health and reason; partially, I may say, for I doubt not but that the shock I then received has had a lasting effect upon me, and that it has caused me to be the unsettled, restless, wandering thing that I now am, only content when in motion, and using my pen to create an artificial excitement. I believe most people are a little cracked before they begin to write. I will not assert that it is a proof of madness, but it is a proof that a very little more would make them mad. Shakespeare says ‘the lover, the lunatic, and the poet, are of an imagination all compact.’ It matters little whether it is prose or poetry; there is often more imagination and more poetry in prose than in rhyme. But to proceed—“I arose with but one feeling—that of revenge; I say but one feeling, alas! I had forgotten to mention hatred, the parent of that revenge. I felt myself mortified and humiliated, cruelly deceived and mocked. My love for him was now turned to abhorrence, and my sister was an aversion. I felt that I never could forgive her. My father had not replied to the colonel’s letter; indeed, the gout in his hand prevented him, or he would probably have done so long before I left my room. Now that I was once more at his side, he said to me,“‘Barbara, I think it is high time to forgive and forget. I would have answered the colonel’s letter before, but I could not. Now we must write and ask them to come and pay us a visit.’“I sat down and wrote the letter, not according to his dictation, which was all kindness, but stating that my father would never forgive him or my sister, and requested all correspondence might cease, as it would be useless.“‘Read what you have said, Barbara.’“I read the letter as if it was written according to his wishes.“‘That will do, dearest—they’ll come back fast enough. I long to have Ellen in my arms again—she was very precious to me that child, for she cost the life of your dear mother. I want to ask her why she ran away. I really believe that it was more from fear of your anger than of mine, Barbara.’“I made no reply, but folded the letter and sealed it. As I always opened the post-bag, I prevented my father from ever receiving the many letters written by my poor sister, imploring his forgiveness, and did all I could to excite his anger against her. At last I found out from her letters, that they had gone to the continent. Months passed. My poor father fretted sadly at the silence of Ellen, and the supposed rejection of his kind overtures. His unhappy state of mind had evidently an effect upon his body; he grew weaker and more querulous every day. At last a letter arrived from Ellen, which I now blush to say, gave me inexpressible joy. It announced the death of her husband—a trifling wound on the thumb having terminated in locked-jaw and death.“‘He is dead, then,’ thought I; ‘if I lost him, she has no longer possession of him.’“Alas! what a demon had taken possession of me! The letter further said, that she was coming over directly, and that she expected to be shortly confined. This letter was addressed to me, and not to my father. The death of her husband did not diminish my hatred against my sister; on the contrary, I felt as if I had her now in my power, and that my revenge upon her was about to be accomplished. After meditating upon what course I should pursue, I determined to write to her. I did so, stating that my father’s anger was not to be appeased; that I had tried all I could to soften his wrath, but in vain; that he was growing weaker every day, and I thought her rash conduct had been the cause of it; that I did not think that he could last much longer, and I would make another appeal to him in her favour, which the death of her husband would probably occasion to be more successful.“In a fortnight I had a reply, in which my poor sister invoked blessings on my head for my supposed kindness, and told me that she was in England, and expected every hour to be confined; that she was ill in body and in spirits, and did not think that she could get over it. She begged me, by the remembrance of our mother, who died giving her birth, that I would come to her. Surely I might have forgiven my enmity after all that the poor girl had suffered; but my heart was steeled.“On consideration, I now thought proper to tell my father that Colonel Dempster was dead, and my sister returned to England,—adding her request that I would attend her in her confinement, and my willingness so to do. My poor father was much shocked, and begged me in a tremulous voice to set off immediately. I promised so to do, but requested that he would not say a word to anyone as to the cause of my absence until he heard from me, as it would occasion much talk among the servants, and perhaps ill-natured remarks might be made. He promised, and I departed, with a maid who had been my nurse, and upon whose secrecy I thought I could rely. What my intentions were, I can hardly say; all I knew was, that my revenge was not satiated, and I would leave no opportunity of wreaking it that offered.“I found my sister in the very pangs of labour, heartbroken at the supposed resentment of my father, and his refusal of his forgiveness. I did not alleviate her misery by telling her the truth, which I might have done. I was indeed a demon, or possessed by one.“She died giving birth to a boy. I then felt sorrow, until I looked at the child, and saw that it was the image of the colonel—the man who had caused me such misery. Again my passions were roused, and I vowed that the child should never know his father. I made my maid believe that the lady I visited was an old school-fellow, and never mentioned my sister’s name, at least I thought so at the time, but I afterwards found that I had not deceived her. I persuaded her to take the child to her father’s, saying that I had promised my friend on her death-bed that I would take care of it, but that it must be a secret, or invidious remarks would be made. I then returned to Culverwood Hall, dropping my nurse and the child on my way, and reported to my father my sister’s death, of course concealing that the child was living. Sir Alexander was much affected, and wept bitterly; indeed, from that day he rapidly declined.“I had now satiated my revenge, and was sorry when I had done so. Until then I had been kept up by excitement, now all excitement was over, and I had time for reflection; I was miserable, and in a state of constant warfare with my conscience; but, in vain, the more I reflected, the more I was dissatisfied with myself, and would have given worlds that I could recall what I had done.“At this time, Sir Richard R— came down on a visit. He admired me, proposed, and was accepted, chiefly that I might remove from the hall, than for any other cause. I thought that new scenes and change of place would make me forget, but I was sadly mistaken. I went away with my husband, and as soon as I was away, I was in a constant fright lest my nurse should betray me to my father, and begged Sir Richard to shorten his intended tour and allow me to return to the hall, as the accounts of my father’s health were alarming. My husband consented, and I had not been at the hall more than a fortnight, when my father’s death relieved me from further anxiety on that score.“Another fear now possessed me; I saw by my father’s will that he had left 5,000 pounds to me, and also to my sister, in case of one dying, the survivor to have both sums, but the same cause of alarm was in my great aunt’s will. My great aunt had left 10,000 pounds to me, and 10,000 pounds to my sister Ellen, to be settled upon us at our marriage, and in case of either dying without issue, the survivor to be legatee. Thus in two instances, by concealing the birth of the child, I was depriving it of its property, and obtaining it for myself. That I was ignorant of these points is certain, and unfortunate it was that it was so, for had I known it, I would not have dared to conceal the birth of the child, lest I should have been accused of having done so for pecuniary considerations, and I well knew, that if betrayed by my nurse, such would be the accusation made against me. I would willingly even now, have acknowledged the child as my nephew, but knew not how to do so, as my husband had possession of the money, and I dared not confess the crime that I had been guilty of. If ever retribution fell upon any one, it fell upon me. My life was one of perfect misery, and when I found that my nurse and her father objected to keeping the secret any longer, I thought I should have gone distracted. I pointed out to them the ruin they would entail upon me, and gave my solemn promise that I would see justice done to the child. This satisfied them. For several years I lived an unhappy life with my husband, until I was at last relieved by his death. You may ask how it was that I did not acknowledge the child at his death; the fact was, that I was afraid. I had put him to school, and he was then twelve or thirteen years old. I removed him to my own house, with the intention of so doing, and because my nurse and her father reminded me of my promise; but when he was in my house, I could not see my way, or how I could tell the story without acknowledging my guilt, and this pride prevented.“I remained thus irresolute, every day putting off the confession, till the boy, from first being allowed to remain in the drawing-room, sank down into the kitchen. Yes, Valerie, Lionel, the page, the lacquey, is Lionel Dempster, my nephew. I said that I could not bear to make the avowal, and such is the case. At last I satisfied myself that what I did was for the boy’s good. Alas! how easy we satisfy ourselves when it suits our views. I had left him my property, I had educated him, and I said, by being brought up in a humble position, he will be cured of pride, and will make a better man. Bad reasoning, I acknowledge.“Valerie, I have left you my executrix, for even after my death I would as much as possible avoid exposure. I would not be the tale of the town, even for a fortnight, and it certainly will not help Lionel, when it is known to all the world that he has served as a footman. My solicitor knows not who my nephew is, but is referred to you to produce him. In a small tin box in the closet of my bedroom, you will find all the papers necessary for his identification, and also the names and residence of the parties who have been my accomplices in this deed; also all the intercepted letters of my poor sister’s. You must be aware that Lionel is not only entitled to the property I have left him, but also to his father’s property, which, in default of heirs, passed away to others. Consult with my solicitor to take such steps as are requisite, without inculpating me more than is necessary; but if required, let all be known to my shame, rather than the lad should not be put in possession of his rights.“You will, I am afraid, hate my memory after this sad disclosure; but in my extenuation recall to mind how madly I loved, how cruelly I was deceived. Remember, also, that if not insane, I was little better at the time I was so criminal; and may it prove to you a lesson how difficult it is, when once you have stepped aside into the path of error ever to recover the right track.“You now know all my sufferings, all my crimes. You now know why I have been, not without truth, considered as a person eccentric to folly, and occasionally on the verge of madness. Forgive me and pity me, for I have indeed been sufficiently punished by an ever torturing conscience!“Barbara R—.”

As arranged by Lady M—, the next day we went to Harking Castle, the family seat, in Dorsetshire, and I was not sorry to be again quiet, after the noise and bustle of a London season. As Lady M— had observed, the young ladies were sadly jaded with continual late hours and hot rooms, but they had not been a week in the country before they were improved in appearance and complexion. They certainly were amiable, nice girls; clever, and without pride, and I soon became attached to them. I attended to their music, and they made great progress. I also taught them the art of making flowers in wax, which I had so lately learned myself. This was all I could do, except mildly remonstrating with them when I saw what did not appear to me to be quite correct, in their conduct and deportment. Lady M— appeared quite satisfied, and treated me with great consideration, and I was in a short time very happy in my new position.

For the first month, there were no visitors in the house; after that, invitations were sent out. Lady M— had said that she would have a month’s quiet to recover herself from the fatigues of the season, and I had no doubt but that she also thought her daughters would be much benefited, as they really were, by a similar retirement. It was on the Monday that company was expected, and on Friday Lady M— desired Augusta, the eldest daughter, to put on a new dress which had just been made by the two lady’s-maids, and come down in it that she might see it on. When Augusta made her appearance, and her mother had surveyed the dress, she said, “I do not quite like it, Augusta, and yet I do not exactly know where it’s wrong; but something requires to be altered: it does not hang gracefully.”

As she said this, I was reading a book, and I naturally looked up, and immediately perceived the alteration which the dress required. I pointed it out, and with a few pins made the dress sit well.

“Why this is a new talent, my dear Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, one that I had no idea that you possessed; although I admit that no one dresses more elegantly than you do,” said Lady M—. “How much I am obliged to you for taking so much trouble.”

“I am most happy to be of any service, Lady M—, and you may always command me,” replied I. “I have the credit of being a very good milliner.”

“I believe you can do anything,” replied Lady M—.

“Augusta, go up to Benson and show her the alterations that are required, and tell her to make them directly.

“After all,” continued Lady M—, to me, “it is bad economy making dresses at home, but I really cannot afford to pay the extravagant prices charged by Madame Desbelli. My bills are monstrous, and my poverty, but not my will, consents. Still it does make such a difference in the appearance, being well-dressed, that if I could, I never would have a dress made at home; but the saving is astonishing—nearly two-thirds, I assure you.”

“If you will allow me to interfere a little, my lady,” replied I, “I think you can have them as well made at home as by Madame Desbelli. I think I can be useful.”

“You are very kind, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, but it will be taxing you too much.”

“Not at all, Lady M—, if I have your sanction.”

“You shall do just as you please, my dear,” replied Lady M—; “I give you full authority over the whole household, if you wish it; but indeed I think Benson will be much obliged to you for any slight hint that you may give her, and I am sure that I shall; but the carriage is at the door—do you drive to-day?”

“Not to-day, I thank you, Lady M—,” replied I.

“Well, then, I will take Hortense and Amy with me, and leave Augusta with you.”

After Lady M—’s departure, I went up to the room where the maids were at work. I altered the arrangement of Augusta’s dress so as to suit her figure, and cut out the two others for Hortense and Amy. Wishing to please Lady M—, I worked myself at Augusta’s dress, and had it completed before Lady M— had returned from her drive. It certainly was now a very different affair, and Augusta looked remarkably well in it. She was delighted herself, and hastened down to her mother to show it to her. When I came down to dinner, Lady M— was profuse in her acknowledgments; the two other dresses, when finished, gave equal satisfaction, and from that time till the period of my quitting Lady M—, all the dresses, not only of the young ladies, but those of Lady M—, were made at home, and my taste and judgment invariably appealed to and most cheerfully given. I felt it my duty to be of all the use that I could be, and perhaps was not a little gratified by the compliments I received upon my exquisite taste. Time passed on; during the shooting season, Augusta, the eldest daughter, received a very good offer, which was accepted; and at the Christmas festivities, Hortense, the second girl, accepted another proposal, which was also very favourable. Lady M— was delighted at such success.

“Is it not strange, my dear Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, that I have been fagging two seasons, night and day, to get husbands for those girls, and now alone here, in solitude and retirement almost, they have both obtained excellent establishments. I do really declare that I believe it is all owing to you, and the delightful manner in which you have dressed them.”

“I should rather think that it is owing, in the first place, to their having so much improved in personal appearance since they have been down in the country,” replied I; “and further, to the gentlemen having now an opportunity of discovering their truly estimable qualities, which they were not likely to do at Almack’s or other parties during a London season.”

“You may think so,” replied Lady M—, “but it is my conviction that all is owing to their being so tastefully-dressed. Why every one admires the elegance of their costume, and requests patterns. Well, now I have only Amy on my hands, and I think that her sister’s high connections will assist in getting her off.”

“She is a sweet girl, Amy,” replied I, “and were I you Lady M—, I should be in no hurry to part with her.”

“Indeed, but I am,” replied Lady M—, “you don’t know the expense of girls, and my jointure is not so very large; however, I must not complain. Don’t you think Amy looks better in lilac than any other colour?”

“She looks well in almost any colour,” replied I.

“Yes, with your taste, I grant,” replied Lady M—. “Are you aware that we go to town in a fortnight? We must look after thetrousseaux. It was arranged last night that both marriages shall take place in February. Amy will, of course be one of the brides’-maids, and I trust to you, my dear Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, to invent something verydistinguéfor her on that occasion. Who knows but that it may get her off? but it’s late, so good-night.”

I could not admire Lady M—’s apparent hurry to get rid of her daughters, but it certainly was the one thing needful which had occupied all her thoughts and attention during the time that I had been with her. That it was natural she should wish that her children were well established, I granted, but all that she appeared to consider was good connection, and the means of living in good style, every other point as to the character of the husbands being totally overlooked.

A fortnight after Christmas we all went to London, and were, as Lady M— had observed, very busy with thetrousseaux, when one day the butler came to say that a young gentleman wished to see me, and was waiting in the breakfast parlour below. I went down, wondering who it could be, when to my surprise, I found Lionel, the page of Lady R—, dressed in plain clothes, and certainly looking very much like a gentleman. He bowed very respectfully to me when he entered, much more so than he had ever done when he was a page with Lady R—, and said, “Miss Valerie, I have ventured to call upon you, as I thought when we parted, that you did me the honour to feel some little interest about me, and I thought you would like to know what has taken place. I have been in England now four months, and have not been idle during that time.”

“I am certainly glad to see you, Lionel, although I am sorry you have left Lady R—, and I hope you have been satisfied with the result of your inquiries.”

“It is rather a long story, Miss Valerie, and, if you wish to hear it, you will oblige me by sitting down while I narrate it to you.”

“I hope it will not be too long, Lionel, as I shall be wanted in an hour or so, to go out with Lady M—, but I am ready to hear you,” continued I, sitting down as he requested.

Lionel stood by me, and then commenced—“We arrived at Dover the evening of the day that we left, Miss Valerie; and Lady R—, who had been in a state of great agitation during the journey, was so unwell, that she remained there four or five days. As soon as she was better, I thought it was advisable that she should settle my book, and pay me my wages before we left England, and I brought it to her, stating my wish, as the sum was then very large.

“‘And what do you want money for?’ said she, rather angrily.

“‘I want to place it in safety, my lady,’ replied I.

“‘That’s as much as to say that it is not safe with me.’

“‘No, my lady,’ replied I. ‘But suppose any accident were to happen to you abroad, would your executors ever believe that you owed more than 25 pounds, besides a year’s wages to a page like me; they would say that it could not be, and would not pay me my money; neither would they believe that you gave me such wages.’

“‘Well,’ she replied, ‘there is some truth in that, and it will, perhaps, be better that I do pay you at once, but where will you put the money, Lionel?’

“‘I will keep the check, my lady, if you please.’

“‘Then I will write it to order and not to bearer,’ replied she, ‘and then if you lose it, it will not be paid, for it will require your own signature.’

“‘Thank you, my lady,’ replied I.

“Having examined my accounts and my wages due, she gave me a check for the full amount. The next morning, the packet was to sail at nine o’clock. We were in good time, and as soon as Lady R— was on board she went down into the cabin. Her maid asked me for the bottle of salts which I had purposely left under the sofa pillow at the Ship Hotel. I told her that I had left it, and as there was plenty of time would run and fetch it. I did so, but contrived not to be back until the steamer had moved away from the pier, and her paddles were in motion. I called out ‘Stop, stop,’ knowing of course that they would not, although they were not twenty yards away. I saw Lady R—’s maid run to the captain and speak to him, but it was of no use, and thus I was left behind, without Lady R— having any suspicion that it was intentional on my part.

“I waited at the pier till the packet was about two miles off, and then walked away from the crowd of people who were bothering me with advice how to proceed, so that I might join my mistress at Calais. I returned to the hotel for a portion of my clothes which I had not sent on board of the packet, but had left in charge of the boots, and then sat down in the tap to reflect upon what I should do. My first object was to get rid of my sugar-loaf buttons, for I hated livery, Miss Valerie; perhaps it was pride, but I could not help it. I walked out till I came to a slop-seller’s, as they call them at seaports, and went in; there was nothing hanging up but seamen’s clothes, and on reflection, I thought I could not do better than to dress as a sailor; so I told the man that I wanted a suit of sailor’s clothes.

“‘You want to go to sea, I suppose,’ said the man, not guessing exactly right, considering that I just refused to embark.

“However, I bargained first for a complete suit, and then sold him my liveries, exchanging my dress in the back parlour. I then returned to the tap, obtained my other clothes, and as soon as the coach started, got outside and arrived in London. I called upon you at this house, and found that you were in the country, and then I resolved that I would go down to Culverwood Hall.”

“And now you must leave off, Lionel, for the present,” said I, “for I must go out with Lady M—. Come to-morrow, early, and I shall have leisure to hear the rest of your story.”

The following morning Lionel returned and resumed his history.

“Miss Valerie, little things often give you more trouble than greater; and I had more difficulty to find out where Culverwood Hall was than you may imagine. I asked many at the inn where I put up, but no one could tell me, and at such places I was not likely to find any book which I could refer to. I went to the coach offices and asked what coaches started for Essex, and the reply was, ‘Where did I want to go?’ and, when I said Culverwood Hall, no one could tell me by which coach I was to go, or which town it was near. At last, I did find out from the porter of the Saracen’s Head, who had taken in parcels with that address, and who went to the coachman, who said that his coach passed within a mile of Sir Alexander Moystyn’s, who lived there. I never knew her ladyship’s maiden name before. I took my place by the coach, for I had gone to the banker’s in Fleet Street, and received the money for my check, and started the next morning at three o’clock.

“I was put down at a village called Westgate, at an inn called the Moystyn Arms. I kept to the dress of a sailor, and when the people spoke to me on the coach, kept up the character as well as I could, which is very easy to do when you have to do with people who know nothing about it. I shivered my timbers, and all that sort of thing, and hitched up my trousers, as they do at the theatres. The coachman told me that the inn was the nearest place I could stop at, if I wanted to go to the hall, and taking my bundle, I got down and he drove off. A sailor-boy is a sort of curiosity in a country village, Miss Valerie, and I had many questions put to me, but I answered them by putting others. I said that my friends were formerly living at the hall in the old baronet’s time, but that I knew little about them, as it was a long while ago; and I asked if there were any of the old servants still living at the place. The woman who kept the inn told me that there was one, Old Roberts, who still lived in the village, and beenbedriddenfor some years. This of course was the person I wanted, and I inquired what had become of his family. The reply was, that his daughter, who had married Green, was somewhere in London, and his son, who had married Kitty Wilson of the village, had gone to reside as gamekeeper somewhere near Portsmouth, and had a large family of children.

“‘You’re right enough,’ replied I, laughing, ‘we are a large family.’

“‘What, are you old Roberts’ grandson?’ exclaimed the woman. ‘Well, we did hear that one of them, Harry, I think, did go to sea.’

“‘Well, now, perhaps you’ll tell me where I am to find the old gentleman?’ replied I.

“‘Come with me,’ said she, ‘he lives hard-by, and glad enough he’ll be, poor man, to have any one to talk with him a bit, for it’s a lonesome life he leads in bed there.’

“I followed the woman, and when about a hundred yards from the inn, she stopped at the door of a small house, and called to Mrs Meshin, to ‘go up and tell old Roberts that one of his grandsons is here.’ A snuffy old woman made her appearance, peered at me through her spectacles, and then stumped up a pair of stairs which faced the door. Shortly afterwards I was desired to come up, and did so. I found an old man with silver hair lying in bed, and the said Mrs Meshin, with her spectacles, smoothing down the bed-clothes, and making the place tidy.

“‘What cheer, old boy?’ said I, after T.P. Cooke’s style.

“‘What do you say? I’m hard of hearing, rather,’ replied the old man.

“‘How do you find yourself, sir?’ said I.

“‘Oh, pretty well for an old man; and so you’re my grandson, Harry; glad to see you.—You may go, Mrs Meshin, and shut the door, and do you hear, don’t listen at the key-hole.’

“The stately lady, Mrs Meshin, growled, and then left the room, slamming the door.

“‘She is very cross, grandson,’ said the old man, ‘and I see nobody but her. It’s a sad thing to be bedridden this way, and not to get out in the fresh air, and sadder still to be tended by a cross old woman, who won’t talk when I want her, and won’t hold her tongue when I want her. I’m glad to see you, boy. I hope you won’t go away directly, as your brother Tom did. I want somebody to talk to me, sadly; and how do you like being at sea?’

“‘I like the shore, better, sir.’

“‘Ay, so all sailors say, I believe; and yet I would rather go to sea than lie here all day long. It’s all owing to my being out as I used to do, night after night, watching for poachers. I had too little bed then, and now I’ve too much of it. But the sea must be grand. As the Bible says, “They who go upon the great waters, they see the wonders of the deep.”’

“I was glad to find that the old man was so perfect in all his mental faculties, and after having listened to, rather than replied to, observations about his son and my supposed brothers and sisters, by which I obtained a pretty accurate knowledge of them, I wished him good-bye, and promised to call and have a long talk in the morning.

“On my return to the inn, I was able to reply to all the interrogatories which were put to me relative to my supposed relations, thanks to the garrulity of old Roberts, and put many questions relative to the family residing at the hall, which were freely answered. As the evening advanced, many people came in, and the noise and smoking were so disagreeable to me, that I asked for a bed, and retired. The next morning I repaired to old Roberts, who appeared delighted to see me.

“‘You are a good boy,’ said he, ‘to come and see a poor bedridden old man, who has not a soul that comes near him perhaps in a week. And now tell me what took place during your last voyage.’

“‘The last vessel I was on board of,’ replied I, ‘was a packet from Dover to Calais.’

“‘Well, that must be pleasant; so many passengers.’

“‘Yes, sir; and who do you think I saw on board of the packet the other day—somebody that you know.’

“‘Ay, who?’

“‘Why Lady R—,’ replied I, ‘and that young gentleman who, I heard say, once lived with her as her servant.’

“‘Ay!’ said the old man, ‘indeed! then she has done justice at last. I’m glad on it, Harry, glad on it, for it’s a relief to my mind. I was bound to the secret, and have kept it; but when a man is on the brink of the grave, he does not like to have a secret like that upon his mind, and I’ve more than once talked to my daughter about—’

“‘What, aunt Green?’

“‘Yes, your aunt Green; but she would never listen to me. We both took our oath, and she said it was binding; besides, we were paid for it. Well, well, I thank God, for it’s a great load off my mind.’

“‘Yes, sir,’ replied I, ‘you need not keep the secret any longer now.’

“‘And how has he grown up?’ said the old man; ‘is he good-looking?’

“‘Very much so, sir,’ replied I, ‘and looks very much like a gentleman.’”

I could not help laughing at this part of Lionel’s story, although I could not but admit the truth. Lionel observed it, and said, “You cannot be surprised at my giving myself a good character, Miss Valerie, for, as they say in the kitchen, it’s all that a poor servant has to depend upon.”

“Go on,” replied I.

“‘He was a very fine child while he lived with us; but he was taken away at six years old, and I have never seen him since.’

“‘Some people say that he is very like Lady R—.’

“‘Well, why should he not be? ay, she was once a very beautiful young person.’

“‘Well, grandfather, I have never heard the rights of that story,’ said I, ‘and now that you are at liberty to tell it, perhaps you will let me have the whole history.’

“‘Well,’ said the old man, ‘as there is no longer a secret, I do not know but that I may. Your aunt Green, you know, was nurse to Lady R—, and remained in the family for years afterwards; for old Sir Alexander Moystyn was confined to his room for years with gout and other complaints, and your aunt Green attended him. It was just as Sir Alexander had recovered from a very bad fit, that Miss Ellen, who was Lady R—’s sister, and years younger than she was, made her runaway match with Colonel Dempster, a very fashionable, gay young man, who had come down here to shoot with the present baronet. Everyone was much surprised at this, for all the talk was that the match would be with the eldest sister, Lady R—, and not the youngest. They went off somewhere abroad. Old Sir Alexander was in a terrible huff about it, and was taken ill again; and Lady R—, who was then Miss Barbara, appeared also much distressed at her sister’s conduct. Well, a year or more passed away, when, one day, Miss Barbara told your aunt Green that she wished her to go with her on a journey, and she set off in the evening with four post-horses, and travelled all night till she arrived at Southampton. There she stopped at a lodging, and got out, spoke to the landlady, and calling my daughter out of the chaise, desired her to remain below while she went upstairs. My daughter was tired of staying so long, for she remained there for five hours, and Miss Barbara did not make her appearance, but they appeared to be very busy in the house, running up and downstairs. At last a grave person, who appeared to be a doctor, came into the parlour, followed by the landlady—in the parlour in which my daughter was sitting.’

“‘It’s all over, Mrs Wilson,’ said he, ‘nothing could save her; but the child will do well, I have no doubt.’

“‘What’s to be done, sir?’

“‘Oh,’ replied the doctor, ‘the lady above stairs told me that she was her sister, so of course we must look to her for all future arrangements.’

“After giving a few directions about the infant, the doctor left the house, and soon after that Miss Barbara came downstairs.

“‘I’m quite worn out, Martha,’ said she, ‘let us go to the hotel as fast as we can. You sent away the carriage, of course. I would it had remained, for I shall hardly be able to walk so far.’

“She took her arm, and as the landlady opened the door, she said, ‘I will call to-morrow, and give directions about the infant, and everything which is necessary.’—‘I never went through such a trying scene,’ said Miss Barbara; ‘she was an old school-fellow of mine, who entreated me to come to her in her distress. She died giving birth to her infant, and it was, I presume, with that presentiment, that she sent for me and entreated me, on her death-bed, to protect the unfortunate child, for she has been cast away by her relations in consequence of her misconduct. You have never had the small-pox, Martha, have you?’

“‘No, miss,’ she replied, ‘you know I never have.’

“‘Well, it was having the small-pox at the same time that she was confined, that has caused her death, and that was the reason why I did not send for you to come up and assist.’

“‘My daughter made no answer, for Miss Barbara was of a haughty temper, and she was afraid of her; but she did not forget that the doctor had told the landlady that Miss Barbara had stated the lady to be her sister. My daughter had thought it very odd that Miss Barbara had not told her, during their journey, where she was going, and who she was going to see, for Miss Barbara had wrapped herself up in her cloak, and pretended to be asleep during the whole time, only waking up to pay the post-boys; but Miss Barbara was of a very violent temper, and had, since her sister’s marriage, been much worse than before; indeed, some said that she was a little mad, and used to walk at moonlights.

“‘When they arrived at the hotel, Miss Barbara went to bed, and insisted upon my daughter sleeping in the same room, as she was afraid of being alone in an hotel. My daughter thought over the business as she lay in bed, and at last resolved to ascertain the truth; so she got up early the next morning, and walked to the lodging-house, and when the door was opened by the landlady, pretended to come from her mistress to inquire how the infant was. The reply was that it was doing well; and then a conversation took place, in which my daughter found out that the lady did not die of the small-pox, as Miss Barbara had stated. The landlady asked my daughter if she would not like to come up and look at the corpse. My daughter consented, as it was what she was about to request, and when she went up, sure enough it was poor Mrs Dempster, Miss Ellen that was, who had run away with the colonel.

“‘An’t it a pity, ma’am,’ said the landlady, ‘her husband died only two months ago, and they say he was so handsome a man; indeed, he must have been, for here’s his picture, which the poor lady wore round her neck.’

“‘When your aunt had satisfied herself, and cried a little over the body, for she was very fond of Miss Ellen, she went back to the hotel as fast as she could, and getting a jug of warm water from the kitchen, she went into Miss Barbara’s room, and had just time to throw off her bonnet and shawl, when Miss Barbara woke up and asked who was there.

“‘It’s me, miss,’ replied my daughter, ‘I’ve just gone down for some warm water for you, for it’s past nine o’clock, and I thought you would like to be up early.’

“‘Yes, I must get up, Martha, for I intend to return home to-day. It’s no use waiting here. I will have breakfast, and then walk to the lodgings and give directions. You may pack up in the meantime, for I suppose you do not wish to go with me.’

“‘Oh, no, miss,’ replied your aunt, ‘I am frightened out of my wits at having been in the house already, now that I know that the lady died of the small-pox.’

“Well, Miss Barbara went away after breakfast and remained for two or three hours, when she returned, a servant bringing the baby with her. My daughter had packed up everything, and in half-an-hour they were on the road back, the baby with them in my daughter’s arms. Now, you see, if it had not been for the accidental remark of the doctor’s in your aunt’s presence, she would have been completely deceived by Miss Barbara, and never would have known whose child it was; but your aunt kept her own counsel; indeed, she was afraid to do otherwise.

“‘As they went home, Miss Barbara talked a great deal to your aunt, telling her that this Mrs Bedingfield was a great friend of hers, with whom she had corresponded for years after they had left school; that her husband had been killed in a duel a short time before, that he was a gambler, and a man of very bad character, nevertheless she had promised Mrs Bedingfield before she died, that she would take care of the child, and that she would do so. She then said, “Martha, I should like your mother to take charge of it, do you think that she would? but it must be a secret, for my father would be very angry with me, and besides, there might be unpleasant reports.” Your aunt replied, “that she thought that her mother would,” and then Miss Barbara proposed that your aunt should get out of the chaise when they stopped to change horses at the last stage, when it was dark, and no one could perceive it, and walk with the infant until she could find some conveyance to my house.

“‘This was done, the child was brought to your grandmother, who is now in heaven, and then your aunt made known to us what she had discovered, and whose child it was. I was very angry, and if I had not been laid up at the time with the rheumatism, would have gone right into Sir Alexander’s room, and told him who the infant was, but I was over-ruled by your grandmother and your aunt, who then went away and walked to the hall. So we agreed that we would say exactly what Miss Barbara said to us when she came over to us on the next day.’”

“Well, then, Lionel, I have to congratulate you on being the son of a gentleman, and the nephew of Lady R—. I wish you joy with all my heart,” said I, extending my hand.

“Thank you, Miss Valerie. It is true that I am so, but proofs are still to be given; but of that hereafter.”

“Lionel, you have been standing all this while. I think it would be most uncourteous if I did not request you to take a chair.” Lionel did so, and then proceeded with the old man’s narrative.

“‘About a month after this, Sir Richard R— came down, and after three weeks was accepted by Miss Barbara. It was a hasty match everyone thought, especially as the news of Mrs Dempster’s death had, as it was reported, been received by letter, and all the family had gone into mourning. Poor old Sir Alexander never held up his head afterwards, and in two months more he was carried to the family vault. Your aunt then came home to us, and as you have heard, married poor Green, who was killed in a poaching business about three months after his marriage. Then came your poor grandmother’s death of a quinsy, and so I was left alone with your aunt Green, who then took charge of the child, who had been christened by the name of Lionel Bedingfield. There was some talk about the child, and some wonders whose it could be; but after the death of Sir Alexander, and Miss Barbara had gone away with her husband, nothing more was thought or said about it. And now, boy, I’ve talked enough for to-day, to-morrow I’ll tell you the rest of the history.

“Perhaps, Miss Valerie, you think the same of me, and are tired with listening,” observed Lionel.

“Not at all; and I have leisure now which I may not have another time; besides your visits, if so frequent, may cause inquiries, and I shall not know what to say.”

“Well, then, I’ll finish my story this morning, Miss Valerie. The next day, old Roberts continued: ‘It was about three months after Sir Alexander’s death, when her brother, the new baronet, came down to Culverwood Hall, that Miss Barbara made her appearance again as Lady R—. Your grandmother was just buried, and poor Green had not been dead more than a month. Your aunt, who was much afflicted at the loss of her husband, and was of course very grave and serious, began to agree with me that it would be very wicked of us, knowing whose child it was, to keep the secret. Moreover, you aunt had become very fond of the infant, for it in a manner consoled her for the loss of her husband. Lady R— came to the cottage to see us, and we then both told her that we did not like to keep secret the child’s parentage, as it was doing a great injustice, if injustice had not been done already. Lady R— was very much frightened at what we said, and begged very hard that we would not expose her. She would be ruined, she said, in the opinion of her husband, and also of her own relations. She begged and prayed so hard, and made a solemn promise to us, that she would do justice to the child as soon as she could with prudence, that she overcame our scruples, and we agreed to say nothing at present. She also put a bank-note for 50 pounds into my daughter’s hands to defray expenses and pay for trouble, and told her that the same amount would be paid every year until the child was taken away.

“‘I believe this did more to satisfy our scruples than anything else. It ought not to have done so, but we were poor, and money is a great temptation. At all events, we were satisfied with Lady R—’s promise, and with her liberality; and from that time till the child was seven years old we received the money, and had charge of the boy. He was then taken away and sent to school, but where we did not know for some time. Lady R— was still very liberal to us, always stating her intention of acknowledging the child to be her nephew. At last my daughter was summoned to London, and sent to the school for the boy; Lady R— stating it to be her intention of keeping him at her own house, now that her husband was dead. This rejoiced us very much; but we had no idea that it was as a servant that he was to be employed, as your aunt afterwards found out, when she went up to London and called unexpectedly upon Lady R—. However, Lady R— said that what she was doing was for the best, and was more liberal than usual; and that stopped our tongues.

“‘Three years back your aunt left this place to find employment in London, and has resided there ever since as a clear-starcher and getter-up of lace; but she often sends me down money, quite sufficient to pay for all the few comforts and expenses required by a bedridden old man. There, Harry, now I’ve told you the whole story; and I am glad that I am able to do so, and that at last she has done justice to the lad, and there is no further a load upon my conscience, which often caused me to lay down my Bible, when I was reading, and sigh.’

“‘But,’ said I, ‘are you sure that she has acknowledged him as her nephew?’

“‘Am I sure! Why, did not you say so?’

“‘No; I only said that he was with her, travelling in her company.’

“‘Well, but—I understood you that it was all right.’

“‘It may be all right,’ replied I, ‘but how can I tell? I only saw them together. Lady R— may still keep her secret, for all I can say to the contrary. I don’t wonder at its being a load on your mind. I shouldn’t be able to sleep at nights; and, as for my reading my Bible, I should think it wicked to do so, with the recollection always before me, that I had been a party in defrauding a poor boy of his name, and, perhaps fortune.’

“‘Dear me! dear me! I’ve often thought as much, Harry.’

“‘Yes, grandfather, and, as you say, on the brink of the grave. Who knows but you may be called away this very night?’

“‘Yes, yes, who knows, boy,’ replied the old man, looking rather terrified; ‘but what shall I do?’

“‘I know what I would do,’ replied I. ‘I’d make a clean breast of it at once. I’d send for the minister and a magistrate, and state the whole story upon affidavit. Then you will feel happy again, and ease your mind, and not before.’

“‘Well, boy, I believe you are right, I’ll think about it. Leave me now.’

“‘Think about your own soul, sir—think of your own danger, and do not mind Lady R—. There can be but a bad reason for doing such an act of injustice. I will come again in an hour, sir, and then you will let me know your decision. Think about what the Bible says about those who defraud the widow andorphan. Good-bye for the present.’

“‘No, stop, boy, I’ve made up my mind. You may go to Mr Sewell, the clergyman, he often calls to see me, and I can speak to him. I’ll tell him.’

“I did not wait for the old man to alter his mind, but hastened as fast as I could to the parsonage-house, which was not four hundred yards distant. I went to the door and asked for Mr Sewell, who came out to me. I told him that old Roberts wanted to see him immediately, as he had an important confession to make.

“‘Is the old man going, then? I did not hear that he was any way dangerously ill?’

“‘No, sir, he is in his usual health, but he has something very heavy on his conscience, and he begs your presence immediately that he may reveal an important secret.’

“‘Well, my lad, go back to him and say that I will be there in two hours. You are his grandson, I believe?’

“‘I will go and tell him, sir,’ replied I, evading the last question.

“I returned to old Roberts, and informed him that the clergyman would be with him in an hour or two, but I found the old man already hesitating and doubting again:—

“‘You didn’t tell him what it was for, did you? for perhaps—’

“‘Yes, I did. I told him you had an important secret to communicate that lay heavy on your conscience.’

“‘I’m sadly puzzled,’ said the old man, musing.

“‘Well,’ replied I, ‘I’m not puzzled; and if you don’t confess, I must. I won’t have my conscience loaded, poor fellow that I am; and if you choose to die with the sin upon you of depriving the orphan, I will not.’

“‘I’ll tell—tell it all—it’s the best way,’ replied old Roberts, after a pause.

“‘There now,’ said I, ‘the best thing to be done is for me to get paper and pen, and write it all down for Mr Sewell to read when he comes; then you need not have to repeat it all again.’

“‘Yes, that will be best, for I couldn’t face the clergyman.’

“‘Then how can you expect to face the Almighty?’ replied I.

“‘True—very true: get the paper,’ said he.

“I went to the inn and procured writing materials, and then returned and took down his confession of what I have now told you, Miss Valerie. When Mr Sewell came, I had just finished it, and I then told him that I had written it down, and handed it to him to read. Mr Sewell was much surprised and shocked, and said to Roberts, ‘You have done right to make this confession, Roberts, for it may be most important; but you must now swear to it in the presence of a magistrate and me. Of course, you have no objection?’

“‘No, sir; I’m ready to swear to the truth of every word.’

“‘Well, then, let me see. Why, there is no magistrate near us just now but Sir Thomas Moystyn; and as it concerns his own nephew, there cannot be a more proper person. I will go up to the Hall immediately, and ask him to come with me to-morrow morning.’

“Mr Sewell did so; and the next day, he and Sir Thomas Moystyn came down in a phaeton, and went up to old Roberts. I rather turned away, that my uncle, as he now proves to be, might not, when I was regularly introduced to him, as I hope to be, as his nephew, recognise me as the sailor lad who passed off as the grandson of old Roberts.”

“Then, you admit that you have been playing a very deceitful game?”

“Yes, Miss Valerie. I have a conscience; and I admit that I have been playing what may be called an unworthy game; but when it is considered how much I have at stake, and how long I have been defrauded of my rights by the duplicity of others, I think I may be excused if I have beat them at their own weapons.”

“I admit that there is great truth in your observations, Lionel; and that is all the answer I shall give.”

“I remained outside the door while old Roberts signed the paper, and the oath was administered. Sir Thomas put many questions afterwards. He inquired the residence of his daughter, Mrs Green, and then they both went away. As soon as they were gone, I went in to old Roberts, and said, ‘Well now, sir, do you not feel happier that you have made the confession?’

“‘Yes,’ replied he, ‘I do, boy; but still I am scared when I think of Lady R— and your aunt Green; they’ll be so angry.’

“‘I’ve been thinking that I had better go up to Mrs Green,’ I said, ‘and prepare her for it. I can pacify her, I’m sure, when I explain matters. I must have gone away the day after to-morrow, and I’ll go up to London to-morrow.’

“‘Well, perhaps it will be as well,’ replied old Roberts, ‘and yet I wish you could stay and talk to me—I’ve no one to talk to me now.’

“Thinks I, I have made you talk to some purpose, and have no inclination to sit by your bed-side any longer; however, I kept up the appearance to the last, and the next morning set off for London. I arrived three days before I saw you first, which gave me time to change my sailor’s dress for the suit I now wear. I have not yet been to Mrs Green, for I thought I would just see you, and ask your advice. And now, Miss Valerie, you have my whole history.”

“I once more congratulate you, with all my heart,” replied I, offering my hand to Lionel. He kissed it respectfully, and as he was in the act, one of the maids opened the door, and told me that Lady M— had been some time waiting to see me. I believe I coloured up, although I had no cause for blushing; and wishing Lionel good-bye, I desired him to call on Sunday afternoon, and I would remain at home to see him.

It was on Thursday that this interview took place with Lionel, and on the Saturday I received a letter from Lady R—’s solicitor, by which I was shocked by the information of her ladyship having died at Caudebec, a small town on the river Seine; and begging to know whether I could receive him that afternoon, as he was anxious to communicate with me. I answered by the person who brought the letter, that I would receive him at three o’clock; and he made his appearance at the hour appointed.

He informed me that Lady R— had left Havre in a fishing boat, with the resolution of going up to Paris by that strange conveyance; and having no protection from the weather, she had been wet for a whole day, without changing her clothes; and, on her arrival at Caudebec, had been taken with a fever, which, from theignorance of the faculty in that sequestered place, had proved fatal. Her maid had just written the intelligence, enclosing the documents from the authorities substantiating the fact.

“You are not, perhaps, aware, miss, that you are left her executrix.”

“I her executrix!” exclaimed I, with astonishment.

“Yes,” replied Mr Selwyn. “Before she left town, she made an alteration in her will; and stated to me that you would be able to find the party most interested in it, and that you had a document in your hands which would explain everything.”

“I have a sealed paper which she enclosed to me, desiring I would not open it, unless I heard of her death, or had her permission.”

“It must be that to which she refers, I presume,” replied he. “I have the will in my pocket: it will be as well to read it to you, as you are her executrix.”

Mr Selwyn then produced the will, by which Lionel Dempster, her nephew, was left her sole heir; and by a codicil, she had, for the love she bore me, as she stated in her own handwriting, left me 500 pounds as her executrix, and all her jewels and wearing apparel.

“I congratulate you on your legacy, Miss de Chatenoeuf,” said he; “and now, perhaps, you can tell me where I can find this nephew; for I must say it is the first that I ever heard of him.”

“I believe that I can point him out, sir,” replied I; “but the most important proofs, I suspect, are to be found in the paper which I have not yet read.”

“I will then, if you please, no longer trespass on you,” said Mr Selwyn, “when you wish me to call again, you will oblige me by sending word, or writing by post.”

The departure of Mr Selwyn was quite a relief to me. I longed to be alone, that I might be left to my own reflections, and also that I might peruse the document which had been confided to me by poor Lady R—. I could not help feeling much shocked at her death—more so, when I considered her liberality towards me, and the confidence she reposed in one with whom she had but a short acquaintance. It was like her, nevertheless; who but Lady R— would ever have thought of making a young person so unprotected and so unacquainted as I was with business—a foreigner to boot—the executrix of her will; and her death occasioned by such a mad freak—and Lionel now restored to his position and his fortune—altogether it was overwhelming, and after a time I relieved myself with tears. I was still with my handkerchief to my eyes when Lady M— came into the room.

“Crying, Miss Chatenoeuf,” said her ladyship, “it is at the departure of a very dear friend.”

There was a sort of sneer on her face as she said this; and I replied—

“Yes, my lady, it is for the departure of a dear friend, for Lady R— is dead.”

“Mercy, you don’t say so; and what are these gentlemen who have been calling upon you?”

“One is her solicitor, madam,” replied I, “and the other is a relative of hers.”

“A relation; but what has the solicitor called upon you for? if it is not an intrusive question.”

“No, my lady; Lady R— has appointed me her executrix.”

“Executrix! well, I now do believe that Lady R— was mad!” exclaimed Lady M—. “I wanted you to come up to my boudoir to consult you about the pink satin dress, but I fear your important avocation will not allow you at present, so I will leave you till you are a little recovered.”

“I thank you, my lady,” said I, “I will be more myself to-morrow, and will then be at your disposal.”

Her ladyship then left the room. I was not pleased at her manner, which was very different from her usual courtesy towards me, but I was not in a state of mind to weigh well all that she said, or how she said it. I hastened to my room to look for the paper which Lady R— had enclosed to me previous to her departure. I will give the whole contents to my readers.

“My dear Valerie,

“I will not attempt to account for the extreme predilection which I, an old woman in comparison, immediately imbibed for you before we had been an hour in company. Some feelings are unaccountable and inexplicable, but I felt a sympathy, a mesmeric attraction, if I may use the term, which was uncontrollable at our first meeting, and which increased every day during our residence together. It was not the feeling of a mother towards a child—at least I think not, for it was mingled with a certain degree of awe and presentiment of evil if ever we parted again. I felt as if you were myfate, and never has this feeling departed from me. On the contrary, now that we separate, it has become stronger than ever. How little do we know of the mysteries of the mind as well as of the body! We know that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, and that is all. That there are influences and attractions uncontrollable and unexplained I feel certain. Often have I reflected and wondered on this as I have lain in bed and meditated ‘even to madness,’ but have been unable to remove the veil. (Alas, poor Lady R—, thought I, I doubt it not, you were madder than I thought you were.) Imagine, then, my grief and horror when I found that you were determined to leave me, dear Valerie. It was to me as the sentence of death; but I felt that I could not resist; it was my fate, and who can oppose its decrees? It would indeed have pained your young and generous heart if you knew how I suffered, and still suffer from your desertion; but I considered it as a judgment on me—a visitation upon me for the crimes of my early years, and which I am now about to confide to you, as the only person in whom I feel confidence, and that justice may be done to one whom I have greatly injured. I would not die without reparation, and that reparation I entrust to you, as from my own pen I can explain that without which, with all my good intentions towards the party, reparation might be difficult. But I must first make you acquainted with the cause of crime, and to do this you must hear the events of my early life.

“My father, Sir Alexander Moystyn, had four children, two sons and two daughters. I was the first-born, then my two brothers, and afterwards, at an interval, my sister, so that there was a difference of eight years between me and my sister, Ellen. Our mother died in giving birth to Ellen; we grew up, my brothers went to Eton and college. I remained the sole mistress of my father’s establishment. Haughty by nature, and my position, the power it gave me, the respect I received—and if you will look at the miniature I enclose with this, I may, without vanity, add, my beauty, made me imperious and tyrannical. I had many advantageous offers, which I rejected, before I was twenty years of age. My power with my father was unbounded, his infirmities kept him for a long time a prisoner in his room, and my word was law to him, as well as to the whole household. My sister Ellen, still a child, I treated with harshness—first, I believe, because she promised to rival me in good looks; and secondly, because my father showed greater affection towards her than I liked. She was meek in temper, and never complained. Time past—I refused many offers of marriage. I did not like to resign my position for the authority of a husband, and I had reached my twenty-fifth year, and my sister, Ellen, was a lovely girl of seventeen, when it was fated that all should be changed.

“A Colonel Dempster came down with my eldest brother, who was a captain in the same regiment of guards—a more prepossessing person I never beheld, and for the first time I felt that I would with pleasure give up being at the head of my father’s establishment to follow the fortunes of another man. If my predilection was so strong, I had no reason to complain of want of attention on his part. He courted me in the most obsequious manner, the style more suited to my haughty disposition, and I at once gave way to the feelings with which he had inspired me. I became fervently in love with him, and valued one of his smiles more than an earthly crown. Two months passed, his original invitation had been for one week, and he still remained. The affair was considered as arranged, not only by myself, but by everybody else. My father, satisfied that he was a gentleman by birth, and being able to support himself by his own means in so expensive a regiment, made no inquiries, leaving the matter to take its own course. But, although two months had passed away, and his attentions to me were unremitting, Colonel Dempster had made no proposal, which I ascribed to his awe of me, and his diffidence as to his success. This rather pleased me than otherwise; but my own feelings now made me wish for the affair to be decided, and I gave him every opportunity that modesty and discretion would permit. I saw little of him during the mornings, as he went out with his gun with the other gentlemen, but in the evenings he was my constant and devoted attendant. I received many congratulations from female acquaintances (friends I had none) upon my having conquered one who was supposed to be invulnerable to the charms of our sex, and made no disclaimer when spoken to on the subject. Every hour I expected the declaration to be made, when, imagine my indignation and astonishment, at being informed one morning when I arose, that Colonel Dempster and my sister Ellen had disappeared, and it was reported that they had been seen in a carriage driving at furious speed.

“It was but too true. It appeared that Colonel Dempster, who had been informed by my brother of my temper and disposition, and who was aware that without paying court to me, his visit would not be extended, and who had fallen in love with Ellen almost as soon as he saw her, had practised this dissimulation towards me to enable him, without my knowledge, to gain my sister’s affections; that his mornings were not spent in shooting with my brother, as was supposed, but in my sister Ellen’s company; my brother, to whom he had acknowledged his attachment, conniving with him to deceive me. A letter from the colonel to my father, excusing himself for the step he had taken, and requesting him to pardon his daughter, was brought in the same morning and read by me. ‘Very foolish of him,’ said my father; ‘what is the use of stealing what you may have for asking. He might have had Ellen if he had spoken to me; but I always thought that he was courting you, Barbara.’

“This letter, proving the truth of the report, was too much for me; I fell down at my father’s feet in a violent fit, and was carried to my bed. The next day I was seized with a brain fever, and it was doubtful if ever my reason would return. But it did gradually, and, after a confinement to my room of three months, I recovered both health and reason; partially, I may say, for I doubt not but that the shock I then received has had a lasting effect upon me, and that it has caused me to be the unsettled, restless, wandering thing that I now am, only content when in motion, and using my pen to create an artificial excitement. I believe most people are a little cracked before they begin to write. I will not assert that it is a proof of madness, but it is a proof that a very little more would make them mad. Shakespeare says ‘the lover, the lunatic, and the poet, are of an imagination all compact.’ It matters little whether it is prose or poetry; there is often more imagination and more poetry in prose than in rhyme. But to proceed—

“I arose with but one feeling—that of revenge; I say but one feeling, alas! I had forgotten to mention hatred, the parent of that revenge. I felt myself mortified and humiliated, cruelly deceived and mocked. My love for him was now turned to abhorrence, and my sister was an aversion. I felt that I never could forgive her. My father had not replied to the colonel’s letter; indeed, the gout in his hand prevented him, or he would probably have done so long before I left my room. Now that I was once more at his side, he said to me,

“‘Barbara, I think it is high time to forgive and forget. I would have answered the colonel’s letter before, but I could not. Now we must write and ask them to come and pay us a visit.’

“I sat down and wrote the letter, not according to his dictation, which was all kindness, but stating that my father would never forgive him or my sister, and requested all correspondence might cease, as it would be useless.

“‘Read what you have said, Barbara.’

“I read the letter as if it was written according to his wishes.

“‘That will do, dearest—they’ll come back fast enough. I long to have Ellen in my arms again—she was very precious to me that child, for she cost the life of your dear mother. I want to ask her why she ran away. I really believe that it was more from fear of your anger than of mine, Barbara.’

“I made no reply, but folded the letter and sealed it. As I always opened the post-bag, I prevented my father from ever receiving the many letters written by my poor sister, imploring his forgiveness, and did all I could to excite his anger against her. At last I found out from her letters, that they had gone to the continent. Months passed. My poor father fretted sadly at the silence of Ellen, and the supposed rejection of his kind overtures. His unhappy state of mind had evidently an effect upon his body; he grew weaker and more querulous every day. At last a letter arrived from Ellen, which I now blush to say, gave me inexpressible joy. It announced the death of her husband—a trifling wound on the thumb having terminated in locked-jaw and death.

“‘He is dead, then,’ thought I; ‘if I lost him, she has no longer possession of him.’

“Alas! what a demon had taken possession of me! The letter further said, that she was coming over directly, and that she expected to be shortly confined. This letter was addressed to me, and not to my father. The death of her husband did not diminish my hatred against my sister; on the contrary, I felt as if I had her now in my power, and that my revenge upon her was about to be accomplished. After meditating upon what course I should pursue, I determined to write to her. I did so, stating that my father’s anger was not to be appeased; that I had tried all I could to soften his wrath, but in vain; that he was growing weaker every day, and I thought her rash conduct had been the cause of it; that I did not think that he could last much longer, and I would make another appeal to him in her favour, which the death of her husband would probably occasion to be more successful.

“In a fortnight I had a reply, in which my poor sister invoked blessings on my head for my supposed kindness, and told me that she was in England, and expected every hour to be confined; that she was ill in body and in spirits, and did not think that she could get over it. She begged me, by the remembrance of our mother, who died giving her birth, that I would come to her. Surely I might have forgiven my enmity after all that the poor girl had suffered; but my heart was steeled.

“On consideration, I now thought proper to tell my father that Colonel Dempster was dead, and my sister returned to England,—adding her request that I would attend her in her confinement, and my willingness so to do. My poor father was much shocked, and begged me in a tremulous voice to set off immediately. I promised so to do, but requested that he would not say a word to anyone as to the cause of my absence until he heard from me, as it would occasion much talk among the servants, and perhaps ill-natured remarks might be made. He promised, and I departed, with a maid who had been my nurse, and upon whose secrecy I thought I could rely. What my intentions were, I can hardly say; all I knew was, that my revenge was not satiated, and I would leave no opportunity of wreaking it that offered.

“I found my sister in the very pangs of labour, heartbroken at the supposed resentment of my father, and his refusal of his forgiveness. I did not alleviate her misery by telling her the truth, which I might have done. I was indeed a demon, or possessed by one.

“She died giving birth to a boy. I then felt sorrow, until I looked at the child, and saw that it was the image of the colonel—the man who had caused me such misery. Again my passions were roused, and I vowed that the child should never know his father. I made my maid believe that the lady I visited was an old school-fellow, and never mentioned my sister’s name, at least I thought so at the time, but I afterwards found that I had not deceived her. I persuaded her to take the child to her father’s, saying that I had promised my friend on her death-bed that I would take care of it, but that it must be a secret, or invidious remarks would be made. I then returned to Culverwood Hall, dropping my nurse and the child on my way, and reported to my father my sister’s death, of course concealing that the child was living. Sir Alexander was much affected, and wept bitterly; indeed, from that day he rapidly declined.

“I had now satiated my revenge, and was sorry when I had done so. Until then I had been kept up by excitement, now all excitement was over, and I had time for reflection; I was miserable, and in a state of constant warfare with my conscience; but, in vain, the more I reflected, the more I was dissatisfied with myself, and would have given worlds that I could recall what I had done.

“At this time, Sir Richard R— came down on a visit. He admired me, proposed, and was accepted, chiefly that I might remove from the hall, than for any other cause. I thought that new scenes and change of place would make me forget, but I was sadly mistaken. I went away with my husband, and as soon as I was away, I was in a constant fright lest my nurse should betray me to my father, and begged Sir Richard to shorten his intended tour and allow me to return to the hall, as the accounts of my father’s health were alarming. My husband consented, and I had not been at the hall more than a fortnight, when my father’s death relieved me from further anxiety on that score.

“Another fear now possessed me; I saw by my father’s will that he had left 5,000 pounds to me, and also to my sister, in case of one dying, the survivor to have both sums, but the same cause of alarm was in my great aunt’s will. My great aunt had left 10,000 pounds to me, and 10,000 pounds to my sister Ellen, to be settled upon us at our marriage, and in case of either dying without issue, the survivor to be legatee. Thus in two instances, by concealing the birth of the child, I was depriving it of its property, and obtaining it for myself. That I was ignorant of these points is certain, and unfortunate it was that it was so, for had I known it, I would not have dared to conceal the birth of the child, lest I should have been accused of having done so for pecuniary considerations, and I well knew, that if betrayed by my nurse, such would be the accusation made against me. I would willingly even now, have acknowledged the child as my nephew, but knew not how to do so, as my husband had possession of the money, and I dared not confess the crime that I had been guilty of. If ever retribution fell upon any one, it fell upon me. My life was one of perfect misery, and when I found that my nurse and her father objected to keeping the secret any longer, I thought I should have gone distracted. I pointed out to them the ruin they would entail upon me, and gave my solemn promise that I would see justice done to the child. This satisfied them. For several years I lived an unhappy life with my husband, until I was at last relieved by his death. You may ask how it was that I did not acknowledge the child at his death; the fact was, that I was afraid. I had put him to school, and he was then twelve or thirteen years old. I removed him to my own house, with the intention of so doing, and because my nurse and her father reminded me of my promise; but when he was in my house, I could not see my way, or how I could tell the story without acknowledging my guilt, and this pride prevented.

“I remained thus irresolute, every day putting off the confession, till the boy, from first being allowed to remain in the drawing-room, sank down into the kitchen. Yes, Valerie, Lionel, the page, the lacquey, is Lionel Dempster, my nephew. I said that I could not bear to make the avowal, and such is the case. At last I satisfied myself that what I did was for the boy’s good. Alas! how easy we satisfy ourselves when it suits our views. I had left him my property, I had educated him, and I said, by being brought up in a humble position, he will be cured of pride, and will make a better man. Bad reasoning, I acknowledge.

“Valerie, I have left you my executrix, for even after my death I would as much as possible avoid exposure. I would not be the tale of the town, even for a fortnight, and it certainly will not help Lionel, when it is known to all the world that he has served as a footman. My solicitor knows not who my nephew is, but is referred to you to produce him. In a small tin box in the closet of my bedroom, you will find all the papers necessary for his identification, and also the names and residence of the parties who have been my accomplices in this deed; also all the intercepted letters of my poor sister’s. You must be aware that Lionel is not only entitled to the property I have left him, but also to his father’s property, which, in default of heirs, passed away to others. Consult with my solicitor to take such steps as are requisite, without inculpating me more than is necessary; but if required, let all be known to my shame, rather than the lad should not be put in possession of his rights.

“You will, I am afraid, hate my memory after this sad disclosure; but in my extenuation recall to mind how madly I loved, how cruelly I was deceived. Remember, also, that if not insane, I was little better at the time I was so criminal; and may it prove to you a lesson how difficult it is, when once you have stepped aside into the path of error ever to recover the right track.

“You now know all my sufferings, all my crimes. You now know why I have been, not without truth, considered as a person eccentric to folly, and occasionally on the verge of madness. Forgive me and pity me, for I have indeed been sufficiently punished by an ever torturing conscience!

“Barbara R—.”

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