Novelist.

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume X, Issue 1193, 4 November 1882, Page 3 (Supplement)

Novelist.

BY SLOW DEGREES. A STORY OF AUSTRALIA. BY ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY. AUTHOR OF “THAT FELLOW FARNESE.” CHAPTER XLIV (continued). “ Then you must have missed this paragraph about a burglary at Stone’s place. His safe was broken open the night before last, and emptied of its contents —some thirty pounds in money and a number of important documents.” “ Thirty pounds will not be a serious loss to Stone.” “ No. The money, it appears, only happened to be in the safe because it was received after banking hours. The theft of the documents, however, may be a more serious matter ; the paper does not mention the nature of them.” “ The night before last I” said the Count. “ Strange that Stone should not have sent the news to his daughter.” “ I suppose he has been busy with the inquiries which should follow such an occurrence. We shall likely hear from him before Why, here he comes now,” I broke off, as I caught sight of the Quaker approaching the house. “ I fear the matter is serious; he looks much altered.” And, indeed, Stone seemed, as he entered the room, to have become suddenly ten years older. His fresh colour was gone, his clear eye sunken, and his sturdy step shaken. The money was a mere trifle, he said in answer to our enquiries, but the loss of the documents meant ruin, as among them were the deeds of his property in various parts of the colon?. His business, he explained to us, had been brought by the prevailing commercial depression to a crisis which necessitated the command of a very large sum at a closely approaching juncture, and this sum the Antarctic Bank had agreed to advance him on the security of his title-deeds. “ The documents were to have been handed over this very day,” he said ; “ but, as they are not forthcoming, I cannot receive the advance which they would have covered. The crisis is at hand, end the name of Silas Stone will—will—will—”

Without completing the sentence, he bowed his gray head upon his hands, and groaned at the contemplation of what, according to his strict code, was commercial death. * “ I do not pretend to understand much of such matters, Silas,” I said; “but, as the property is still to the good, is there no possibility of otherwise arranging for the advance?” The Quaker shook his head: “Nay, friend,” he said, “ they will do nothing without the deeds ; or, even were they willing, there would of necessity, be much delay, and delay in my case is fatal. But let the will of the Lord be done ’’’he added, raising his head again. “ I would fain see my daughter.’’ “ That fellow, Harrison, threatened to be revenged, did he not!” asked the Count, when Ruth and her father had been left together. “So he did 1” I exclaimed. “ I had forgotten that. Do you think this is his doing?” “ I think he has had a hand in it. The paper says the safe gave signs of having been opened by a skilful burglar. That could scarcely have been Harrison ; but, as he may have been associated with professionals, and was probably aware of the existence of the deeds, I think that their abstraction was very likely an act of revenge on his part.” “Do you think Stone suspects him ? He said nothing of any such idea.” “ His thoughts have scarcely begun to work in that direction yet. He has evidently not recovered from the first stunning effects of the blow. It may kill him eventually I” “Yes,” I answered; “ he is a business man of that good old-fashioned class—becoming rarer every day—which holds commercial reputation dearer than life.” “ Yes; but that sort of thing may be cultivated into a disease. There is such a thing as a morbid and unwholesome moral sensitiveness.”

“All I can say, then,” I returned, “ is, that I wish the complaint would become epidemic. It is not by any means a common disease in Melbourne.” When we returned to the room where we had left the Quaker, we found him preparing to take his leave.

“ Nay, friends,” lie replied, when we suggested Harrison as the culprit, “ the detectives all say that the robbery was committed by accomplished burglars.” “ True,” said the Count; “ the safe may have been forced by professional robbers, but they would scarcely have removed the deeds, which would be of no use to them. That part of the affair looks like the fulfilment of Harrison’s threats of revenge.” “ May God forgive him, if it indeed be so 1” said Stone. “ Were it not for my daughter’s sake, I had sooner he had taken my life 1” “ Nay, father,” said Huth, who stood by him with tearful eyes—“ say not so! There is yet hope, remember; the deeds may be recovered.” “ I expect it not,” answered the old man, despondently; “ but the police are busy over the matter. Fare-thee-well—l must now be gone.” “ Not alone, father,” said Ruth, firmly. “ I will go with thee!” “ Not so, my child. If we have been unfortunate, we may not therefore forget our duty to others. Thou canst not thus depart from thy covenant with friend Giustiniani.” “ That is nothing,” said Paola, who had now joined us. “ Go, my dear Ruth, by all means I I shall be sorry to lose you, but Heaven forbid that I' should be the means of keeping you from your father’s side in his affliction. Say I not well, padre mio?” “ Undoubtedly, my dear! Her place is with her father.” Ruth approached the Count, and took his hand. “ I shall often think of thee, and of thy daughter,” she said, raising her tearful blue eyes to his swarthy, saturnine countenance. “ Thou hast been very kind to me, and thou art a good man, though methinks thou strivest oftentimes to hide it. But, I trust, all may yet be well,” she added, turning to Paola —“ in which case I will surely return unto thee.” Paola bent her lofty dark head for a moment over the little golden one, and, with their quaintly pathetic “ fare-thee-well,” the old man and his daughter withdrew. “ I must give directions about sending Ruth’s belongings after her,” said the Count. “ Certes I they arc but few and simple, for a woman.” “ You had a letter from Walter this morn-

ing?” said Paola, when her father had left the room. “ Yes, signorina. -May I ask how you know it?”

“ I -saw his writing on the envelope. Love’s eyes are sharp, you know,” she said, with a faint smile, which quickly died away as she inquired if the letter had brought any ill news. “Not as far as we are concerned,” I answered. “ Mr. Addison is very ill, and Walter is likely to be detained some time at Yaramboona : that is all at present.” “ That terrible man is ill, is he? I suppose it would be very un-Christian to wish he’were dead. And so we are no nearer than ever to an explanation of the mystery.” “ The Count expects very soon to hear from Father Ormonde.”

“ I do not expect much from him,’.’ she said. “His calling deals in secresy and crooked ways. Priests should be women,” she added, with a fine flash of contempt that bespoke her father’s daughter. “It is no profession for a man!” “It was not confined to men, among the ancients, at all events,” I said—“and there are not wanting nowadays, those who profess to regard clerics, as constituting a third sex.” “ That is too sweeping a view,” replied Paola, laughing at the oddity of the idea. “ There arc many good and true men in that profession ; but they are good and true men in a bad and false situation.” “ But forgive me for saying, signorina, that you surprise me much. I understood that you were a member ” “ I know what you would say,” she answered, seeing that I hesitated. “ But my religion needs no ministers—or, if there must be such, let them, as I said before, be women !” “ You would never make a curate-worship-per, at anyrate, young lady,” I said to myself, as I watched her tall figure move away, firm and upright as a tower. “It is to be hoped you will never go too far in the opposite direction, as did your female ancestors, in their predilection for the lanista and the gladiator. Perhaps Walter represents the happy medium; compounded as he says he is, of the athletic and -the aesthetic—the low and the lofty.” That afternoon’s post brought me the following characteristic note from Shuter: — “ Dear Raymond, Heard of Stone’s misfortune, of course. Puts a new face on the matter we were speaking of last night, Glad if you could make it convenient to give me a call at the office this evening—about eight, if you can. Mucklebody will be there, and we’ll talk the matter over.—Yours, Sharpe Shuter.” “ I thing I see the new face you refer to, Mr. Shuter,” I said to myself. “You think, if you were to give up your profession, and accept Mucklebody’s proposal, you would be in a position to help Stone out of his difficulty. But why did you not give up your profession before, since in that lies Stone’s only objection to you. I don’t know what amount the Quaker may require, but, if Mucklebody is as rich as they say, I don’t suppose it matters.” CHAPTER XLV. Entering Shuter’s sub-editorial room at the appointed hour, I found Mucklebody already arrived. The Scotchman’s attire was of a widely different description from that in which I had last beheld him, but, though the alteration was evidently intended to be in the direction of staid and grave respectability, the improvement was very questionable, and the effect of an ill-fitting suit of black, relieved by a velvet collar to the coat, and several preposterous festoons of gold chain across the waistcoat, was but little, if at all, less ridiculous than that of the travesty of the “garb of old Gaul,” which he had displayed on the racecourse. The man, however, was unchanged, and, as he squeezed my hand in his huge bony grasp, his hard features shone with what I took to be satisfaction, at the change in Shuter’s intentions.

“A owe ye a gude turn, man,” he said, as he patted me upon the shoulder like a child.” “ Shuter has just telt me ye hae been persuadin’ him no’ tae quarr’l wi’ his gude luck. We’ll tackle him thegither the noo.”

“ Don’t think I shall want much ‘ tackling ’ on the point,” said Shuter. “ Mind’s pretty well made up !” “ I am glad to hear it,” said I, as I took a seat, “ but I don’t sec why you did’nt make it up sooner.” “ Don’t you ? Got an additional inducement now—help Ruth’s father out of the mire. Very sorry for the old man. Always liked him. Not sure that I wouldn’t have changed my mind on his account alone—to say nothing of Ruth.” “Well, 1 suppose’the matter is settled, then,” I said. “ He hasna gied me his promise yet,” said Mucklebody; “ but he’s gaun tae do’t the noo. Gic’s ycre han’ then, laddie, an’ yere frecn’ Raymond wull be a wutness tac the agreement.” Shuter looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. “ Don’t often see much pressing required to make a man accept a fortune,” he said. “ Well, here goes! Haven’t a near relative alive, that I know of, so give me your hand, my new father, and the thing is settled! ” “ Gude, gude ! ” shouted Mucklebody, as, after squeezing Shuter’s hand till his eyes watered, he executed an uncouth pas seul that made the floor shake and the window rattle. “ I kennned ye’d come tae ycre senses at last! Come awa oot an’ we’ll hae a bottle or twa o’ champagne owre it 1 ” “ Softly, softly, my dear fellow, for Heaven’s sake ! ” said Shuter. “ Editor’s room’s just below us. He’ll think the place is coming down about his ears I ” “ Deil tak’ the editor! What need ye care aboot him 1 Snaip yere fingers at him an’ come awa—we’ll make a night o’t! ” —and it was not without difficulty that Shuter made the Scotchman comprehend the impossibility of terminating an engagement in the summary manner proposed. “ Shan’t be free for a month yet! ” said the former. “As to going out now—not to be thought of. Got a pile of work waiting. Must send you both away. Stay, though, Raymond. Any idea of what Stone requires to pull him through, eh ? ” “ Not the least,” I answered, “ except that he said the amount was a large one.” “ Five thousand, should you think ? ” “ Very probably.” “What do you say to that, Mufekle?” asked Shuter. “ Say! ” repeated the Scotchman. “ A say nacthin’ ava aboot it, laddie. The siller’s yere ain, tae do what likes ye—gin it was ten thousand instead o’ five. An’ now let’s be gangin’, Mr. Raymond ; if he maun do the wark, we’ll no’ keep him frae’t ony langer. A gude lad that,” he added, as we descended the stairs. “ The mair he kicked against takkin’ the siller, the mair A was set on gien’t tae him. An’ noo tell me whatten kin’ o’ a lassie she is—this Quaker’s dochter. A’m sair afraid she’ll be but a soor, psaulm-singin’ kin’ o’ body.” “ Not at all—not at all! Prim in manners a little—like all Quakers—but otherwise aS nice a little woman as you could imagine.” “Ye dinna say sae ! A maunna gang tae see her, then, yet a wee, for a’m weel likit amang the lasses, an’ a niicht be cuttin’ the puir laddie oot wi’ her ! ” —and Mucklebody signalised his own wit with a stentorian guffa.’, which procured .us the attention of a burly policeman as the corner we were passing.

He looked hard at us for a moment, and then stepped forward. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said to me ; “ but if yer name’s Raymond ye’ll remember me, perhaps.” “My name is certainly Raymond, and I know your face, but I don’t recollect—yes, I do, though! You were with us the night I went round with Detective Jinker—Sergeant —Sergeant——’ ’ “Blake, sir; an’ it’s a missage from Mr. Jinker I have for ye now. He said he’d seen ye going into the Cintury office,” went on the Sergeant, when I had stepped aside with him, “ an’ I was to wait an’ tell ye that the party ye wanted the information from is very ill in the Milbourne Hospital. She was knocked down in a row some time ago, an’ as the docthors have tould her she can’t recover, Mr. Jinker thought ye moight have a betther chance of gettin’ out of her what ye wanted to know.”

“I am obliged to him for the hint; when had I better go ?” “ The sooner the betther, sir; she’s very near her ind. I’m not on duty, mcself, an’ if ye loike to go now, I’ll go wid ye, an’ see that ye’re admitted.” “Very good, Sergeant. I’ll just speak to my friend and be with you in a moment; and, accordingly, having taken leave of Mucklebody, I caljed a cab and started for the hospital. “Is it known who injured her?” I asked, as we drove thither.

“ Not for certain, sir; but wc have ivery razon to belave it was Brummagem Ike—the man that threatened ye the night ye were wid us, ye rcmimber. As ye know, we suspect him of havin’ had a handin the attempted robbery at the house where ye’re stoppin’, an’ it seems he kem home next mornin’ an’ had a disperate quarrel wid the woman before he disappeared.” “ There has been nothing heard of either of the burglars since, then?” “ Nothin’ whatever, sir. It’s very sildom that such a known characther as Brummagem Ike gets away so clear, but I’m thinkin’ its the other chap that’s managed it — he’s a diver fellow, an’ no mistake !” “Derrick?” “ Ay, Derrick, as he called himself, but we’re all but certain he’s, the man ye may remimber I tould ye of—that looked upon burglary as a tip-top profission, an’ wouldn’t touch the value of a half-penny in any other way.” I remembered, as the sergeant spoke 5 that Derrick had called himself a “ mechanician.” “A professor of the mechanics of housebreaking, then,” I said to myself. “And since it seems he looks upon his own branch of the predatory art as the only legitimate one, I can understand how he came that night to prevent me from being robbed in the street.” Arrived at the hospital, we were admitted after a short parley between the gate-keeper and the sergeant, in which the latter several times referred to the person we had come to see as “ Mary Smith.” “ Is that the name she gave?” I asked, as I looked up at the facade of the huge Elizabethan pile within which so many of the world’s waifs and strays had passed out of life, uncheered by the presence of friend or relative. “Yis, sir—or, at laste, it’s the name we gev for her. Painted Mary is the name she has ginerally gone by, but, of coorse that couldn’t be inthered on the books.” “Up the long flights of stairs; through the airy passages, till we reached, at last, the hushed atmosphere of a dim, silent ward. A nurse came forward to meet us; the doctor was just coming through, she said; we had better speak to him. “ Smith, eh ?” said the doctor, when we accosted him. “ Number eighteen, isn’t it Mrs. Collins? Well, it can’t make much difference to her, now, who sees her; she won’t last another twenty-four hours.” Leaving the" sergeant where he was, I followed the nurse up between the long rows of beds, till we reached the one we sought. With her head encircled by a broad white bandage, the Russian lay motionless and apparently asleep, but, as we paused by her side, she opened her eyes. Cold, keen, and sinister as ever, they shone out from her ghastly face with a hard brilliance that bespoke the evil spirit unsubdued. “Do not remain long with her,” said the nurse, as she retired, and, low as the words were spoken, the dying woman caught them. A laugh, feeble as an infant’s, but mocking as a fiend’s, came from her lips. “No need for tliat caution, I think,” she said. “ I shall not remain long with you. What brings you here ?” “ I came to ask you, as you know you are on your death-bed—to tell me the truth about the child which you said was Dumarlay’s,” “You think it was yours, after all, perhaps, don’t you ?” “ I know not what to think I” “ I know !”—her voice suddently sank so low that I had to stoop down to catch the words. “ That young man I saw with you at the theatre—he about whom you asked me before —what is his name?” “Addison,” I said eagerly. “ Yes—Addison ; is he married yet to that Italian’s daughter?” “ No,” I answered, wondering what would come next, “ the marriage is broken off for the present.” Again she made a feeble attempt to laugh ; her teeth glittered in the old tiger-like fashion, and, as her devilish eyes gazed into mine, the sudden conviction flashed across me, that she was the writer of the anoymous letter. Fool that I was, not to have guessed it before. But her motive—what could that have been ? What could your purpose have been in writing that mischievous letter ?” I asked. She made no attempt at denial. “ What ray motive was, you shall never know.” she said. “To tell you that would be to tell you” She stopped, gasping for breath ; her pale face took a still deathlier pallor, and she pointed to a small bottle which stood on a shelf above her head. Not knowing what this might contain, I summoned the nurse; she administered a few sips, and Glika’s voice grew stronger as she went on. “ Let it be enough for you to know that the letter you speak of has cost me my life. That man—the burglar—when he came home after the attempted robbery, found an envelope in the house with the Count’s address on it. It was only one I spoiled in directing it, but he immediately jumped to the conclusion that I had been writing to—to give warning of the intended burglary, and so —and so—he struck me down.” Again the nurse came forward to give her the stimulating cordial, but this time her experienced eye detected a change. “ She is going fast, sir—l shall have to place a screen round the bed ; do you wish to remain ?” “ There is no reason why I should,” I answered. “ She will not became conscious again, I suppose ?” But, even as I spoke, the dying woman opened her eyes again, and half raised herself on her elbow. “ I have written it all down,” she said, in a wandering way. “ The book is lost. If you find it—but no—no !” she added, /inking back on her pillow, and turning upon me a final glare of malevolence—“ The boy was not yours! He was Dumarlay’s—Dumarlay’s, remember!” she repeated, her voice raising almost to a shriek, as the nurse, having placed a screen round us, came for-

ward and raised her head. In less than a minute she laid it down again. “It is all over!” she said, quietly. At that instant a burst of heavy rain rattled against the windows, and a blue flickering flash shone through the calico screen upon the dead woman’s face. The white teeth and staring eyeballs glittered under the weird illumination, and, as I left the bedside, I could not help recalling certain eerie tales, which describe the fiend as carrying off his victim’s soul, at the final moment, in lightning and storm. Something of the same kind must have been in the Celtic mind of Sergeant Blake when I rejoined him. “ God be good to us !” he said, crossing himself devoutly, when I told him that the woman had just expired. “ She wint off wid that flash of lightnin’.” “ What could she have meant that she had written down ?” I asked myself, when the Sergeant had taken his leave of me. “ The book, she said, was lost. What book ?—and what could she have written in it that concerns me ?—unless it were the truth about my wife’s son ? And yet she said with her last breath that he was Dumarlay’s. Hardened as she was, she would scarcely have died with a deliberate lie upon her lips. Then about the anonymous letter, it is quite incomprehensible to me what could have been her object in writing it. It could not hurt me, and Paola she could have had no reason for injuring—nor Walter cither. I can make nothing of her conduct, except by putting her down as mad!” CHAPTER XLVI. “ Then Ormonde is right,” said the Count, when I had recounted to him, next morning, my last meeting with Glika Nasilovitch. “ I have just had*a letter from him, which you had better read—that is, if you can decipher the worthy man’s hieroglyphics.” “ My dear Count,” ran the letter, “ 1 made all haste to reply to your communication of eight days ago, the contents of which caused me much surprise and pain, though I am not, like you, at a loss to imagine who was the writer of the anonymous note. But of that presently. What I have first to do is to make known those circumstances in connection with Mr. Addison’s marriage which I have hitherto been induced to conceal on account of a promise—more implied, perhaps, than expressed—to that effect. “ I think it was in the winter of 1855 that Mr. Stone, as he has told you, informed me that he had in his house a young Roman Catholic lady and her child. Under what circumstances he took them in I have no doubt that he has himself already explained to you, and I need therefore only say that I removed her to the care of some ladies of her

own persuasion. She stated that her name was Dumarlay, and that she was a widow.” “ Great Heaven!” I exclaimed. “ Then it my wife who was married to Addison; and Walter was the child she brought with her!”

The Count nodded impassively. “ Read on!” he said.

“ Mrs. Dumarlay,” the letter proceeded, “ was still a very attractive woman., and when, not long afterwards, she became acquainted with a Mr. Addisdn, who was a member of an old Roman Catholic family in the north of England, he made proposals of marriage to her. Addison had arrived in the colony almost penniless, but had soon afterwards inherited a considerable sum of money, and was thinking of going up country to commence sheep-farming. Me was a very tall and fine-looking man, but, as he appeared to be of a somewhat morose and savage temper, I was rather opposed to the match until the following circumstances decided me in its favour :— “ Mrs. Dumarlay confided to me that she had accidentally encountered in Melbourne a young woman who had formerly been her maid, and who was a person of very.daring and unscrupulous disposition. This woman, who was a Russian, and whose name I forget, had discovered the proposed improvement in her old mistress’s position, and, having once had great influence over her, wished to renew that influence and to fasten herself upon Mrs. Dumarlay again, whether she would or not. The intervention of the police was, as you may readily suppose, the remedy which I naturally suggested, but of this Mrs. Dumarlay would not hear, and, though I did not quite understand the repugnance to such a course, I thought the best way out of the difficulty would be to marry her to Mr. Addison, and thus place her out of the woman’s reach. “ This was accordingly done, and the pair soon afterwards left for Yaramboona, but not before the Russian woman had made several attempts to obtain speech of Mrs. Addison. Foiled in these, she more than once sought an interview with me, but, finding that her object was merely to make monstrous and incredible charges against her former mistress, I refused to listen to her, and warned her that if she persisted in annoying me, I would hand her over to the police. The warning was disregarded, and the threat was put into execution; she received three months’ imprisonment, and since then I have never seen her but once. Mr. Raymond, who, curiously enough, had just before then been displaying some curiosity on the subject of Walter’s parentage, was with me on that occasion, and was, I have no doubt, somewhat puzzled by my be haviour. “ This woman, then, I am convinced, is the writer of the anonymous letter, and her motive I conceive to be a wish to injure the former Mrs. Dumarlay’s son, as she has doubtless somehow discovered Walter to be—the name of Addison, indeed, would be a sufficient clue. “ You now know all that I know on the subject, and I have only further to give my reasons for hitherto allowing Walter to believe himself Addison’s actual son. Mrs. Addison survived her marriage but a very short time, and her husband, who had from the first taken a great fancy to the child, besought me to let him grow up in ignorance of his paternity. To this I partly agreed, and, as I have hitherto seen no good reasen for revealing the true state of the case, the young man to this day believes his name to be Addison. “ Now, however, that his happiness—as well as that of your daughter (to whom pray commend me) —is involved in the matter, I consider that I am justified in setting aside what, after all, was never a categorical promise. “ I had almost forgotten to mention that Walter was only called by that name after his mother’s death, his real name being, if I recollect aright, Julian.” I laid down the letter, and stared at the Count. “ Then Walter Addison is not Walter Addison at all”? I said. “He is Julian Dumarlay.” The Count shook his head. “ Not Julian Dumarlay,” he said—“ but Julian Raymond.” “ You forget,” I cried, “ that, for all we know yet, Walter —or rather Julian —is Dumarlay’s son !” “I do not forget it,” he replied. “ Even if he is Dumarlay’s son, he is the son of your wife—born under your roof—and his name is, therefore, yours.” “ What, in the name of Heaven, can we do, then ! If wc tell Walter—Julian, I mean—that his real surname is Raymond, we must allow him to believe that he is my son—longlost, but lawfully begotten.” “As I firmly believe he is V' said the

Count, seizing my hand in his iron grip. “ That is the belief which has long been in my mind, but which I would not put into words as long as there was a chance of your definitely ascertaining the truth from that Russian. lam convinced that she deceived you in the first instance, for her own purposes, and, now that she is dead, I say to you that there is not a doubt on my mind that the resemblance between Walter and yourself speaks the truth, and that, however erring your wife may have been, the boy which she took away with her was your very own after all!”

“ I thank you for the words,” I said, returning his grasp. “ The hope has been haunting my own mind since first we heard of the wandering woman and her child. You agree, then, that the best course is to tell Julian that he is my son, without letting him suspect the existence of any uncertainty upon the point. “ There is a difficulty in the way of that course, which you have overlooked,” said the Count. “ Addison may be induced by Julian to reveal the facts, as far as he knows them, in which case you will either have to allow the latter to believe that his real surname is indeed Dumarlay, or, by telling him that it is Raymond, make him aware that his mother had been masquerading under a name which did not belong to her.” “ That is true. What do you think is best to be done, then ?”

“ I say—tell him the truth I It will pain him, but he is young, and time soon cures the pains of the young. Besides, his resemblance to you, will help to convince him that he is indeed your son. That resemblance is the strongest evidence of the fact, that we are ever likely to possess.” “Against it we have but the statement of a malicious and designing woman, it is true,” I said—“but it is a statement which she repeated with her last breath.” “ She spoke also,* did she not, in her last moments, of a book in which she had writteu the whole story down?” “Yes—something to that effect.” “ That mention of the book, was probably the outcome of some fleeting impulse towards good. Even such demons as she was, have their better moments, and I think it likely enough, that she had written down a statement of the truth—perhaps even a history of all her evil-doings. The most hardened wretches are sometimes thus impelled to commit to writing, what they dare not utter •with their lips. But, even if there should be such a confession in existence, it is improbable in the extreme, that you will ever fall in with it; and so, as I have said, the personal resemblance is the point you have chiefly to rely on.” “ Then, with regard to the marriage,” I said, after a pause—“ if Julian is my son, I would earnestly desire to see him married to your daughter.” “And if Julian is your son,” returned the Count, quickly—“ I would earnestly desire to see my daughter married to him. Our fathers were friends, as we are friends—let there be a closer union still, in the third generation !” The sun shone suddenly out from behind a cloud, as he spoke, and sent across the room a brilliant shaft of good omen to the young lives we were thinking of, but then, to blot out the brightness, came another cloud, and with it another doubt. “ Your daughter, Count!” I said—“ must we make her acquainted with all the circumstances ?” “Of course. What then?” “She may not like the shadow of uncertainty which rests on Walter’s parentage. She is proud.” “ You do her an injustice, Raymond,” said the Count, with a slight frown. “ She is proud, as you say—but not with a petty pride of that kind. You forget that she was willing to abide by the engagement in the teeth of that anonymous letter; it was from the young Quixote himself, that the objections came.” “ You are right,” I said, slowly, as I watched the sunlight grow to a greater radiance than ever. “He is Quixotic, perhaps: but, should he scruple any longer, I shall think—and tell him—that he is unworthy of his good fortune.” “ Write to him then,” said the Count. “ Tell him to return without delay, that we may have this matter settled, once for all. By-the-way, though, I had forgotten; Addison is ill, and—Julian; I must dearn to call him, will wish, I suppose, to stay with the sick man for some time.” “ Yes. Except in the one instance of which we know, Addison has always been very . land to his supposed son, and the latter is not the man to forget it.” “I think all the better of him for that; but let him come as soon as he can. Suppose Addison were to die—how would his property go ? Would Julian inherit ?” (To be continued.)