ISHMAEL OR IN THE DEPTHS.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 441, 29 January 1890, Page 3

ISHMAEL OR IN THE DEPTHS.

_■ j . by M RS EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

liihoi' of "Self-Raised." “Fair Play." “Th* .Vii-sing ride.” “ \ • oblc Lord,” “How He Won Her,'’ " he Prince of ... Imrl.n its," V Tried for I ler •’ • j Ifc,” Etc., Etc. CHAPTER XV. At the close of Hannah’s narrative Reuben Gray took her hand, and holding it, said gravely w ‘ Well, my dear girl, I suppose the affair must rest where it isfor the present. But this makes one thing incumbent upon us.’ And having said this, Reuben hesitated so long that Hannah took up the word and asked: * This makes ivhat incumbent upon us, lad ?’ ‘To get married right away !’ blurted out the man. * Pray, have you come into a fortune, Reuben ?’ inquired Hannah, coolly. ‘ No, child, but— ’ ‘Neither have I,' interrupted Hannah. 4 1 was a going to say,’ continued the man, * that I have my hands to work with— ’ ‘ For your large family of sisters and brothers —’

‘ And for you and that poor orphan boy, as well! And I’m willing ’to do it for you all ! And we really must be married right away, Hannah ! I must have a lawful right to protect you against the slights as you’ll be sure to receive after what’s happened, if you don’t have a husband to take care of you.’ He paused and waited for her reply ; but as she did not speak, he began again : ‘Come, Hannah, my dear, what do you say to our being married o’ Sunday ?’ She did nob answer, ana he continued : ‘ I think as we better had get tied together, arter morning service. And then you know I’ll take you and the bit of a baby home long o’ me, Hannah. And I’ll be a loving husband to you, my girl; and I’ll be a father to the little lad with as good a will as ever I was to my own orphan brothers and siste-s. And I’ll break every bone .in the skin of any man that looks askance at him too ! Don’t you fear for yourself or the child, my dear. The country side knows me for a peaceable disposed man,but it had rather not provoke me for all that, because it knows when I have a just cause of quarrel, I don’t leave my work half done ! Come, Hannah, what do you say, my dear? Shall it be o’ Sunday? You won’t answer me ? What, crying, my girl ? crying ! what’s that for ?’ The tears were streaming from Hannah’s eyes. She took up her apron and buried her face in its fo’ds.

‘Now what’s all that about ?’ continued Reuben, in distress ; then suddenly brightening up, he said— * Oh, I know now ! You’re a-thinking of Nancy and Peggy ! Don’t be afeard, Hannah! They won’t do, nor say, nor even so much as look anything to hurt your feelings! and they had better nob if they know which side their bread is buttered ! I am master of my own house, I reckon, poor as it is ! And my wife will be the mistress ; and my sisters must keep their proper places! Come, Hannah ! come, my darling, what do you say to me ?’ he whispered, putting his arm'over her shoulders, while he tried to draw the apron from Ijer face. She dropped the apron, lifted her face, looked at him through her falling tears, and answered : ‘This is what I have to say to you, dear, dearest, best loved Reuben ! I feel your goodness in the very depths of my heart; I thank you with all my soul; I will love you—you only—in silence and in solitude, "all my life ; I will pray for you daily and nightly ; but— ’ she stopped and sobbed.

‘ Bub— ’ said Reuben, breathlessly. ‘ I will never carry myself and my dishonour under your honest roof.’ Reuben caught his suspended breath with a sharp gasp and gazed in blank dismay upon the sobbing woman for a few minutes, and then he said : 4 Hannah—oh my Lord ! Hannah, you never mean to say, that you won’t marry me?’

‘ I mean just that, Reuben.’ ‘ Oh, Hannah, what I done to ofl’end you ? i never meant to do it! I don’t even know how I’ve done it! I’m such a blundering animal ! But tell me what it is, and I will beg your pardon 1’ ‘lt is nothing, you good, true heart! nothing ! But you have two sisters —’ * There, I knew it! It’s Nancy and Peggy ! They've been doing something to hurt your feelings ! Well, Hannah, they shall come here and ask your forgiveness, or else they shall leave my home and go to earn their living in somebody’s kitchin ! I’ve been a father to them gals ; but 1 won’t suffer them to insult my own dear Hannah !’ burst forth Reuben, indignantly. ‘ Dear Reuben, you are totally mistaken ! Your sisters no more than yourself have ever given me the least cause of offence. They could not, dear Reuben ! The ymust .be good girls, being your sisters. ’ ‘ W ell, if neither I nor my sisters have hurt your feelings, Hannah, what in the name of sense did you mean by saying—(l hate even to repeat the words) —that you would not mairy me ?’ ‘Reuben, reproach has fallen upon my name—undeserved, indeed, but not the less severe. You have young, unmarried sisters, with nothing but their good names to take them through the world. For their sakes, dear, you must not marry me and my reproach 1’ * Is that all you mean, Hannah ?’ •All.’ ‘ Then I will marry you !’ ‘Reuben, you must give me up.’ 1 won’t, I say ! So there now.’ * Dear Reuben, I value your affection more than I do anything iu this world except duty ; but I cannot permit you to sacrifice yourself to me,’ said Hannah, struggling hard to repress the sobs that were again rising in her bosom. ‘ Hannah, I begin to think you want to drive me crazy or break my heart ! What sacrifice would it be for me to marry you 1 and adopb that poor child ? The only saterifice 1 can think of would be to give you up ! But I won’t do it! no ! I won’t for nyther man nor mortal ! You promised to marry me, Hannah, and I won’t free your promise ! but I will keep you to it, and marry you, if I die for it!’ grimly persisted Reuben'Gray. ■ And before she ,could reply, they were interrupted by li knock at the door. ‘ Come in !’ said. Hannah, expecting to see Mrs Jones, or some other humble neighbour. tv*fin. "3'*! _*■- • =’ ' .'ij The door was pushed gently open,: and a worn >n of exceeding beauty stood upon, the threshold. ' Her slender but elegant form was clothed via the i deepest'mourning ; her pale, deli - * cate face was shaded by the blackest ringlety;: her large, dark eyes were fixed with the J saddest intereet upon the face of •Hannah-Worth. : ■' Hannah arose in |jreat surprise to meet r-;n« -riv '.ijfiJl.ta: /Otidn’i

‘You are Miss Worth, I suppose?’said the young stranger in a soft voice. ‘ Yes, Miss ; what is your will with me?’ ‘I am the Countess of Hurstmonceux. Will you let me rest here a little while ?’ she asked, with a sweet smile.

Hannah gazed at the speaker in the utmost astonishment, forgetting to answer her question, or offer a seat, or even to shut the door, through which the wintry wind was blowing fiercely.

What! Was this beautiful pale young creature the Countess of Hurstmonceux, the rival of Nora, the wife of Herman Brudenell, the ‘ bad, artful woman ’ who had entrapped the young Oxonian into a discreditable marriage ? Impossible ! While Hannah stood thus dumb-founded before the visitor, Reuben came forward with rude courtesy, closed the door, placed a chair before the fire, and invited the young lady to be seated. ’ The countess, with agentle bow of thanks, passed on, sank into her chair, and let her sable furs slip from her shoulders in a drift around her feet.

CHAPTER XVI. THE FORSAKEN WIFE. He prayeth best who loveth most Ail things both great and small, For the good God who loveth us. He made and loveth all. Coleridge. To account for the strange visit of the Coun’ess of Hurstmonceux to Hannah Worth, we must change the scene to Brudenell Hall. From the time of her sudden arrival at her husband’s house, every hour had been fraught with suffering bo Berenice. In the first instance, where she had expected to give a joyful surprise, she had only given a painful shock ; where she had looked for a cordial welcome, she had received a cold repulse ; finally, when she had hoped her presence would confer happiness, it had brought misery 1 On the very evening of her arrival, her husband, after meeting her with reproaches, had fled from the house, leaving no clue to his destination, and giving no reason for his strange proceeding.

Berenice did not understand this. She cast her memory back, through all the days of her short married life spent with Herman Brudeneil, and she sought diligently for anything in her conduct that might have given him offence She could find nothing. Neither in all their intercourse had he ever accused her of any wrong-doing. On the contrary, he had been profuse in words cf admiration, protestations of lo\eand vows of fidelity. Now what had caused this fatal change in his feelings and conduct towards her? Berenice cou 4 d not tell; her mind was as thoroughly perplexedasherheartwas deeply wounded 1 At first she did not know that he was gone forever. She thought that he would return in an hour or two and openly accuse her of some fault, or that he would in some manner betray the cause of offence which he must suppose she had given him. And then, feeling sure of her innocence, he knew she could exonerate herself from every shadow of blame—except from that of loving him too well, if he should consider that a fault.

Therefore she waited patiently for his return, but when the night passed and he had nob come she grew more and more uneasy, and when the next day had passed without his making his appearance, hei uneasiness rose to intolerable anxiety. The visit of poor Nora at night had aroused at onoe her suspicions, her jealousy and her compassion. She half believed that in this girl she saw her rival in her husband’s affections, the cause of her own repudiation and—what was more bitter still to the childless Hebrew wife—the mother of his children This had been very terrible 1 But to the Jewish woman the child of her husband, even if it is at the same time the child of her rival, is as sacred as her own. Berenice was loyal, conscientious and compassionate. In the anguish of her own deeply wounded and bleeding heart, she had pitied and pleaded for poor Nora—had even asserted her own authority as mistress of the house, for the sake of protecting Nora her husband’s other wife, as in the merciful construction of her gentle spirit she had termed the unhappy girl. But then, my readers, you must remember that Berenice was a Jewess. This poor unloved Leah would have sheltered the beloved Rachel. We all know how her generous intentions were carried out. A second and a third day passed and still there came no news of Herman. Berenice, prostrated with the heartwasting sickness of hope deferred, kept her own room. Mrs Brudeneil was indignant at her son, not for the neglect of his lovely young wife, but for his indifference to a wealthy countess 1 She deferred her journey to Washington in consideration of her noble daughter-in law, and in the hope of her son’s speedy re-appearance and reconciliation with his wife, when—she anticipated—they would all go to Washington together—where the Countess of Hurtsmonceux would certainly be the lioness and the Misses Brudeneil the belles of the season.

On the evening of the fourth day, while Berenice lay exhausted upon the sofa of her bedroom, her maid entered the chamber saying: ‘ Please, my lady, you remember the young woman that was here on Friday evening ?’ ‘ Yes !’—Berenice was up on her eltow in an instant, looking eagerly into the girl’s face.

• Your ladyship ordered me to make inquiries about her, but I could get no news excppt from the old man who took her home out of the snow-storm and who came back and said she was ill.’ ‘I know ! I know 1 You told me that before.! But you have heard something else ! What is it ?’ 4 My lady, the old woman Dinah, who went to nurse her, never came back till today, that is the reason I couldn’t hear any more news until to night.’ ‘Well! well! Your news! Out with it, girl!’ ‘ My lady, she is dead and buried !’ • Who ?’ • ‘ The young woman, my lady. She died on Saturday. She was buried to-day !’ Berenice sank back on the sofa and covered her face with her hands. So ! her dangerous rival was gone ! the poor unhappy girl was dead ! Berenice was jealous, but pitiful. And she experienced in the same moment a sense of infinite relief and a feeling of the deepest compassion. Neither mistress nor maid spoke for several minutes. The latter was the first to break silence. ‘ My lady !’ - ‘ Well, Phoebe ?’ • ■ 5 ‘ There was something else I had to tell you.’ ‘ What was it ?’ ‘The young woman left a child, my lady. ’ • . , ‘A child!’—Again Beret rice was up on her elbow, her eyes fixed upon the speaker, and blazing with eager interest. ‘lt is a boy, my lady; but they don’t think it will live !’ . ‘ A boy 1 he shell live ! he is mine ! my son ! I .will have him! Since his mother is dead,, it is I who have the best right to him !’ exclaimed the countess, vehemently, rising to her feet ‘"• '■ '\ " \ The maid recoiled—she thought her mistress had suddenly gone mad.

‘ Phcebe !’ said the countess, eagerly, ‘ what is the hour ?’ ‘ Nearly eleven, my lady.’ ‘ Has it cleared off?’ ‘ No, my lady, it has come on to rain hard : it is pouring.’ The countess went to the windows of her room ; but they, were too closely shut and warmly curtained to give her any information as to the state of the weather without. Then she hurried impatiently into the passage where the one end window remained with its shutters still unclosed, and she looked out. The rain was lashing the glass with fury. She turned away and sought her own room again—complaining : ‘ Oh, I can never go to night ! It is too late and too stormy 1 Mrs Brudeneil would think me crazy, and the woman at the hub would never let me have my son. Yet, oh ! what would I not give to have him on my bosom to-night,’ said Berenice, pacing feverishly about the room. ‘My lady,’ said the maid, uneasily, ‘I don’t think you are at all well this evening. Won’t you let me give you some sal-vola-bi\® ?’ ‘No, I don’t want any,’ replied the countess, without stopping in her restless walk. ‘ But, my lady, you are nob well 1’ persisted the affectionate creature. ‘ No, lam not well, Phcebe 1 My heart is sore, .sore, Phcebe ! But that child would be a balm to it 1 If I could press my son to my bosom, Phcebe, he would draw out all the fire and pain !’ 4 But, my lady, he is not your son f said the maid, with tears of alarm starting in her eye 3. ‘He is, girl! Now that his mother is dead, he is mine 1 Who has a better right to him than 1, I wonder ? His mother is gone 1 his father —’ here the countess suddenly recollected herself, and as she looked into her maid’s astonished face, she felt how far apart were the ideas of the Jewish matron and the Christian maiden. She controlled her emotion, took her seat, and said : 4 Don’t ba alarmed, Phcebe. lam only a little nervous to-night, my girl. And I want something more satisfactory than a little dog to pet.’ ‘ 1 don’t think, my lady, you could get anything in the world more grateful, or more faithful, or more easy to manage, than a little dog. Certainly not a baby. Babies is awful, my lady. Thev ain’t gob a bit of gratitude or faithfulness in them ; and after you have toted them about all day, you may tote them about all night. And then they are bawling from the first of January until the thirty-first of December. Take my advice, my lady, and stick to the little dogs, and let babies alone if you love your peace.’ The countess smiled faintly and kept sdence. But she kept her resolution also. The last words that night spoken after she was in bed, and when she was about to dismiss her maid, were these : ‘ Phcebe, mind that yon are not to say one word to any human being of the subject of our conversation to-night. But you are to call me at eight o’ lock, have my breakfast brought to me here at half-past eight, and the carriage at the door at nine. Do you hear ?’ ‘Yes, my lady,’ answered the girl, who immediately went to the small room adjoining her mistress’ chamber, where she usually sat by day and slept by night. The countess could only sleep in perfect darkness ; so, when Phcebe had put out all the lights, she took advantage of that darkness to leave her door open, so that she could listen if her mistress was restless or wakeful. The maid soon discovered that her mistress ivas wakeful and restless. The countess could not sleep for contemplating her project of the morning. According to her Jewish ideas, the motherless son of her husband was as much hers as though she had brought him into the world. And thus she, poor, unloved and childless wife, was delighted with the son that she thought had dropped from heaven into her arms. That anyone should venture to rai-e the slightest objection to her taking possession of her own son, never entered the mind of Berenice. She imagined that even Mrs Brudeneil, who had treated the mother with the utmost scorn and contumely, must turn to the son with satisfaction and desire.

In cautioning Phcebe to secrecy, she had not done so in dread of opposition from any quarter, but with the design of giving Mrs Brudenell a pleasant surprise. ' She intended to go out in the morning as if for a drive, to go to the hut, take possession of tiie boy, bring him home and lay him in his grandmother’s lap. And she anticipated for her reward, her child’s affection, her husband’s love, and her mother’s cordial approval. Full of excitement from these thoughts, Berenice could not sleep; but tossed from sidetosidein her bed like one suffering from pain or fever. ' ’ Her faithful attendant, who had loved her mistress well enough to leave home and country and follow her across the seas to the Western World, lay awake anxiously lis'ening to her restless motions until near morning, when, overcome by watching, she fell asleep. The maid, who had been the first to close her eyes, was the first to open them. Remembering her mistress’ order to be called at eight o’clock, she sprang out of bed and looked at her watch. To her consternation she found that it was half-past nine. She flew to her mistress’ room and threw open the blinds, letting in a flood of morning light. And then she went to the bedside and drew back the curtains and looked upon the face of the sleeper: Such a pale, sad, worn-looking face ! with the full lips closed, the long black lashes lying on the waxen cheeks, the slender black brows slightly contracted and the long purplish black hair flowing down each side and re-ting upon the swelling bosom ; her arms were thrown up over her pillow, and her hands clasped over her head. This attitude added to the utter sadness and weariness of her aspect. Phoebe slowly shook her head, murmuring :

‘ I can’t think why a lady having beauty and wealth and rank should break her heart about any scamp of a man • Why couldn’t she have purchased an e-tate with her money and settled down in old England ? And if she must have married, why didn’tshe marry the marquis ? Lack-a-daisy-me ! I wish she had never seen this young scamp ! She didn’t sleep the whole night! I know it was after four o’clock in the morning that I dropped off, and the last thing I knew was trying to keep awake and listen to her tossing ! Well, whatever her appointment was this morning, she has missed it by a good hour and a half; that she has, and I'm glad of .it. Sleep is the best part of life, and there isn’t anything in this world worth waking up for as I've found out yet! Let her sleep on; she’s dead for it any way. So let her sleep on. I’ll take the blame.’

And with this the judicious Phoebe carefully drew the bod curtains again, the window shutters, and withdrew to her own room to complete her toilet. - After a little while Phoebe went below to get her. breakfast, which she always took in the housekeeper’s room. Mrs Spicer; had breakfasted long Before,

and so she met the girl with a sharp rebuke for keeping late hours,, ‘Pray,’ she inquired, mockingly, ‘is it the fashion in the country you came from for servants to be abed until ten o’clock in the morning ?’ ‘ That depends on circumstances,’ answered Phcebe, with assumed gravity; ‘the servants of noble families like the Countess of Hurstmonceux’s lie late ; but the servants of common folks like yours have to get up early.’ ‘ Like ours, you impudent minx 1 I’ll have you to know that our family—the Brudenells —are as good as any other family in the world 1 But it is not the custom here for the maids to lie in bed until all hours of the morning, and that you’ll find !’ cried Mrs Spicer, in a passion. ‘ You'll find yourself discharged if you go on in this way 1 You seem to forget that my lady is the mistress of this house,’ said Phcebe, seating herself at the table, which was covered with the. litter of the housekeeper’s breakfast. Before the housekeeper had time to reply, or the lady’s maid had time to pour out her cold coffee, the drawing-room bell rang. And soon after Jovial entered to say that Mrs Brudeneil required the attendance of Phoebe. The girl arose at once and went up to the drawing-room. ‘ How is the countess this morning ?’ was the first question of Mrs Brudeneil. ‘My lady is sleeping ; she has had a bad night; 1 thought it best not to awake her,’ answered Phcebe.

‘ You did right. Let me know when she is awake and ready to receive me. You may go now.' Phcebe returned to her cold and comfortless breakfast, and had just finished it when a second bell rang. This time it was her mistress’, and she hurried bo answer itThe countess was already in her dressinggown and slippers, seated before her toilet table, and holding a watch iri her hand. ‘ Oh, Phcebe,’ she exclaimed, ‘ how could you h <ve disobeyed me so 1 It is after ten o’clock !’ *My lady, I will tell you the truth. You were so restless last night that you could nob sleep, and I was so anxious for fear you were going to be ill that indeed I could not. And so I lay aw ake listening at you till after four o’clock this morning, when I dropped off'out of sheer exhaustion, and so I overslept myself until half-past nine ; and then, my lady, I thought, as you had had such a bad night, and as it was too late for you to keep your appoint ment with youiself, and as you were sleeping so finely, I had better not wake you I beg your pardon, my lady, if I did wrong, and I hope no harm has been done.’ ‘Not much harm, Phcebe ; but something that should have been finished by this time, is yet to begin—that is all. In future, Phcebe, try to obey me.’ ' ‘ Indeed I will, my lady.’ ‘ And now do my hair as quickly as possible.’ Phoebe’s nimble fingers soon accomplished their task.

‘ And now go and order the carriage to come round directly ; and then bring me a cup of coffee,’ said the lady, rising bo adjust her own dress. Phcebe hurried off to obey, and soon returned, bringing a delicate liotle breakfast, served on a tray. By the t me the countess had drunk the coffee, and tasted the rich waffles and broiled partridge, the carriage was announced. and she put on her bonnet and sables and went below. Mrs Brudeneil met her in the lower hall. ‘ Ah, Berenice, my dear, I am glad bo see that you are going for an airing at last. The morning is beautiful after the storm,’ she said. •’ ‘ Yes, mamma,’ replied the countess, rather avoiding the interview. ‘ Which way will you drive, my dear ?’ ‘ I think through the valley ; it is sheltered from the wind there. Good morning.’ And the lady entered the carriage, and gave her order. The carriage road through the valley was necessarily much longer and more circuitous than the footpath with which we are so familiar. The footpath, we know, went straight down the steep precipice of Brudeneil hill, across the bottom, and then straight up the equally steep ascent of Hut hill. Of course this route was impracticable for any wheeled vehicle. The carriage therefore turned off to the lett into a road that wound gradually down the hillside, and as gradually ascended the opposite heights. The carriage drew up at a short distance from the hub, and the countess alighted and walked to the door. We have seen what a surprise her arrival caused, and now we must return to the interview between the wife of Herman and the sister of -Nora.

. CHAPTER XVII. THE COUNTESS AND THE CHILD. Wit') no misgiving thought or doubt Her fond arms claspi d his child about, In the full mantle o her love; For who so loves the darling flowers Must love the bloom of human bowers. The types of brightest things above. One day—one sunny winter day She prest it to her tender breast The sunshine of its head there lay As pillowed on its native rest. Thomas Buchanan Reed. Lady Hurstmonceux 'and Hannah Worth sat opposite each other in silence. The lady with her eyes fixed thoughtfully on the floor—Hannah waiting for the visitor to disclose the object of her visit. Reuben Gray had retired to the farthest end of the room, in delicate respect to the lady ; but finding that she continued silent, it at last downed upon his mind that his absence was desirable. So he came forward with awkward courtesy, saying : ‘ Hannah, I think the lady would like to be alone with you ; so I will bid you goodday, and come again to-morrow.’ ‘Very well, Reuben,’ was all that the woman could answer in the presence of a third person. And after shaking Hannah’s hand, and pulling his forelock to the visitor, the man went away. As soon as he was clearly gone, the countess turned to the weaver, and said : ‘Hannah your name is Hannah, I think ?’ ‘ Yes, madam.’ ‘ Well, Hannah, I have come to thank you for your tender care of my son, and to relieve you of him !’ said the countess, gently. ‘ Madam ! ’ exclaimed the amazed woman, staring pointbiank at the visitor. ‘ Why, what is the matter, girl ? What have I said that you should glare at me in that way ?’ petulantly demanded the lady. ‘ Madam, you astonish me ! Your son is not here. I know nothing about your son ; not even that you had a son,’ replied Hannah.

‘Oh, I see,’ said the lady, with a faint smile ; * you are angry because I have left him on your hands so many days. That is pardonable in you.. But you see, my girl, it was not my fault. I never even heard of the little fellow’s existence until late last night. I could not sleep for thinking of him. And I came here as soon as I bad had my breakfast.’ ‘ Madam, can a lady have a son and not know it?’ exclaimed Hannah, her amazement fast rising to alarm, for she was be-

ginning to suppose her visitor a maniac escaped from Bedlam. ‘ Nonsense, Hannah ; do nob be so hard to propitiate, my good woman ! 1 have expained to you how it happened. I came as soon as 1 could; lam willing to reward you liberally for all the trouble you have had with him. So now show me my son, there's a good soul.’ ‘ Poor thing ! poor, poor thing ! so young and so perfectly crazy !’ muttered Hannah, looking at the countess with blended pity and fear.

‘Come, Hannah, show me my son, and have done with this !’ said the visitor, rising. ‘ Don’t, my lady; don’t go on in this way ; you know you have no son ; be good, now, and tell me if you really are the Countess of Hurstmonceux ; or if not, tell me who you are, and where you live, and let me take you back to your friends,’ pleaded Hannah, taking her visitor by the hands. ‘ Oh, there he is now,’ exclaimed the countess, shaking Hannah off, and going towards the bed where she saw the babe lying. Hannah sprang after her, clasped her around the waist, and holding her tightly, cried out in terror : ‘ Don’t, my lady ! for Heaven’s sake don’t hurt the child ! He is such a poor little mite ; he cannot live many days ; he must die ; and it will be a great blessing that he does ; but still, for all that, I mustn tsee him killed before my very face. No, you shan’t, my lady ! you shan’t go anigh him 1 You shan’t, indeed!’ exclaimed Hannah, as the countess struggled once to free herself. 4 How dare you hold me!’ exclaimed Berenice. 4 Because I am strong enough to do so, my lady, without your leave ! And because you are not yourself, my lady, and you might kill the child,’ said Hannah, resolutely enough, though, to tell the truth, she was frightened almost out of her sense*. ‘Not myself? Are you crazy, woman ? indignantly demanded Berenice. 4 No, my lady, but you are ! Oh, do try to compose your mind, or you may do yourself a mischief,’ pleaded Hannah. Berenice suddenly ceased to struggle, and became perfectly quiet. Hannah was resolved not to be deceived, and held her firmly as ever. 4 Hannah,’said the countess, 4 1 begin to see how it is that you think me mad. You, a Christian maid, and I, a Jewish matron, do not understand each other. We think, and look, and speak from different points of view. You think I mean to say chat the child upon the bed is the son of my own bosom !’

4 You said so, my lady.’ ‘No, I said he was my son—l mean my son by marriage and by adoption.’ 4 1 do not understand you, madam.’ 4 Well, I fear you don’t. I will try to explain. He is’—the lady’s voice faltered and broke down— 4 he is my husband’s son, and so, his mother being dead, he becomes mine,’ breathed Berenice, in a faint voice. 4 Madam !’ exclaimed Hannah, drawing back and reddening to the very edge of her hair. 4 He is the son ot Herman Brudenell, and so-—’ 4 My lady ! how dare you say such a thing as that ?’ fiercely interrupted Hannah. 4 Because, oh, Heaven ! it is true, moaned Berenice, ‘it is true, Hannah! Would to the Lord it were not !’ 4 Lady Hurstmonceux— ’ 4 Stop ! listen to me first, Hannah ! Ido not blame your poor sister. Heaven knows I pitied her very much, and did all I could tj protect her the night she came to Brudenell Hall.’ 4 1 know you did, madam,’ 3aid Hannah, her heart softening at the recollection of what *he had heard of the countess’ share in that scene between Nora and Mrs Brudenell. 4 She knew nothing of me when she met my husband, and she could not help loving him any more than I could —any mote than I could,’ she repeated lowly to herself; .* and so, though it wrings my heart to think of it, I cannot blame her, Hannah ’ 4 My : lady, you have no right to blame her,’ interrupted Nora’s sister. 4 1 know it,’ meekly replied the wronged wife. ‘You have no right to blame her, because she was perfectly blameless in the sight of Heaven.’ Berenice looked up with surprise, sighed and continued : 4 However that may be, Hannah, I am not her judge, and do not presume to arraign her. May she rest in peace ! But her child ! Herman’s child !my child ! It is of him I wish to speak ! Oh, Hannah, give him to me ! I want him so much ! I long for him so intensely ! My heart warms to him so ardently ! He will be such a comfort, such a blessing such a salvation to me, Hannah ! I will love him so well, and rear him so carefully, and make him so happy ! 1 will educate him, provide for all his wants, and give him a profession. And if lam reconciled to my husband ’—here again her voice fait- red and broke down : but after a dry sob. she resumed: 4 lf I am never reconciled to my husband, I wiil make his son my heir; for I hold all my large property in my own right, H «nnah ! Say, will you give me my husband’s son ?’ 4 But, my lady— ’ ‘Ah! do not refuse me!’ interrupted the ccunbese. ‘I am so unhappy! lam alone in the world, with no one for me to love, and no one to love me !’

•You have many blessings, madam.’ ‘I have rank and wealth and good looks, if you mean them. But, ah !do you think they make a woman happy ?’ ‘ No. madam.’ ‘Listen, Hannah ! My poor father was an apostate to his faith. My nation cast me off for being his daughter and for marrying a Christian. My parents are dead. My people are estranged. My husband alienated. But still I have one comfort and one hope! My comfort is—the simple existence of my husband ! Yes, Hannah ! alienated as he is, it is a comfort to me to know that he lives. If it were not for that, I myself should die! Oh, Hannah ! it is common enough to talk of being willing to die for one we love ' It is easy to die ! much easier sometimes than to live! the last is often very hard! I will do more than die for my love ! I will live for him ! live through long years of dreary loneliness, taking my con-olation in rearing his son, if you will give me the boy, and hoping in some distant future for his return, when I can present his boy to him, and say to him : “If you cannot love me for my own sake, try to love me a little for his !” Oh, Hannah ! do not dash this last hope from me ! give me the boy ’’ Hannah bent her head in painful thought. To grant Lady Hurstmonceux’s prayer, would be to break her vow, by virtually acknowleding the parentage of Ishmael and betraying Heiman Brudenelh And to do this without effecting any real good to the lady or the child, since in all : human probability the child’s hours were already numbered.' '■ v ' ’ •‘‘ * ‘

‘ Hannah ! will you speak to me V pleaded Berenice, ‘Yes, my lady, I was wishing to speak to you all along : but you would not give me a chance, If you had, my lady, you would not have been compelled to talk so much. . I wished to ask you then what I

ask you now: What reason have you for thinking and speaking so ill of my sister as you do ?’ 4 1 do not blame her; I told you so.’ * You cover her errors with a veil of charity ; that is what you mean, ray lady ! She needs no such veil! My sister is as innocent as an angel. ’ And you, my lady, are mistaken.’ 4 Mistaken ? as to—to ? Oh, Hannah ! how' am I mistaken ?’ asked the countess, with sudden eagerness, perhaps with sudden hope. ? i

‘ If you will compose yourself, my lady, and come and sit down, I will tell you the truth, as 1 have told it to everybody.’ Lady Hurstmonceux went and dropped into her chair, and gazed at Hannah with breathless interest. Hannah drew another chair forward, and sat down opposite to the countess. ‘Now, then,’ said Berenice, eagerly. 4 My lady, what I have to tell is soon said. My sister was buried in her weddingring. Her son was born in wedlock.’ The Countess of Hurstmonceux started to her feet, clasped her hands and gazed into Hannah’s very soul! The light of an infinite joy irradiated her'face. 4 Is this true?’ she exclaimed. 4 It is true.’ 4 Then I have been mistaken ! Oh, how widely mistaken ! Thank Heaven ! Oh, thank Heaven !’ And the Countess of Hurstmonceux sank back in her chair, covered her fate with her hands, and burst into tears. Hannah felt very uncomfortable ; her conscience reproached her; she was selfimplicated in a deception ; and this to one of her integrity of character u r as very painful. Literally, she had spoken the truth ; but the countess had drawn false inferences and deceived herself; and she could not undeceive her without breaking her oath to Nora ami betravimr Herman Rrnriannll •

Then she pitied that beautiful, pale woman, who was weeping so violently. And she arose and poured out the last of poor Nora’s bottle of wine, and brought it to her, saying : ‘Drink this, my lady, and try and compose yourself.’ Berenice drank the wine and thanked the woman, and then said :

4 1 was very wrong to take up such fancies as I did ; but then you do nob know how strong the circumstances were that led me to such fancies. lam glad and sorry' and ashamed, all at once, Hannah ! Glad bo tind my own and my mother-in-law’s susspieions all unfounded; sorry that; I ever * ntertained them against my dear husband, and ashamed—oh ! much ashamed that I ever betrayed them to anyone.’ ‘You were seeking bo do him a service, my lady, when you did so,’ said Hannah, remorsefully and compassionately. 4 Yes, indeed I was ! And then I was not quite myself ! Oh ! I have suffered so much in my short life, Hannah ! And 1 met such a cruel disappointment on my arrival here ! But there ! lam balking too much again ! Hannah, I entreat you to foigeb all that I have said to you. And if you connob forget it, I implore you most earnestly never to repeat it to anyone.’ 4 I will nob indeed, madam.’

The Countess of Hurstmonceux arose and walked to the bed, turned down the shawl that covered the sleeping child, and gazed pitifully upon him. Hannah did not now seek to pi event her. 4 Oh, poor little fellow, how feeble he looks ! Hannah, it seems such a pity that all the plans I formed for his future welfare should be lost because he is not what I supposed him to be ; it seems hard that the revelation which has made me happy, should make him unfortunate ; or, rather, that it should prevent his good fortune ! And it shall nob do so entirely. It is true, I cannot now adopt him—the child of a stranger —and take him home and rear him as my own, as I should have done had he been what I fancied him to be. Because it might nob be right, you know, and my husband might not approve it. And oh, Hannah, I have grown so timid lately that I dread, I dread more than you can imagine, to do anything that he might nob like. Not that he is a domestic tyrant either. You have li\ ed on the estate long enough to know that Herman Brudenell is all that is good and kind. Bub then you see I am all wrong—and always was so. Everything I do is ill done —and always was so. It is all my own fault, and I must try to amend it, if ever I am to hope for happiness. So I must nob do anything unless I am sure that it will not displease him, therefore I must nob bake this child of a stranger home, and rear him as my own. But I will do all that I can for him here. At present his little wants are all physical. Take this purse, dear woman, and make him as comfortable as you can. I think he ought to have medical attendance ; procure it for him ; get everything he needs ; and when the purse is empty bring it to me to be replenished. So much for the present. If he lives, I will pay for his schooling, and see that he is a* prenticed bo some good master to learn a trade.’ And wi'h these words the countess held out the well-filled purse to Hannah. With a deep blush Hannah shook her head, and pub the offered bounty back, saying :

‘ No, my lady, no ; Nora s child must not become the object of your charity. It will n"t do. My nephew’s wants are few, and will not be felt long; I thank you all the same, madam.’ Beienice looked seriously disappointed. Again she pressed her bounty upon Hannah, saying : * I do not think you are right to refuse assistance that is proffered to this poor child.’ But Hannah was firm as she replied : ‘ I know that lam right, madam. And so long as I am able and willing to supply all his wants myself, and so long as I do supply them, I do him no injury in refusing lor him the help of others.’ ‘ But do you have to supply all his wants? I suppose that his father must be a poor man, but is he so poor as not to be able to render you some assistance?’ Hannah paused a moment in thought before answering this question, then she said : f His father is dead, my lady ’ —( dead to him was her mental reservation). ‘ Poor orphan,’ sighed the countess, with the tears springing to her eyes ; * and you will not do anything for him ?’ * I prefer to take care of him myself, madam, for the short time that he will need care,’ replied Hannah. ‘ Well, then,’ sighed the lady, as she restored her purse to her pocket— ‘ remember this—if from any circumstances whatever you should change your mind, and be willing to accept my protection tor this child, come to me frankly and you will find that I have not changed my mind. I shall always be glad to do anything in my power for this poor babe.’ ‘ I thank you, my lady ; I thank you very much,’ said Hannah, without committing herself to any promise. What instinct was it that impelled the countess to stoop and kiss the brow of the sleeping babe, and then to catch him up and press him fondly to her heart ? Who can tell?

The action awoke the infant, who opened his large blue eyes to the gaze of the lady. ‘ Hannah, you need not think this boy is going to die ! He is only a skeleton ; but in his strong, bright eyes there is no sign of

death—bub certainty of life 1 Take tha word of one who has the blood of a Hebrews prophete-s in her veins for that!’ said .. Berenice, with solemnity. | J | ‘lt will be as the Lord wills, my lady,’ Hannah reverently replied. The countess laid the infant back unon the bed, and then drew her sable cloak around her shoulders, shook hands with 1 Hannah, and departed, ( To he continued.) .