"He must not be left with it. I must not let him sit there in the place he ain't got no rights to, after the way he has served me," said Mrs. Peck.

"I believe it is more a piece of spite than anything else," said Brandon. "Well, here is the agreement for the payment of a thousand pounds. Will you accept of that, or shall I go?"

"You are too sharp for with me, a great deal too sharp on a poor old woman like me, but I'll take your offer in the meantime. Miss Melville said I was to trust to her honour to pay me as much as it is worth, and if she finds out as it's worth more, I expect she'll keep that saying of hers in mind, and act accordingly."

Mrs. Peck signed the paper, and Brandon signed it also, as agent for Jane and Alice Melville.

"Now for your part of the bargain, Mrs. Peck, and stick to the truth if you can. I know that your imagination is apt to run away with you; but here it will be a disadvantage to have any flights of fancy," said Brandon.

Mrs. Peck had for more than a week thought of nothing but this disclosure of her past life, and now that the opportunity had arrived, she really enjoyed telling it as much as if it had been wholly fictitious. It was quite as romantic as any of her fabrications, and it was a subject on which her lips had been sealed for thirty-four years, except to give vent to some occasional allusions, to Peck. It was interesting in itself, it was damaging to Francis, and it was likely to be lucrative to herself, for she hoped for a further reward from the grateful nieces, in addition to the thousand pounds which their agent offered on their behalf. She had thought a good deal over the story she had to tell, and gave a more consecutive and consistent narrative than was usual with her, for she felt the importance of making it appear to be a perfectly true story.

"Well," said she, "it's an old story and a queer one, but I do keep it in mind, and I will tell you the truth; for as you say, it is what will answer us both best. My name, as you know, was Elizabeth Ormistown, and I was born in the next county to ——shire, where Cross Hall is. I have never seen Cross Hall myself, but I have heard of it. We had seen better days, for my father was a small shopkeeper, and my mother was a schoolmaster's daughter; but my father was the simple man, who is the beggar's brother, and he was caution or security (as they call it here) for a brother of his own, for two hundred pounds, and lost it, and then we went all down hill together. Mother was always very furious at him for his being such a fool, and even on his death-bed she never forgave him for bringing her down so low. She was very greedy of money, was mother, and never forgot any ill she had had done her. We was living in the country very poor, for I could not bear to go to service among folk that knew about us, when I fell in with a young man as I liked better than most; but as he was as poor as a rat, and only a working joiner, mother would have nothing to say to him, and she made up her mind to take me to Edinburgh, where she lived with a cousin, and I was to go to service. I had wanted to go before, but it was all mother's pride as kept me at home; I wanted to be well dressed, as all girls do, and I liked to be seen and to be talked to. I had grown up handsome enough. You have seen Mrs. Phillips—she is the very moral of what I was, and I didn't like to be always wearing old things. And mother, she wanted Jamie Stevenson driven out of my head, so she made no objections to my going to a house where they took lodgers, mostly young men, in for the college. The work was hard, and the wages no great matter; but the chance was worth twice as much as the wages, for the lads was free—handed, particular if you would stand any daffing, as we called it then. Harry Hogarth was there the second winter I was in Edinburgh, and, though he was not like to have Cross Hall then, for he had two brothers older than him, he was just as free of his money as if he was a young laird. He had been in Paris before that, but his father had grumbled at his spending so much there, and said he must hold with Edinburgh for the future; and Harry was maybe trying to show the old man that as much might go in Auld Reekie as in France. He was said to be the cleverest of the family, and the old man was fond of him, and proud of him too, but he was very hard to part with the gear. Harry was my favourite of all the lads in the house, for he had most fun about him, and was the softest-hearted too. The old laird changed his mind in the middle of the winter. I mind well his coming to our place one day, and he gave me a very sour look when I opened the door, as if my cap and my clothes was too good for my station, and my looks, too, maybe; but he said that Harry had better go to Paris, as his heart was set on it; and he gave Harry a sum of money that made him think his father was not long for this world, though he looked all right. So he behoved to have a splore, as they called it: he entertained all his friends at a hotel to a supper, where they had a night of it, drinking, and singing, and laughing, to bid him farewell. When he came back it was grey daylight, and I was up to my work; and when he went past me, he saw me crying, as he thought, for grief at the thought of his going away. And really I was sorry, for I liked him the best of the lot, but my greeting was more with the thought of his giving me something handsome at parting than that he should take it up so serious. But he, in his conceit, thought I was breaking my heart for the love of him, and he tried to dry my tears. So, instead of going away that day, he stopped another week; and then when he went to Paris, I said I would go with him; and he would refuse me nothing. So we went in separate ships, and met together in Paris; and I stopped with him at his lodgings, as is common enough in that queer town; and well I liked the place, and the sights, and the presents he gave me, and the clothes I had to put on; and he was good enough to me, though he laughed at me whiles; and many a day he called me greedy, but I aye got what I wanted out of him.

"Well, we had been three months in Paris, when he got word that his eldest brother had broke his neck when he was hunting, and that his father had taken the news so sore to heart that he was ill and not like to recover, so Harry had to go home with all speed. I would not stop in France without him, so we both came back again, and Harry went to Cross Hall and me to my mother's. I was not over willing to go to her, for I knew how angry she would be at me; but Harry said it was the best place for me for the meantime, and he promised to send me money, so that I would be no burden.

"As I dreaded, my mother was terrible angry at me; but when I told her how soft Harry was, she thought he might be brought to marry me, and she set her heart on managing that by hook or by cook. Her contrivance was, that I should pretend to be very ill, and send for him to bid me good-bye, and then she would manage the rest. So by her advice I took to my bed and coughed very bad, and she made my cheeks look deadly white, and my lips too; and when Harry came he was shocked to see me. His father was dead by this time, as well as his eldest brother, so his heart was especial soft, and he looked sore distressed at my being in such a bad way.

"'Oh! Bessie,' says he, 'what can I do for you? What can I get for you?'

"''Deed it's no much that she wants now in this world; I'm thinking we'll lose her soon,' said mother.

"'No, no,' says Harry eagerly. 'Let me feel your pulse, Bessie,' says he. Mother forgot about his being a doctor, and did not like his going about in such a skilful way; but I was so roused and excited myself that my pulse was at the gallop. 'Quick, but strong,' says he; 'not the least like death. Cheer up, Bessie,' said he, 'it's just a bad turn you've got—a chill, perhaps, but you'll very soon get over it. You ought to know that you're safe against fever at the present time.'

"'It's on her mind,' said mother. 'It's her mind as is so disturbed. She eats nothing, and she sleeps none for coughing, and takes such spasms at the heart. I know she'll never get better, and she thinks just the same; and for my part I'd rather have laid her head in the grave than let her live to be such a disgrace to us all. To think of such a thing happening to a daughter of mine, and all through you.'

"'Well, Mrs. Ormistown, it is a pity, but it was quite as much her doing as mine, and maybe a little more,' says he, looking at me with a half-laugh; but I only sighed and groaned, and would not speak to him.

"'I'm sure, Bessie, when we were in Paris,' says he, 'you did not take it much to heart; and I'll do what I can to make you comfortable.'

"'Don't mock us with talking about comfort,' said mother, sternly. 'If Bessie did not feel her sin and her shame when she was in that sink of iniquity with you, I trust I have been able to convince her of her position since she returned to me.'

"'Indeed, Harry,' says I, 'morning, noon, and night, mother is preaching to me, and I really wish I was dead, to have a little quiet.'

"'Tut, tut,' says he, 'if you were really ill, you would not speak so briskly about dying;' and he tried to soothe me down, but I kept very sulky—but yet when he went away he did not believe there was much the matter with me.

"'We must make you really ill,' says my mother, when he was gone; so she got some stuff for me to take, and I swallowed it, and I really did think as I was dying. I never felt as bad before or since, and even mother was frightened that she had made it too strong, but she sent for Harry, and he was frightened too. She said that I had poisoned myself, and was going to die with the scorn of every one.

"'Oh, if you would but acknowledge yourself her husband, it would be enough, quite enough, to let her die with her mind easy and her name cleared,' says mother to him.

"Harry had no notion I took things so serious, but he supposed that my mother had driven me to desperation by her reproaches, so he said he would do as she wished, and mother fetched Violet Strachan, our cousin, and a woman called Wilson, from next door to be witnesses, and he said he was my husband, and I said I was his wife, in their presence. Harry thought that was enough, but mother wanted to make it surer still, for she wrote it out, and we all signed it, and here it is." Then Mrs. Peck drew out this document from her bundle of papers.

"This is a marriage in Scotland. Without the paper it was a marriage, but mother liked to see things in black and white. Harry never could get out of it—though he said afterwards that he did not know what he was about when he signed it.

"Of course after mother had carried her point I was allowed to get well, but slowly, for the stuff had really half poisoned me. Harry was in London with his brother when my boy Frank was born; but he came to me as soon as he could, and by ill-luck it happened that the very day he came my old sweetheart Jamie Stevenson was paying me a visit, and Harry heard something that was not meant for him, and off he set without seeing me or the child either. He sent me a letter, saying I had cheated him first and last, and he would never look at me again."

"Then your boy was not Henry Hogarth's son," said Brandon, eagerly, who thought he had got hold of the important part of the story, "but this man Stevenson's?"

"You're quite out in your guesses, Mr. Brandon, for as clever as you think yourself; it does not concern my story a bit, but I will say this, that my Frank was Harry's own son."

"Then, were you married in this irregular way to Jamie Stevenson in the first place?" said Brandon, who saw no prospect of proving the desired non-cousinship.

"No, I wasn't. But Jamie was doing better in the world then, and he was saying, thinking that I wasn't married, that for all that had come and gone, if the father would provide for the bairn any way handsome, he'd marry me yet, and I did not see much good in being the wife of a gentleman that would always be ashamed of me, and never bring me forward. Mother thought he would do that, but I knew the man better by this time. So I was telling Jamie that if I had only thought he'd have made me so good an offer I'd never have followed mother's counsel, but have taken him that I liked twice as well as Harry; and, may be, it would have been better for me if Harry had not been so soft and mother so positive. This was what Harry Hogarth heard that angered him so terribly, and he said I had cheated him. He sent me money, but he vowed he would never look me in the face again. Well, when Frank was about fourteen months old, Harry's other brother died. There was an awful mortality in the family at that time—three within two years; and then he came in for the property. Mother was in an awful passion at my having had anything to say to Jamie, and losing hold on my rich husband through my stupidity. But I was his wife, and must be provided for at any rate. So he wanted to make terms with me, and proposed that I should go out of the country altogether—to Sydney—where he would give me a decent maintenance for myself and the child. Mother, at first, would not listen to this, and neither would I; but wanted to go to law for my rights. But when he said he would expose everything about the marriage if we did, we gave in, and agreed to go to the ends of the earth to please him. And, after we had made up our minds to it, we rather liked the notion of getting out of Scotland. He would not trust to us going unless he saw us off; so he appointed to meet in London, where the ship was to sail from, and he would arrange all things for our going off quiet and comfortable; and then we was to part for ever. Mother, and me, and Frank, went to London, and took lodgings in a very crowded lodging-house, full of people just ready to sail for America or some other place—here to-day and away to-morrow—and there Frank fell ill. He had looked a strong enough child; but I think the stuff mother gave me had hurt him, for he had every now and then bad convulsion fits. Being used to them, we did not take much notice of them; but now, when it was of such moment to us that the child should be alive, and that his father should see him, then by ill-luck, just an hour before the time appointed for our meeting, Frank took a worse fit than ever, and died in my arms. I was very vexed indeed, and sorry, for I liked the child, and he was a very pretty little fellow, but mother was furious.

"'It's a good hundred a year out of our pocket,' said she. 'If he had only lived to get on board, we need never have told Cross Hall about his dying afterwards—and he looked the picture of health only yesterday. I wish some one would lend us a child! Maybe the woman in the next room will. He never saw it, and he'd not know the difference between one child and another.'

"So mother went into the next room. It was let to a woman with one child, and she was to sail for America the next day to join her husband, who had written for her. She seemed to be poor, and mother had no doubt that for a pound or so she would lend us the child; but when she went into the room the mother was out, and the child was lying on the bed asleep. Mother was very quick and clever. Our boy was so changed with the convulsions that I would never have known him again; and this boy was much the same size and age, and not very unlike him, so she slipped off the child's nightgown and put poor Frank's clothes on it, and dressed my dead child in the nightgown she took off, and put it in the bed. She would not give me time to cry, but got into a hackney coach and rode off to where we were to meet Harry. She told me afterwards that she meant to take back the woman her child, if possible; but, in case of not being able to do it, she got all our luggage which was ready packed, into the hackney coach, and paid the woman of the house all we owed her.

"When I saw Harry again he looked changed—far graver and duller. I was full of sorrow about Frank; and I cried sore when I saw his father. But then he thought I only cried, out of cunning, to get something more out of him. Harry took the child in his arms and looked at it all over. 'Poor thing,' says he—'poor thing!' and I saw a tear drop on that stranger's face. My own boy—his own boy—he had never touched, and never looked at. I was jealous and fierce at both of them, in my grief and my rage; but mother was pleased to see him so taken up with the child, for she thought it would be all the better for us.

"'Well,' says he, 'are you ready to go on board this afternoon? for the ship will get off to night with the tide, and I will see you all right.'

"'Yes,' says mother, 'we are all ready; but we want to know what allowance you are willing to make. You must take into consideration that we are banished, and have to leave everybody we know. What will you allow for Elizabeth, and what for little Frank?'

"'I think,' said Harry, speaking slow, 'that I will arrange differently about the child. As he is my son, I think he would be better in other hands than yours. Will you leave the boy with me?'

"I was just on the point of saying it was none of mine, nor of his neither; but mother saw her own interest in this, as she did in most things, and so says she——

"'It's cruel to part Elizabeth from her child, very cruel. Will you, that has treated her so bad, be good to the boy? Do you mean to acknowledge him?'

"Harry spoke slow again: 'I don't know if I will be good to him, but I will try. I will put him in as good hands as I can, educate him, and acknowledge him, if he deserves it; and I fear if you bring him up he is not likely to do so.'

"'It is for the child's own good, Bessie,' said mother, eagerly. 'You must sacrifice your own feeling, and leave him with his father, if he promises so fair. How are we like to get him educated where we are going? It is very hard on you, Bessie,' said mother, coaxingly.

"I stood sulky, not knowing what to do or what to say.

"'And Mr. Hogarth will no doubt consider the hardship of your case, and make it up in some other way to you,' mother went on to say.

"Henry looked up at mother very sharp, and then he looked at me. Though he did not believe in my tears, he did not like to see them, for they reminded him of how I had served him before.

"'He is quite innocent now, poor boy, quite innocent,' said Henry; 'we must keep him so if we can,' and he offered as much to me for my life as we had expected him to give for me and the child too; and it was so tempting that we closed with it at once, for it cost me nothing to part with a baby as was not my own. I had had a mind to tell him, but then I knew how enraged he would have been at my trying it on with him. Another cheat would have driven him wild, so I bade him good-bye and the child too.

"He took us on board and we sailed that night, and I never saw him or the child again. He sent me money regular till I asked for the fifteen hundred pounds and signed a quittance for the annuity like a fool, as I told you."



Chapter X.

Mrs. Peck's Disappointment

Brandon had listened to this strange story of Mrs. Peck's without interrupting her. After she had concluded, he thought for a minute and then said——

"Did you ever hear if the mother of the child you stole missed it?"

"How should I hear? We sailed that day for Sydney, and we never heard nothing about it."

"What was her name?" asked Brandon.

"I don't know at all for certain; there was so many people in the house, that though she had been there three days, I had not asked nor had mother, but yet we must have heard it. I fancy it was Jackson, or Johnson, or Jones, or it might be Brown, but it was a common name as there's no recollecting. When mother took the child first, she thought she'd never know the one from the other; but afterwards she used to say that the mother might find out the difference. Both was much of a size, and my boy was much changed."

"But," said Brandon, "there might be more or fewer teeth, or a difference in the colour and length of the hair, or in the shape of the limbs, though the features and complexion might be changed by the convulsions. Your child was probably more emaciated than the other. A mother's eye might have seen differences that you in your hurried examination did not."

"Oh, the other appeared to be teething too; but, as you say, I think it is most like she did see the difference, but being out of the country I heard nothing about it."

"When did this happen?" asked Brandon.

"Thirty-four years ago and more we sailed from London Docks for Sydney," said Mrs. Peck.

"Where did you lodge in London when this affair took place?"

"At a lodging-house in —— Street, near the Docks; I think the number was 39, but I am not quite sure."

"Can you tell me the name of the ship the mother of the present proprietor of Cross Hall went to America in?" asked Brandon.

"No, but we sailed, as I told you, on the 14th May, 18-, in the 'Lysander,' and the other ship was to sail for New York on the next day."

"Are you sure this woman was going to America?"

"Yes, for the landlady told us so, and I could see when we was in her room that she was making preparations for a voyage. I think there's no doubt of that."

"Was there no mark on the child's clothes? no name on the boxes you must have seen when you were exchanging the two children?" asked Brandon.

"Not as I recollect of, nor mother either, for we have sometimes talked over it and wondered about it. Our time was so short that we took no notice of such things."

"And how did you two precious colonists like Sydney?" asked Brandon.

"Oh, well enough. We held our heads high there, for we was free people, you know."

"Though you had both done what you deserved hanging for," said Brandon, under his breath. "Where did Phillips meet with you and your daughter?—for I suppose Mrs. Phillips is your daughter: though your first experiment in child-stealing had been so successful, it might have tempted you to another of the same kind."

"Oh, Betsy is my daughter, and an ungrateful one she is. We met with Phillips in Melbourne, just when we came first to Port Philip. Peck had run through the 1,500 pounds that we got from Cross Hall, and we was hard up and obliged to leave Sydney under a cloud; but Peck, he said, such a handsome face as she had should be a fortune to us. It's been a fortune to herself; but as for me, she never thinks of me. And there's Frank, when I wrote to him after I had read in an old newspaper at the diggings that he had come into the estate, and asked him for a little help, he never condescended to send me an answer or to take the least notice of me that has done so much for him. If it had not been for me, where would he have been now? His mother was a poor woman. If you'd seen the poor old nightgown I took off of him—and there has he been educated like a gentleman, and getting Cross Hall, and being a member of Parliament too, and never to take trouble to write me a line or to send me a penny. I said I'd be revenged on him, and so I shall."

"Well, Mrs. Peck," said Brandon, "I will just write down the particulars of this curious story, and you will sign it if you think I have put them down correctly." So with clearness and brevity Brandon sketched the facts, if facts they were, which Mrs. Peck had narrated, and then he read what he had written.

"I don't see as there's any call to put in all about how I got Harry Hogarth to marry me; that has nothing to do with the case in hand," said Mrs. Peck.

"I think," said Brandon, "that if the young man is to lose the property through this confession, he has a right to know what sort of mother he loses with it. I think you had better sign this as it stands. I have signed something for you, and you must do the same for me."

Mrs. Peck signed her name rather reluctantly as Elizabeth Hogarth, known as Elizabeth Peck, and was proceeding to give some account of her relations with Peck, of rather a romantic character. Perhaps, after so long a stretch of trying to tell the truth, she needed some relief to her imagination; but Brandon soon stopped these revelations, and sent her thoughts in quite another channel.

"Now," said he, "I believe this to be a true statement—a perfectly true statement—but it is of no use whatever to be used against Mr. Hogarth. The property was left to him by will, as distinctly as possible."

"By will!" said Mrs. Peck, looking aghast; "my newspaper said he was the heir-at-law; but it would never have been left to him if Harry had not thought Frank was his son."

"It was left to Francis Ormistown, otherwise Hogarth, for fifteen years clerk in the Bank of Scotland," said Brandon, reading from Elsie's memorandum.

"But he is neither Ormistown nor Hogarth, nor Francis, neither," said Mrs. Peck, triumphantly. "He can claim nothing. Francis Ormistown, or Hogarth, is dead—dead thirty-four years ago: this man has no name that any one knows. I will swear that the child Harry Hogarth took out of my arms was neither his child nor mine, and that he had no right to inherit Cross Hall. The nieces must have it; they were his nearest relations. None of his brothers left no children, and the Melvilles should get the estate, and I should get my thousand pounds."

"I wish your oath was worth more," said Brandon, regretfully. "I wish you could prove what you state as a fact; but all you have told me is absolutely worthless in a court of law. You say you told a parcel of lies to one whom you should have kept faith with, for pecuniary advantage, and now you want to contradict them in hopes of getting a thousand pounds from the Misses Melville, and in order to revenge yourself on the boy whom you so cruelly injured. I am sorry to say nobody would believe a word of this story except myself; and I do."

"But could you not look up in old newspapers to see if there was any stir made at the time about a changed child?" said Mrs. Peck, trembling with excitement and disappointment. She had been so long accustomed to look on this secret as capital to herself: her mother, and Peck, and herself had always thought that in case of Mr. Hogarth's death a good deal might be got out of the heir; and she had not parted with the certificate of her marriage, or of her child's baptismal register, in case he had left no will, and the heirat-law had to be found. She had sent copies of these documents, very admirably executed by a Sydney friend, who had been sent across the ocean for similar instances of skill, to Mr. Hogarth, so that he did not think she had any proof to bring forward to support her claims to be Francis' mother; but it was only recently that she had thought of making more favourable terms with regard to her other secret with the disinherited nieces than with the ungrateful heir, and their coming so near just when she was exasperated at Francis' neglect, had made her overlook the want of proof. She had now fatally injured herself with Francis, with a very faint chance of success with the Melvilles. She therefore repeated nervously, "Look over the old newspapers—the mother must have known the difference—there must have been some inquiry about it that would prove my statement, which is all true, every word of it, as I hope for salvation."

"Yes, that might be of some use; that might be seen to," said Brandon, doubtfully. "Our data are meagre enough. Your mother is dead, I suppose, and she is the only person besides yourself who knew of the crime you both committed."

"She is dead and gone a dozen years ago, and it was her as committed the crime, as you call it, and not me. I won't answer for it to nobody."

"Well, we must make inquiry in the house, though I fear that is hopeless, and in the newspapers. If you had had the sense to have got the mother's name, we might advertise in America; but I suppose you thought then that the less you knew about it the better. Though you cannot expect the thousand pounds——"

"But you promised it," said Mrs. Peck. "I'll say nothing more, unless I can get something first. You have basely deceived me. I never heard of a more scoundrelly action than getting me to tell you all that old story, and put myself into such a wrong box, on the pretence that I was to get a thousand pounds, and now you say that what you signed is waste paper. I'll get my own statement from you back again, before you leave this," and Mrs. Peck, with eyes of fury, planted herself at the back of the door. The next thing you'll do will be go and give information, I fancy.

"Be cool, Mrs. Peck; I do not mean to injure you. As I said, though there is no chance of our depriving Mr. Hogarth of property left to him so clearly as this, I think I may take it upon me to say, as his friend——"

"His friend!" interrupted Mrs Peck. "Oh, how you have deceived me! And you call yourself a gentleman, I suppose; and serve an old woman like that."

"Yes; as his friend," said Brandon, firmly, "I think I may say that he would be disposed to reward you, if you can prove that you are not his mother. I do not hesitate to say that he would give you five hundred pounds for such information as would hold in a court of law that he is not your son."

Mrs. Peck brightened up a little at this offer, though she could scarcely imagine any valid reason for it. "I think I could prove that; I really think I could prove that. There was my cousin that we lived with in Edinburgh, Violet Strachan, one of the witnesses to my marriage. She saw a great deal of my child, for, till we went to London, we lived in her house, and Frank was born there. She knew that he took convulsion fits very badly, and that he had a brown mole on his shoulder that this boy cannot have. I don't know of any other birth-mark," said Mrs. Peck.

"And this woman lived in Edinburgh. Do you think she is alive? Was she older or younger than you?"

"Oh, older by ten years," said Mrs. Peck, feeling the ground give way under her. "I hope she is not dead—she lived in 57, New Street, leading down to the Canongate, up three pair of stairs; her husband was a saddler, and she kept lodgers. His name was George. He would recollect something about Frank. Peck could swear that I have told him over and over again that my boy was dead, and that the boy Cross Hall brought up was none of mine."

"But Peck's word is worth nothing," said Brandon.

"Betsy could say something of the kind. I am sure she must have heard us hint at it often, but she is not sharp. Perhaps she did not notice."

"Does no one else know anything about it?" said Brandon, in despair.

"No one;—but surely I ain't got no cause to take such blame on myself, if it was not true," said Mrs. Peck, sulkily.

"You unfortunately had a motive—two strong motives. A deathbed confession, for no hope of gain or revenge, might have carried weight—but this carries none. The only accomplice of your crime is dead. The mother from whom you stole the child is probably dead also, and at any rate gone out of England—you do not even know her name, or that of the ship she sailed in. The witness who you think could prove the non-identity of the present possessor of Cross Hall is most likely dead also, and if alive must be an old woman who has probably forgotten the trifling circumstance of the existence of a mole on a child after thirty-five years and more—and people outgrow these peculiarities. You have not the ghost of a case for the Melvilles. Hogarth might give you something for the chance that you are speaking truth, to get rid of your claims for ever, and the satisfaction of feeling that you are nothing to him."

"That's what I ought to have done. Peck always said I was too hasty; and his words has come true," said Mrs. Peck. "I might have got something handsome out of the heir—and but for your interference I might have got something out of the Melvilles."

"Nonsense!" said Brandon; "they have nothing to give, unless you gave the property to them; and you cannot do that."

"I'm glad you're to get nothing with your sweetheart," said Mrs. Peck, maliciously. "My daughter's maid, I suppose, is the person Half of Cross Hall would have been a good fortune, but you're not to get it."

"You must not come to Mrs. Phillips's again. I am going to stay in the house till her husband returns, and will protect her from you," said Brandon.

"Protect her from her own mother!" said Mrs. Peck. "Let them hold their heads as high as they like, they can't get out of that. I am her mother, and if I like I will publish it. Her father was a gentleman. I was in clover when I lived with him; but he married, and then he died and left no provision for us; and then I fell in with Peck, and have stuck by him ever since. He is in Adelaide now, where I wish I had stopped with him with all my heart. Do you think as Phillips would overlook this if I went back quiet, and keep sending me the poor little allowance as I need to keep soul and body together, for I'm an old woman now, and past working?"

"I do not know. I will speak to him on the subject, and will probably see you again in a few days. If you can think of any collateral evidence in the meantime, it will be as well that you tell me. In the meantime, I must go to communicate to Miss Melville what you have told me."

Elsie was sadly disappointed at the doubtful nature of the evidence which Mrs. Peck had to give. She had had such brilliant visions of the happiness which Jane and Francis might have together if it could only be proved that they were not cousins; and she could not help seeing with Brandon that the chance of establishing it was very small. Brandon told Mrs. Phillips the reason why Mrs. Peck had so assiduously courted Elsie, and then asked if she could recollect anything which she had heard from her mother, her grandmother, or Peck, which would corroborate these unsupported statements.

"I cannot say anything—I will not say a word till Stanley comes home, and then I will tell him. He would not like my mixing myself up with her in any way when he was gone, and I never will keep anything from him," said Mrs. Phillips.

"You are quite right," said Brandon, who, nevertheless, was rather impatient for any information she might give, and thought it might be valuable, from her hesitation about the matter. He had not long to wait, however, for Mr. Phillips came down on the following day, and heard all his wife had to say and all Brandon had to say.

"You know, Brandon, that it would be horrible to me to have my wife's name brought into a court of justice as the daughter of that woman—cognizant, even in a very vague way, of such a serious crime," said Mr. Phillips. "And what purpose can it serve? You can neither enrich Jane or Alice Melville by proving that the crime was committed. Mr. Hogarth is as worthy a successor as the old man could have found, and neither of the Melvilles grudges him his good fortune. Alice will be as comfortable as you can make her, and I wish you both joy from all my heart, and I believe you will be happy. Miss Melville will be as comfortable and happy as we can make her till she chooses a home for herself. Why wish to rake up old stories for no good end whatever? I dare say the story is true. I said to Hogarth when he and Miss Melville consulted me about the first letter she wrote, that for the very reason she claimed to be his mother I believed she was not. I advised him not to write to her or send her money, and requested Miss Melville never to mention her name."

"Out of consideration for you, then, he did not answer her letter, and this has been the result of it. But we have no wish to deprive him of his property; and the only end we aim at is to prove that he is not Miss Melville's cousin. Alice tells me they love each other; but their marriage is forbidden by the will, unless at the sacrifice of the property, which in that case goes to some benevolent societies."

"Ah," said Phillips, thoughtfully, "in that case, if I thought Mrs. Phillips's evidence could establish it, it would perhaps be right to give it; but it cannot—I see it cannot. Mere vague hints, half recollected now that the subject has been brought prominently forward, though they may convince you and me, could not stand before a court of law. I think when you hear what Mrs. Phillips has to say you will confess that it would be wrong to put her and me to such distress, for so little good purpose. I am sure Miss Melville would be the first to dissuade you from such a course. It is for the sake of our children that I am so anxious to conceal the connection. I can trust to you and to Alice, I hope, never to mention it."

Brandon felt the justice of Mr. Phillips's reasoning, and yet was very sorry that he could not gratify his promised wife by anything satisfactory in the way of collateral evidence.

"Now, Elsie," said Brandon, who now took the privilege of love, and called her by her pet name, "what do you mean to do with this information? I think it quite useless for the end you wish to gain. Is it worth while to disturb Hogarth's mind, to lead him to make fruitless inquiries, to wear himself out in attempting to prove what I fear cannot be proved, to make him feel that he has robbed you with even less semblance of justice than before? Can you not leave him to his own life, which will be a useful and a distinguished one? Let us keep this vexatious confession, at least till you consult Jane."

"No, no; I think as we have done everything without consulting Jane, we will make up our minds on this matter too for ourselves. I know Jane will say with you that we should not communicate the news to Francis; for anything that appears to sacrifice herself and to save other people is what she thinks she ought to do."

"I don't think she can be very fond of Hogarth, after all."

"But she is," said Elsie, "in her own quiet, deep way. She could give her own life for his; but she could not feel that she was worth the sacrifice he offered to make."

"I feel I could throw up everything for you, Elsie," said Brandon.

"But I should not like to see you do it, so I am very glad you have not got it to do. Poor Francis!"

"Well, I suppose he will marry some one else, and she will do the same, and they will always be very excellent friends," said Brandon.

"But then the wrong is to the somebody else," said Elsie. "It seems quite wicked to think of such a thing. Can they not keep single for a purpose, as Peggy Walker did? Francis may immerse himself in politics to his heart's content; and Jane, she will be very happy in my happiness. You must love her; you must not be jealous of her. She has been everything in the world to me—my sister, my mother, my friend; and if she cannot have a home of her own, let her always be welcome to ours."

"Always," said Brandon. "We must try to do our best to make up for what we cannot give to her. But you say that Jane would be disposed to keep back this?"

"Yes; but I will send it, and write to him besides. If I were in his circumstances I should think I had a right to know. I would rather hear the truth so far as it can be ascertained about my parentage, than have it concealed for fear of hurting my feelings. He may act upon the information as he sees fit; so I will send him a certified copy of this confession, and write him a few lines besides. I want to tell him how happy I am: he was a friend to us in our sorrows, and he ought to know when any prosperity, or pleasure, or happiness, comes to either of us. I must tell him I can confide in you now."

"That is a very pleasant piece of news, I am sure," said Brandon.

"Jane will write to him from Wiriwilta, but she cannot know of our engagement till too late for the mail."

"I think Jane formed a very shrewd guess as to my intentions, and, if she writes fully to Hogarth, will mention them. But, by-the-by, you must write a few lines to my mother. She will be delighted to hear this good news; and, as for Fanny, the idea that there will be some one at Barragong to take a motherly care of Edgar, and make him change his clothes when he gets wet, and see that he wears flannel in winter, will be very soothing to her maternal anxiety."



Chapter XI.

Elsie Melville's Letter

Francis Hogarth had devoted himself to public life even more assiduously after the departure of Jane than before, and had made himself more prominent in Parliament as practice strengthened his powers of debate and study increased his stock of information. He was invaluable on a committee to those who really wanted to elicit the truth; while those who had anything to conceal dreaded his searching questions and careful weighing of conflicting testimony. His own peculiar crotchet—the reconstruction of electoral districts, so as to secure the rights of minorities—to increase the purity and diminish the expense and the bitterness of elections in the meantime, and to pave the way for the elevation of the masses by the gradual extension of the suffrage, by securing that the new voters should not have all political power in their hands—was one that, of course, found little sympathy within the walls of Parliament.

"There never has yet been," says Mr. J. S. Mill, "among political men in England any real and serious attempt to prevent bribery, because there has been no real desire that elections should not be costly. Their costliness is an advantage to those who can afford the expense by excluding a multitude of competitors; and anything, however noxious, is cherished as having a conservative tendency if it limits the access to Parliament to rich men. This is a rooted feeling among our legislators of both political parties, and is about the only point on which I believe them to be really ill-intentioned. They care comparatively little who votes, so long as they feel assured that none but persons of their own class can be voted for. They know that they can rely on the fellow-feeling of one of their own class with another, while the subservience of NOUVEAUX ENRICHIS, who knocking at the door of the class, is a still surer reliance, and that nothing very democratic need be apprehended under the most democratic suffrage, as long as democratic persons can be prevented from being elected to Parliament."

But outside of the walls of the House of Commons, Francis had found many who agreed with him as to the necessity for some great change. All accounts from America, and even those from Australia, proved that the wide extension of the suffrage without some precaution to secure the minorities from extinction, tended to political degeneration, even in countries where there was great material prosperity, abundance of land, considerable advantages of education, and greater equality of condition than in Britain. The march of affairs was all steadily towards more democratic institutions, and Francis was not deceived by temporary and partial reactions. The extension of the suffrage must come, and England ought to be prepared to meet it. He was willing to take advantage of every suggestion and every discovery that might be made; and when a scheme more comprehensive than that of Sir Rowland Hill for our first Adelaide Corporation, and incomparably better than Lord John Russell's, was first launched into the world, amid many sneers that it was utopian, crotchety, and un-English, he adopted it with an enthusiasm which he knew Jane Melville would approve of. The criticism and the ridicule only strengthened his conviction of the feasibility of the scheme, and his hopes of its success. Jane was sure to be proud if he could be the means of bringing about so great a reform. They had often talked on the subject, but had never been able to devise anything comparable to this. Mr. Sinclair, with whom the matter had been gone over most carefully, was quite as enthusiastic about it as the discoverer himself, and Francis wished more than ever that the entrance to Parliament was less expensive and less difficult, so that he might have so good a coadjutor.

Old Thomas Lowrie was dead, and Peggy and her young folks were all full of preparations for the outward voyage to Australia. Tom hoped to serve out his time to as great advantage in Melbourne as in Edinburgh; and he really was as clever and as skilful as if he had been seven instead of less than two years at the engineering. Francis had visited much at Miss Thomson's, and had Seen a great deal of Mary Forrester, but not with the result that Jane had anticipated; and now, before she had made any impression on him beyond the conviction that she was an exceedingly amiable girl, the plans of the whole family were changed, and they, too, were going to Australia. As Mary had said, they had cost Aunt Margaret a great deal of money first and last. Mr. Forrester had been indolent, and perhaps unlucky; Mrs. Forrester had been occupied with the cares of a very large family, and had not the force of character of her single sister. Her eldest son had gone to Australia some time before, and though he had not made a fortune, he had done pretty well; and he was perhaps ashamed that so much had been done for his family by his aunt and so little by himself. So he wrote advising them to come out to Melbourne, at least all but John, who was now of service to Miss Thomson; and James, if he thought his business was worth staying for. If Margaret and Mary were inclined to take situations as governesses, he had no doubt they could obtain them. Robert and Henry could work for themselves, and with his help could assist their parents to better advantage than in Scotland. The family council met on this proposal, and it was ultimately acceded to, and the family were busy with their preparations to go in the same ship as Peggy and the Lowries. It seemed to Francis as if everybody was going to Australia.

He had dined out one day, and had brushed against some of the greatest men of the age, and felt himself brightened by the collision. He sat beside the most benevolent, the most enlightened, and the most sober-minded of political economists, on the one hand; on the other by the most brilliant of French conversationalists. He—Francis Hogarth, the obscure bank clerk, who had had no name, no position, and, he used to think, no ability—was admitted on equal footing with such men as these. He had not felt so much on the occasion of his dining with the Earl, and meeting with people there of title and political influence.

After an evening passed in conversation on the subjects which especially interested him, Francis returned to his club. He sat down before going to bed with a cigar, and took up his letters. An Australian mail was in, and a letter from Jane and from Elsie. Jane's was first taken up and read. It described her life at Wiriwilta, the house, and the scenery, so far as she could do it justice; Miss Phillips's relations with Dr. Grant, and Jane's hopes that Brandon and Elsie would come to an understanding, for his manner had been very much like that of a man in love. How cautious, yet how affectionate were her expressions to himself! How she seemed to live in others, and to care for the happiness of everyone in the world, while regardless of her own and of his.

"Ah, Jane," said he, half aloud, "how different it would be to come home, after such an evening as this, to you; to see your dear eyes brighten at the recital of all I have seen and all I have heard; to hear your beloved voice inspiring me to more exertion and more patience. After sitting through so many party debates, so much transparent self-seeking, and so much ungenerous opposition as I cannot help seeing in Parliament, how refreshing to see, among such men as I have met to-day, the pure, genuine public spirit which Jane first showed me the example of in the midst of her hardest trials. This reform does not bring personal advantage to one of these people, and yet they are as enthusiastic about it as if their lives depended on it. It may bring fame; but, as M. —— says, 'The laurels will be late, and we will have lost the care for them by the time they fall on our heads.' The pleasure is in the work—the disinterested work itself—as Jane used to say. There is one half the globe between us. I cannot fancy that she is sitting over the fire thinking of me at this moment; it is morning with her; and she is up and busy. But in my business, and in my pleasure, or my trouble, she is always in the background—if not in the foreground—of my thoughts. But then she does not love me as I love her." And a long fit of silent musing, with the letter in his hand, followed these half-spoken regrets.

"But I must read Elsie's letter too; it appears to be long, and the first she has written to me—later in date than Jane's, which is posted in the country, and I suppose asking for congratulations—well, she shall have them."

As he opened the envelope, and saw the curious legal-looking document enclosed, containing the certified copy of Mrs. Peck's confession, his curiosity was strongly aroused; he read it through first with surprise and agitation. Elsie's own letter was not long; it ran as follows:——

"My dear Francis,—I enclose you this, because I think you ought to know that Mrs. Peck is not your mother. I think you must have had good parents, though you may never be able to find them out. You are still as much entitled to Cross Hall, and all that my uncle left you, for you know it was given to you because you deserved it, and I am sure that he could have found no worthier heir. I had hoped very much that the evidence would have been sufficient to prove that you are not Jane's cousin, because you might then have done as you pleased without losing the property, and the position and the opportunities you make such good use of; but I fear—and Mr. Brandon fears—that it cannot be conclusively proved. We have sent you all the information we can get from Mrs. Peck. You will observe a few additional memoranda at the end of the confession. I am quite convinced that what she says is true, for I have often remarked that you were not at all like my uncle or any of his family, and you are still more unlike Mrs. Peck. Consult your own judgment about making inquiries; I know you will do rightly and well.

"You will be very glad to hear that I am engaged to Mr. Brandon, who has taken all the trouble about this affair, and I think elicited all that Mrs. Peck knows. It is most unfortunate that she is so little to be believed, and that she wanted to get money for her information, as well as revenge on you for not answering her letter or letters. I believe I am going to be very happy, and I only wish I could make everybody as happy as myself. Give my love to Peggy when you see her, and say that I should have liked to have been married from her house rather than from any other, but I do not think Mr. Brandon will let me wait so long. Jane will be writing you all the Wiriwilta news, and about Miss Phillips and Dr. Grant. Mrs. Phillips has been very kind to me, kinder than ever she was before; and as for Mr. Phillips, you know how good he has always been to both Jane and myself. We both like Australia, even more than we expected, and I am going to try to make a good bush wife to one who loves me very much. He desires me to send his kindest regards to you; and believe me

"Always, your very affectionate friend, "Elsie Melville."

"Well," said Francis, "here is one person who cares about my happiness. If I cannot prove that Jane is not my cousin, I can at least give up the property, which never would have been left to me unless Henry Hogarth had believed me to be his son. Jane must love me—her sister must know it, or she would never have written to me thus. I will have her after a time. If I can combine the public duty and the career I have entered on with happiness, so much the better; if not, farewell ambition! She cannot blame me for such a course. Henry Hogarth wronged his nieces to enrich me, supposing me to be his son: he must have supposed it, or he would not have forbidden our marriage on account of the cousinship. If I can restore it to Jane by marriage, well and good; but otherwise I cannot keep it. To-morrow for inquiries. First a file of the TIMES for 18-; the police reports, the coroner's inquests, the passenger-list of the Sydney ship and of the American ship, inquiries at the lodging-house near the wharf—then to Edinburgh to inquire at the house in New Street, and consult with MacFarlane and Sinclair. I surely can work through it—at least I will try."



Chapter XII.

What Can Be Made Of It?

Early on the following morning Francis began his researches; but the TIMES and other journals of the date Mrs. Peck mentioned, which he searched through, proved quite barren of intelligence. The passenger-lists he could not find complete anywhere; the newspapers more especially devoted to these matters contained the passenger-list of the 'Lysander' bound for Sydney, for the first and second cabin, and in the latter the names of Mrs. Ormistown and Miss E. Ormistown were mentioned; but for the American ship, in which he supposed his real mother had sailed, there was no mention of any passengers except those in the first cabin; and in all probability, she being a poor woman, would sail in the steerage. There were also three vessels sailing for New York very close upon one another at the time, and he could not be sure in which the passage had been taken. Mrs. Peck said the ship was to sail the next day; but her own vessel had been rather hurried to go with the tide, and there was no saying whether that was the case with the American one. But in all the American ships there was no mention of the names of the fore-cabin passengers. Then the police reports gave no account of any complaint having been made about an exchanged child, and when he eagerly turned to the coroner's inquests there was nothing to be seen there either. The mother had probably been too distressed with grief to observe the substitution, or too anxious not to lose her passage to stop to make inquiries if she had had any suspicion—teething convulsions are not at all uncommon among children of that age, and a stranger in London was likely to get no redress under such circumstances, even if she had the courage to attempt it There was so little likely motive for any one to take away a living child and leave a dead one, that she was sure to have been laughed to scorn if she had suggested such a thing to the landlady of the house.

Francis, disappointed in the newspapers, next went to the lodging-house, but it had been pulled down and another substituted in its place, and of course no one could tell anything about the obscure woman who had kept it. A London Directory for 18—gave her name as Mrs. Martha Stubbs, which did not agree with the name which Mrs. Peck reported, which was Mrs. Dawson. This was a bad beginning to his search for corroborative evidence; but he put an advertisement in the TIMES and WEEKLY DISPATCH for her under both names, in hopes that she might recollect something about a child dying in convulsions in her house, in the absence of its mother, just before a lodger left her house to go to Sydney with another child of the same sex and age. This, after a lapse of thirty-five years, was a desperate chance, but it was the only course open to Francis, and he took it.

Next he went to Edinburgh and inquired in New Street, in the old town, for the woman, Violet Strachan, who had let the lodgings where the real Francis Hogarth was born, and where the irregular marriage had also taken place. Thirty-five years in a city like Edinburgh, with an eminently migrating population, is a far more unmanageable period than in a country town, where people inhabit the same houses from one generation to another, and where, even if the persons whom you wish to discover are dead, there are neighbours who recollect about them. This second search was fruitless, so he could only advertise for Violet Strachan, and that he also did.

Next he went to his friend Sinclair, and opened his budget of news to him. Sinclair had been in America, and he might have chanced to have heard something of some one who had had a doubtful baby found dead on the bed just before its mother sailed. If this had been a sensation novel, Mr. Sinclair would have been sure to have known all about it, and have turned out to be the father or the uncle of his friend—he was of the age to be either; but as this is not a sensation novel, he could not throw any light on the dark subject, and could only give his sympathy, and offer to take any amount of trouble on Francis's behalf. His only advice was that he should advertise in the States' leading papers, if he really wanted to know, for some one who emigrated in May 18-, in one of the three ships which had sailed about that time, who had lost a child in convulsions that might not have been her own; requiring some particulars about the age and the house at which the death was believed to have taken place.

"It is a thousand to one against your getting an answer," said Mr. Sinclair. "But what makes you so anxious to prove this? It can do no good."

"Only this, that if Jane Melville can be proved not to be my cousin, I can marry her and keep Cross Hall and my seat in Parliament. If it cannot be proved, then I must give up everything, and go to Melbourne and ask if she will have me without a penny."

"Oh, is that it?" said Sinclair. "I am the more bound to do all I can to help you. We cannot spare you from the House, nor from the country. But, after all, Hogarth, one woman is as good as another, and your career should not be lightly sacrificed."

"One woman as good as another!" exclaimed Francis.

"Not exactly so; but there are many women as good as Miss Melville. I grant that she is a fine woman, and one of excellent principles and understanding; but not just the sort of person one could go into heroics about. I do not say that as a companion and friend her place could be filled up to you by such women as Miss Crichton or any of the Jardine girls, or even by Eliza Rennie. But Mary Forrester—what do you think of Mary Forrester? You should not let such a girl leave the country. She is handsomer, younger, and every bit as good as Miss Melville."

"She is a very fine girl, no doubt, but do not speak of her in the same breath with Jane Melville. I owe so much to Jane: if it had not been for her, I would never have been so valuable even to you."

"Well, then, let us see what is to be done to suit your wishes. Shall I go with you to MacFarlane's?"

"I will be very glad indeed of your company," said Francis.

Mr. MacFarlane was very much surprised at the strange business which had brought Hogarth from his parliamentary duties to consult him upon. He read carefully the document which Alice had forwarded, and listened to Francis's account of the inquiries he had made so unsuccessfully, before he ventured on giving any opinion.

"This is very possibly true, Mr. Hogarth," said he, at last; "indeed very probably true. I think with you that this woman, Elizabeth Ormistown, and her mother, were capable of doing anything that would bring them in money; but the secret has been kept too long—much too long. They did their work skilfully, without accomplices, and without leaving any traces of their proceedings. This confession is not worth the paper it is written on in a court of law, and you have failed in all your efforts to get corroborative evidence. There is no use in inquiring about Violet Strachan; she is dead three years ago. I paid her, on Hogarth's account, a small weekly sum, that she used to come to my office for to keep her from destitution, but that payment is at an end. The other witness could only prove the irregular marriage, which there is no doubt about, as Henry Hogarth owns to it in his will. The only evidence that would be worth anything is that of your real mother, and there is no saying if she is not dead too. I think the chances are that she is," said Mr. MacFarlane, turning up the annuity tables for the chances of life at the supposed age of thirty-two, which Mrs. Peck had given as the probable age of her neighbour in the lodging-house, after a period of thirty-four years. "If alive, there is no getting at her, and after all—CUI BONO?"

"I am attached—very deeply attached—to my supposed cousin, Jane Melville. I want to be free to marry her. I am convinced that she is not my cousin, and you know the will said that it was on condition of not marrying or assisting either of my cousins that I was to hold the property. If I have convinced you of the feasibility of the case—that I am not related in the slightest degree to the Misses Melville—would not the benevolent societies to which Mr. Hogarth left his property, in case of my disobeying his injunctions, see it also?"

"One man, or one society of men, might be convinced," said Mr. MacFarlane, "and would make a compromise with you on very easy terms; but I doubt if five distinct corporations would do so."

"There is no one who has any right to object, except these societies," said Francis, "or any object in doing so."

"Those clauses forbidding marriage as a condition of inheriting property, or of receiving yearly incomes, are always mischievous," said Sinclair; "they are contrary to public morals."

"Henry Hogarth," said Mr. MacFarlane, "who was a clever man, and in some respects a wise man, did the foolishest things in important matters that ever I heard of. First, his marriage with that girl. I saw her once at the house he lodged in; and a glaikit lassie I thought her. Next, the education of his nieces, which was absolutely nonsensical; and then putting such a clause into his will, as if he meant that you should take a fancy to each other—for prohibitions of that kind just put mischief into young folks' heads."

"Then do you see the absence of family likeness that Elsie relies so much upon? You knew Elizabeth Ormistown when she was young—she saw her an old woman."

"I am no hand at likenesses," said MacFarlane, "and did not pay much attention to the girl; but I think both she and Henry were fair and low-featured, and you are dark and high-featured. But that is of no use either, as you know."

"Then, by a rigid interpretation of the will, you think the societies would be able to dispossess me, if I married Jane, and could not prove this story of Mrs. Peck's to be true."

"I think I know it pretty well by heart, but we had better turn to it," said Mr. MacFarlane, and he looked out the document he had himself drawn out, and read it aloud to Francis and Mr. Sinclair.

"Now you see that the great purpose and bent of Mr. Hogarth's will was to impoverish his nieces, to force them to act and work for themselves. Not merely marriage, but any other way of assisting them was forbidden. He certainly meant to enrich you, because he thought you deserved it, but in case of your not co-operating with him in his principal object, the property was to go away from you altogether. The Misses Melville have made their way in the world remarkably well—much better than I could have thought possible. I think he acted both cruelly and unjustly to them, but as they have so well conquered their difficulties, the matter had better be left as it is."

"Then," said Francis, "you think that even if I had satisfactory proof from my real mother to corroborate Elizabeth Ormistown's confession, and could make it incontestably plain that I am not related to Miss Melville, so that I do not, in marrying her, marry my cousin, it would be considered in law as invalidating my right to the property—that by doing so I am assisting Jane Melville, which was forbidden as clearly as the marriage."

"It is a very strong point. If I were the legal adviser of any one of these benevolent associations, I certainly would recommend them to contest it; at the same time, with the proof which you speak of, I would enjoy fighting it out with them. In a court of law the decision would be against you, under the most favourable circumstances; but if we took it to the Equity Courts I think your chance would be better, for there is a growing feeling there that it is not right for people to bequeath property clogged with vexatious restrictions. Yet, at the same time, all who think well of these five charitable institutions—and they are the very best-managed of the kind in Scotland—Mr. Hogarth showed judgment in his selection—will think taking the property from a man who had, according to his own showing, no right to it, for the sake of the poor and afflicted, really a good work. Public feeling will be against you where you are not personally known."

"God knows it is not for myself that I wish to keep Cross Hall, nor yet for Jane herself," said Francis. "But my life lies out before me so clearly that at no period have I had more to give up than now."

"If you had the evidence you wish for (which I see very little chance of your getting), and married Miss Melville, then, of course, the societies would come upon you. You have got possession, you might keep them at bay for years, and in the meantime you might have interest enough with your political friends to get something good in the way of a government appointment. We hear you well spoken of in the House as a man likely to distinguish himself."

"Not in the way of getting government appointments," said Francis—"quite in a contrary direction. But without the evidence, then, what would you advise?"

"To let the matter rest. Indeed, I think it is useless to disquiet yourself about discovering your real parents. These long-lost relations never amalgamate well. I have seen several instances of it, and they were very disappointing."

"Then," said Francis, "I suppose the only thing for me to do is to make out a deed of gift to each of these societies in the order in which Mr. Hogarth left the property to them. The personal estate I have certainly trenched upon a little, but all to the benefit of the heritable estate. Cross Hall is in better condition now than when I succeeded to it. If I have given away on the very easiest terms some of the worst land on the estate, I have improved the better, and I have spent a large sum in new cottages. I have lived within my means; even my election expenses were saved out of the current income."

"You do not mean to say," said Mr. MacFarlane, "that you are going to take so wild a step as this? What good end can you secure by throwing up your handsome fortune in this way?"

"Don't propose such a thing yet; think a little, Hogarth," said Sinclair.

"I am sure the figure you are making in the House would delight my old friend Harry's heart," said Mr. MacFarlane; "just in the way he would have liked to do himself; getting in in such an honourable way too. I heard Prentice say that he never saw anything so open and above board and so pure as your canvassing. If you are not Harry's son, you deserve to be, and it is no fault of yours. You are like a chip of the old block in your ways of thinking. It is quite possible you are his son after all: this woman is not to be believed one way or another. To give up all this for the sake of a pair of grey eyes, and a pair of healthy-looking cheeks that nobody ever even thought handsome, is a young man's folly."

"Yes, and a head and a heart, and a few other things," said Francis.

"She would never be so unreasonable as to wish or expect you to do it," said Mr. Sinclair.

"She would not expect me to do it, I know. I cannot regret my career more than she will do; but I love her, and I believe she loves me; and, please God, we will begin the world together."

"I was sorry for the girls," said MacFarlane, "very sorry. You could see that when I read the will to you; but they have really done very creditably. In spite of the most absurd education in the world, one of them got a capital situation as a governess; and the other did very well indeed, I hear, at some sort of woman's work. It's the youngest that is going to be well married in Australia, and very likely the other will do the same."

"I think it is very likely she will," said Francis.

"But if she is married to some one else before you go out—they do these things very quickly at the antipodes," said Mr. MacFarlane. "There—the first mail after their arrival, we hear of Alice Melville being engaged to be married."

"I will trust her," said Francis. "She will surely wait till she hears how I receive this news. Even at the worst I can console myself with your friend, Mr. Sinclair; she will be at hand, and that is a great matter."

"Don't give it up so rashly. I'd rather fight it out to the death than that. At any rate, you might keep possession of Cross Hall for a while till you made your way in public life," said Mr. MacFarlane.

"The plan of action I had laid out for myself was not likely to succeed for ten or twenty years, in all probability; and the lawsuit, if protracted to the utmost, would likely go against me at last—I see it would; and the only effect would be that the benevolent societies would come to the property when it had been reduced about one half by litigation. With all due respect for you personally, Mr. MacFarlane, I think money spent in law the very worst investment for all parties concerned, and for the world in general. No, it shall be given up at once."

"But," said Sinclair, "it would be unfair to yourself to begin the world at greater disadvantage than before you were left the property."

"Yes, I think it would," said Francis. "I might represent the case to them in that light. I am satisfied with your opinion, Mr. MacFarlane; but on a question of such importance, you will, of course, have no objection to my consulting another adviser—the Lord Advocate, I think."

"Certainly, you could not have a better man," said Mr. MacFarlane.

"Give me the will or a copy to show him," said Francis. "I must make a note of the names and addresses of these societies, in case his opinion coincides with yours, for I must write to each of them to send a delegate or deputation to meet me. I should see them all at once, and explain matters to them. Rather a hard matter for a shy man like myself to bring his love affairs before five charitable associations."

"Shy!" said Sinclair. "You are as bold and frank a politician as I ever saw."

"Oh, politics are another matter; but until I met with Jane, I never had any one in whom I could confide—I never even knew the blessing of friendship before. She taught me to be frank, for she had confidence in me and felt for me. You see I am practising for the associations by speaking to two elderly gentlemen on the subject. Another lesson at the Lord Advocate's, and I hope to be equal to the emergency."

The Lord Advocate agreed in all points with Mr. MacFarlane as to the legal chances of keeping the property; and although he thought it a very quixotic thing to give it up, Francis was determined on that subject. The letters were written to the associations, and a day was appointed for his meeting a delegate from each of them, intrusted with powers to decide and act. Mr. MacFarlane wished to be present, for he had no confidence in the prudence of his client, who would be sure to show his hand to the opposing party, and let them know too soon how little there was in it, and Francis rather reluctantly consented. In the mean time he worked off some of his excitement by visiting Peggy and the Lowries to deliver Elsie's messages. She was busy, as usual, but laid aside her work at the sight of the unexpected visitor.

"Have you any news?" said she, "for I have had no letter from Miss Jean this month, and next mail I'll no be here to get it. You look as if there was good news, Mr. Hogarth."

"Good and bad," said Francis; "can you guess the good?"

"Miss Elsie and Mr. Brandon," said Peggy. "I see by your eyes I'm right."

"You are a good guesser, Peggy. She is only sorry she could not be married from your house; but she did not think Mr. Brandon would wait so long."

"Oh, I dare say no. But indeed I marvelled that he went to Australia without her, for I thought it was a thing that was to be, from the first day he spoke about her. But there's no much time lost after all. There's to be a Mrs. Brandon at Barragong at last—and what says Miss Jean about it?"

"It is Elsie herself who writes to me that it is a settled thing, and that she hopes to be very happy, and sends you this message. But what would you say if Miss Jane were to be married herself?"

"You don't say so!" said Peggy, looking surprised and puzzled. "I never thought upon her being married. And that's the bad, is it? I wonder what man about Wiriwilta has got the presumption to even himself to her. I misdoubt she's throwing herself away, as many a sensible woman has done before her. One marriage is quite enough for me at a time."

"Perhaps it is premature in me to speak of it," said Francis, "for the Saldanha will be three months, or nearly so, on the way, and she has not been rightly asked yet."

"The Saldanha! What in the name of wonder do you mean?"

"I mean to go with you in the Saldanha, if I finish the little matter of business I have got to do on this side of the world before she sails. But I see I must let you read my letters, so that you may judge of the news."

"It's fine big writing," said Peggy. "I hope it's easier made out than what you say," and she proceeded to read Elsie's letter and enclosure, with a running comment.

She scarcely understood the drift of the beginning of the letter, but when she came to Mr. Brandon's name she knew her ground. "Happy! she's sure to be happy! Mr. Brandon will give her all her own way, and she does not want for sense.—That's a kind message to me; but she might have been married here if Mr. Brandon had had more gumption, and asked her before he went away.—And Mrs. Phillips is more reasonable. I'd like to see her show any airs to her now, when Mr. Brandon is by; he'll let her know her place.—And they like Australia—both of them. Who, in all the world, is it Miss Jean can have taken up with?—And so that was the way Cross Hall got his bonny bargain of a wife; he was young and simple to be entrapped with such a pair. Well, well! it was a home-coming to hear such words passing between her and an old sweetheart. I'll be bound he never wanted to see her again.—But, mercy on us! and so it was no you that was the bairn after all, Master Francis, and the old laird had really no call to care about you. But that woman should be punished. Men and women have been hanged for less guilt. I'd hurry no one into the presence of the Great Judge; but that she should be at large, boasting of her wickedness, and hoping to make siller of it, is a thing that should not be permitted."

"Then you believe this story, Peggy?" said Francis.

"What should ail me to believe it? It's all of a piece; no woman that was not as wicked as that would make up so wicked a story."

"Every one that I show the narrative to believes it, yet they all say that it would not hold in a court of justice; so I am going to give up Cross Hall to the benevolent associations, as Mr Hogarth made them his heirs, in case of my not obeying some of his directions, and I will then sail with you in the Saldanha, to begin the world afresh, and to ask Jane Melville to begin it with me."

Peggy made no doubt that that was the only thing Francis could do under the circumstances. She did not know the value of what he lost, she only thought of what he was likely to gain.

"Well, Mr. Francis, or whatever your name may be, if that is the marriage you spoke of, I think that news is GOOD too. I'm not a woman of many words, but I think you'll never repent of this, or grieve for the loss of this world's gear; and so far as my poor judgment goes, I think Miss Jean is not the woman to say you nay;" and she shook his hand warmly, and entered into his plans for beginning life in Melbourne, as neither Sinclair nor MacFarlane had done. "There's good work to be done in Australia, Mr. Francis, and there's one there that will help you to do it. There's no doubt Providence intends to make something of you. After all this chopping and changing, it would be a queer thing if you would not rise as high at the other end of the world as you have done in this."



Chapter XIII.

Not So Bad, After All

Perhaps there never was a romantic communication made to five more prosaic-looking people than the accredited agents of the societies. Middle-aged and elderly men, who, if they ever took up a novel, skipped the love passages, and in all instances preferred to read newspapers. They were very much bewildered at the purpose of their being called together. They had thought there must have been a codicil found to the very strange will of which they had had a copy sent to their societies, as being, though in a very unlikely contingency, possibly interested, and that it was possible they were to receive a small sum IN ESSE, instead of the large one IN POSSE. But when Mr. MacFarlane produced no codicil, but read to them gravely Mrs. Peck's confession instead, and paused at the conclusion, as if he expected them to express an opinion, they looked at each other for a few seconds, unwilling to commit themselves by initiating any remark whatever. At last the boldest of the number observed that it was a strange story, which the others agreed to unanimously.

"Do you think it is true?" said Francis.

"Perhaps it is," said the director of the Blind Asylum; "there is no saying."

"Of course it does not at all invalidate Mr. Hogarth, my client's right to the estate, moveable and heritable, of the late Hogarth, of Cross Hall," said Mr. MacFarlane, "for you know that was left to him by will."

"Of course not," said the director of the Blind Asylum; "one can see that."

"But what was the use of calling us all here," said the representative of the Deaf and Dumb Asylum, "to tell us that Cross Hall left his property perhaps by a mistake? Had he claimed as heir-of-entail or as heir-at-law the case would have been different; but it would have been our business to have found out that, or the next heir's, and certainly not the present possessor's."

"You will observe," said Francis, "that I hold the property under conditions—one is, that I shall not marry either of my cousins. If Jane Melville is not my cousin, marrying her, and restoring her to the property, which she has a better right to than I have—should not invalidate my right by this will."

"Oh, that is a very different affair," said the Deaf and Dumb delegate. "You want to marry Miss Melville, and to keep the estate too."

"Yes, if I can legally. I know that if Mr. Hogarth was alive at this day, and could see this confession, he would believe it, and he would no longer see any bar to my marriage with his niece. If he could see how well and how bravely his nieces have battled with the world he would require no further trial of their fortitude or patience."

"We would never think of disturbing you in possession of Cross Hall, so long as you fulfil the conditions of the will," said the delegate from the Blind Asylum.

"Certainly, you need never think of it, for you cannot," said MacFarlane.

"But such a step as you contemplate is so flagrant a violation of the spirit and purport of Mr. Hogarth's will—for, right or wrong, he never meant Jane Melville to be mistress of Cross Hall—that we must claim our just rights. This confession, given with the hope of extorting money from the supposed heirs of Mr. Hogarth, is worthless, particularly considering the character of the person who makes it. I think you have no case whatever: do not you agree with me?" said the director of the Deaf and Dumb Asylum—one who took the greatest possible interest in the working and the prosperity of that charity, the funds of which were rather at a low ebb at this time. "We cannot be supposed to be actuated by selfish motives; we are perfectly disinterested trustees for great public interests; but if property is left to these institutions, we would be wanting in our duty if we did not claim it."

The other four directors took the same view of the case. None of them would agree to leave Francis unmolested, if he took the step he meditated.

"But you observe," said Francis, "that this will has been the cause of great injustice. In the first place, Mr. Hogarth's two nieces had been brought up as his heirs, and they were left to struggle with difficulties and hardships which were harder and more severe than any man has to go through—and for which the education their uncle had given them had not made them more fitted. In the second place, he left the property to me as supposing me to be his son. If this confession is true, I am not his son; but if I marry the woman who in that case is not my cousin, you will not allow me to keep the estate for her, so I am forced to——"

"Stop, Mr. Hogarth," said Mr. MacFarlane, eagerly.

"I am forced to make a deed of gift to each of you, as I am really in possession of the estate. I save you all the expense and trouble of litigation, and I have to begin the world again at far greater disadvantage than when I was taken from my bank-desk and my 250 pounds a year two years ago. I have acquired expensive habits; I am two years older, and I shall have a wife and probably a family to maintain."

"There is a great deal of truth in what you say," said the director of the Institution, for the sub-matronship of which Jane Melville had applied in vain. The other four were speechless with astonishment at the extraordinary proposition which Francis made to them. "Litigation is long and expensive. I may say, for my body of directors, that we would be very happy to give some consideration for the very handsome, the very generous, offer you make to us. It is not right to marry without being a little beforehand with the world; and it would be very unfair to accept of all you gained by the will without making a little compensation for what you have lost. Any personal property, books, and furniture, that you would like to keep, to the value of 200 pounds, or thereabouts, and a sum of 400 pounds from each of us, I think would be fair, to give you a start in a new country. I believe Miss Melville is a very deserving lady. If it had not been for her youth we should have had her with us. I hope my friends here will agree with me that this is reasonable and just."

"You get the estate too cheaply," said Mr. MacFarlane, with warmth. "Think that Mr. Hogarth might have kept it for ever if it had not been for this romantic crotchet; think that he might marry Miss Melville, and having possession might defy you to oust him, and drag you through court after court, and run you up 10,000 pounds of costs, and after all the Chancery Courts would decide that he should keep it. Public feeling is against these restrictions, for they lead to people living PAR AMOURS if they are forbidden to marry; and Mr. Hogarth's position and character would be all in his favour. You get property worth 50,000 pounds divided amongst you, and you offer my client a paltry 2,000 pounds out of consideration for his generosity and forbearance."

"I am satisfied with it," said Francis; "and I think Jane will be the same."

"It IS too little," said the director of the Infirmary, who had never spoken before. "We must make it 500 pounds each; and we are very much obliged to Mr. Hogarth; and we should not limit him so much with regard to the personal property. Cross Hall library was valued at more than 1,000 pounds; and as they are all such reading folk, they might take 200 pounds of books alone. Let us be liberal, and say 700 pounds for what he may like to take from Cross Hall."

"If I have any voice in the administration of the property I make over to you, I should like to have it applied specially to paying your officers better—particularly in those situations which are filled by women. I know you think it right to economize your funds; and I believe that all Scotch charities are much better managed, and much more honestly administered than those on the other side of the Tweed. But I think you pay your surgeons and your matrons very shabbily. You say you get so many applications, that it shows you do not underpay them. But it would be much better to demand better qualifications, and to pay them more highly. Out of sixty applications for a matronship worth 30 pounds a year, there is perhaps one or two only fit for the work; and if they are fit for it, they are well worth 70 pounds," said Francis.

"We have raised THAT salary," said the director of the —— Institution.

"I am glad to hear it—very glad to hear it," said Francis.

"We will take what you say into consideration," said the director of the Deaf and Dumb Institution, who was speculating on all that could be done with a sum amounting to more than 9,000 pounds.

"I object to specify sums in making the deed of gift, or I should make some special provision on that score; but the value of money changes so much that what is a fair salary in one generation is not a fair one the next, and if salaries are fixed too high they are apt to lead to favoritism and jobbing. I dare say it would be better to trust to your own sense of honour on the matter."

"I think you may safely do so, Mr. Hogarth. With regard to the property, I suppose we should advertise it for sale and then divide the proceeds. The payments to Mr. Hogarth must be made at once, however, as I suppose he is bound for Australia," said the director of the Deaf and Dumb Asylum.

"Yes, in the first ship, in which some friends of mine are going," said Francis.

"I am sure we wish you all prosperity and all happiness in the marriage you contemplate, which has been so fortunate for those in whom we are interested," said the last speaker, and the sentiment was echoed by all the others.

"Could not you buy Cross Hall?" said Francis to Miss Thomson on the day after this matter was settled. "I should feel half my sorrow at parting with it removed if I knew you could have it."

"No, no; I am not going to buy a property that I cannot pay for. My father did something of the kind once, and all the time he was a laird we were poor. He sold the property at a great loss, and then things looked up again with him. I'd rather be a rich farmer than a poor proprietor."

"If I could see you in possession of Cross Hall, and Mr. Sinclair in my seat in Parliament, I should really have very little to give up; but it appears I cannot. I have accepted the stewardship of Her Majesty's Chiltern Hundreds to-day, and the burghs will be declared vacant directly. But Mr. Sinclair cannot afford it; and he could not carry the election. His manner is not good enough; he does not conciliate people. If our scheme were carried there would be no fear of Sinclair getting in, for he is a man really wanted. He could get a sufficient number of votes here to carry him half in, and the remainder of the quota would be attracted by his original genius and upright character, which he could show by his speeches and addresses; and we hope to make a seat in Parliament a much less costly affair—50 pounds or 100 pounds should cover it all. But I fear the burghs must fall back on either the Duke's nominee or the Earl's."