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in its tall brown case, the scarcely audible murmur of the rivulet at the bottom of the garden, and the rise and fall of the light wind among the trees about the cottage, were the only sounds the recluse heard. Even these he was hardly sensible of, for his thoughts were intent on the matters that lay nearest and most inward to him-his passion for Selina-his hate of Walsingham-his tender reverence for Maria-his grateful devotion to her mother's memory-and, as lying in the same range of feeling, and akin in depth, although not outwardly connected with these, the vague raw strivings of his political partisanship, ending in a bloody woe. These were the closest and most personal themes of emotion which his life supplied, and therefore such is the frame of man's spirit those which extended furthest, and seemed to him fullest of the infinite and imperishable. Life, Death, Destiny, Mischance, Error, Remorse, Despair, contempt of All and of Himself these, none of them exclusively possessing him, were all by turns with him.

That, however, which chiefly occupied him, was the image of Selina, as he had formerly seen her-the large and blooming form, with its sunny colouring and glow of life, which, in his youthful season of fancy and eagerness, had been to him the descending apparition of all Olympian beauty. "How fondly," he thought,-"how deliriously did I love her. What islands of Atlantis and Utopia did I not people with our imagined loves. And all this I left at the command of severe wisdom,-rather for her sake even than my own. And all this was enjoyed to satiety by another; and then the believing, credulous, misguided, devoted heart, was given up to its own lonely despair, and left to find, in the bitter sense of its own weakness, a ratification of the world's contempt."

Hardly had the reflection occurred to him before he was ashamed and sorrow-stricken at having mingled any base jealousy, on his own account, with his pure grief for Selina's fate, and his righteous indignation against Walsingham. "So," he thought, "it is with man, ever giving to the petty and individual the mark and trappings of the absolute and infinite. Yet even thus he shows his indomitable tendency to

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strive towards the higher than what he is. So appearance is never a mere and gratuitous falsehood, but the ready and immediate substitute for being, of which, during a time, it assumes the name and attributes. It is the servant, who, wearing his master's clothes and title, goes before him to prepare the way, and prefigures his postponed arrival. But with me, at least, this servile and heraldic ministration of falsehood to truth is, I trust, for ever at an end; and I can no longer bear to exchange greetings or keep terms of alliance with that which is not what it seems. Jealousy!-Revenge!-down, down! and wear no more the austere and divine aspect of Truth and Right. Yet even with this rigid separation of myself and my own feelings from the whole matter, still it remains a dark puzzle. I cannot execute vengeance on Walsingham. which I sought to stab him would start back from the airy shade of Selina interposed between. Nay, at all events, it were better to leave him fluttering idly over the slime in which at last, when his wings fail, he will assuredly be caught and sink. She sleeps calmly, or, at least, the tomb conceals and locks beyond our reach her present stage of suffering. It is I who remain here, the object of my own hideous thoughts, and find myself again, after years of enforced calm, distracted and tortured with the same pangs and remembrances from which I have already given so much of my life-blood to buy an uneasy and insecure escape. It is unmanly, weak, pitiable to give way. It were nobler, more Titanic, to struggle on. struggle leading only to fresh struggle, without a hope of final peace, wastes and grinds down the spirit, if it does not issue in immediate defeat and death. Oh, that some signal were given from the loftier circles of this frame of things, and that, by it empowered, I could sink into sea-deep oblivion!"

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One-two-three-the clock sounded as he muttered to himself, and so on to twelve.

The sound broke up the dream of his existence, and many minds awoke within a single breast. EdmonstoneHarcourt-Wilson-Hastings-Musgrave-Walsingham - Collins - all were there. With the feelings of these

several lives came the recollection of the history of each, seen in long perspective through its own particular doorway, and all meeting in the central chamber of the one consciousness. In due relation to each were seen the several figures connected with it, Maria-Ann-the old man of the Araxes-the Caffre girl-the Arme nian merchant-Henry and his wife Elizabeth, and the poor of Musgrave's parish-Selina, and the poet's troop of phantoms-Everard-Andrews and the slain victim of Collins's politics. Amid these living and dead ones, and many more of both, encir cling each of the central shadows, the eye found no fixed point of vision, and the bewildered heart no peace. The gazer hovered uncertain as a bird that has wandered from its master, floats in air above a host of men, and seeks in

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vain the one to whom alone it would return. He, perhaps, in the meanwhile pines in a prison, or moulders in the grave.

But to the seeking, weary spirit, one form presented itself amid all these ; older, feebler, poorer, more ignorant, more helpless, more bereft, more scorned than all,-the crippled basketmaker. "Knowledge, talents, wealth, love, youth, zeal-all these I have in vain experienced. But one trial more remains for me,-to sink to the lowest of conditions, as I have attempted fruitlessly so many higher ones." He spoke sharply and abruptly the name of the poor solitary old man. The world of spectres, vaguer than life, and of too intense realities, disappeared from the chamber of the Recluse, and left him to repose.

CHAPTER IX.

Maria was walking in the wood where she had conversed with Collins, and as she passed the gate, she was surprised to see peering above it the head of the old basket-maker, whom she had never before known to come so far from home. She walked lightly up to him, with a smiling face, and asked him whom he wanted to sec?

"You, miss."

"Well, what can I do for you? Is it money you wish for?”

"No; all the money Mr Nugent has would now be of little use to me. I have few wants, miss, and now I feel I have not long to live. But if you would do me a kindness, you must let me have my own way for this once."

He saw assent in her face, and, opening the gate, entered the wood. Then looking round him, he said, "It is near twenty years since I was here last. The trees have grown well. Miss, please to follow me.'

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So saying, in spite of his lameness, he walked on vigorously before her, and led the way to the most retired corner of the plantation. The path was nearly overgrown with weeds, and led to a diminutive streamlet, hardly beyond the size of a ditch, crossed by a single plank by way of bridge. Beyond this lay a thicket

composed chiefly of evergreens, which looked peculiarly gloomy in the midst of the full and glittering summer foliage of the deciduous trees around them. The ground under their dark boughs was ragged and neglected, and the old seat, which stood in the centre of a small clear space, was also overgrown with moss.

"Here," said Fowler," it was. Now, will you sit down there while I lean against this tree."

So saying, he leant his back against the stem of a yew-tree, which grew close to the end of the bench. On this Maria seated herself, for it was plain, from the manner of the old man, that he was perfectly in earnest, and had in view some serious purpose. He was under the dark canopy of branches, but a ray of light fell full on her, and in her white dress she might have seemed a figure of snow, or of polished silver, in the midst of a scene and images of bronze. She looked at Fowler from under her straw-bonnet with some wonder and anxiety, but with unalterable kindness, and waited till he should speak. He turned down his bright blue eyes for some time, leaning both hands upon his staff, and then looked at her.

"It is now," he said, "nineteen years since I was last in this spot. At that time Mr Nugent was away in

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the army up at London or somewhere, and he let Mr Lascelles live in the manor-house. Mrs Lascelles, who was one of the best women I ever saw, had just brought him a girl, and they had lost two or three children before, I lived then at a cottage down by the mill, a mile and a half from this, and had my daughter with me. My wife and all my other children were gone, and my daughter Mary was a widow, with one little boy. He and his mother too have been taken since. She had buried her husband away on the sea-coast, and was come back to me to lie-in. A few days after this, late in the evening, I heard a tap at my door, and I remember my little grandson woke up, and said, Grandfather, there's a noise; do you think it is a ghost? Poor child! he went soon after to a better place. I opened the door, and saw Mr Lascelles. He looked very pale and distressed, and he said to me, Fowler, I cannot stay now to speak to you, for I should be missed at home. But come up to the furthest gate of the wood behind the house-that's where I came in just now-to-morrow morning at six o'clock, and I will meet you there.' He slipped a guinea into my hand, and hurried away. I was much puzzled and surprised, and after I went to bed I lay awake for half an hour thinking what it could mean. However, the guinea served to buy some gruel that night for my daughter, and something too for little Thomas. The next morning I went up at six o'clock, and found Mr Lascelles waiting at the gate. He told me to follow him, and walked before me to this place; and when we got here he turned sharp round upon me, and said, Fowler, will you save my wife's life?' At first I thought that he was mad, and I could not answer any thing; but I looked at him where he stood there where your foot now is. Then his face seemed to shiver, and grew pale, and then red again, and he said, Fowler, do you want to kill Mrs Lascelles, or will you save her life?' and he stepped close to me, and caught my arm, and looked hard into my face with the strangest, sharp, sorrowful look I ever saw. I could hardly speak, but I said, To be sure, sir, I'll do whatever I can, unless it is something wrong. If you want that, I'll see and pay you back your guinea

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somehow before long. At this he looked quieter, and said, 'My guinea! Pooh! what signifies that? Listen, and I'll tell you what I want. You know I have lost all the children I have had except this one; and Mrs Lascelles was almost heart-broken before this was born, thinking she should lose it too in a few months. The child is a girl, and since its birth, a week ago, it has been growing every day punier and punier; and the mother, what between her weak state from her confinement, and her grief for the poor baby, has grown quite ill. She is in a high fever and delirious, and is always asking for the child, and crying. Even if she should grow a little better, and find it dead, the doctor says that very likely she might go too. It would be a hard thing, Fowler, to lose a wife one loves.' Then I looked at him too, and said, You may say that, sir; it's a deal worse than to lose a leg.' So he went on this way-Now I want to know, will you prevent this with no loss to yourself? I prevent it, sir! What can I do? I am not a doctor, much less God, to save the poor child's life or Mrs Lascelles's.'Oh,' he answered,

you can do every thing. You have a daughter who has been just confined too, and her baby is a girl, is it not?'There he stopped, and it all came across me like a blaze of fire, and I thought I should have fallen down. But then again he took my hand, and pressed it very hard, and looked into my face that odd way. His eyes were filling with tears, and he said- Will you persuade your daughter to give me that baby? She has another child, I know, and you and she will be able to do better for it. Besides, the one she parts with will be brought up as Mrs Lascelles's own, so you may be sure it will want for nothing, and I shall always be grateful to you and yours for the best service any one could render me.'—This all came on me together, and I could only sayWell, sir, but my little grandchildpoor baby, it is but ill off now,' I said, and likely to be worse-my grandchild will not be the same thing to Mrs Lascelles as her own. Had not you better wait till she gets stronger, and if so be that God pleases to take her girl, why then she may choose another for herself?'- Fowler,' he said, she'll never grow stronger if she

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loses this child. She must never know of the exchange. Before the baby dies, and it has not many hours to live, the other must be put in its place while she sleeps, or is too confused in her head to know what we are doing. Then when she comes round a little, and sees the child strong and well, no doubt she'll recover too. She must never know it;'-and he said the word never as if he wanted to nail the notion into my head. I felt quite puzzled and unsteady, and did not know what to say. There was the thought of the poor lady's death, and Mr Lascelles's grief, and perhaps his death too, for to be sure no one ever loved his wife more than he; and then I thought how ill I could do for my daughter and her children, how often they would be likely to want food and clothes and fire, and what worse would become of them if I died; and, after pondering a minute or two, I said-Sir, you shall have the child, if I can manage it."

The whole story had gradually been unfolding itself in Maria's mind, though, in her amazement, she had much difficulty to comprehend it perfectly. At last she exclaimed-"Do you mean that I am your granddaughter, and not the child of Mrs Lascelles?"

Startled at her tone of voice, he answered, hurriedly-"That and nothing else is what I mean."

Then rose an agony of grief in her. She covered her face with both her hands, and her head sank down upon her lap. Her limbs, too, failed, and she slid off the bench until she knelt upon the ground. Fowler was bewildered between habitual respect for her station and fond affection for herself, and he thought that he had best let her weep on for some minutes. Then he went to her and touched her arm. She shrank from him hastily, but the next instant seized the great brown furrowed hand, and pressed it to her lips. She rose from her knees and sat down again upon the bench, and desired him to sit beside her.-" Tell nie," she said, "what became of my mother?"

"She lost her little boy by hoopingcough, and then she too pined away and died. They are both buried with my wife and our other children in the churchyard of the old church that was burned the other night. It was still

used now and then for burying in those days."

This brought back to Maria her presence there, and all the scene with Walsingham, and suggested to her more vividly than any thing before the change of her position in the world. She tried, however, to fix her thoughts upon the obscure grave and history of her mother, and to find her own reality in these new circumstances. Mrs Lascelles she did not dare to think. But at last she asked again,-" Who was my father?"

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"He was a fisherman twenty miles from this, and a very good young man. But he was drowned, and his wife was obliged to return to me. His name was Williams."

She mused for a few moments, and, gathering strength and courage, said to Fowler-" My name, then, is Williams, too? But there are other things that I must know in order to do what is right."-Then, by several distinct questions, she drew from him the account of which the following facts are a summary :—

Mr Lascelles had himself gone for the child at night, together with the medical man, taking the corpse of his own baby to Fowler's cottage. This was buried, a day or two afterwards, as the child of Mrs Williams. Her living infant was, in the mean-time, conveyed to the Mount; and, as Mrs Lascelles was far too ill to observe accurately, and the room was kept darkened, there was no difficulty in deceiving her. She then gradually recovered her health, and soon became perfectly well. Mr Lascelles had said to Fowler that he should immediately make a will, bequeathing all his property to Maria after his wife's death, with an annuity to Fowler and his daughter. He premised, however, that this had not been done, as he had not since received any payment, and the omission was easily explained, for Mr Lascelles was killed a very few months afterwards by a fall from his horse. Lascelles then removed to London, in order to be near her mother and other friends. The nurse, who alone among the servants knew of the exchange, had been long dead. The medical man had gone to reside in the metropolis, and of his further history Fowler knew nothing. But he produced from an old tin snuff-box a certificate of the principal fact written by Mr Lascelles

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himself, and signed both by him and the surgeon.

. The sight of this paper again agitated Maria violently, for although she had before no doubt of the truth of the narrative, this seemed at once to bring it into the class of admitted and commonplace facts. Every thing which seemed to separate her from Mrs Lascelles was to her excruciating. But she felt the necessity of decision and external calmness, and would think only of what was to be done.

"Why," she said, "did you not tell me this sooner?"

"Why should I? You were happy, and so was I. And I did not know what change it might make for you if I spoke of matters that had happened twenty years ago. But now I think I shall not live much longer, and I could not die quietly without telling you the truth. But I shall never speak a word of it to any one else. So you must settle for yourself whether you choose any thing to be done about it."

"I shall at once tell Mr and Mrs Nugent the whole story. What they may wish I do not know. But I will send to inform you as soon as possible. In the meantime, take this," giving him the contents of her purse, "I must not have money and you be in want of it."

The old man looked at her with glistening and delighted eyes, and exclaimed, "Well, when I have seen you, I have often thought you are a deal prettier than ever your poor mother was, though she was the prettiest girl in the parish; but I never knew you look half so beautiful before. Perhaps when I see you again, if that ever happens, it may be settled that you shall be nothing more to me than a fine young lady, and, I daresay, that would be best for us both. But I should like that you would give your old grandfather one kiss before he dics." She threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him repeatedly, while the tears ran down his face. "Now," he said, "dear Miss Maria, you had best go to the house, and leave me to get home at my own pace. You will have plenty to think of, no doubt. But, at all events, you may believe that you are dearer to poor old Jack Fowler than to any of the great folks you have been living among. I never saw the tail of your gown go by without praying God to bless you; and when you used to come down here from London, I always fancied He had sent an angel into the country to do every body good. God bless you, my darling! God bless you, and make you as happy as I wish you, and as good as the Virgin Mary!"

CHAPTER X.

When Maria had reached her own room she threw herself upon her knees, and prayed for strength to do what was right in all things, and to bear meekly and cheerfully whatever might occur to her.

She then sat down and began to reflect upon the steps requisite to be taken. Her heart was full of the memory of Mrs Lascelles, who had been to her far more than a common mother, and who had died in the belief that Maria was her child. But she knew that now was not the time for these feelings, and turned away from them in order to act decidedly. The question as to Mr Nugent's determination was far from clear. He was a haughty self-indulgent man, full of concentrated family pride, and believing that there was a specific virtue in the blood of his ancestors to render

their descendants a race altogether apart, in merit and dignity, from the rest of mankind. The notion that any one not thus distinguished should appear as a sharer of the Nugent privileges, even on the mother's side, was very likely to strike him as an unheard-of profanation. It might, pos. sibly, seem to him an imposture violating the most sacred principles of human existence, and entailing nothing less than infamy on any one who should connive at it. As to the question of money, Maria knew that her supposed father had possessed a considerable fortune; but this, she believ ed, arose entirely from the produce of a Cornish mine, which, she understood, had now ceased to be profitable. She had, moreover, little doubt that he had not left a will, and that she, therefore, would, at all events, possess no claim.

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