A new element had entered into Miss Phillips's life. She was, after her

fashion, in love; and she was restless and dissatisfied without the

presence of the beloved object. Dr. Grant was just long enough away to

be very welcome when he came; and Jane was a little amused at the

manner in which Harriett threw off her languid air of indifference, and

talked to this (to Jane) most uninteresting Scotchman, who was so full

of national pride and personal vanity. Jane was very cosmopolitan in

her ideas, both by nature and by education. Her uncle had always had

more pride in being a Briton than a North Briton, and never had fired

up with indignation at Scotland being included or merged in England.

She did not think Scotchmen intrinsically more capable than English;

there was a greater diffusion of elementary knowledge in the northern

part of the island, but she thought that in society Englishmen were

more agreeable than Scotch, as a general rule, because they were more

certain of their own position. Scotch and Irish people are apt to be

afraid that they are looked down upon, and are too often on the

look-out for slights to be resented, whereas Englishmen, who do not

know much of continental feelings and habits of thought, have a

comfortable conviction that the greatest country in the world belongs

to them, and that nobody can dispute it. Dr. Grant was surprised at

Jane's want of nationality, and confided to Harriett that he was

greatly disappointed in her; and in spite of Harriett's professed

regard for Jane, she could not help seeing the faults which this

keen-sighted observer pointed out.

One day when Dr. Grant and Harriett were in the enjoyment of each

other's company, and flirting in their own interesting manner, and Jane

was sitting beside them with the children, Mr. Brandon and Edgar made

their appearance. Emily and little Harriett met Brandon with

acclamations, and the little ones rejoiced over him in a very noisy

manner, too. Jane gave him a hearty welcome, for she was really

delighted to see his face again, but Miss Phillips and Dr. Grant were

scarcely so affectionate.

"Well, here comes the recreant knight," said Miss Phillips. "What have

you got to say for yourself, Mr. Brandon?"

"To say for myself! Oh! I have a great deal to say for myself. I have

seen a great deal since we parted in London."

"But why have you left your own business and my brother's, and gone

wool-gathering in South Australia?"

"I have just gone wool-gathering, and that must be my excuse. Phillips

will admire the sheep, I am sure. They have just got home in first-rate

condition; easy travelling and plenty of time. But where is Mr.

Phillips and Mrs. Phillips?"

"Oh, mamma is in Melbourne, and we have got a new little brother, and

his name is to be Vivian, after uncle Vivian, you know; and papa is out

over the runs, and will be back on Saturday; and I am sure he will be

very glad to see you, and Edgar too, I dare say," said Emily.

"And where is your sister, Miss Melville? Has she come out to Australia

with you? Is she quite well?" asked Brandon.

"Quite well," said Harriett; "she is in Melbourne with Mrs. Phillips.

We expect them out in a week or two, or perhaps as much as three weeks,

for Mrs. Phillips fancies she cannot stand the journey for some time."

"Alice has not seen Wiriwilta yet," said Emily. "I know she will think

it very pretty; Miss Melville likes it very much."

"And you have got quite strong, Emily?" said Brandon.

"Quite strong again. I can walk to the water-holes near the grove of

young gum-trees and back again without being a hit tired. We have such

lovely walks every day with Miss Melville. And do you know Mr. Brandon,

my dear old Cockey died just after you and Edgar went away to Adelaide;

but I have got another--such a beauty--and two such lovely parrots. Jim

got them for me. You can't think how glad Harriett and I were to see

Jim. And Mrs. Bennett has got another baby, and I'm to be godmother,

and it's to be called Emily; and Mrs. Tuck has got another too, ever so

fat. We have not seen our own baby brother yet."

"But how does it happen that you did not write to me? I got one letter

telling me little Eva was dead, and that you were getting better; but

next month I did not hear a syllable, good or bad, from any of you."

"Because we were on board ship by that time, before the mail from

Australia came in. Papa thought we would be all here sooner than we

were--but it was a delightful voyage. We had Mr. Dempster--you know Mr.

Dempster--and such a lot of nice Adelaide children. I was so sorry to

bid good-bye to Rose; she was my friend all the voyage; and there were

some very nice gentlemen, too. It was quite as nice a voyage as the

last, only that Miss Melville made us do lessons all the time; and

perhaps after all it was as well that she did."

"I never heard such a chatterbox as you are, Emily," said her aunt.

"Did you find the voyage pleasant, Miss Phillips?" asked Brandon.

"Oh, yes, very pleasant indeed."

"I did not think you would condescend to visit our rude latitudes,"

said Brandon.

"Oh, I am really quite enjoying my visit. Stanley was greatly pleased

at my proposal to come out, for he thought it such an excellent thing

for the family. I am only on a visit, you know. I cannot say how I

should like Victoria for a permanence, but I like the novelty for the

present."

"And your cousin is in Parliament, I hear, and likely to distinguish

himself, Miss Melville," said Brandon. "I hope that you and your sister

do not despise us poor colonial people."

"Certainly not," said Jane; "indeed, Francis says that he got most of

his best ideas from Mr. Sinclair, who had been in Canada and the United

States, and from a conversation between you and Mr. Phillips and Mr.

Dempster the first day he dined with us in London. He says nothing

sharpens an Englishman up like intercourse with such pushing,

energetic, straightforward people as colonists."

"That is high praise from a British member of Parliament. I owe him

something for that. But did you see Peggy before you left?"

"Yes; we went up to bid her good-bye. I think she will not be long in

joining us," said Jane.

"Well," said Grant, who, as well as Harriett, felt that Miss Melville

was receiving more than her fair share of Brandon's conversation, "you

have not given at all a satisfactory account of yourself. You have been

figuring away in Adelaide, I suppose, and enjoying yourself, and

leaving your own affairs and Mr. Phillips's affairs to mind themselves."

"And you have been figuring away in Melbourne, Dr. Grant," said

Emily--she could not bear any aspersion to be cast on her friend,

Brandon--"and then you brought Aunt Harriett away; so you leave no one

with poor mamma but Alice. I am wearying so to see mamma and the baby

boy."

"Suppose you go with me," said Brandon; "for I am going to Melbourne

to-morrow to see them, and I have some business there besides."

"Oh! that would be delightful. Miss Melville, may I go?"

"I think not, Emily," said Jane. "Your mamma will be soon here, and

your papa will be disappointed to find you gone when he comes here. I

should not wonder that he will take you with him when he goes himself,

and that would be better, I think."

"Much better," said Miss Phillips. "I wonder that you could think of

such a thing as troubling Mr. Brandon to take care of you all that long

way."

Emily made rather a pertinent remark as to her aunt showing her the

example, at which Miss Phillips blushed, and Grant looked conscious but

delighted. He could not conceive what was taking Brandon to Melbourne

immediately on his return from Adelaide; he did not believe his

assertion that he had business to attend to there. It was another sign

of his being spoiled by his visit to England--it had completely

unsettled him.

Now that Brandon had heard that his letter had never reached Elsie, and

consequently that he had not been treated by her with discourtesy or

unkindness, he felt relieved; but, at the same time, a little sorry

that all his trouble had been wasted, and that it was all to do over

again. A few months ago he had lamented that he could not have it out

by word of mouth; but now he regretted this letter had not, at least,

broken the ice, and inclined her to listen to his suit. However, things

had come to such a pass that he could not wait an indefinite time; he

must go to Melbourne and learn his fate without delay. He left Edgar at

Wiriwilta, where Emily thought him very much improved, and where the

boy was exceedingly happy. He took a great fancy to Miss Melville, who

was very different from the fond anxious women who had brought him up,

but whose experiences with the Lowries had given her great interest in

boys of that age, and who knew so much on all subjects that she never

failed to win upon them, if they were tolerably intelligent and well

disposed.

Chapter VI.

Mrs. Peck's Progress

All things continued favourable to Mrs. Peck's plans--she met with no

disaster by sea in her voyage from Adelaide to Melbourne; the 'Havilah'

brought her to her destination in three days, and she landed on the

familiar shores with a light and hopeful heart. She was not long in

discovering where Mrs. Phillips lived, which was in East Melbourne; and

as no time was to be lost, she repaired to the house on the very day on

which she landed, dressed decently and respectably, like the wife of an

artisan, or perhaps with more of the appearance of a monthly nurse.

The girl who opened the door asked her name when she requested to see

Mrs. Phillips, and she announced herself, not as Mrs. Peck, but as Mrs.

Mahoney, under which name she had taken out her passage, and begged to

see the missis by herself for a few minutes. Mrs. Phillips was then

sitting in an easy-chair in the drawing-room, the nurse was engaged

with the baby, and Elsie busy in Mrs. Phillips's room; so the stranger

was introduced to have a quiet interview with her daughter.

"Well, Betsy, do you not recollect me?" said Mrs. Peck, in a subdued

but intensely earnest voice, whenever the girl was out of hearing.

"Have you forgotten your own mother?"

Mrs. Phillips grew deadly pale, and was about to scream.

"Hush! Betsy, be quiet," said her mother. "I've only come to pay you a

friendly visit. I've longed so to see you again all these years, and

now I heard you was by yourself, I thought I must run all risks to get

a look at you. Why, how handsome you've grown, and everything handsome

about you, too;" and Mrs. Peck gazed with wondering admiration at the

beautiful, well-dressed, queen-like woman whom she had parted with when

a mere girl, and had never seen since her marriage. "Rings on your

fingers, and a gold chain round your neck, and everything you can wish

for. Oh, Betsy, I made your fortune, and you never take a thought for

me. I might be dead and buried, and you'd never care a straw. I have

had a hard life, a very hard life--tossed about from place to place,

and often in want of many things that at my time of life I need to

get--and you in such luxury. My pretty girl, my beautiful daughter!"

Whatever might have been the resemblance between mother and daughter,

there were but slight traces of it now. Mrs. Peck might have been

beautiful at sixteen, but her life had not been so conservative of her

charms as Mrs. Phillips's was; besides, Mrs. Phillips resembled her

father much more than her mother, and he had been of a much more

lymphatic temperament, and was at the same time a remarkably handsome

man. Mrs. Peck was not yet sixty, but she looked old for her years, and

more like the grandmother than the mother of Mrs. Phillips, whose easy

circumstances, indulgent husband, and indolent, self-regarding life,

with no emotion and little excitement, had kept her face free from a

single line of care or anxiety. Her mother's face was ploughed up with

innumerable lines, and her features seemed to work with every varying

passion, while her expression was hungry, eager, and wolf-like, without

showing anything more intellectual than cunning, even in its calmest

moments.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Phillips, "if Stanley was to find you here, he would

never forgive me."

"Is it your fault that I could not rest till I saw you again? I never

thought he'd be so cruel and unreasonable as to blame you for what I'd

do."

"But I heard you was in Adelaide, and Mr. Phillips says that, as long

as you stay in Adelaide, he will see that you know no want. Oh, mother,

you had better go back to Adelaide!" said Mrs. Phillips.

"Is that my girl as is talking?" said Mrs. Peck, disdainfully,--"my

girl as I loved so dear, and was so proud of--that now, when I've come

all the way from Adelaide, and risked all I've got to depend upon, just

to please my old eyes with the sight of her handsome face, and my poor

old ears with the sound of her voice, would banish me the minute I

come! That's a pretty husband you've got--that you're so afeard of him.

You deserve that your children should turn against you when they grow

up. Oh, Betsy, how can you talk so cruel?" and the old woman caught her

daughter's hand, and kissed it with much apparent, and no doubt some

real feeling. "You're not expecting of him home for a while; let me

come and let me go while he is away--my name is Mrs. Mahoney. Say as

how I am an old servant of your mother's, or an old servant you had at

Wiriwilta, or the mother of some one you know--call me what you like,

but let me just have the liberty to come and see you and the baby, and

then I will go back to Adelaide, and Mr. Phillips need never know

nothing about it?"

Invention was not one of Mrs. Phillips's talents, but her mother

revelled in it, as I have said before. She delighted to go amongst

people who did not know her, where she could give out an entirely

fictitious history of herself quite new. Even to her intimate

acquaintances her narrations were singularly inconsistent. When her

interest demanded that she should speak the truth she did so, but it

was with an effort; when the balance lay the other way she had no

hesitation and no scruple.

"I ain't good at these stories, mother," said Mrs. Phillips, "and I

don't just see what good it will do me to get into trouble with Stanley

on your account. It is just the one thing he is unreasonable about.

When he married me he said he made only one stipulation, and that was,

that I should have nothing to do with you or with Peck, and I said I

wouldn't."

Mrs. Peck here began to sob, and Elsie who was sewing in the next room,

hearing a little noise, and afraid that Mrs. Phillips was not well,

came in at this moment. Mrs. Phillips was quite at a loss to account

for the emotion of her visitor, but her mother was equal to the

emergency.

"I am sure, Mrs. Phillips, I cannot say what I feel," said she, "but

your goodness really overpowers me. To think as the little girl as I

knowed when she played with my poor Susan as is now no more should

recollect me now she's growed up so beautiful, and had such a fine

house of her own, and should help me in my troubles! It is quite too

much for me. But all I want is just a little to start me in a way of

business, and I'll be sure to pay it back again if I get on--and I have

got a good connection, a capital connection--your liberality I can

never forget;" and Mrs. Peck fumbled with her purse, and looked very

hard at Elsie. This was the person whom she wished to see, even more

than her ungrateful daughter, from whom she had expected a kinder

reception. Elsie looked simple-minded enough--there was no doubt she

would be easily dealt with, and much better by speech than by letter.

"This is your maid, I suppose?"

Mrs. Phillips assented.

Mrs. Peck turned to Elsie and said, "I think as how the missis wants

some sal volatile; she looks a bit faint--she don't seem to be strong

yet."

Elsie fetched the sal volatile, and gave Mrs. Phillips a little of it,

and then returned to her work. She was puzzled at the stranger's

speaking of Mrs. Phillips's liberality--for she was not generally

liberal--and at her fumbling at her purse as if she had received money,

for she knew that Mrs. Phillips had left her purse in her bedroom.

"You must let me come and go for the few days I am to stay in

Melbourne, Betsy," said her mother.

"Oh, I'd rather give you money, if you need it--at least, all I've got."

"I fear I will need money to take me back, for I made such an effort to

get across, but I could not help it. But I won't hurt you, Betsy, and I

may do you good. What sort of girl is it that you've got?"

"Oh, a very clever milliner, and a handy girl enough. Stanley says he

thinks her pretty, but I don't see it. He makes a great fuss over both

her and her sister, but Jane is plain."

"If he says he thinks her pretty, I'd not keep her in the house if I

was you. I know what men are," said Mrs. Peck.

"I don't think you know what Stanley is," said Mrs. Phillips, with some

dignity. "I did not like it at first, but I ain't frightened now; and

besides, they are both so badly off it's quite a charity to keep them."

"If she is a milliner, I know of a capital situation," said Mrs. Peck.

"Stanley would be in a pretty state if I let her go to a situation of

your recommending," said Mrs. Phillips.

"Oh, I don't mean to meddle with your affairs; but young people are

very unwary. You think as how you're too handsome for your husband to

think of looking at another woman; but I know the world better nor

that. Howsomever, that is neither here nor there. But you know I am

risking my annuity from Mr. Phillips by coming here to see you; but I

heard in Adelaide that for the first time since you was married I might

have the chance of seeing you, without making dispeace, which is the

last thing I would wish to do. So, Betsy, if you will be reasonable,

and let me come again, as Mrs. Mahoney (an old neighbour in New South

Wales), and help me, as you say, with money to take me away, I will be

as quiet as a mouse. It is a pleasure to see you, and to speak to you.

Give me a little needlework, and let me sit with your maid, and just

have a look at you now and then, and at the baby. I ain't seen none of

your children, Betsy. Because you've been so well off, and had no

cares, you shouldn't turn off your mother in that unfeeling way."

"Oh, I wish I dare do it. But if Stanley was to come--he may come

suddenly. I've sent him a message to hurry home. You can't think what a

good, kind husband he is to me, mother. But he'd be furious if he found

you here."

"Oh, if he comes home you do not need me to work any longer; and you

can give the girl that message; and you can drop me a hint if I happen

to be in the house. Even if he was to see me here, I know I could find

some reason. I am never without an excuse."

Mrs. Phillips was not particularly fond of her mother, who had been

very harsh and violent-tempered to her in her childish days, while she

was as fond of her husband as she could be of any one but herself, and

she knew with what abhorrence he regarded this fierce, cunning old

woman. She wished Mrs. Peck to be satisfied with this one visit and to

come back no more, for she feared that Alice and the other servants

might suspect something, and she had no confidence in her own powers of

concealment. But Mrs. Peck had more ammunition in her chest; she again

began to sob, and showed symptoms of going into violent hysterics, and

bewailed her own hard lot and the cruelty of her ungrateful daughter so

loudly, that she was glad to agree to her demands to make her keep

quiet for the present.

Mrs. Peck then saw the baby, which she admired exceedingly, and

accepted of some refreshments. Mrs. Phillips got her purse, and really

gave her some money; and shortly after, her mother took leave, engaging

to come back on the following morning to do some needlework, and

uttering many blessings on Mrs. Phillips for her kindness and

generosity in Alice's hearing. Mrs. Phillips looked greatly relieved

when she was out of the house, but the apprehension of her return

weighed considerably on her mind.

Chapter VII.

Business Interrupted By Love

Mrs. Peck appeared on the following day, according to promise, carrying

a little black bag, containing scissors, yard-measure, and a few other

implements of needlework, all perfectly new; and after a short

conversation with Mrs. Phillips and a little refreshment, she sat down

beside Elsie to ingratiate herself with that young lady. Elsie thought

she had never seen any one so ignorant of the work she had set about as

Mrs. Mahoney appeared to be. She confessed that she was not skilful,

and it showed all the more kindness in Mrs. Phillips to give her work

when she had had so little practice, and did it so badly. She had been

accustomed to go out as a nurse, she said; but she had got too old for

that, and could not stand the sitting up of nights; and then she

branched off into accounts of dreadful experiences in nursing, and

deathbeds, and awful operations, that were enough to make Elsie's hair

stand on end. She found fault with Mrs. Phillips's nurse as being too

much of the fine lady, and told Elsie what she considered to be a

nurse's duties, which she would like to do if she was only fit for it.

Then she threw herself on Elsie's good nature for a little lesson in

needlework, admired her quickness and taste and skill, wished she could

do anything half as well, and asked her to be good enough to cut out

and place her work for her, and to lend her patterns, and altogether

behaved with the most insinuating affability.

Although Elsie Melville looked simple-minded, she was by no means

wanting in observation, and her situation with Mrs. Phillips and her

sister-in-law had taught her a wonderful amount of prudence. She

thought there was some inconsistency in Mrs. Mahoney's fluent

narratives, and something very peculiar in her relations with Mrs.

Phillips, who appeared to be restless and uncomfortable whenever she

was in the house. Elsie was, however, good-natured enough to give her

some instruction, for which great gratitude was expressed. On the third

day of her visits, when apparently occupied in learning how to do

featherstitch for trimming baby's pinafores, Mrs. Peck looked up from

her work, and asked Elsie if she did not come from ----shire.

"That was my native county," said Elsie.

"Do you know Cross Hall at all?" asked Mrs. Peck.

"I was brought up there," said Elsie.

"I come from that county, too," said Mrs. Peck.

"I did not think you had been Scotch," said Elsie.

"I have been in these colonies for thirty-four years, and seen but few

of my own country folks; but the English say they'd know me to be

Scotch by my accent."

"Well, perhaps your accent is a little like that of ----shire, when I

come to think of it; but the turn of your expressions is not Scotch at

all," said Elsie. "Thirty-four years is a long time, however; I may,

perhaps, get rid of some of my own Scotticisms by that time."

"I knew Hogarth of Cross Hall, very well, when I was young," said Mrs.

Peck. "Do you mean to say you was brought up there?"

"Mr. Hogarth was my uncle," said Elsie.

"Oh, you must be a daughter of his sister Mary's; I fancy there was

only the one daughter that lived to grow up. But if Cross Hall was your

uncle, how came you to be in this situation?" said Mrs. Peck, with

feigned astonishment.

"My sister and I were educated by him; he was exceedingly kind to us as

long as he lived."

"But his property did not come to you;--the heir-at-law swallowed up

all," said Mrs. Peck, with a fierce glare in her eyes that she could

not quite subdue. "It is very hard on you."

"We have felt it rather hard," said Elsie; "but still things have been

worse for us at one time than they are now. Jane and I can earn our own

living, and that is the position of most people in the world."

"What would you give now," said Mrs. Peck, "if you could get back to

Cross Hall, and be just as you used to be?"

"I cannot say what I would give," said Elsie. "But it is impossible.

Unless we could restore my poor uncle to life, things could never be

again as they used to be."

"And the new man might have helped you, and not have driven you to seek

service at the ends of the earth. Would you not like to serve him out?"

said Mrs. Peck with the same subdued fierceness as before.

Elsie's instinctive sincerity would have led her to justify Francis, by

explaining about the will, but she felt reluctant to say anything to

this strange woman that she could help. Besides, though she knew

nothing of the letter that had been sent by Mrs. Peck to her cousin,

and left unanswered, at Mr. Phillips's earnest request, she was

beginning to suspect something of the truth. Mrs. Peck's courting her

so assiduously had puzzled her; and now the interest she felt in this

story, which was all the more apparent to a keen observer from the

efforts she made to conceal it, showed that she knew more about the

matter than she liked at once to disclose.

Elsie had a good eye for likenesses, and could see family resemblances

where no one else could; and it had always struck her as very

remarkable that there was not the slightest resemblance between Francis

and her uncle, nor between him and any other member of the family whom

she had seen or whose portraits had been preserved. Not merely were the

features and complexion unlike, but there was not a trick of the

countenance or of the gait reproduced, as is generally the case with

the sons of fathers who had such marked characteristics as Henry

Hogarth. Though she had not heard of Mrs. Peck's letter, Jane had told

her about Madame de Vericourt's to her uncle, and in her own heart she

had fancied that the reason why he had been so cold to Francis was,

that he had been doubtful of the paternity; the very indifferent

character of the woman he had married was not calculated to inspire him

with confidence, and the absolute absence of all family likeness was an

additional cause of distrust. He must have been satisfied on that

point, however, in later years, or he would not have been so strong in

his prohibition of his marriage with Jane or Elsie on account of his

cousinship; but, in early life, he must, in Elsie's opinion, have had

grave doubts on the subject.

She looked again more careful than before at Mrs. Peck. She was of the

age to be Francis's mother, but otherwise she was quite at fault; there

was not any likeness there either. A conformation of the little finger

was rather peculiar, but it was an exaggeration of a little defect on

Mrs. Phillips's otherwise very handsome hand, but not of Francis

Hogarth's.

"If Francis has no right to the property, and we have, of course we

should like to have our rights," said Elsie.

"It was a Scotch marriage, you know," said Mrs. Peck.

"Yes, but a binding one; he is received everywhere as my uncle's lawful

son."

"Yes, as his lawful son, no doubt. Do you know if he has brought

forward his mother at all?" said Mrs. Peck.

"No; I suppose she is dead, or we should certainly have heard of her."

"Dead, you suppose!" said Mrs. Peck, indignantly; "that is the easy way

of getting quit of relations that has got claims on you--just Suppose

them dead?"

"I do not know anything of the matter, except that she has not been

heard of. If she were alive and heard of his inheriting this property,

she would be sure to write claiming him, and probably asking for

assistance, which I have no doubt she would at once receive, for he has

ample means, and has the character of being both just and liberal."

"And you think she would apply; and you have no doubt that she ought to

have got it? Any one would have thought that," said Mrs. Peck, between

her set teeth.

"Yes, certainly," said Elsie; "but perhaps she did not go the right way

to work?"

"She did," said Mrs. Peck, indignantly. "I knowed her well, and heard

all about it."

This was to throw Elsie off her guard, for she did not wish to be

identified at once; but it had not the effect desired, for Elsie felt

convinced that this was the person who claimed to be Francis's mother.

Mrs. Phillips came in at this interesting poise in the conversation,

and began to give Elsie directions as to some alterations in a dress.

"There's some buttons and trimmings to get to make it up with. Alice,

you had better go to town and get them for me. You need a walk, at any

rate; I do not think you've had your walk at all regularly of late,"

said Mrs. Phillips.

"Indeed," said Mrs. Peck, "she has had no walk since here I've been,

whatever she might have had before. It's trying work sitting still all

day; I feel it myself, and all the more that I'm not used to it. If

you'd be so good as excuse me for a hour or two; I'd take it as a great

kindness if you'd let me go with Alice for a walk to do her bit of

shopping, and to show her round Melbourne a bit. If I don't know

Melbourne well, I ought to. I don't think I ever saw so good a hand as

Alice has. I think I could make her fortune, if she'd only give me a

little commission."

"Oh, I don't think Alice is inclined to leave me," said Mrs. Phillips;

"and, indeed, I am very well satisfied with her."

"But this ain't exactly her sphere. She was a telling me as she was

brought up with great expectations," said Mrs. Peck.

"She has got over her disappointment about that, I think," said Mrs.

Phillips.

"I dare say you think it shabby in me to try to entice your maid from

you; and really, after all, a comfortable home with a lady, as it must

be a pleasure to serve and to wait upon, is perhaps the best thing

after all. But as I was saying, Mrs. Phillips, I would be glad to get

out for an hour or two with Alice. I'll not do much work without her,

for I'm sure to go wrong if she is not at my elbow. There's not many

ladies so generous as you, to pay me for my blundering work; and Alice

is wonderful patient too. I don't know how to thank her for the pains

she takes with me, and I can't help being very stupid. After being used

to active life, one don't take well to this sitting still. So I'll just

put on my bonnet and shawl and go out a bit with Alice."

Mrs. Phillips did not at all like this proposal, for she had an idea

that her husband would very much disapprove of it, and would be still

more angry at that than at her having her mother in her house; but then

Mr. Phillips was away, and her mother was there, and the present terror

conquered the distant one. She never knew what her mother might or

might not say, if she thwarted her in anything: she had distant

recollections of terrible punishments that always followed the

slightest act of disobedience, or even carelessness, in her childish

days; and though now she knew her mother would not strike her with her

hands, she was in constant dread of her tongue. So that now Mrs. Peck

took it for granted that she would be allowed to accompany her

daughter's maid--she dared not refuse it. Alice scarcely liked the idea

of going to walk to town with this strange woman; but at the same time

her curiosity as to what she might have to say was very great. She felt

that this Mrs. Mahoney had intelligence to give that was of great

importance, and that she wished to be secure from interruption. Mrs.

Phillips was constantly going in and out, for she was afraid to leave

her mother long with any one, and always looked suspicious of what they

might be talking about. Mary, the housemaid, and the nurse, too, seemed

to be curious about this old needlewoman, and were often coming in

unexpectedly.

When Mrs. Peck had put on her bonnet and shawl, and dropped her veil

over her face, she looked sufficiently respectable for a companion to

one so little known in Melbourne as Alice Melville, so she thought

there could be no harm in going out for an hour or two with her for the

sake of ascertaining if she had any light to throw on the dark subject

of Francis's birth.

When they got out of doors, Mrs. Peck appeared at first to be rather

anxious to resume the conversation which her daughter had interrupted;

but as they were pretty closely followed by two other pedestrians all

the way into town, she made up her mind to attend to Mrs. Phillips's

business first, so they went to Collins Street and bought the

trimmings. Then Mrs. Peck went to a bookseller's shop and purchased a

shilling novel that she said she had been told was very interesting,

but she appeared scarcely to know the name of it, and took the first

one the shopman gave to her.

Elsie thought she was a good deal more stared at than was agreeable,

and also that the shopmen in both establishments addressed her with a

good deal of familiarity. She had heard Miss Phillips complain of the

great freedom and the want of politeness of Melbourne tradespeople and

the inhabitants generally; but this was her first personal experience

of anything of the kind, and she rightly attributed it to the company

she was in. She felt, now, that she had made a great mistake in going

out with this Mrs. Mahoney, whose rather loud remarks and vulgar

appearance seemed to attract general attention, and she could only wish

fervently that, with or without her secret, she could get back safely

to East Melbourne. As they returned, Mrs. Peck proposed a detour by the

Botanic Gardens, which Elsie had never seen. Mrs. Phillips would not

expect them home soon, for she had proposed to show Miss Melville all

about Melbourne; and the gardens were well worth seeing. On a week day

they were quiet, and one could get a seat to have a little comfortable

talk. Much as Elsie wished for the talk, she would not on any account

lengthen her walk for it, so she declined the proposal.

"Then," said Mrs. Peck, "let us go out of the regular road we came by,

and go round Fitzroy Square, and have a look round at all the churches

and chapels that are built on the Eastern Hill."

Fitzroy Square was not at that time enclosed or planted. It was merely

a vacant space, intersected by numerous footpaths in various

directions, and covered where there was no beaten path with very dusty

withered-looking grass. Elsie had no objection to go out of the

thoroughfare; but, instead of pointing out the churches or anything

else, as soon as Mrs. Peck had got safe out of any third party's

hearing, she slackened her pace, and eagerly opened the subject which

was nearest to her heart.

"I said, Miss Melville, that I could make your fortune if you'd only

give me a handsome commission. Are you willing to drive a bargain?"

said Mrs. Peck.

"If I can see my way clear to the fortune, I should, of course, be glad

to pay you for the information; but I must know what you have got to

say before I can guess what it is worth," said Elsie.

"And I must know what you are willing to give, before I can tell what I

know," said Mrs. Peck.

"But I have really got nothing to offer," said Elsie; "you know how

poor I am."

"But suppose you and your sister was to get Cross Hall through means of

me, what would you give me for that?" asked Mrs. Peck.

Elsie felt sure that this woman could not give the property to Jane and

herself, for it had been left to Francis distinctly by will, by name

and description; but yet she wanted very much to find out if he was

really their cousin or not, so she said----

"I must consult with my sister on this matter, for it concerns her as

much as myself, and also with Mr. Phillips, who has been to both of us

the kindest and best of friends, before I could make you any definite

offer."

"No, no," said Mrs. Peck; "I want no interference of strangers, and I

ain't got no time to waste here while you write up the country to

anybody. I must go back to Adelaide in a few days, and surely your

sister will see the advantages of your acting for her. What do you say

to 2,000 pounds."

To be asked 2,000 pounds for what Elsie knew to be worth nothing, in a

money point of view, appeared to her rather absurd. "That is a very

large sum," said she.

"A year's income is not too much for such a secret as I've got. Cross

Hall must be worth 2,000 pounds a year now, and more than that, and I

must have something handsome to cover my risk."

"Then you put yourself under the grasp of the law by what you have to

reveal?" said Elsie.

"You must let me get clear off before you publish it," said Mrs. Peck.

"I have been treated with the greatest ingratitude by Frank, and I'd

like a little revenge. I'd like to pull him down from his high horse,

and set him working for his bread as you have had to do; but at the

same time I am a poor woman, and I must live."

"I cannot tell what we would give you," said Elsie, "until I have

something more distinct than these vague threats; but you may be sure

that we will give you as much as it is worth. Trust to our honour for

that."

"Trust to a fiddlestick's end! I am too old a bird to be caught with

such chaff as that. No, I must have it down in black and white. See,

here is a paper that I want you to fill up and sign before I'll open my

mouth on the subject." So Mrs. Peck drew out of her black bag a paper

containing an agreement to pay her 2,000 pounds on condition that the

estate of Cross Hall should be recovered for her and her sister through

Mrs. Peck's information. She laid the paper open on the book she had

bought, then she took a pen and a portable ink-bottle from the same

repository, dipped the pen in the ink, and demanded Elsie's signature

then and there.

Her eager eyes watched the girl's countenance as she read the agreement

and weighed the pros and cons of the bargain she was making, and

neither of them were aware, in their preoccupation, that they were

observed. When Elsie looked up, puzzled as to what she was to do, and

Mrs. Peck was putting her pen into her hand, she saw the figure of

Walter Brandon approaching her with the appearance of haste and

agitation. Mrs. Peck snatched the paper from Elsie's hand, and replaced

it in the black bag, along with the other writing materials and the

extempore desk.

"Alice Melville!" said Brandon, "what in Heaven's name are you doing

here in such company as this?"

Elsie turned as pale as death; she could not utter a syllable.

"Come with me--let me take you home. I heard from Mrs. Phillips that

you had gone out; but I could not have imagined you to have such a

companion."

"Such a companion, indeed!" said Mrs. Peck, indignantly. "I have been

in these colonies more nor thirty years, and I'm good enough company

for any fine lady's-maid as ever walked on shoe leather."

"Oh, Mr. Brandon!" said Elsie, who had recovered her powers of speech;

"she was doing needlework at Mrs. Phillips's, and I was sent out on an

errand, and she would come with me."

"And we was just a looking over the bill, and seeing as our money was

all right," said Mrs. Peck, in the most plausible manner.

"No; it was not a bill," said Elsie, who hated the idea of this woman

telling lies for her.

"Did Mrs. Phillips actually send you out walking with this person?"

said Brandon, with a look of the most intense contempt and disgust at

Mrs. Peck.

"She said nothing against it; but she did not send me; it was all my

own fault," said Elsie, weeping bitterly. "I rather wished to go with

her."

"My dear Miss Alice, you must have seen that this was no fit person for

you to associate with. You are an innocent girl, ignorant of the world,

as all girls ought to be; but you are not so easily deceived in

character as not to see in this woman's face, language, and manners,

that she is to be avoided as you would avoid death and destruction,"

said Brandon.

Elsie only wept more bitterly than before. Brandon must despise her for

ever now. She had been glad to come out to Victoria, because she

thought if he still loved or cared for her she should hear of it. She

had treasured his parting words and his parting looks in her heart; and

now to meet him again in this way--to feel that he must look down on

her as in the old days of his pity he never could have done--was

dreadful. How was he to guess at the almost irresistible temptation

that had led her to compromise herself so far?

"You had better go home now to your own dwelling, Mrs. Peck," said

Brandon; "for if Mr. Phillips were to know that you had been visiting

his wife in his absence you would come by the worst of it. Needlework,

indeed! Mrs. Phillips is a fool, certainly; but the idea of your doing

needlework for her is very absurd. So you had better never show face

there again."

"Perhaps you'd like to know where I live, Miss Melville," said Mrs.

Peck, glaring angrily at Brandon. "I lodge at No.--, Little Bourke

Street, and can be heard of there, either as Mrs. Mahoney or Mrs. Peck.

You can come there to see me."

"Like to know where YOU live--go to see YOU!" said Brandon, in towering

indignation. "Now Miss Melville knows your real character she will keep

away from you for ever. So now go off with you, as quickly as you can."

"Good-bye, Miss Melville," said Mrs. Peck, as she slowly went on her

way to her own lodgings. She found she must go, but she would not be

hurried by Brandon's wrath.

He waited till she was out of hearing before he tried to soothe the

feelings of the agitated girl she had left under his care.

"Now where can I take you to? If Mrs. Phillips allowed you to do such a

thing as walk through Melbourne with Mrs. Peck, she is not to be

trusted with you. Oh, if Peggy were only here--but she is not: your

sister told me she had not left Edinburgh."

"Take me back to Mrs. Phillips; she will be as glad to get rid of this

woman as you can possibly be," said Elsie.

"But she must have known there was something wrong, for she looked

confused and ashamed when I asked for you, and when I settled down to

wait till your return, she seemed quite restless till I went away.

Indeed, she sent me on an errand in quite a different direction; but I

wished to come this way, and thought there was no hurry about her

commission. I always knew her to be a fool, but not so wicked and false

as this proves her to be."

"I think this woman frightens her," said Elsie.

"She has some hold on her, no doubt. Poor Phillips! we had better say

nothing to him about it. So you would really prefer going home to her,"

said Brandon.

"Yes, certainly," said Elsie; and she paused for a little. "But, Mr.

Brandon, I am in want of advice and assistance more than I ever was in

my life. I must have it, and have it immediately. Can I rely on you as

a friend?"

"Yes, as a friend;--certainly, as a friend," said Brandon, who wondered

what revelation was about to be made. Surely no love affair with some

one else!

"I believe this woman is the person who calls herself my cousin

Francis's mother," said Elsie. "I think she came to Mrs. Phillips's for

the express purpose of ingratiating herself with me, in hopes of

selling me a secret which she knows, and which she declares will give

to Jane and myself the possession of Cross Hall."

"Ah!" said Brandon, slowly; "and is this her little game at present?"

"Now, I have often thought that Francis was not my uncle's son--there

is not the slightest family likeness; and she is capable of any fraud

or deception. I really knew she was not good when I went out with her,

but we had no chance to speak without interruption in the house, and I

did not think she was so well known in Melbourne as she appears to be.

I know I have done very wrong, but I really had some excuse. If she can

prove this----" and Elsie paused, in hopes that Brandon would say

something to show that he felt for the greatness of her temptation.

"But, my dear Miss Alice," said Brandon, "she cannot take the property

from your cousin. Was it not left to him by will, and left to him

because he had proved himself worthy of it?--at least, I believe that

is what your sister and Peggy have told me. She tries this game of hers

with a girl who knows nothing about business. It is of no use whatever."

"She has no idea about the will, and thinks that Francis got the estate

as heir-at-law. But my view of the matter is this, that if Francis is

proved not to be our cousin, he might marry Jane, and not lose the

property. That is what I aim at, for they love each other, I am quite

sure."

"If they do, I wonder he did not throw up the fortune, and set about

earning one for himself. It was a good deal to give up, too--a seat in

parliament, and such a career as appears before him. But what are

wealth and fame compared to love?" said Brandon, who had got rather

into heroics.

"I do not like to say much to Jane about it, for it only distresses

her; but I think--I am almost sure--that he offered to make the

sacrifice, but that Jane would not accept of it. She rejoiced in his

useful and honourable life. She would not consent to be his drag and

stumbling-block. She must have felt it very hard, too; for I feel she

loves him dearly. It was for their sakes that I was so anxious to

discover this woman's secret. She wants to be revenged on Francis, who

has not answered her letters, and has sent her no money. I am a little

surprised at that; but yet I believe that he must have had good reasons

for his conduct, for there never was any one more thoroughly

conscientious and liberal than the cousin I want to lose--the brother I

wish to gain. Would it not be a glorious revenge if this Mrs. Peck, in

her spite, were to give him all he wants--the only thing missing in his

cup of happiness?"

"Perhaps, then, it is a pity I interrupted you so soon," said Brandon,

admiring the generous enthusiasm of the girl; "but you were too dear to

me, too precious, to be left in such suspicious company a moment longer

than I could help. I came to Melbourne with one purpose--and that was,

to entreat you to reconsider the answer you gave to me in the railway

carriage."

"I did not know you so well then," said Elsie. "I thought you only

pitied me; and now I fear I have given you cause to despise me."

"Nothing of the kind," said Brandon; "nothing of the kind. I love you

far more now than I did then; and though I was so stupid and idiotic as

to fancy that Miss Phillips would suit me as well, whenever I saw you

together her faults came out, and your virtues. I do not wish to take

you at a disadvantage. Do not think it ungenerous in me to ask so much

just when you are in trouble and perplexity, and need advice and

assistance."

"And just when I have appeared in such an unfavourable light," said

Elsie, in her low, sweet voice, a little tremulous with the excitement

of the scene.

"But I will give you the best help I can, and the best advice my poor

head can supply, whether you return my love or not. Do not let that

weigh with you for a moment. Nothing I can do can make me deserve you.

If I am not bodily on my knees before you--for in a public place like

this it would be absurd, and you would not like it--I am mentally on my

knees, willing to accept whatever you may choose to give me--love, if

possible; but if your heart is otherwise engaged, or if you cannot love

such a commonplace fellow as myself, then I will TRY to be contented

with friendship. Which shall it be, my dearest Alice?"

"Will you have any objection to accepting of both?" said Alice, in the

same tremulous tone.

"None," said Brandon, delighted, "none whatever; indeed, one implies

the other, though the other does not imply the one. I cannot express

myself distinctly, you see, but you know what I mean. I am not at all a

genius, and even this happiness cannot inspire me with fine language.

But what can I DO for you?--there is where I hope to show my sense of

what I owe to you."

"First, then, we must leave this place and walk home, for I think

people are looking at us," said Elsie, trying to collect her thoughts;

"and then you must tell me what I am to do with Mrs. Peck, if that is

her name. Mrs. Phillips calls her Mrs. Mahoney. The paper you saw in my

hand, which she snatched away, was an agreement to pay a sum of money

if we were put in possession of Cross Hall. If I had signed it, it

would have been of no value to her; but I hesitated about it, for I did

not like cheating even her, and making her risk bringing herself to

justice for nothing."

"I will go to see her myself, and negotiate for you. I do not think I

should have much scruple in outwitting her, for she really deserves it,

and it is only letting her over reach herself. Will you give me full

powers to act for you?"

"Oh, yes," said Elsie; "if she will only deal with you it will be so

much better."

"Upon the footing on which we stand together at present it is quite

right and proper that I should do so," said Brandon, accepting the

responsibilities of his position with great satisfaction. "You did not

get my letter. Emily and your sister told me you sailed before the mail

come in, which contained that painful work of composition. I wrote to

you whenever I got out to Barragong, and saw that I really had not been

so nearly ruined as I thought. I determined to do it on the occasion

when I parted with you in the nursery."

"Shall I say, like Miss Harriett Phillips, that I conquered you by

making a ballad in your praise? for these men can be led by nothing so

well as by vanity and selfishness. No, I will not say it, for I do not

think you are either vain or selfish. I should not like you if you

were," said Elsie.

"Say LOVE, Alice, it sounds much sweeter, and goes more to my heart.

You like your cousin, or no-cousin Francis, but you must LOVE me."

"Well, love be it," said Alice; "but I really love Francis a good deal,

too--not as I love you, or as I intend to love you, for I really don't

know how I feel just yet, but still not mere liking."

"I am not at all jealous," said Brandon, "though all his literary

talents and tastes should make me feel my own inferiority."

"Even Jane never would allow me to say that you were inferior to

Francis; she said your talents lay in a different direction. She was

sorry that I refused you, and when I came to know you better I was very

sorry myself."

"When did you begin to soften to me?" asked Brandon.

"When you said Peggy had taught you so much--when you expressed

yourself so warmly and so truly about her."

"Had she not prejudiced you against me in the first place?" said

Brandon, hesitatingly.

"Yes, she had," said Elsie, with still greater hesitation.

"By something that she said of me? It was too true I deserved it; but

the lesson she taught me has never been forgotten. I do not say that I

deserve you, but I mean to try my best to deserve you. But was that

your only reason for refusing me?"

"No; I had several. I thought myself a very unfit wife for you, and

that you would be cruelly disappointed to get a low-spirited, sickly,

useless girl who did not love or esteem you. I really thought I was

dying, and it would have been wrong to have thought of marrying under

such circumstances; and besides, you could not have cared much about

me, or you would not have transferred your affection so easily to a

woman so very different in every way."

"Well, it does appear very inconsistent," said Brandon. "When my letter

is returned from England, you will see two pages of apologies, and

reasons why I was so foolish; but I really thought there was somebody

whom you liked better, until that very moment when I caught your eye

and your expression when I praised our excellent old friend. Your

glance at that time restored me to my allegiance; but the bad news of

my affairs next day put love and marriage out of my head, till I came

to part from you, and I felt how hard it was. But I am glad to see that

I have not seriously injured Miss Phillips by trifling with her

affections. She has met with her match at last. I never thought she

could have been so well suited."

"I really think they will get on very comfortably."

"How could I ever fancy that woman amiable?" said Brandon. "I thought

her really an exceedingly agreeable and clever woman in Derbyshire:

when I went out shopping with her on that memorable day, I saw spots on

the sun; and the day before yesterday, at Wiriwilta, she appeared to be

quite insufferable. I Cannot think enough of my own good luck; I might

have been her husband by this time instead of being your lover, which

is much pleasanter. What an insipid slow life it would have been,

though Grant, I dare say, looks forward to it with complacency. He

always used to look down on the colonial girls that our neighbours

married, and threatened to go home for a thoroughly accomplished wife;

and now one of that stamp has come out to him, and saved him time and

money. And Miss Phillips looks far more kindly on him than she ever did

on me."

"I do not call it merely good luck," said Elsie; "I think our affairs

are in wiser hands than our own."

"And that I should be grateful for that wise guidance, instead of idly

congratulating myself that things have turned out so well," said

Brandon. "I only know that I feel grateful, though I am in want of

words to express it. A man living alone, as I have done for so many

years, feels at a loss to speak about these matters. I need a dear good

woman like you by my side to teach me to open my heart, for I know I

never will be ashamed to speak to you as I feel--though I might stand

in some awe of a poetess, too."

"Don't speak about my poetry," said Elsie.

"Am I never to hear that song of Wiriwilta, in which I play such a

conspicuous part?" said Brandon.

"Oh, I have forgotten it, for the children got tired of it, and asked

for new songs and stories; it was never written down, and I never can

recollect my own verses. It shows that they are not genuine poetry, for

I have a tenacious memory for anything good of other people's. So, as

it is lost for ever, you may imagine it to have been as beautiful as

you please."

Chapter VIII.

Mrs. Phillips Is Relieved

Mrs. Phillips had been much alarmed at the sight of Mr. Brandon almost

immediately after Elsie and Mrs. Peck had gone out. He asked for Miss

Alice Melville as soon as he entered, saying he had a letter from her

sister and messages from the children for her, so that he would stay

with Mrs. Phillips till she returned, and sat down before the window

looking steadily out to catch the first sight of her. Not having her

mother's inventive turn, she was at a loss how to get rid of him.

Brandon must not see Mrs. Peck, and Elsie must be warned to say nothing

about her to him. She sat in torture for some time, and at last in

despair she asked him in an awkward embarrassed way to be good enough

to go for a nosegay for her, that she had been promised by a mutual

friend at Richmond, that she wished very much to have. He could not

help thinking something was wrong. Mrs. Phillips had always been very

inconsiderate to Alice, and no doubt she had been sent to town on some

errand that she was ashamed he should know about--probably to fetch a

heavy parcel. So, instead of going to Richmond, he took the road on

which he would be most likely to meet her, so as to assist her if

possible, and as he came up to the square where Mrs. Peck and Elsie

were talking, he met with a bush acquaintance, who, after the usual

greetings to the returned Brandon, pointed to the two female figures,

and remarked--"There's Mrs. Peck back again to Melbourne, and a very

pretty girl with her. I wonder if she brought her from Adelaide. I

thought Melbourne had lost that ornament for ever, but here she is as

large as life again."

Something in the attitude and form of the girl in the distance reminded

him of a person he had seen. He was sorry for the poor thing, and

walked quickly towards the place where they were standing engrossed

with their important business. To his surprise and horror he found she

was really the person he thought she slightly resembled, and he lost no

time in coming forward to stop the conversation.

Mrs. Phillips was astonished and distressed to see Elsie return with

Brandon without Mrs. Peck. Where they had met, and how they had got rid

of her, she could not imagine. Elsie went to take off her bonnet and

return to her work, and Mrs. Phillips was left alone with Brandon. At

his first word, his first question, how could she let Alice Melville go

out of her house with a woman so well known in Melbourne as Mrs. Peck,

Mrs. Phillips burst into tears.

"I could not help it; indeed, I could not help it. Stanley will be so

angry if you tell him, and I am sure I did all I could to keep her

away, but she would come, and she would take a fancy to Alice, and sit

with her, and then when I sent Alice out for the buttons, she would go

with her."

"But why have you her here at all, Mrs. Phillips?" said Brandon,

gravely. "You must know that she is no fit person to be in your house,

particularly in Mr. Phillips's absence. Confide in your good husband.

If there is any part of your past life that you are afraid of her

telling, believe me you will not better yourself by keeping in her

power--tell your husband everything, and shake yourself free of this

dangerous woman."

"Stanley knows everything--everything about me--but he said I never was

to speak to her again; and I am sure I never wished to; but how can I

help it when she will come--and she is my own mother? But don't tell

anybody, for Stanley would be so vexed. I don't keep anything from him;

don't blame me with that, Mr. Brandon."

"Your mother?" said Brandon. "Oh, that alters the case."

"I know that she is not good, and not respectable, and all that; but

she went on so that I was terrified to refuse her leave to come here to

do some sewing. If Stanley had not thought she was in Adelaide, he

would never have left me here. Everything goes wrong when he leaves me.

There, when he went to America, we had the scarlet fever, and I lost my

dear little Eva, and now there is all this trouble. Oh! I wish I had

gone up to Wiriwilta--I would have done just as well there. But don't

tell Mr. Phillips about this; I would rather tell him myself. He has

been good to me--so very good to me;--you cannot think how good he has

always been to me;--I do not keep things from him--indeed I don't, Mr.

Brandon."

Brandon felt more liking to poor Mrs. Phillips in her distress and in

her tears than he had ever felt before. With such a mother, and such

training as she had had in her early years, much could not be expected

from her, and now her expressions of gratitude to her good husband

touched him greatly. He had always thought her too insensible of her

extraordinary good fortune--and in a general way, so she was; but

during these last few days, seeing her mother, and shrinking from her,

had made Mrs. Phillips have some idea of what her life might have been

if Stanley had not been so fond of her, and so generous as to marry

her, and take her away from what was likely to be her fate in such

hands as those of her mother and Peck, and keep her so quiet and

comfortable, and give her every luxury he could afford, and bear with

her temper, her ignorance, and her stupidity; for in a vague way she

knew that she had these faults. Was there ever a wish of hers that he

could grant that he had refused? Even this unlucky stay in Melbourne

had been at her own earnest request, and it had turned out so

miserably, just because he was away. Never had she loved her husband so

much as at this time when she had been displeasing him so grievously;

how she had longed for courage to drive away the invader!--and now,

though humbled before Mr. Brandon, she was grateful to him when she

thought that he could stay with her till her husband came, and that, so

protected, her mother could not again visit her.

"No doubt Phillips will forgive you readily when you tell him the

truth; and I forgive you too, under the very distressing circumstances

in which Mrs. Peck placed you, though I did feel very indignant at your

allowing the girl whom I love, and whom I mean to marry, to go to

Melbourne with such a person," said Brandon.

"You mean to marry Alice?" said Mrs. Phillips.

"Yes, and she has consented to have me."

"Well, she is a good girl," said Mrs. Phillips, "and I am sure I wish

you happy with her. I know you will get on better with her than with

Harriett, for she is always so much taken up with herself, and never

thinks about other people. The way she treated me when I was left here

with her was shameful; but I'll not tell Stanley about it if I can help

it, for I have got enough to vex him about without grumbling at his

sister that he thinks so much of. But I like both of the Melvilles, and

they were both very good to my poor little baby as died in scarlet

fever, you know. We'll never get a husband for Miss Melville, for the

gentlemen are all frightened of her; but it is just as well, for she is

a capital governess, Stanley says, and the children like her--but they

like Alice best."

"And Miss Phillips and Dr. Grant appear to be making it up as fast as

possible," said Brandon, "if I may judge from what I saw and heard at

Wiriwilta."

"I am sure, Mr. Brandon, you never saw such goings on all the time he

was in town. They were together continually, and when he left

Melbourne, she said she would like to go up the country too. I really

don't think Stanley would have liked it."

"Perhaps they are engaged," suggested Brandon.

"Perhaps they were; but I think Harriett would have told me that, for

she'd have been so proud of it, and I really think it was my dues to

hear the first thing besides."

"I have told you the first thing," said Brandon. "I have not been more

than half an hour accepted."

"Well, I am glad you have told me. I will miss Alice dreadfully,

though. I suppose it will be soon?" said Mrs. Phillips.

"As soon as I can persuade her to take me for better for worse," said

Brandon.

"Oh, she won't need much persuading, such a good marriage for her as it

is," said Mrs. Phillips, who fancied she knew something of human

nature. "Emily will want to be bridesmaid, she is so fond of both Alice

and you."

"Of course she will wish it, and of course she will have her own way,

as usual; but with regard to Mrs. Peck, will you or shall I tell Alice

the relation between you and her? I should like you to be justified to

her."

"Oh, I'll tell her: I must wish her joy, and then I will tell her. And,

Mr. Brandon, will you be good enough to stay in the house as much as

you can till Stanley comes down from Wiriwilta, and then you will be

able to send Mrs. Peck away, for I am too frightened of her to do it

myself. I'll go and speak to Alice now."

"Do; and send her in to speak to me, for I have got some business of

hers that I must attend to, and I must have some directions from her."

"Business!" said Mrs. Phillips, incredulously; "I dare say you have got

plenty to say to her, but I don't think as it's business."

At the sight of Alice, Mrs. Phillips's tears burst forth afresh, and

for the second time in her life (the first was on the occasion of Eva's

death, when she had felt Alice so very kind), she threw her arms round

one of her own sex for sympathy and consolation.

"My dear Alice, forgive me--I could not help it, I was so frightened.

You must not tell anybody, not even your sister, about it; but that

woman is my own mother, and I could not get her to go away. I did not

like your being so much with her, but I could not help it, for she

would do it. Do forgive me."

"Certainly, I forgive you from my heart," said Elsie.

"And Mr. Brandon has told me all about you and him, and I really wish

you joy. You are going to have a good husband--not so good a one as

mine, but still a very good one."

"Thank you, Mrs. Phillips. I hope to be able to make him happy--at

least I will try my very best to do so." said Elsie.

"And you must make allowances for me, for you can see how I was brought

up. I know I have been very often cross with you, but you must forgive

all these old things; and I suppose it had better be before we leave

Melbourne. We must write for Emily to come down, for she will want to

be bridesmaid, and Mr. Brandon says she shall, and we must set to get

your things all in a hurry."

"There's time enough to talk of all these matters," said Elsie. "I have

scarcely begun to believe that I am engaged yet."

"Oh, but Mr. Brandon wants to speak to you on business, and what other

business can there be? So go into the drawing-room, and he will perhaps

show you that there is some need to think of these things."

But Mr. Brandon did not bewilder Elsie with asking her to fix any time,

though he was determined to be married before going out of town, if

possible; but he had to get from her extracts from her uncle's will,

which she recollected nearly word for word, and instructions as to how

to proceed with Mrs. Peck; also, as much as she knew of Mr. Hogarth's

letters to Madame de Vericourt, to show the relations between him and

Elizabeth Ormistown, so far as she knew of them. There was also a good

deal of other talk to go through on subjects personal to themselves,

which they both thought exceedingly interesting, and Brandon would not

believe till he looked at his watch that he had kept Mrs. Phillips out

of her own drawing-room for two hours.

Chapter IX.

Mrs. Peck's Communication

Mrs. Peck was surprised and a little disconcerted when, on the evening

of the day on which she had so nearly confided her secret to Elsie, Mr.

Brandon walked into her lodgings unannounced; but she concealed her

chagrin with her usual duplicity. Though she was desirous of further

communication with Elsie, she preferred it to be with herself, and not

through a person who had spoken so uncivilly to her.

"You did not think it worth while for me to give Miss Melville and you

my address, but I see that you are making use of it without delay,"

said she.

"Yes, I am, for I want to know if I cannot transact the business which

I interrupted," said Brandon.

"You! No; certainly not. I only deal with principals."

"Miss Alice Melville empowers me to act for her in this matter, and

this letter from her to me should satisfy you of that. It will not do

for a girl to treat personally with a woman who compromises her by her

company."

"Oh, is that it?" said Mrs. Peck, who disliked the exchange of a simple

young girl for a man of the world in the bargain she wished to make.

"Well, if I must deal with you, what do you offer?"

"If you can give the inheritance of Cross Hall to Jane and Alice

Melville, a thousand pounds," said Brandon.

"Say two thousand," said Mrs. Peck; "I will not take less than that.

Are you a sweetheart of that girl's--or of her sister's? If you are,

you can easily see that Cross Hall is worth far more than that."

"I do not think you can give information that will be worth the money I

offer," said Brandon. "Even supposing you were married before your

irregular marriage with Mr. Hogarth, you will have difficulty in

proving that marriage; and after so many years spent in New South Wales

and Victoria under another name, it will be almost impossible to prove

your identity."

"I can prove that," said Mrs. Peck, taking out of her black bag several

letters of old date, generally with remittances, signed "H. Hogarth."

There had been an annuity paid regularly after she had gone to

Australia; but the last payment had been of a large sum 1,500 pounds

which she had accepted in lieu of all future annual remittances, and

that had been sent more than thirteen years before.

"I was a fool and a idiot to take the money, for it went as fast as my

money always did; but Peck wanted to start in the public line, and

persuaded me to ask for that sum, and then in a year and a half it was

all gone, and I had no annuity to fall back on," said Mrs. Peck.

"Were you married to Peck or to Mrs. Phillips's father?" asked Brandon.

"No, not exactly married. I kept out of bigamy. I always kept that hold

on Cross Hall; I would not marry any one right out, you know."

"He might have had a divorce from you," said Brandon.

"If he had known, perhaps he might; but nobody made it none of their

business to tell him, and I said nothing about it."

"It is rather difficult to tell when you are speaking the truth, and

when you are not," said Brandon; "but I believe that you really are

Elizabeth Ormistown, and I believe also that Francis Hogarth is not the

son of old Cross Hall, as you call him; but I fear you cannot prove it,

and without that the information is of no use to us, and worth no

money."

"If I can prove it, how much is it worth?"

"How much have you had already on the strength of it? You are first

handsomely paid for the lie, and now you want to be bribed into telling

the truth. I myself think 1,000 pounds far too much, for if the case

were taken to court, there would be very heavy law expenses before

possession could be obtained. I offer, on Miss Melville's behalf, a

thousand whenever they get the property."

"Far too little. I'll not speak a word for the chance of a sum like

that; I must have 2,000 pounds. What is 1,000 pounds?"

"Why, at your years, it would buy you a very handsome annuity, or you

could lend it out at interest, and get ten per cent. for it, and have

the principal to leave to any one you liked; or you might start in

business with such a capital. Many handsome fortunes have been made in

Melbourne on a smaller beginning; but if you think it insufficient, I

can go away. My clients are not so very anxious about the property as

to accede to such a demand as yours, and Francis Hogarth may be left in

peaceable possession of the estate," said Brandon, coolly.

"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."