rich. Sir Charles's father, old Sir Charles, had not done his duty by the property. Instead of marrying somebody with a fortune, which was clearly the object for which he had been brought into the world, he had married to please a fancy of his own in a very reprehensible way. His wife herself felt that he had failed to do his duty, though it was for her sake; and she was naturally all the more anxious that her son should fulfil this natural responsibility. Sir Charles was not handsome, nor was he bright, nor even so young as he might have been; but all this, if it made the sacrifice less, made the necessity more, and accordingly Lady Motherwell was extremely friendly to Mr. Brownlow. When she came down for dinner she took a sort of natural protecting place, as if she had been Sara's aunt, or bland, flattering, uninterfering mother-in law. She called the young mistress of the house to her side, and held her hand, and patted it and caressed it. She told Mr. Brownlow how pleased she was to see how the dear child had developed. lowed to keep her long," she said, with tender meaning; "I think if she were mine I would go and hide her up so that nobody might see her. But one has to make up one's mind to part with them all the same.'

"" You will not be al

"Not sooner than one can help," said Mr. Brownlow, looking not at Lady Motherwell, but at his child, who was the subject of discourse. He knew what the old lady meant as well as Sara did, and he had been in the way of smiling at it, wondering how anybody could imagine he would give his child to a good-tempered idiot; but this night another kind of idea came into his mind. The man was stupid, but he was a gentleman of long-established lineage and he could secure to Sara all the advantages of which she had so precarious a tenure here. He could give her even a kind of title, so far as that went, though Mr. Brownlow was not much moved by a baronet's title; and if anything should happen to endanger Brownlows it would not matter much to Jack or himself. They could return to the house in Masterton, and make themselves as comfortable as life, without Sara, could be anywhere. This was the thought that was passing through Mr. Brownlow's mind when he said, "Not sooner than one can help." He was thinking for the first time that such a bestowal of his child might not be so impossible after all.

Beside her, in the seat she had taken when she escaped from Lady Motherwell, Sir Charles had already taken up his position. He was talking to her through his hard little black mustache -not that he said a great deal. He was a tall man, and she was seated in a low chair, with the usual billows of white on the carpet all round her, so that he could not even approach very near; and she had to look up at him and strain her ear when he spoke, if she wanted to hear which was a trouble Sara did not choose to take. So she said, "What?" in her indifferent way, playing with her fan, and secretly doing all she could to extend the white billows

46

'Why more than ever now?" said Sara, with the precision of contempt; and then she went on- If you don't care either for pretty horses or pretty girls, we shan't know how to amuse you. Perhaps you are fond of reading; I think we have a good many nice books."

Sir Charles said something to his mustache, which was evidently an expletive of some kind. He was not the sort of man to swear by Jove, or even by George, much less by anything more tangible; but still he did utter something in an inarticulate exclamatory way. "A man would be difficult to please if he didn't get plenty to amuse him here," was how it ended. "I'm not afraid

"It is very kind of you to say so," said Sara, so very politely that Sir Charles did not venture upon any more efforts, but stood bending down uneasily, looking at her, and pulling at his respirator in an embarassed way; not that he was remarkable in this, for certainly the moment before dinner is not favourable to animated or genial conversation. And it was not much better at dinner. Sara had Mr. Keppel of Ridley, the eldest brother at her other side, who talked better than Sir Charles did. His mother kept her eye upon them as well as that was possible from the other end of the table, and she was rather hard upon him afterwards for the small share he had taken in the conversation. "You should have amused her and made her talk, and drawn her out," said the old lady. "Oh, she talked plenty," Sir Charles said, in a discomfited tone; and he did not make much more of it in the evening, when young Mrs. Keppel and her sister-in-law, and Fanny Hardcastle, all gathered in a knot round the young mistress of the house. It was a pretty group, and the hum of talk that issued from it attracted even the old people to linger and listen, though doubtless their own conversation wou'd have been much more worth lis

tening to. There was Sara reclining upon the cushions of a great round ottoman, with Fanny Hardcastle by her, making one mass of the white billows; and opposite, Mrs. Keppel, who was a pretty little woman, lay back in a low deep round chair, and Mary Keppel, who was a little fond of attitudes, sat on a stool, leaning her head upon her hands, in the centre. Sometimes they talked all together, so that you could tell what they said; and they discussed everything that ought to be discussed in heaven and earth, and occasionally something that ought not; and there was a dark fringe of men round about them, joining in the babble. But as for Sir Charles, he knew his consigne, and stood at his post, and did not attempt to talk. It was an exercise that was seldom delightful to him; and then he was puzzled, and could not make out whether, as he himself said it was chaff or serious. But he could always stand over the object of his affections, and do a sentinel's duty, and keep other people away from her. That was a metier he understood.

"Has it been a pleasant evening, Sara?" said Mr. Brownlow when the guests had all gone, and Sir Charles had disappeared with Jack, and Lady Motherwell had retired to think it all over and invent some way of pushing her son on. The father and daughter were left alone in the room, which was still very bright with lights and fire, and did not suggest any of the tawdry ideas supposed to hang about in the air after an entertainment is over. They were both standing by the fire, lingering before they said good-night.

"Oh yes," said Sara, "if that odious man would not mount guard over me. What have I done that he should always stand at my elbow like that, with his hideous mustache?

"You mean Sir Charles?" said Mr. Brownlow. "I thought girls liked that sort of thing. He means it for a great compliment to you."

"Then I wish he would compliment somebody else," said Sara; I think it is very hard, papa. A girl lives at home with her father, and is very happy and doesn't want any change; but any man that pleases - any tall creature with neither brains nor sense, nor any thing but a mustache-thinks he has a right to come and worry her; and people think she should be pleased. It is awfully hard. No woman ever attempts to treat Jack like that."

Mr. Brownlow smiled, but it was not so frank

"

ly as usual. Are you really quite sure about this matter?" he said. "I wish you would think it over, my darling. He is not brightbut he's a very good fellow in his way-stop a little. And you know I am only Brownlow the solicitor, and if anything should happen to our money, all this position of ours in the county would be lost. Now Sir Charles could give you a better position

Oh, papa! could you ever bear to hear me called Lady Motherwell?" cried Sara-young Lady Motherwell! I should hate myself and everybody belonging to me. But look here; I have wanted to speak to you for a long time. If you were to lose your money, I don't see why you should mind it so very much. I should not mind. We would go away to the country, and get a cottage somewhere, and be very comfortable. After all, money don't matter so much. We could walk instead of driving, which is often far pleasanter, and do things for ourselves."

"What do you know about my money?" said Mr. Brownlow, with a bitter momentary pang. He thought something must have betrayed the true state of affairs to Sara, which would be an almost incredible addition to the calamity.

'Well, not much," said Sara, lightly; "but I know merchants and people are often losing money, and you have an office like a merchant. I should not mind that; but I do mind never being able to turn my head even at home in our very own house, without seeing that man with his horrid mustache."

"Poor Sir Charles!" said Mr. Brownlow, and the anxiety on his face lightened a little. She could not know anything about it. It must be merely accidental, he thought. Then he lighted her candle for her, and kissed her soft cheek.

"You said you would marry any one I asked you to marry," he said, with a smile; but it was not a smile that went deep. Strangely enough he was a little anxious about the answer, as if he had really some plan in his mind.

"And so I should, and never would hesitate," said Sara, promptly, holding his hand, "but not Sir Charles, please, papa."

This was the easy way in which the girl played, on what might possibly turn out to be the very verge of the precipice.

CHAPTER XIX.

RALLYING AFTER A DEFEAT.

We must now go back to Deverington Hall. Better acquainted than Mrs. Ferrier or Miss March with the danger so well escaped, we know that, besides Mr. M'Quantigan, Eva had one enemy, and but one enemy, then and there hunting after her life. During those few, but eventful minutes, what had that still bitterer foe of Eva's been doing?

Her apartment, as we said, was somewhat remote from that which, after careful considering, she had managed to assign Miss March. And she did not venture, at the crisis of the affair, to attend at the scene of events, "lest occasion should call, and show her to be a watcher." When all the house had appeared quiet, she had stolen down the narrow staircase, with a box of matches in her hand, had lighted the lamp in the vestibule below (which her ally would extinguish on his going out again), had opened the glass door, which had a spring lock, had placed the square-shaped bottle of chloroform beside the lamp, and had then retreated to her own chamber, to await the successful issue of the deed preparing.

The very wisest plan of all might have been to lie down, and (if she could) sleep till the morning should bring its great discovery. But something kept her from doing this. I know not if it was remorse. It must not be supposed that this wretched woman could rush, unhampered by all restraining scruples, into deep and unfamiliar guilt. Uncomfortable she certainly did feel, but scarcely remorseful. It is surprising what a hardness of soul may come of the constant brooding over thoughts and longings which are altogether selfish. Miss Varnish was, indeed, unselfish in one thing, in her baleful affection for her Irish seducer. She looked upon Eva as a younger and more beautiful rival; and thus her genuine love was the parent of her liveliest hate. The one garrish flower that bloomed over all the bleak waste of her heart was a thing distilling deadliest poison. That Eva's other pretensions might bring ruin to her designs on Mr. Campion, was a much less cause of offence, though it had its influence over her. In every point of view Miss March was detestable, a being brought into existence in order to blight her own; and therefore her enemy prepared to crush her without compunction. She felt tolerably confident of the success of the design. All hitherto had gone so well. The greater difficulties

had been so utterly smoothed away. Mr. M'Quantigan, crafty and bold at the same time, was so entirely to be depended upon; his own interest in the young woman's death was (as Miss Varnish understood it) so deap and dreadful, that he would surely allow no blunders of his own to hinder him from succeeding. But Miss Varnish thought she should be more tranquil could she know that all was accomplished, ere she so much as laid her head on the pillow; and such assurance she might obtain, without ever stirring

from her chamber.

The streak of lamplight, which ran through the glass door into the garden, was visible from Miss Varnish's own window, and its extinction would be to her the signal that the Orangeman had done his work, and withdrawn his presence from the house. She sat by that window, with no light in the room, holding aside a corner of the blind, and looking at the bar of yellow light which dashed the pale radiance of the moon.

When she had waited awhile, she saw a shadow cross that light, and vanish, as into the house. The distance of the room in which she sat from the glass door prevented her from seeing his figure more distinctly. Yet it was enough to know that he was come, and that a very few minutes might now deliver them both from their greatest danger. She scarcely expected to hear his footsteps in the house. Her chamber was very distant from Eva's, and the man would move and act with all the quiet which the awful nature of his task demanded. But she let the blind drop into its place, and listened, in case any sound should reach her ears. She heard nothing-nothing certainly that would have arrested the attention of any watcher not on the alert for sounds. She would remain exactly where she was, and, in five minutes, or ten, look and see if the light had vanished. Had she kept her eyes on that garden all the while, she would have seen, but a few minutes later, a second shadow cross the stream of light, and also vanish into the house, like the former one; and a sight so strange and alarming might have led her into some sudden action on her own side. No footfall smote her ears. In fact M'Quantigan ascended those stairs with such a cautious pace that it took him several minutes to pass to Eva's room. Mrs. Ferrier, though arriving so far behind him at the Hall, was therefore quite in time to interrupt the deed ere it was well begun; and her tread, hurried as it was, had been soft enough to escape the ears of the anxious watcher in that distant chamber. That person, after several minutes, looked

out to see if the light were gone. No, it was there still. Rut nothing untoward could have happened. The unbroken stillness of the house was a sufficient warrant that all had gone, or was going, well. She held her face to the glass, and waited to see that patch of yellow light disappear. Still it burnt on. Miss Varnish began to be rather uneasy. That her confederate might prefer a still later hour of the night would not have been any wonder at all. But he was certainly come. He was in the house. What could be detaining him? Of his own accord he had appointed a somewhat earlier time than that suggested by Miss Varnish, because he should have so many hours more to quit the neighborhood before daylight came.

The house-clock struck one; the dewy moon was shining down on that garden, with its many-coloured asters and other autumnal flowers; and still that desecrating bar of yellow crossed the silver sheen of the night. The woman sat up for a long while after, now turning her ear to catch any sounds from within, and then once more looking down at the light which would never go out. Yet, surely, he could not be waiting in the house all this while? Miss March had certainly been somewhat sleepy when she retired; it was hardly possible that, since lying down she had become wakeful again, and only that could have hindered or delayed the work in hand. Miss Varnish felt she could not, dared not, lie down, with all this terrible uncertainty upon her. But, very likely, all was as simple as possible. M'Quantigan, successful in the great matter, had omitted the minor precaution of extinguishing the lamp as he left the house. Miss Varnish waited a few minutes more, and looked again. The light was burning yet. As she had seen his coming in, so now she felt sure that he had accomplished his awful purpose, and had gone out. But if it were so, the lamp must be extinguished by herself. Mr. Campion was a fussy, suspicious man, and would promptly couple the fact of Eva's being found dead in her bed with any little irregularity in matters of household arrangement. At all events, the risk must not be run. When her belief had grown into certainty, Miss Varnish, still without any light in her hand, softly opened her door, stepped forth into the passage, and listened. All was as still as a house wrapt in sleep ever can be.

To reach Eva's chamber, she must walk the whole length of a long passage, then through a swinging baize door, to the head of a short flight of stairs, down those stairs,

and along a shorter passage, to the door so carefully indicated by her in her directions to M'Quantigan. She walked this way, advancing and listening alternately, until she was close to the door of the fatal room. One thing was evident. Whatever her accomplice had forgotten, he had remembered to manage the thing quietly. Nobody had been disturbed; indeed, nobody slept very near that room. The nearest appartment occupied by any one was that of poor Mrs. Campion herself; and to her eyes sleep was wooed by the soporific draughts regularly administered by order. Miss Varnish glided on. She did not purpose entering the room. All, no doubt, had been done, and thoroughly done. But it was a cruelly careless thing of her friend to forget the lamp, and so entail upon herself this task, which might threaten danger and discovery. She was turning towards the staircase up which the light came; and in so doing, came exactly opposite the door of that room.

What had possessed the Irishman? He had left it open, wide open. He was not there; for the streaky moonshine which came in at the window was the only light there present. Whither had all his caution betaken itself? She had a yet more serious cause for asking the question, as she stepped forward to close the door. Just in a patch of moonlight on the floor, a letter was lying. Coming forward, and stooping to look at it, she saw that it was the letter which she herself, two days before, had written to Murphy at Leamington. Mrs. Ferrier had, indeed, brought it with her, as evidence of the fearful danger which really impended over Miss March; and to avoid all possible delay, she had carried it into the house in her hand. In the unexpected confusion of the actual issue she had dropped it on the floor, and forgotten it until too late. When she reflected, she was not quite sorry that one or both of the conspirators would be sure to pounce upon it, and, for their own sakes, destroy it. Miss Varnish clutched it with a bewildering mixture of anger and surprise. It was well to know that M'Quantigan had not quitted Leamington too late to receive this. But why had he been so mad as to retain it to carry it with him? Or, if he needed it, as a guard against his mistaking the room, it was not like his usual caution to have left it in that place. Why, it might have lain there until morning, to be an evidence against herself of the most damning kind! However, the danger so unaccountably hazarded, was averted. She had the letter in her hands,