day it was Sunday, most terrible of all days in the house of death-when the household, shut up, in the first darkness, had to realize the great change that had happened, and the two men, who had been arbitrarily drawn together by Amanda were thrown upon each other for society in the darkened rooms, at the melancholy meals, with no bond whatever between them- Frederick asked, with a kind of longing for his cousin. "Is Miss Vane still in her room? Is she ill?" he asked of the maid who attended at the luncheon which poor Batty swallowed by habit, moaning between every mouthful. "Miss Vane, sir? oh, the young lady. She went away last night when when it happened," answered the maid. "Went away last night? Where has she gone?" cried Frederick, in dismay. "That none on us knows. She went straight away out of the house, sir, the next moment after it happened," said the maid. "She was frightened, I suppose, poor young lady. She took the way to the Minster, up the street. It was me that saw her. I didn't say nothing till this morning, for I thought it was a ghost." A ghost! My poor Innocent!" said Frederick. "Did she say nothing? Good heavens! where can the poor child have gone?" He started up in real distress, and got his hat. "I must know where Innocent has gone," cried Frederick, chafing at this restriction, yet moved by so much natural emotion as to hesitate before wounding the feelings of Amanda's father. "I have little wish to go out, Heaven knows; but the poor child "I will find out about the child," said Batty; and Frederick did not escape till the night had come again, and he could steal out in the darkness to supplement the information which Batty's groom managed to collect. Innocent had been seen by various people in her flight. She had been watched to the shadow of the Minster, and then to the railway, where nobody had seen her go into the train, but which was certainly the last spot where she had been. Frederick was discomposed by this incident, more perhaps than became a man whose wife had died the day before. He could not leave the house in which Amanda lay dead to follow Innocent; but in his mind he thought a great deal more of her than of his wife on the second night of his bereavement. Where was she- poor, innocent, simplehearted child? He sent a messenger to the High Lodge, hoping she might be there. He felt himself responsible for her to his mother, to Miss Vane, to all who knew him. As it was Sunday, however, he had no means - either by post or telegraph-to communicate with his mother. He had to wait till morning, with burning impatience in his mind. Poor Innocent! how his heart warmed to the little, harmless, tender thing, who had nestled to him like a child, who had always trusted him, clung to him, believed in him. Nothing had ever shaken her faith. Even his marriage, which had detached many of his friends from him, had not detached her. She had believed in him whatever happened. I have said that Frederick had always been kind to Innocent. It had not indeed always been from the most elevated of motives; her supposed love for him had pleased his vanity, and he had indulged himself by accepting her devotion without any thought of those consequences to her Miss Vane," said poor Batty, which his mother feared; he had, indeed, "d― every one that comes in the way believed as firmly as his mother and her of what's owed to my poor girl, my pretty maids did, that Innocent was "in love" darling. Oh, my 'Manda, my 'Manda! with him-and instead of honourably How shall I live when she's gone? Look endeavouring to make an end of that you here, Frederick Eastwood, I know supposititious and most foolish passion most of your goings on. I know about he had encouraged" Innocent, and that cousin. You shan't step out of here, not to go after another woman, and the breath scarce out of my poor girl." "Stay where you are," said Batty. "You are not going out of my house this day, and my girl lying dead. My girl!my pretty 'Manda!none of them were fit to tie her shoes. Oh Lord, oh Lord! to think an old hulk like me should last and my girl be gone! You don't step out of my house, mind you, Eastwoodnot a step- to show how little you cared for my girl, if I have to hold you with my hands." "I have no desire to show anything but the fullest respect for Amanda," said Frederick; "poor girl, she shall have no slight from me; but I must look after my little cousin. Miss Vane trusted her to me. My mother will be anxious "D solaced himself by her childish love. But through all this vanity and self-complacency there had been a thread of began to look like a shadow, a dream. Had she really been his wife, his fate, the centre of his life, colouring it wholly, and turning it to channels other than those of nature? Already this began to seem half incredible to Frederick - already he felt that his presence in Batty's house was unnatural; that he was a stranger altogether detached from it and its disagreeable associations, waiting only for a point of duty, free from it henceforward for ever. He was there "on business " only, as any other stranger might be. And his whole mind was now occupied by the newer, more hopeful mystery, the fate of his cousin. Poor little Innocent! how sweet she had always been to him, how soothing in her truth and faith. Perhaps in the halcyon time to come, free of all the bonds which his folly had woven round him, might he not reward Innocent for her love? If he could only be sure she was safe-if he but knew where she was! natural affection, which was perhaps the very best thing in Frederick, during that feverish period of his life which had now suddenly come to an end. He had always been "fond of" his little cousin. Now this tender natural affection came uppermost in his mind. Real anxiety possessed him- painful questionings and suspicions. Where had she fled to in her terror? She was not like other people, understanding how to manage for herself, to tell her story, and make her own arrangements. And then there was the strange alarming fact that though she had been seen to enter the railway station she had not gone away, so the officials swore, by any train, and yet had disappeared utterly, leaving no trace. It seemed natural enough to Frederick that she should have fled in terror at thus finding herself face to face with death. Neither Aunty, nor the maids had as yet sufficiently shaped their recollections to give a very clear idea as to the moment at which poor Amanda died, and no one Early on the Monday morning he knew how deeply Innocent was involved rushed to the telegraph-office to commuin that terrible moment. But yet no one nicate with his mother, and ascertain if wondered that she had "run away," she had gone home. How he chafed at partly because the excitement of the his bondage here, and that he could not great event itself still possessed the go to satisfy himself, to secure the poor house, and partly because the girl's child's safety! No one, however, who abstracted visionary look impressed upon saw Frederick with his melancholy aspect all vulgar spectators a belief that "she passing along the street had any suspiwas not all there," as the maids said. cion that Amanda's memory was treated She was supposed to be a little "weak," | with less "respect” than that of the most even at the High Lodge, where her piety exemplary of wives. The village was full had procured for her a kind of worship. of the sad story, and people looked at That she should be driven wild by fright him curiously as he passed. Poor fellow, and should fly out of the house seemed how he seemed to feel it! and no doubt no wonder to any one. Frederick lay she was very pretty, and men thought so awake all night thinking of her; he could much of beauty. Frederick's solemn not turn his thoughts to any other subject. aspect gained him the sympathy of all How soon the mind gets accustomed to the villagers. They spoke more tenderly either gain or loss when it is final! of Batty's daughter when they saw the Twenty-four hours before, his brain had bereaved husband. No doubt it had been giddy with the awful thought that been a love match on his side at least, Amanda was dead, that the bonds of his and whatever her faults might have been life were broken, and that she who had it was dreadful to be taken so young and been his closest companion, the woman so sudden! Thus Sterborne murmured he had loved and loathed, had suddenly sympathetically as Frederick went to and mysteriously departed from him, without notice or warning, into the unseen. The shock of this sudden interruption to his life had for the moment disturbed the balance of earth and heaven; He went to the railway before he went in that terrible region of mystery between back, to ask if any further information the seen and the unseen, between life about Innocent had been obtained. The and death, he had stood tottering, won-early train from town had just arrived, dering, bewildered - for a moment. Now, and to his astonishment he was met by after twenty-four hours, Amanda's death his mother, looking very pale, anxious, was an old, well-known tale, a thing that and almost frightened, if that could be. had been for ages; it was herself who "Mother, this is kind," he cried, rushing send off his telegram, with very little thought of his wife, and a burning impatience to escape from all her belongings, in his heart. up to her, touched for the moment by a sudden sense of the faithful affection that never failed him; and then he added, hurriedly, "Innocent! is she with you? do you know where she is?" "She is safe at home," said Mrs. Fastwood, with a heavy sigh. "Thank God!" he cried; and it did not occur to him that his mother did not share his thankfulness, and that the cloud on her face was more heavy than any he had before seen there through all her troubles. composed to the woe of the occasion, and strangely impressed by the profound feeling in his mother's face, watched ner anxiously, but could not understand. What did she mean? Was she really so grieved for Amanda? Had the shock and pain of so sudden an ending really produced this profound effect upon her? or was she so conscious of the advantage which Amanda's death would bring with it that natural compunction made her exaggerate her expressions of sympathy? Frederick could not tell, but he watched his mother, wondering. There were circles of weariness and care round her eyes - and signs of suppressed and painful MRS. EASTWOOD'S INVESTIGATION. anxiety, and an eager watchfulness, "I FEEL for you very deeply," said which was incomprehensible to him, was Mrs. Eastwood. "It is a terrible calam- visible in her whole aspect. She even ity. Your child whom you hoped would breathed quickly, as with a feverish exclose your eyes, whom you never thought|citement, all the more painful that it was to see taken before you suppressed. CHAPTER XXXV. "I thought you were aware, mother," he said, "that poor Amanda had been threatened for years with this, which has happened now in so terrible a way. doctors have always said—" The "She was the apple of my eye," said poor Batty, sobbing. Except when he stupefied himself with drink, or rushed into his business, and swore and raged at every one round him, which were the only ways he had of seeking a momentary "The doctors, confound 'em!" cried forgetfulness, the man, coarse and sen- Batty. "I beg your pardon, ma'am, but sual as he was, was tragic in his grief. it's hard for a man to keep his patience. "There was never one like her, at least They're ready enough to talk, but what to me. I do not say but she might have can they do, these fellows? Keep her been faulty to others; but to her old quiet, they told me. My God! didn't I father she was everything. I thank you do everything a man could to keep her from my heart for this respect. You quiet, gave her all she wanted, never mightn't be fond of my girl, while she crossed her, let her have her own way in lived. I ask no questions. It was be- everything! There is nothing I wouldn't cause you didn't know her - how could have done for my girl. She'd had gold you? like I knew her, that have nursed to eat and drink if that would have done her, and have doted on her from a baby; it. I'd have took her anywhere, got her but thank you all the same for the respect. anything. But no. Ask 'em, and they It would have gone to her heart-my tell you all that is unpleasant, but give poor 'Manda! Oh, ma'am, the beauty you a way to mend it no. They do it, that girl was! I never saw anything to I sometimes think, to make their own come nigh to her. Her temper was words come true. She'll go off one day, quick, always hasty, ready with a word or all in a moment,' they said to me, years a blow-but always the first to come and years ago. Says I, I'll give you round and forgive those that had crossed half I've got, all I've got, if you will make her. My life's over, my heart's broken. it so this shan't be.' Trust them for that. I don't care for nothing, horses nor They gave her physic stuff, and shook houses, nor my garden, nor my bit of their wise heads, and said she was to be money nothing, now she's gone." kept quiet. What had keeping quiet to Indeed, I feel for you very deeply," do with it? We've all quick tempers. said Mrs. Eastwood, "and at her age, so I never could master mine myself, and young, it is doubly hard — and so unex-how was she to be expected to master pected." hers? From father to son and from She recurved to this with a reiteration mother to daughter, the Battys were which was unlike her usual sympathetic understanding of others. There was an eager anxiety in her eyes when she suggested that Amanda's death was unlooked for. Frederick sat by with a countenance always a word and a blow. I'd rather that a deal than your slow, quiet, sullen ones that hides their feelings. No, you. may say it was unexpected, for how was I to believe them? A bit of a flare-up never did me no harm. I never believed them. But now here's their d-d artfulness - it's come true." "And she knew it herself?" said Mrs. Eastwood, with searching, anxious gaze. “Oh, Mr. Batty, try and take a little comfort ! It must have made her think more seriously than you supposed, if she knew it herself." Batty gave her a dull look of wonder from his tearful blood-shot eyes; and then he launched forth again into panegyrics upon his lost child. "She was none of your quiet, sullen ones-still water as runs deep. She said what she thought, did my 'Manda. She might be too frank and too open to please them as hide their thoughts, but she always pleased her father. There's Aunty, now, who was constantly with my girl, will tell you. 'Manda was always the one make it up; whatever was done or said, to she was the one to make it up. She spoke her mind free, but it was over directly. You should have seen her when she was a bit of a girl; she'd ride anything you put her upon · till the doctors said it was bad for her. When she was a baby I used to grumble and wish for a boy: but I'd never have been as proud of a boy, as I was of my beauty, when I saw what she was coming to. From fifteen there never was a man as saw her that wasn't mad about her. Your son here, ma'am, Fred, as she always called him, poor girl, was the one that had the luck to please her; I don't know why, for many is the handsome fellow, titles and all that, I've had to send away. nothing to say against Fred, but she I've might have done a deal better. And now she's gone, where there's neither marrying nor giving in marriage. You are sorry for Fred, of course, it's but natural; but it isn't half to Fred that it is to me. Give us your hand, my boy; I'll always look upon you as my son, for her sake but it isn't half the blow to you as it is to me." Frederick had started to his feet when he had heard himself first spoken of in this familiar fashion. chafed him almost beyond endurance. The familiarity He stood at the window, with his back towards his father-in-law, as Batty wept and maundered. Fiery rage was in Frederick's mind. What had this man, this fellow, to do with him? a man with whom he had no relationship, no bond of connection? He took no notice of the outstretched hand. When would those slow hours pass, and the time be over during LIVING AGE. VOL. III. 135 481 which decency compelled him to endure this odious presence? What would he horrible chapter in his life should be not give when it was all ended, when this closed, and he himself restored to his natural sphere among his equals comforts which Amanda's existence had to his mother at the same time all the restoring ural place. How he longed suddenly, all diminished, and taking once more his natat once, for his old home! He would never go back to the house which had been Amanda's; he would sell everything, disperse everything that could remind him of this episode which, God be thanked, was over. Batty, though he stretched out his hand in maudlin affectionateness, was satisfied that Frederick had not observed the gesture, and did not resent the absence of response. But Frederick had seen and must pass perforce before he could finally loathed the offered touch. The days that cut the last lingering ties which decency required him to respect, seemed to him an age. "I should like to see the-the- your daughter-in-law," he said. "I never wood, with a depth of feeling which sur"Oh, Frederick!" cried Mrs. Eastprised him more and more. wished her any harm. God forbid that I I should have wished her any harm!" "Has any one ever supposed you For Innocent's sake?" may ascertain the circumstances exactly, and how much is known. erick, here they are. more." Oh, hush! Fred- | room, while she was reading; how, after 66 66 with the bustle, and grieving so, and my mind being full of one thing, I never even thought of the poor young lady till to-day. I'm thankful to hear she's all safe, and not another house plunged into trouble like we are. I was saying an He had to conceal his bewilderment, which was beyond describing, as Aunty, in a black gown, and with her handkerchief rolled up tight into a ball, in her hand, came into the room. When he heard his mother speak to this woman in soft caressing tones, and beg to hear an account of everything, every incident and detail — it seemed to Frederick that his understanding of the meaning of words must be deserting him. "Tell me everything; it is all of the deepest interest to me, and there is a mournful satisfaction in knowing the details," said poor - except the shock to her Mrs. Eastwood, putting forth the con- nerves," said Mrs. Eastwood. "She ventional words with an uncomfortable came straight home. It was the best sense of her son's criticism, and his thing she could do.” doubt of her sincerity. But Batty had "The very best thing," assented Aunty. no doubt. He was flattered by Mrs." And if you'll believe me, ma'am, what Eastwood's anxiety, by her desire to know all. "I ain't equal to it myself," he said, "but she will tell you," and withdrew to a corner, to listen and sob, and moan over his child's name. Mrs. Eastwood could not see his grief without becoming sympathetic. As for Freder-hour since, my heart was sore for her, ick, he had heard the particulars often enough, and had no wish to hear them again. He was surprised and half offended by his mother's strange mission. For Innocent's sake! Were the women all mad together, one madder than the other? or what did she, what could she mean? He went out into the garden, his only refuge during these days when decorum forbade him to be seen; and Oh, ma'am, you may say that," cried there he lighted a cigar, and with his Aunty, with tears. "I've nursed her hands in his pockets strolled about the from a baby, and nobody could care for paths. His mind turned to Innocent, her like me, except her poor father, as and he thought to himself how pleasant worshipped the ground she trod on. it would have been to have had her there| She's as beautiful as an angel,” said the now, holding his arm with her delicate faithful woman; "never all her life, when hand, hanging upon him, looking up in she was at her best, did I see her like his face. He took almost a fit of long-what she is now. Oh, ma'am, you've a ing for Innocent. But what folly about feeling heart, besides being Mrs. Fredher could his mother have got into her erick's mother, and a relation, like the rest head? what did she mean? of us. Mrs. Eastwood had a long interview with Aunty. She heard everything about Amanda's illness; how Aunty had thought badly of her from the first, seeing her strength give way; how her excitableness, poor dear, grew greater and greater, so that not a day passed without one or two outbreaks; how she took a fancy to "the young lady," saying she'd have her to sit with her, and not her ordinary nurse; how there had been a long silence when Innocent went to the poor young thing; her first being from home, as far as I understand?—and to come into a house of such sore trouble, and to see death without notice or warning. It was hard upon such a child.” "Yes, it was very hard," said Mrs. Eastwood. "I left her ill in bed, her nerves shattered to pieces. And what a shock, what a night for you 66 You'll come up stairs and look at her, poor dear?" And Mrs. Eastwood was taken upstairs, and what with infinite pity, what with unspeakable relief and ease of mind. cried so over Amanda's deathly beauty, that Batty and his humble sister-in-law were flattered and comforted beyond expression. She was a real lady they both said—no pride like the other Eastwoods, or the rest of that sort, but with a feeling heart, and showing such respect as was Amanda's due. She made a conquest of |