words. He thanked me once, and but once, warmly and strongly,

"Ah! Mr. Harrington," said he, " from the time you were master Harrington at school, you were my best friend always my friend in most need-I trusted in you, and still I hoped !-hoped that the truth would stand, and the lie fall. See at last our Hebrew proverb right- A lie has no feet.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE next morning, before I left my room to go down to breakfast, my servant told me that lady de Brantefield's housekeeper, Mrs. Fowler, begged to speak to me-she had been come some time. I went into my mother's dressing-room, where she was waiting alone. I could not bear to fix my eyes upon her; I advanced towards her, wishing, as I believe I said aloud, that she had spared me the pain of this interview. I waited in silence for her to speak, but she did not say a word -I heard the unhappy woman sobbing violently. Suddenly she took her handkerchief from before her face, and her sobs ceasing, she exclaimed, "I know you hate me, Mr. Harrington, and you have reason to hate me-more-much more than you know of! But lord Mowbray is the most to blame.”

I stood in astonishment. I conceived either that the woman was out of her senses, or that she had formed the not unprecedented design of affecting insanity, in hope of escaping the punishment of guilt : she threw herself at my feet-she would have clasped

my knees, but I started back from her insufferable touch; provoked by this, she exclaimed, in a threatening tone, "Take care, sir!-The secret is still in my power."

Then observing, I believe, that her threat made no impression, her tone changed again to the whine of supplication.

"Oh, Mr. Harrington, if I could hope for your forgiveness, I could reveal such a secret-a secret that so concerns you!"

I retreated, saying that I would not hear any secret from her. But I stopped, and was fixed to the spot, when she added, under her breath, the name of Montenero. Then, in a hypocritical voice, she went on— “Oh, Mr. Harrington!—Oh, sir, I have been a great sinner! led on-led on by them that was worse than myself; but if you will plead for me with my lady, and prevail upon her not to bring me to public shame about this unfortunate affair of the ring, I will confess all to you-I will throw myself on your mercy. I will quit the country if you will prevail on my lady -to let my daughter's marriage go on, and not to turn her out of favour."

I refused to make any terms; but my mother, whose curiosity could refrain no longer, burst into the room; and to her Fowler did not plead in vain. Shocked, as she was, with the detection of this woman's fraud, my mother was so eager to learn the secret concerning me, that she promised to obtain a pardon from lady de Brantefield for the delinquent, if she would immediately communicate the secret. I left the room.

I met my father with letters and newspapers in his hand. He looked in consternation, and beckoned to me to follow him into his own room.

"I was just going in search of you, Harrington,” said he "here's a devil of a stroke for your mother's friend, lady de Brantefield."

"The loss of her jewels, do you mean, sir?" said I: " they are found."

“Jewels!" said my father; "I don't know what you are talking of."

"I don't know then what you mean, sir,” said I.

66

No, to be sure you do not, how could you? for the news is but this instant come-in this letter which

I was carrying to you-which is addressed to you, as I found, when I got to the middle of it. I beg your pardon for opening it. Stay, stay—this is not the right letter."

My father seemed much hurried, and looked over his parcel of letters, while he went on, saying, "That letter in question was directed to William Harrington, instead of William Harrington Harrington. Never mind about that now, only I don't like to open letters that don't belong to me—here it is— run your eye over it as fast as you can, and tell me -for I stopped, as soon as I saw it was not to me— tell me how it is with Mowbray-I never liked the fellow, nor his mother either; but one can't help pitying and being shocked-shocked indeed I was, the moment I read the letter."

The letter, which appeared to have been written in great perturbation, and at two or three different times, with different inks, was from a brother officer of lord Mowbray's. It began in a tolerably composed and legible hand, with an account of a duel, in which the writer of the letter said that he had been second to lord Mowbray. His lordship had been wounded, but it was hoped he would do well. Then came the particulars of the duel, which the second stated, of

course, as advantageously for himself and his principal as he could: but even by his own statement, it appeared that lord Mowbray had been the aggressor; that he had been intemperate; and, in short, entirely in the wrong: the person with whom he fought was a young officer, who had been his schoolfellow: the dispute had begun about some trivial old school quarrel, on the most nonsensical subject; something about a Jew boy of the name of Jacob, and a pencilcase; the young gentleman had appealed to the evidence of Mr. Harrington, whom he had lately met on a fishing party, and who, he said, had a perfect recollection of the circumstance. Lord Mowbray grew angry; and in the heat of contradiction, which, as his second said, his lordship could never bear, he gave his opponent the lie direct. A duel was the necessary consequence. Lord Mowbray insisted on their firing across the table: his opponent was compelled to it. They fired, as it was agreed, at the same instant. Lord Mowbray fell. So far was written while the surgeon was with his patient. Afterwards, the letter went on in a more confused manner. The surgeon begged that lord Mowbray's friends might be informed, to prepare them for the event; but still there were hopes. Lord Mowbray had begun to write a letter to Mr. Harrington, but could not go -had torn it to bits-and had desired the writer

on

of the present letter to say, "that he could not go out of the world easy, without his forgiveness-to refer him to a woman of the name of Fowler, for explanation—a waiting-maid—a housekeeper now, in his mother's family. Lord Mowbray assured Mr. Harrington, that he did not mean to have carried the jest (the word jest scratched out), the thing farther

than to show him his power to break off matters, if he pleased-but he now repented."

This dictated part of the letter was so confused, and so much like the delirium of a man in a fever, that I should certainly have concluded it to be without real meaning, had it not coincided with the words which Fowler had said to me. On turning over the page, I saw a postscript-lord Mowbray, at two o'clock that morning, had expired. His brother officer gave no particulars, and expressed little regret, but begged me to represent the affair properly; and added something about the lieutenant-colonelcy, which was blotted so much, either purposely or accidentally, that I could not read it.

My father, who was a truly humane man, was excessively shocked by the letter; and at first, so much engrossed by the account of the manner of the young man's death, and by the idea of the shock and distress of the mother and sister, that he scarcely adverted to the unintelligible messages to me. He observed, indeed, that the writer of the letter seemed to be a fool, and to have very little feeling. We agreed that my mother was the fittest person to break the matter to poor lady de Brantefield. If my mother should not feel herself equal to the task, my father said he would undertake it himself, though he had rather have a tooth pulled out than go through it.

We went together to my mother. We found her in hysterics, and Fowler beside her; my mother, the moment she saw us, recovered some recollection, and pushing Fowler from her with both her hands, she cried, "Take her away-out of my sight-out of my sight."

I took the hartshorn from Fowler, and bid her