Oldal 255 [255]
193
other a mere child of two or three years
old."
6 What’s that to me?" asked Monks.
s They resided,’ said Mr. Brownlow,
without seeming to hear the interruption,
“in a part of the country to which your
father, in his wanderings, had repaired,
and where he had taken up his abode.
Acquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fast
followed each other. Your father was
gifted as few men are—he had his sister’s
soul and person. As the old officer knew
him more and more, he grew to love him.
I would that it had ended there. His
daughter did the same.”
The old gentleman paused. Monks
was biting his lips, with his eyes fixed on
the floor; seeing this he immediately re¬
sumed—
c The end of a year found him con¬
tracted, solemnly contracted, to that
daughter, the object of the first, true, ar¬
dent, only passion, of a guileless, untried
ir ve
a Your tale is of the longest,” observed
Monks, moving restlessly in his chair.
‘It is a true tale of grief, and trial, and
sorrow, young man,” returned Mr, Brown¬
low, s and such tales usually are. If it
were one of unmixed joy and happiness, it
would be very brief. At length one of
those rich relations, to strengthen whose
interest and importance your father had
been sacrificed—as others are often, it is
no uncommon case—died, and to repair
the misery he had been instrumental in
occasioning, left his panacea for all griefs
—money. It was necessary that he should
immediately repair to Rome, whither this
man had sped for health, and where he
had died, leaving his affairs in great con¬
fusion. He went, was seized with mortal
illness there, was followed the moment
the intelligence reached Paris by your
mother, who carried you with her; he
died the day after her arrival, leaving no
will—no will—so that the whole property
fell to her and you.”
At this point of the recital, Monks
held his breath and listened with a face
of intense eagerness, though his eyes
were not directed towards the speaker.
As Mr. Brownlow paused he changed his
position, with the air of one who has ex¬
rienced a sudden relief, and wiped his
ot face and hands.
“ Before he went abroad, as he passed
through London on his way,” said Mr.
Brownlow, slowly, and fixing his eyes
upon the other's face, * he came to me."
c] never heard of that,” interposed
Monks, in a tone to appear incredulous,
17 Z,
but savouring more of disagreeable sur¬
prise. |
6 He came to me, and left with me
among other things a picture—a portrait
painted by himself—a likeness of this
poor girl—which he did not wish to leave
behind, and could not carry forward in his
hasty journey. He was worn by anxiety
and remorse almost to a shadow, talked
in a wild and distracted strain of ruin and
dishonour worked by him, confided to me
his intention to convert his whole property
at any loss into money, and having settled
on his wife and you a portion of his recent
acquisition, to fly the country—I guessed
too well he would not fly alone—and ne¬
ver see it more. Even from me, his old
and early friend, whose strong attachment
had taken root in the earth that covered
one most dear to both, even from me he
withheld any more particular confession,
promising to write and tell me all, and
after that to see me—once again for the
last time on earth. Alas! that was the
last time. I had no letter, and I never
saw him more.”
6 [ went,” said Mr. Brownlow, after a
short pause, “I went, when all was over,
to the scene of his—I will not use the
term the world would use, for harshness
or favour are now alike to him—of his
guilty love; resolved, if my fears were
realized, that erring child should find one
heart and home open to shelter and com¬
passionate her. ‘The family had left that
part a week before; they had called in
such trifling debts as were outstanding,
discharged them, and left the place by
night. Why or whither, none could tell.”
Monks drew his breath yet more freely,
and looked round with a smile of triumph.
“ When your brother,” said Mr. Brown¬
low, drawing nearer to the other’s chair,
“when your brother—a feeble, ragged,
neglected child—was cast in my way by
a stronger hand than chance, and rescued
by me from a life of vice and infamy—”
c What!” cried Monks, starting. — .
“ By me,” said Mr. Brownlow—* I told
you I should interest you before long. I
say by me—lI see that your cunning asso¬
ciate suppressed my name, although, for
aught he knew, it would be quite strange
to your ears. When he was rescued by
me then, and lay recovering from sick¬
ness in my house, his strong resemblance
to the picture I have spoken of struck me
with astonishment. Even when I first
saw him, in all his dirt and misery, there
was a lingering expression in his face that
came upon me like a glimpse of some old