"My dear Edgar, you were about to say

وو

The barrister held up his hand as if for silence.

"Yes," he said, "I will tell you all;-any confidant, in a matter like this, is better than none."

Complimentary," thought Forster; "but oh! if he could but tell what I know about it !"

"You see," said Edgar, "that, as a gentleman and a man of honour, I was at first somewhat to blame in my method of finding this out. Three weeks ago I came home and found Mrs Wade, whom I then thought my mother, out on a visit. I wanted some title-deeds in which were narrated certain incidents which, to amuse my dear mother, as I then thought her, I had shown her. I could not find them, and I went into the room Mrs Wade occupies, and to her desk, thinking that she had referred to them. The desk was open, and there I found these papers; and my eye fell upon the words, 'My darling Eugenie.' The name was my mother's; the writing, I felt sure, was my father's. I determined to read them."

"You did wrong, young man," said Old Forster, severely. "I know I did, and I have been severely punished. Even in my trouble and shame I was happy till then; but nowbut now, it seems as if the firm earth was sinking under me, and I had no foothold and no helping hand to be stretched out to help me."

The young man-so bold, so brave, so cold, so hard and manly-covered his face with his thin, white hands; and Forster thought he saw tears trickling through the fingers. He himself was moved; he forgot his inductive philosophy, and blew his nose violently with his red bandana : it was not to conceal his emotion, it was his manner of weeping. The awful sound brought Edgar Wade to himself. Taking up a bundle of papers, duly arranged, he threw them to Old Daylight, saying

"Here are the letters-read them."

CHAPTER VI.

LOVE LETTERS WRIT FOR OTHER EYES THAN THINE!

OLD FORSTER took the letters, but with a delicate repugnance. Tradesman as he had been, and crime-tracker as he was, he had, at the bottom of his heart, a fund of goodness and delicacy which many gentlemen want.

"You had better read them to me, Edgar, my boy," he said. "My eyes are not very good. But, pardon me, let me look at the writing."

The letters were well preserved, and docketed; written on large quarto letter-paper, in a delicate, cultivated hand. The ink was faded, and the paper yellow with age.

"You are quite right, Mr Forster," said Edgar, touched with his delicacy. "I will read them. You see how they commence they are always pretty nearly the same. Sometimes 'dear' gives place to 'beloved;' but these are minutiæ, which do not concern the case in point.

"MY DEAR EUGENIE,-How I wish I were again in France with you, my sweet one! But, alas! it will never be." "

"Mrs Wade was Eugenie. Was she French?" asked Old Daylight. "I had never observed that."

"No," answered Edgar, "her accent was perfect. Most Frenchmen never learn English, but some French ladies speak it as well as we do. Eugenie Autra was the daughter of a good family, which had been reduced, and kept a pension in Paris, at which English young ladies of the highest families were brought up. The wars with England scattered these boarders, and reduced the families from riches almost to poverty, so I have since found; but not before my father, an English nobleman, visiting his little sister, had seen and fallen in love with Eugenie."

"Good," murmured Old Daylight. "That will account for something."

Everything, indeed, accounted for something in the old philosopher's inductive process.

Edgar continued reading.

"Your letter made my sad heart joyful. So you forgive me all! Alas! I am more unhappy than you; but noblesse oblige. You do not know my entourage-my father, my family -they are people to be known and to be dreaded. I am married indeed, and against my will. The vows I registered in Heaven were for you, my Eugenie; and these we solemnised, in those happy days in Prussia, by a marriage ceremony made for nobles and kings. But this my tyrant father, and more tyrant social laws in England, of that society that I so much despise, will not acknowledge. I have been, as you know, forced into marriage. I could almost hate the pale-faced girl-the English miss-who, with a large fortune tied to her unfortunate self, has been only too glad to bear my name. She is my wife, according to English law; but you, Eugenie, are my wife before Heaven-my Left-handed Bride-and the left hand is nearest the heart.""

“That may be French reasoning, but it won't satisfy English law," said Forster, wiping his eye-glass.

"It is enough that it was written to a Frenchwoman who believed its sophistry," said Edgar, dryly. "Here is another letter. I will only read the portions which concern us, and you will see that the plot unfolds."

"And am I a father, dearest Eugenie? Have I a son by the woman, the wife'-the word is underlined-' I love best of all the world-her living image? Oh, that I had wings to fly to her and kiss her, and embrace her in her sorrow. Oh, my darling-my darling! Alas! to overwhelm me with misfortune, with sorrow, with regret, my English lady has also brought me a son. How I turn with repugnance from this, my lawful heir, to the child of my soul-wife, of my Eugenie! How I shudder with anxiety, with regret, with remorse, with sorrow, when I look forward to the future of those two poor children! Ah, Eugenie-if I dared ’".

"Poor helpless babes! By St George, by St Bridget, by the very pump at Aldgate!" cried Old Daylight, "the plot begins to unfold. Poor human nature !-forced into a corner, she does anything and everything! What is the date of that letter?"

"Upon my word, Mr Forster, you are singularly acute," said the barrister, turning on the old fellow a searching look.

"You see, I-I am particular about dates," said the inductive philosopher, with an awkward excuse.

But the younger man seemed at once to have forgotten what he said, for he turned to the postmark, and said

"This is from Mayence, December 1798. You see," said he to Old Daylight, in an explanatory way, "the importance of this letter. My father is forced to marry when he has already given away his heart to Mdlle. Eugenie Autra. He adores this woman. It is the old, old story, which arises from our restless passions and follies. The man adores his mistress, and detests his wife. They both become mothers at about the same time, and the love that he bears severally to the mothers he carries to the account of the children. He is madly fond of my brother—he hates me.”

"Yes, he hates you," said the inductive philosopher, with a pleased look. The story was being fitted together before his old eyes, like a puzzle-map by which they teach children geography.

"He hates me," said the barrister, touching himself on the chest with his white finger, and speaking bitterly.

me, against all laws, both human and divine."

"How curious it is," thought Old Daylight.

"He hates

"Here's a

But there

man of thirty quite indignant at the wrongs of an infant, which, as an infant, he neither knew nor felt. what shall we say?—poor human nature !"

"The last letter," continued the barrister, "which I read ends with a dash, as if it gave vent to a half-interrupted thought. Upon that thought lies half my troubles-or let us all. To that thought, the Widow Martin ".

say

"I see-I see," said the old man, impatiently. "Come, let us have some more extracts, if they do not pain you."

He was anxious to unravel the mystery. He knew the end, but yet he wanted confirmation of his suspicions.

Edgar continued.

"All the immediately subsequent letters bear traces of the intense fondness of my father for this child-my half-brother -this "

"Hush!" said Old Daylight; "at least, the poor child was guiltless."

"Poor fellow my heart bleeds for him," returned the barrister; "but not less for my helpless self. Here is one dated about three months afterwards.

"I am always thinking, my Eugenie, of the future of my son-of our son. He is my only care. Ah, how I wish that the power of the nobility was as strong as it was of old in this country.'

"This is dated from Normandy. It would seem that my mother was of delicate health; and being detained abroad by the war, she expected to be confined abroad."

"I quite see it. Capitally conceived," said Old Daylight, cracking his fingers in delight. "Very prettily done." Then he checked himself, and called himself "an old fool" behind his silk bandana.

"This son, my Eugenie,'" Edgar continued, "will be like us both. From his mother he will inherit those beaux yeux, so full of vivacity-that fine complexion, that wit, that cleverness. From his father, ancient blood, pride, valour, and independence; the sentiment of grand old races, which descends, with good lineage, as the coldness of the mountain stream runs down into the valleys.'

As he read this, the young man held himself up boldly, as if he, too, and from a more legitimate source, could claim those qualities.

Forster was delighted to think that his secretly adopted son and heir was the lawful descendant of such a nobleman.

"But what will be his future? God, my Eugenie, must give to this poor child all that can deck the offspring of so pure, so strong a love as ours; while the protected little onehe who is born to the purple, and is safely nourished under the ægis of our English law, may be, is indeed to me, a monster.""

"I am that monster!" cried the barrister, with the hard voice of suppressed anger. Then he continued

"Eugenie-Eugenie-will you not have mercy on your child and his father? Will you not? I conjure you by your faith, in which you will do no sin that is not pardonable, enter into my little arrangements. All is ready. My lady is now at Rouen, and has a Norman nurse; my valet, a Swiss fellow, is as faithful as a dog-as dumb, too—and as secret as the grave.''