WITH Lotty safely sequestered, Adelaide engaged in visiting (for of course she made all haste to join the Chumleighs, as soon as she had completed the little piece of business detailed in the last chapter, and in their company she afterwards went to town), with Herbert settled down in the sad conviction that his wife was dead, and Lady Grovelly closely devoting her life to her son's consolation, it may be imagined that there was now a time too flat and dull to interest the traveller through these pages. The feelings of the actors in my story, at this period, would afford a very pretty metaphysical study, no doubt; but as I should have to take in even our friend Wilson-that unhappy man, who really suffered more than any one else the inquiry would be a little too comprehensive. The chorus in a play may be very instructive, but much chorus is a bore.

However, I cannot help wondering whether, when Miss Dacre's plan for disposing of Mrs. Herbert occurred to her, this also entered into the calculations of the young lady: that to place her obnoxious friend in the medico-paternal home of Mr. Carey was the surest way of hurling her clean over into the darkness of unreason, in whose twilight she already wandered. I can hardly think Miss Dacre encouraged such an idea, if it entered her mind; and yet, when, a few weeks after Lotty's incarceration, Mr. Carey wrote to Adelaide, deploring that his poor young patient had fallen from bad to worse, the news did not at all shock our fair friend. But then she took her own view of it; and in that view she had reason to doubt whether all was not for the best. Oblivion, she said to herself, may sometimes be the purest good; the dispensation under which Lotty had fallen would probably spare her many hours of anguish. Also Adelaide remembered that insanity would not only obliterate from Charlotte's memory much that was painful to herself, but certain circumstances which, should they happen to be related one day, might tell against Miss Dacre. Dead men tell no tales, and nobody heeds the tales that mad men tell.

No 14, VOL. III.

E

We have been long absent now from Grovelly House; but, on the principle that no news is good news, mademoiselle will be glad to hear that, as week after week passed away, the family there learned the truth of what has been said a hundred times there is no such thing as unmitigated evil, or, perhaps, unmitigated sorrow. Not only may one become used to the skeleton at last, and discover that it has done them many a good turn, by restraint or warning, in the trials and temptations of life, but there are cases in which memory and poetry render it, after many years, the most companionable thing a man may have. Of course the grief that filled Grovelly House with gloom was not old enough yet to take a mellow hue; it was a thing of months, not of years; still it did begin to soften, and then was seen its good result, in drawing together all the members of the family in a closer affection than had ever reigned amongst them before, perhaps. We may exclude Sir Thomas-he was an old gentleman of far too fine a mould to have an affection which could, by any possibility, take a sentimental turn. Whatever of that sort of thing had ever existed in his ancient family had been washed out of it, along with good virile sense, before it came to his turn to take up the ancestral name, fame, and feebleness. But with Lady Grovelly, Herbert, and John, the change was remarkable enough; and nobody felt it more than Mr. John. Before, he had become very much neglected. Herbert was young and thoughtless, and could find no pleasure in his company; his mother was glad to escape the pain which the sight of him, in his bare, solitary lodgings, occasioned her; Sir Thomas was content sometimes to watch him as he moodily paced the little orchard-garden allotted for his exercise, out of everybody's sight-the good baronet thinking that to shed a tear over him in this way was as much as was required from a parent himself subject to such a variety of dangerous and cryptical diseases. Therefore Mr. John found himself many days alone (Grippermore does not count as company, or, if he does, it is the wrong way); and though the poor gentleman encouraged the idea that he had voluntarily gone into retirement for the sake of study, we do not know whether he did not originally impose this idea upon himself in some sad moment when the sense of seclusion and neglect pressed him for some satisfactory solution. If so, I think Lotty would have been consoled a little had she learned that her misfortunes had brought some comfort to this unhappy one, in the greater consideration shown for him by his mother and his brother, and his vague but deep enjoyment of it. By consideration I mean that he was taken more into their society, and treated more like a reasonable being. As for Herbert, since the interview at which he had told his story to his brother John, with so remarkable a sequel-or, rather, since his return from his wild search after Charlotte-he spent scarcely a day out of John's room. There was quite enough sense, quite enough of the world in their conversation to please Herbert; the half-witted philosophy in which John indulged, pursuing no end, circumscribed by no law, and unfettered by no results, gave Herbert to dream and not to think; while he had the further satisfaction of remaining silent hour after hour in appropriate company, since (in a certain sense) he, like John, had lost his better part. It was not an unaffecting sight which these young men afforded many a silent afternoon-Herbert lying along in the window-seat, smoking a cigar, and dreamily watching the smoke as it curled out upon the air, and soared upward, and was lost, while John, sitting down to a piano, made rare inconsequential music-now low, now loud--now marching in grand procession, now

falling away in melancholy softness, like a wind wandering forlorn in the forest. Sometimes this music was so very beautiful that Herbert's own errant thoughts would be arrested by it. Looking round, he would wonder at what was passing under those close-knit brows, so fixed, so solemn, so severe, bent over the piano; but presently the music, faltering and fluttering a little while, would break away into new meanings or into no-meanings; and Herbert would return to his cigar, and to his watching of the smoke and the sky.

And not only did the change I have mentioned bring many hours of conscious pleasure to Mr. John, but he seemed to grow more knowing, more busy, and more philosophic every day. His musings were deep and oft; and especially he appeared much employed over a certain sheet of paper folded like a letter, and which from time to time he drew from a pocket-book and conned in secluded corners. On these occasions he always gave his friends to understand that he was engaged on a problem of vital importance, and that the solution would set everything right. When pressed to explain what he meant by everything, he bade his inquirer await the event. Herbert told him he believed he was writing a poem : "No," said John, "but I am helping to make out one, and you are the hero." Grippermore thought Mr. John was finding the elixir of life, or love, or some'at. "Quite right," said Mr. John-"both." These answers were so unsatisfactory that nobody inquired farther. Indeed, his study of the paper appeared so painful a sign of disorder that whenever he brought it out his company either left him or feigned the completest indifference.

It soon became evident that this indifference to his study pleased him less than observation had done. He would have nobody disturb him while he hatched his problem, but he could not endure that the process should be treated as trivial. On one occasion, when Herbert lay on a sofa loudly chastising his boots with a walking-cane, while his brother pored over the mysterious paper at a distant table, Mr. John exclaimed, with irritation

"Herbert, one would think my labours did not at all concern you."

"I don't know that they do, Jack," returned the other.

"Nor that they don't, I suppose.'

"Well, if it is elixir of life, that I don't want. Nor elixir of death either." "What may that be?" said John.

"Anything that makes death sweet I suppose may go by that name; and that is a thing I have found in another's death, you know."

"Have you? Don't be too sure of that."

"I am ready to take my chance with it, however-to-morrow, to-day! So do not proceed any farther with your discoveries on my account!"

"That's how boys talk of ghosts," said John; "but show them a sheet and a turnip!"

"But I am not a boy," returned the other, with the half playful, half bitter epigram of which we have seen several examples already-"I am a married man!"

"I know you are!" said John, tapping the paper before him-"if you or I are men at all-which we are not at present. There is nothing left of us but our two ghosts; only, instead of flying away, they remain here to keep our carcasses sweet."

"They might do better, Jack," said his brother, sadly, thinking how glad he would be could his ghost soar away to join Charlotte's in the Eternal Shades.

"There your ignorant carcass speaks. What does that know about it? If our spirits remain in us two dead ones, they could give some reason for doing so, I suppose, were we men enough to help them to a voice."

"You are talking in Greek, John."

"It is not unlikely.

we have any much better.

That was their sort of philosophy, and I don't know that

The big light puts out the smaller ones, but theirs are

very handy to carry about into dark corners."

"That is to say, you are a heathen!"

"Heathenism provided for disembodied spirits on earth like me!"

"Book the right side uppermost, I see !" said Herbert, smiling affectionately, and not without wonder.

John nodded, with a look almost wildly triumphant.

"And therefore you are engaged on an elixir that shall sweeten death?” "No-on a piece of galvanism that will restore your body to life!-on a discovery that will make your death intolerable for many a year to come!" cried John, in high excitement.

"Only one thing can do that! Do not torture me, Jack!"

66 Well, I mean to do it!"

Could anything be more wild? This was what Herbert asked himself, and this inquiry appeared very plainly on his face, as he turned a look of pitiful, painful scrutiny upon his brother's flashing eyes.

Under the scrutiny, so pitiful and painful, the light sank out of those eyes, like the glow from a mountain top when the sun goes down beneath the horizon. With it went all the heat John had shown during this conversation. A manifest chill came over him—a shadow at once helpless and resentful. He looked down in confusion, rubbing his hands one over the other; but catching sight of the mysterious document aforesaid, he took it up, and made a mighty effort to rise to the unaccustomed height of reason from which Herbert's gaze had stricken him down. He seemed to succeed in some measure, for he said, in a far different voice to that in which his last words had been uttered-

"Shall I read you this, Herbert?"

Now Herbert had watched this change in his brother with an infinite softening of the heart and with remorse too, for he knew how it had been occasioned, and felt that he had been hasty and unkind.

"If you please, my dear John," said he, tenderly.

So John began to read, with tears of weakness in his eyes, but so hastily (for fear he should never get through) and in so low a tone, that half his words were inaudible :-"Dear Miss Dacre,--The confidence you have honoured me with on the subject of Mr. Grovelly's unhappy marriage, of which I shall ever." Here Mr. John broke down altogether, and stood staring at the paper as if he saw it not.

"Poor fellow!" muttered Herbert, quite loud enough to be audible; "his writing to her is a likely scheme!" And, knowing of old that when John fell into his "moods," as they were called, it was best to leave him alone, Herbert strolled away into a neighbouring billiard-room, where, smoking a cigar, he could observe his brother without appearing to do so.

The moment he was gone, Mr. John tore the paper passionately into fifty pieces, flinging them broadcast about the room. But no sooner had he done so

than he appeared bewildered with regret and astonishment at his own rashnessjust as we may imagine an inventor standing over the ruins of a life-long work which, in a fit of despair, he had destroyed. However, Mr. John's case was not without remedy. After a moment of stupefaction he eagerly gathered up the scattered fragments and placed them in a pocket-book.

Mr. John now found himself involved by this letter in another difficulty. How to join the pieces together was an affair altogether beyond him. Hour after hour he laboured at them most painfully, never more than half succeeding. Sometimes he would rise early, and set to work with all the freshness of five o'clock A.M. ; at other times he would choose midnight, that being a studious hour; but a whole week passed away, and yet he had not accomplished the task. His labours so earnest, his disappointments so frequent, touched Herbert deeply; and many times he proffered his assistance. Mr. John sternly refused it, nor would he even allow his brother to approach the table while he was employed on his profitless task. Little did Herbert know all this while how much those troublesome bits of paper concerned him, or how many days were added to his misery by the one blunder, the one little fit of impatience, that led to the destruction of the letter.

At length, in a lucky hour, Mr. John did succeed in arranging in due order the fragments that composed the first page. His satisfaction was unbounded. Nothing remained, so far, but to transfer the pieces, as they lay, on to a pasted sheet of paper. Grippermore was called in; but he had no paste, though the tool-box contained some liquid glue. Nothing seemed better to the triumphant Mr. John. It was produced, and in a quarter of an hour there was the page neatly glued together on a fair sheet of paper.

Mr. John was still admiring his work-which was amazingly neat-when it suddenly occurred to him that the letter was written over all the four pages, and that, as to the second one, that was glued down hard, and so was lost to mortal eye for ever.

His vexation, his despair, at this discovery was so pitiable that it absolutely melted the heart of Grippermore.

"Confound it, sir!" the kind keeper exclaimed, when his master had become a little cooler. "What is it all about? One 'ud think it was title deeds, or marriage certificates, to see you go on like this. What's the value of the paper?"

"More than gold! more than gold!" Mr. John answered, beating his forehead. "Well, don't hit yourself about the head like that, sir, unless you'd like to go about with a black eye. Let's see if we can't make it right. Steam'll do it. Steam'll do anything. Give the paper to me !"

"No, Grippermore; I can't part with it."

"Why not, sir, if I may make so bold ?"

"Because I have not solved the momentous question—"

"But you've been and glued the paper, and you know very well, sir, you can't undo it. You never was much of a hand at mechanics."

"Nor at anything else," said Mr. John.

"Oh, that I don't believe! You'll solb the question fast enough, if you'll only let me get those bits of paper out of the glue again. Look what a hand you are at a argument! Talk about solbing a question!"