each other's arms, and those who stood by
kept a reverent silence in the presence of that
sacred sorrow. But Penelope had heard the
cab stop, and came stealing down-stairs; and at
her footstep Clement roused himself, and
whispered Walter to be brave and strong, for the
sake of the mother and sister, left now to their
sole protection and care. The three young
people spoke together in whispers for a few
minutes after the first sad greetings. Their
mother had fallen into a heavy slumber; but
the moment she woke, Walter must go to her.
As they turned to leave the hall, Clement put
his hand on the clerk's shoulder.

"Stephens," he said, "I beg you to go and
have some food and a glass of wine. It is
prepared for you, and you need it greatly. Since
early morning you have eaten nothing."

Stephens looked after his young master as he
walked away.

"He forgets nobody; nobody—but himself,"
said the old man. "Well, I hope the others'll
remember him. There are people in this world
who are apt to think little of them that don't
think much of themselves. More's the pity."

The wretched story that met Walter's ears
was soon told. On the night of Clement's visit
to Hazlehurst, he had found the household in
alarm and horror on his return home. His
father had been found in an arm-chair in his
own room insensible, and with a phial containing
laudanum lying near him. He was still
breathing, but spite of all efforts to rouse him,
and the prompt attention of Dr. Brett and
another physician, who were sent for instantly,
he never rallied or became conscious more.
He had drank much more wine that evening
than usual, as was proved by the nearly emptied
decanter left on the dining-table. Had he taken
the poison by mistake, and being already in a
state of semi-stupor from the effects of the
wine? Or was the act done knowingly, and
with a full consciousness of the certain death
that must ensue? No one could say
positively. Clement explained to their old friend
and medical attendant, Dr. Brett, that his
father's mind had been for some days strained
and racked by anxiety, and that the news
of their business prospects received that day
had been increasingly gloomy and discouraging.
The doctors looked at each other and
nodded gravely. Their skill, powerless to
restore that motionless figure on the bed, with
the handsome massive features, expressive in
their stillness of profound eternal rest, was
needed for the poor bereaved wife, who fell
from one fit of shrieking hysterics into another,
until nature was exhausted, and she sank into a
heavy sleep, that lasted until late into the evening
of Walter's arrival.

In the wretched days that ensued, and as the
terrible truth dawned on the family—to Clement
it had become already apparent—that in addition
to the grief of Mr. Charlewood's death, and
the added horror and misery caused by the
manner of it, they would have to face commercial
ruin and disgrace, it was curious to
behold the different ways in which these different
human beings, all united by ties of affection,
and all dwelling together in the closest familiarity,
bore their lot.

After the first transport of genuine sorrow
for his father's death, and as the prospect of
the future began to unfold before him, the
intense egotism of Walter's character—an egotism
fostered by years of flattery and blind indulgence—
displayed itself painfully. He would
sit for hours over the fire in his mother's
boudoir, sometimes silent and sullen, sometimes
loudly bewailing his fate, always weakly craving
for expressions of peculiar sympathy, for his
misfortunes. His mother, although she
sometimes had an uneasy sense of his failure to
appreciate Clement's noble self-forgetfulness,
still could rouse herself from her own deep
despondent affliction to soothe her petted boy's
feelings by all the means in her power. She
would listen with the utmost patience and
sympathy to his account of the "swells" who
delighted in his society, and the light of whose
countenance would now be lost to him. By
whose fault? By whose?

Little mention was made among them of
Augusta. A letter had been despatched to her,
saying that Mr. Charlewood was very ill, and
that no hope was entertained of his recovery,
and close after that another announcing his
death. The newly married couple would be in
Rome by the time the letters reached them.

"Poor child," said Mrs. Charlewood, with a
sob, "it's an awful blow to come upon her in
her 'oneymoon. Breaking it all up, and bringing
her back to a 'ouse of mourning like this."

Penelope Charlewood was not gentle by
nature or habit, but she did strive to subdue
the abruptness of her manner towards her
bereaved mother, as she answered, "Mamma,
would it grieve you very much if Augusta did
not hurry back to England at once?"

"Well, love, I don't know that she could
do any good 'ere. You know poor Gussy was
never much 'and at 'elping in trouble."

And then Penelope perceived that her mother
knew Mrs. Malachi Dawson sufficiently well not
to reckon largely upon any comfort or sympathy
to be derived from that sensitive young lady.

Meanwhile, it became evident to Clement
that the disaster which had overtaken their
house was of a nature that forbade any hope
of retrieval. All must go. If even by
abandoning everything the firm could come out of
the ruin free and clear from debt, he would not
complain. But that consolation was not to be
his. The more he examined into the state of
the firm's affairs, the more hopeless it appeared
to be to save anything from the wreck, and he
found that his father had launched into many
dangerous speculations unknown to him.

I have said that Mr. Charlewood was fond of
power and jealous of it, and this feeling had
shown itself lately in a growing tendency to keep
Clement in a subordinate position in all their
business relations, and even occasionally to act in
direct opposition to his son's expressed opinion.

Clement broke the truth to his mother as
gently as he could. He and Penelope had