"It would—it would!" cried Garston,
eagerly; "and therefore you must not attempt
to persuade her of that. You must not, for the
world. How came I to think of it? I am a
fool! The girl is now in London, and we
shall probably hear of her in a few days.
Don't you perceive how likely that is? Fix
that in your mother's mind."

I shook my head. "What if I know that
she did not go by the coach?"

"Ha!— there again: I had forgot. Say
that she did: anything to quiet your dear
mother's fears. This girl has been the
cause of much wretchedness to us both.
Would to Heaven that, wherever she be, she
would now appear, that we might know the
truth!"

It was in agony, which strained his frame
and wrung the muscles of his face, that
Garston uttered this monstrous wish. His
fears instantly revenged themselves upon
him. He dropped into a chair.

"Your mother's state distresses me greatly,"
he stammered: "I cannot endure this
constant anxiety about her."

About a fortnight after this, a serious
change for the worse was perceptible in my
mother. She was greatly alarmed and
concerned when she heard from me that the
coachman had taken up no such passenger
as Anna, and I perceived that she drew
conclusions from that intelligence; although,
what they were, she did not make known to
me. But, when she learned from the servants
that Garston was now in the constant habit
of walking and riding for several hours, and
that he sometimes did not return home till a
late hour, it was not difficult to me to divine
the suspicions which excited her indignation
against Garston. She often spoke with mournful
pity of Anna; although in a very guarded
way but, being a poor actress of dissimulation,
she sometimes betrayed what was passing
in her mind. She referred to her more
than once as "that poor lost creature!"
There was no help for it. I could extend
none. The terrible truth was sealed up
within me. Garston must bear the opprobrium
my mother's words cast upon him. It
was the lightest penalty he could pay.

The condition of Garston at this time was
most pitiable. He had seen my mother lifted
into her carriage when I had accompanied
her to visit my father's grave. I detected
him watching us with an ashy face over the
wall of the churchyard, as we knelt at that
sacred spot. He knew that she was about to
die, and waylaid the doctor on every visit,
conjuring him to save her, and offering him
the half, the whole of his fortune if he would
engage to do so. Insanity seemed to be
growing within him. The opposition of two
very different feelings was rending his brain.
He would not lose his Harriet—for the
world he must not lose her. Affection made
him desire from his whole heart that she
should be spared to him; yet fear lest his
crime should be discovered, made him wish
that she should die; for I, who read him with
minute anxiety, am assured that he dreaded
the effect of such a discovery upon her more
than he dreaded its consequences to himself.

Meredith had been sent for by my mother
in the double capacity of friend and legal
adviser. His interviews with her were
protracted; and, when he came down and joined
us in the parlour, his demeanour to Garston
was of the most freezing coldness. Garston,
on his part, knew not how to carry himself
in the presence of the lawyer. I am not
aware that he had ever much liked Meredith;
but he highly respected him; and even
now, perhaps, his heart acknowledged that
the old gentleman's repelling manner arose
from a feeling which demanded his respect.
But he feared him, and availed himself of any
decent pretext to leave the room almost as
soon as the other entered it. He had just
done so on the day Meredith spoke to me as
follows:

"Arthur, I am about to talk to you
like a man of business. I shall not therefore
repeat that I never liked this Mr. Garston;
for it is nothing to the purpose. You are
growing to be a young man, and I feel I can
talk to you about a matter which it is, in
fact, necessary that you should hear, for your
interests are somewhat concerned in it. It
is a most important point with your dying
mother whether she shall execute a fresh
will or not, and I'll tell you why. Your
mother had a maid—an Italian girl. You
knew her? Very well. Your mother
long had her suspicions of this Anna—was
jealous of her, in short. One day, when
Mr. Garston was absent—about a mouth ago
—the girl was brought to confess her own
folly and Garston's baseness."

"I guessed as much," I said.

"Precocious!"

"Yes, and my mother has told me the rest."

"Very good. Now, we want to know
what has become of the girl. Your mother
has taken it into her head, and not without
good grounds, that her departure was an
understood thing between Garston and herself.
She suspects that the girl is hidden somewhere
in the neighbourhood. That can hardly
be. I cannot understand it. Has the girl
made away with herself?"

"That, Mr. Garston suggested," I
remarked.

My speech had an opposite effect to that I
had intended.

"Ay! He did, did he?" said Meredith,
hastily. "Did he dwell much upon it?
Did he press that probability?"

"He abandoned it almost immediately,
and entreated me not to whisper a syllable
of the kind to my mother, lest it might
distress her."

"Very proper, that. I ask his pardon.
Now, Arthur, listen to me. I must do this
man justice. From what your mother tells