From this hour until my mother's death
Garston was constantly by her bedside. I,
too, was often there; and sometimes heard
words pass between them that assured me
their married life might have been one of
tranquil happiness. During this anxious
time, I believe, he had little room in his
mind for thoughts of his crime. He lived
in the far past and in the present. He was
forgiven—it was enough.

He showed so little emotion when
Meredith first saw him after my mother's
death, that the worthy lawyer was disgusted.
Garston was writing when he entered the
room; but looked up at him, and then pursued
his occupation. Meredith drew me aside.

"Your mother has left him far too much,"
said he, "but it is not my fault. I did my
best to hinder it. I hope he will be satisfied.
And so he talks of going to London
soon after the funeral? We shall yet hear
of that girl." Then, addressing him, with
some impatience, he said, "Mr. Garston! my
many engagements hardly brook attendance
on your leisure. A few words. It was the
express wish of your late wife that she should
be buried with her first husband."

"I know it, sir," replied Garston; "that
wish was expressed to me; a wish of many
years. And why should she not lie by the
side of that honourable gentlemen?"

"I thought you might object—" began
Meredith.

Garston rose with spirit and dignity.
"You thought nothing of the kind. Your
meaning may be good; but your manners
are inexcusable. You are blunt; and, like
other blunt instruments, you hack and you
hew, and you mangle, and so become more
blunt. One word: I know the contents of
the will; so we need not enter on that business.
Here is my solicitor's address," handing
him a paper. "Good morning!"

The choleric Welshman reddened, but
said nothing, and retired. He never forgot
that interview.

"Did I not talk of going to London?"
said Garston to me one evening. Some days
had elapsed since the funeral. "That walk
of ours to-day has set my spirits in motion,
and my body shall keep pace with them. I'm
off to-morrow. Four weeks in London, and
thence to Italy."

That "walk of ours to-day," had been
taken at his wish. Over the gate, along the
lane, into the vale, up the hill—the very travel
of that fatal night! We stood before the
decayed summer-house. Dead leaves thickly
strewed the ground. Nothing was to be seen
of that spot. We stood above it, however.

"A fine view," he said, and he shuddered.

"Yes. Is it not very cold?"

"It is. A deserted place, this. How came
we here? No one would think of voluntarily
bending his steps this way. It must
be the very caprice of chance that would
lead a man here."

He was satisfied that he would leave all
behind secure. We walked slowly home.

"Before I leave you to-night, Arthur,"
resumed Garston, after I had brought myself
to utter a few words deprecating so sudden a
departure, "I wish to tell you something—a
secret. I was not at the sale on the day I left
the house for that supposed purpose. I
dreaded Anna. She had often threatened to
confess to your mother—you comprehend
me?—and she had terrified me. She saw
this, and had me at advantage. I had
reason to suppose she would put her threat
in execution that morning. I lingered
about the grounds irresolute; almost
distracted. To my surprise she came out of the
house and entered the lane; the walk we
took this morning. I followed and overtook
her in the vale. She did not say where she
was going; but reproached me; renewed her
threats (little did I think she had already
confessed), and promised secrecy on one
condition. And what was that, do you
imagine? That I would then and there
solemnly promise to marry her, to make her
my second wife. O monstrous! Think well
of me Arthur; I conjure you still to think
well of me. A violent exchange of words
took place: she was insolent, vehement,
and—"

Garston paused and suddenly turned
frightfully pale. "Come, come," said he,
with a smile that made my blood run cold to
look upon. It came to nothing. She
insolent, vehement, and—I left her. What
has become of her—what matter?"

Garston rose abruptly when he had said
these words, and quitted the room. I saw
him no more that night.

It was well, I believed at the time, that he
had gone no further with his story. His
manner had been so strange since the death of
my mother, quite unlike what it had been
the month preceding that event—that I
was ever fearing self-destruction. I was in
constant terror about him. Yet, whither
he went, or what became of him, what
matter? as he had said of poor Anna. I should
be released from my charge; a charge which
I know not whether I must not call self-
imposed. I wished him gone, and prayed from
my heart that I might never see him more.

        CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

AFTER Garston left Westwood House, I
was confined to my bed by a low fever for
several weeks. The privilege restored to me
of independent thought, having such material
to feed upon as the past few weeks had
supplied, was more than I could exercise,
and I well nigh broke down under it.
Garston removed from me, no longer
requiring my care or taxing my forbearance,
my mind was at leisure to go over minutely
the dreadful circumstance to which I had
made myself a party.

I removed, as soon as I could bear the fatigue