The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1885-12-19 00:00:00

"Oh, dear, no. They have not the faintest clue to
the guilty person."
"Very well: that IS all T havelo say. Good morn-
ing, Mr. Kent." And she 'rose from tire chair, made
h:m an elaborate and graceful courtesy, and left the
office with a mincing, but by no means a steady,
walk.
" Th

-omtii,-naeans mischief; let George Ross

at W oi m( ,
Ingestre beware." • .1
So thought the lawyer, as he sat over his papers,
looking at but not reading them. And George Ross,
hurrying past that very woman in the street outside,
saw her not.
He was going to Mr. Kent's office, and thinking of
many things; but this woman was the dark current
on which they all floated, and from which they caught
their sombre shade. Passed by, and yet saw not the
white face, with its red, sensual lips, that haunted
him most when he looked upon another that he loved.
She saw him, though; smiled complacently, and,
folding her arms tighter in her shawl, went on her
way. It was not a very reputable one, for at twelve
o'clock that night this same woman, who called her-
self Keziah Faunce, was dragged by a couple of police-
men to the nearest station-house; and taken the next
morning before the magistrate, charged with being
found in the streets "drunk and incapable."

CHAPTER XL.
A FAREWELL.
DOCTOR CREUSA stood in the little parlour at Westwood
with an open letter in his hand. Lina was pouring
out the coffee, and the young visitor, Ferdinand de
Reshnont, sat at the table, shading his face with his
thin, transparent hand, and attempting to eat some of
the roll upon his plate
"You are not so well, I fear, this morning,
Monsieur Ferdinand ?" said Lino,.
He looked up quickly, but the doctor replied for
him.
"His spirits are low at the thought of leaving
Westwood, Ma'mselle Bernstein—that is all."
• "And is it absolutely necessary, doctor, that he
should go?"
"For his health, yes."
Lina turned to Ferdinand.
"And where does your brother propose carrying
you, monsieur?"
Again the doctor took the answer out of Ferdinand's
mouth.
, "Count Philippe goes direct from here to Rome,
and then intends wintering at Nice."
There was a silence here; the doctor folded his
letter and placed it in his pocket-book, Lina watching
him furtively the 'whole time. Ferdinand played
nervously with his watch-chain, until looking up he

said—
"Doctor Creusa, this is a very sudden resolve of
my brother's. You appear to be more in his confi-
dence than I. Tell me what it means?"
"It means only that he wishes you to resume your
original health, and in order to regain that health, it
is necessary you should leave England.'
The young man rose hastily, his hands quivered,
the muscles of his thin face were working.
"Would to heaven," he exclaimed, "that I might
die here in peace !" and he hurried from the room,
but not before large tears had escaped from his eyes.
As soon as the door closed upon him, Lina turned

furiously upon the doctor.
"Do you not see the poor soul is dying? You are
brutal not to leave him alone. He loves that good
lady; let him die on her breast."
" He shall not; if he must die, it shall be miles
away from her. But do not alarm yourself; he will
not die. I can save him, and mean to do so. He is
not to slide from my hands in that manner, Memselle
Lina. And now you perceive lam absolutely com-
pelled to leave England for Rome—compelled by a
power I dare not disobey—or I would remain-to see
the working- of the springs I have set in motion. I
leave much in your hands, and shall require a faithful
_ _ _

stewardship." -
Lina sat with her elbows on the table, her chin on
her hands, and her large eyes fixed on vacancy.
"Go on," she said, in a rude, dogged tone.
"In the first place, you must visit as much as pos-
sible at Redfern, and write me a full and particular
account of all that goes on there."
"Mamma is going to leave Westwood for Paris next
month."
"No such thing; I have commanded her to remain
here."
" You e

1.,,
The girl burst into an ironical laugh.
"Monsieur le Docteur, your power is something
fearful. What hold have you over my mother to
induce her to do as you choose."
"That is my affair. In the meantime, listen to my
instructions."
And they took half an hour to impart; but Lina
seemed to listen to them patiently and attentively,
and at the end said gravely—
"I will do my best."
"For love of Count Philippe ?"
"No "—and she looked steadfastly in the man's
gloomy, dark eyes—" no, that madness is over, thank
God; the love of Philippe de Rdsimont was rooted out
of my heart when—"
"Well ?"
"When I discovered his secret;" and she turned
her back upon him, and left the room.
He drew • out hie tablets, and mado a little memo-
randum, with a simile upon his lips.
After that he took the letter once more from his
pocket-book, and re-perused its contents. They were
brief enough, and ran thus:
"The cardinal is dying; you must be in Rome by
the 14th. Delay not an hour.
"See what it is to be a slave," said the man, but
not aloud. "The harvest I have sown here I must
leave for others to reap; I am taken away before the
grain is ripe. But one thing I will do before I go—
meet the woman I have loved—do love—face to face;
she shall know me, and yet kGep my secret."
An hour after that, Catherine's tall figure, clothed
in sombre mourning garments, might have been seen
ascending the hill, and taking the bye-path to
Westwood. Since the baroness had been ill she had
visited her every day, either in the morning or even-
ing.
This morning she met Ferdinand walking along the
lane, evidently awaiting her. As he took her hand,
he pressed it with a lingering, regretful touch.
"Ah, madam! this will be the last time I shall have
this pleasure; I am to bid adieu to you to-day."
" To-day ! Are you going from Westwood so soon?
I thought you were to remain a month longer; and,
besides, your health seemed improving. Why leave
us so soon ?" And she looked kindly into his thin,
blanched face. He turned it away, and shook his
head sadly.
"My brother has requested me to be in London
this evening, as he starts for Italy to-morrow. I do
not hope to derive any benefit from the journey; I
feel that I am going to my death. I should have
been glad to die here, among faces that I have grown
to love; yourself, and little Cleland, and that grand
man, her father' seem to form the world for which I
would live. I have never known hearts like these
before; natures so generous, and yet so fond. They
breathe an air of -warm, home affection which has
revivified and expanded mine. It is hard, just now,
to leave it all, to go away and die alone."
"You will not be alone; your brother—"
"My brother !" and Ferdinand shuddered. "To
be alone with him when I die is what I dread of all
things. Ido not fancy his comfort will help me to
pass the Valley of the Shadow without a pang; I
have found out he is an atheist, and denies the
solace of religion. Nevertheless, he has not inter-
fered with my views on that matter, and until ten
weeks ago I was a Roman Catholic. Since then I
found a Bible on the table in the baroness's room;
which you, madam, had left there on returning from
church—laid down, and, probably, forgotten by you
at the time. I took possession of the book, in the
first instance, because it belonged to you; and then
I kept it in order that I might learn a truer and
better idea of God from it than I have ever gained
from French and Spanish priests. My brother—in
a distant land—to die with only him beside me!
Ah, that prospect terrifies me
Catherine laid her hand on his arm, and looked
earnestly in his young, wan face.
"How is it, Ferdinand? this from you, who used
to idolise that brother? at least, so I have heard from
others."
He took her hand, and kissed it tenderly.
• "'And have you never heard, too, dear lady, of a wor-
shipped idol being broken ?—of a glorious image being
defaced? The brother I loved never existed, save in
my own imagination. God has opened my eyes, and
I see him now in the true deformity of his nature. He
has not loved me; he has done his best to kill my
soul—to wither up the scanty remnant of good God
has planted in nay heart—to sap the energies of my
young life—to drug me with luxurious pleasures—to
cheat my senses—to make me the vilest and lowest of
all created things! And this I have found out by the
test of true religion, learnt from your dear book—you,
whom I seemed to love and reverence the moment
you placed your hand in mine, and cheered Me With
your hopeful words ; you, at whose feet I only ask to
die. Ah! Miss Waco—do not disdain my affection;
it it the love of a breaking heart—of a boy who Will
never live to be a man—of a child who has never
known the blessing of a mother! Be to me mother,
sister, friend—only let me lie near you when I die ?"
They were in a quiet, retired part of the lane, just
where it left the side of the park, and, winding round
a little to the right, went on to the house. It was
here, then, that the unfortunate young man sank
down on his knees at the feet of Catherine, and, dis-
daining to hide his tears, let them flow over the hand
he kissed and pressed against his cheek.
She was confused and annoyed, and yet most reluc-
tant, by word or action, to wound the sensitive affec-
tion of the boy, whose attachment to herself seemed
most unaccountable in her eyes.
Even while she was debating in her mind what
would be the best thing to do to comfort and restore
tranquillity to his mind—what she should do and what
say—the question was solved for her, by a voice
at her elbow—
"You must pardon my brother these extravagances,
madam; he is scarcely accountable for his actions
or words, either—just now."
Ferdinand was on his feet in a moment; but his
hand clutched the lady's with a grasp like iron.
"Philippe !"
"Ferdinand !" with a mocking bow. "You did not
expect me, I see; but I am not the less welcome on
that account, I hope?'
"Certainly not." returned the young man, his