did. Why should not his other wife have her wits about her as well as

me?”

Then there was a pause. Edgar was too much broken down by this disclosure, too miserable to speak; and she sat holding up the book between her face and the fire, with a flush upon her pale cheeks, sometimes fanning herself, her nose in the air, her finely-cut profile inspired by impertinence and worldly selfishness, till it looked ugly to the disquieted gazer. Few women could have been so handsome, and yet looked so unhandsome. As he looked at her, sickening with the sight, Edgar felt bitterly that this woman was indeed Arthur Arden’s true mate--they matched each other well. But Clare, his sister--Clare, whom there had been no one to guard--who, rich in friends as she was, had no brother, no guardian to watch over her interests--poor Clare! The only thing he seemed able to do for her now was to prove her shame, and extricate her, if he could extricate her, from the terrible falseness of her position. His heart ached so that it gave him a physical pain. He had kept up no correspondence with her whom he had looked upon during all the earlier part of his life as his sister, and whom he felt in his very heart to be doubly his sister the moment that evil came in her way. The thing for him to consider now was what he could do for her, to save her, if possible--though how she could be saved, he knew not, as the story was so circumstantial, and apparently true. But, at all events, it could not but be well for Clare that her enemy’s cause was in her brother’s hands. Good for Clare!--would it be good for the other woman, to whom he had promised to do justice? Edgar almost felt his heart stand still as he asked himself this question. Justice--justice must be done, in any case, there could be no doubt of that. If Clare’s position was untenable, she must not be allowed to go on in ignorance, for misery even is better than dishonour. This was some comfort to him in his profound and sudden wretchedness. Clare’s cause, and that of this other, were so far the same.

“I will undertake your commission,” he said gravely; “but understand me first. Instead of hating the Ardens, I would give my life to preserve my sister, Mrs. Arden, from the shame and grief you are trying to bring upon her. Of course, one way or another, I shall feel it my duty now to verify what you say; but it is right to tell you that her interest is the first thing I shall consider, not yours.”

“_Her_ interest!” cried Miss Lockwood, starting up in her chair. “Oh! you poor, mean-spirited creature! Call yourself a man, and let yourself be treated like a dog--that’s your nature, is it? I suppose they’ve made you a pension, or something, to keep you crawling and toadying. I shouldn’t wonder,” she said, stopping suddenly, “if you were to offer me a good round sum to compromise the business, or an allowance for life--?”

“I shall do nothing of the kind,” said Edgar, quietly. She stared at him for a moment, panting--and then, in the effort to speak, was seized upon by a violent fit of coughing, which shook her fragile figure, and convulsed her suddenly-crimsoned face. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, rising with an impulse of pity. She shook her head, and waved to him with her hand to sit down again. Does the reader remember how Christian in the story had vile thoughts whispered into his ear, thrown into his mind, which were none of his? Profoundest and truest of parables! Into Edgar’s mind, thrown there by some devil, came a wish and a hope; he did not originate them, but he had to undergo them, writhing within himself with shame and horror. He wished that she might die, that Clare might thus be saved from exposure, at least from outward ruin, from the stigma upon herself and upon her children, which nothing else could avert. The wish ran through him while he sat helpless, trying with all the struggling powers of his mind to reject it. Few of us, I suspect, have escaped a similar experience. It was not his doing, but he had to bear the consciousness of this inhuman thought.

When Miss Lockwood had struggled back to the power of articulation, she turned to him again, with an echo of her jaunty laugh.

“They say I’m in a consumption,” she said; “don’t you believe it. I’ll see you all out, mind if I don’t. We’re a long-lived family. None of us ever were known to have anything the matter with our chests.”

“Have you spoken to a doctor?” said Edgar, with so deep a remorseful compunction that it made his tone almost tender in kindness.

“Oh! the doctor--he speaks to me!” she said. “I tell the young ladies he’s fallen in love with me. Oh! that ain’t so unlikely neither! Men as good have done it before now; but I wouldn’t have anything to say to him,” she continued, with her usual laugh. “I don’t make any brag of it, but I never forget as I’m a married woman. I don’t mind a little flirtation, just for amusement; but no man has ever had it in his power to brag that he’s gone further with me.”

Then there was a pause, for disquiet began to resume its place in Edgar’s mind, and the poor creature before him had need of rest to regain her breath. She opened the book she held in her hand, and pushed to him across the table some written memoranda.

“There’s where my chapel is as I was married in,” she said, “and there’s--it’s nothing but a copy, so, if you destroy it, it won’t do me any harm--the Scotch certificate. They were young folks that signed it, no older than myself, so be sure you’ll find them, if you want to. There, I’ve given you all that’s needed to prove what I say, and if you don’t clear me, I’ll tell the Master, that’s all, and he’ll do it, fast enough! Your fine Mrs. Arden, forsooth, that has no more right to be Mrs. Arden than you had to be Squire, won’t get off, don’t you think it, for now my blood’s up. I know what Arthur will do,” she cried, getting excited again. “He’s a man of sense, and a man of the world, he is. He’ll come to me on his knees, and offer a good big lump of money, or a nice allowance. Oh! I know him! He ain’t a poor, mean-spirited cur, to lick the hand that cuffs him, or to go against his own interest, like you.”

Here another fit of coughing came on, worse than the first. Edgar, compassionate, took up the paper, and left the room.

“I am afraid Miss Lockwood is ill. Will you send some one to her?” he said, to the first young lady he met.

“Hasn’t she a dreadful cough? And she won’t do anything for it, or take any care of herself. I’ll send one of the young ladies from her own department,” said this fine personage, rustling along in her black silk robes. Mr. Watson was hovering near, to claim Edgar’s attention, about some of the arrangements for the approaching festivity.

“Mr. Tottenham bade me say, sir, if you’d kindly step this way, into the hall,” said the walking gentleman.

Poor Edgar! if he breathed a passing anathema upon enlightened schemes and disciples of social progress, I do not think that anyone need be surprised.