THE HOUSE, BLASWICK.

PART THE FOURTH.

I.

MISTRESS CROSSMAN.

WELL did Mistress Crossman remember her early days and the life at "The House." How the young rector of Allandale was a frequent visitor there, when Mrs. Douglas and her two daughters were at home, and how it was not difficult to discover that an attachment had sprung up between the younger of the two and Mr. Acton, the rector. There were difficulties in their way, however; the course of true love was not to run smooth. Mr. Douglas, for no apparent reason, could not be persuaded to give his consent to the marriage, and the lovers waited and hoped on, till his death made them free to do as they pleased; and they accordingly married, but not from "The House"-that was left as soon as old Mr. Douglas died-but from a lodging in London, and the bride's mother gave her away. Mrs. Acton was not on very good terms with her brother, and at that time they never saw anything of him, on account of his wild ways.

Whilst her young lady had been hoping and waiting, Lizzie Robinson had found a lover, and had married him. Her patience was not tried by a long engagement, for Joseph Crossman was the possessor of a capital farm, and was ready to take his sweetheart to his home as soon as she had made up her mind. Many years have rolled away since those happy days, and Lizzie can look back upon her life with satisfaction: it has been an untroubled current flowing calmly on. She had never wanted for anything, and was ever contented with her lot. Joseph, the gallant young man of former days, lay in his grave in the churchyard at Allandale. Mr. Acton had married him, and Mr. Acton had read the burial service over him. He had visited Joseph very often during his last illness, and was present when the moment came that the good man breathed his last, and husband and wife were parted, but for a short time. Ah, these were scenes past and gone, and Mistress Crossman stood in Mossgate leaning on her stout umbrella, and thinking over the purchases she had made the winter gown that she might never need: "Ah weel, 't 'ill do foor Betsie if A'm gone," was the reflection which consoled her for the money she had spent; and in another minute she was greeted by John's inquiry:

"And A hope A sees ye weel, Mistress Crossman ?"

"Yees, thankee, A'm a bit weary wi' the mornin's work, boot A sharl rest awhile befoore A gang hame.'

Saying this, she would have passed on, but so short a conversation in no way satisfied John. He asked after every one he could think of; put questions so as to elicit the longest answers; but there was apparently no news from Allandale, or Mistress Crossman did not choose to tell it, if there was. John grew impatient; he had no time to lose; and, as if to excite the flagging spirit of gossip in his companion, he said:

"Ma'be ye doan't ken thaat A haad a strange letter t'other day foor t' Hoose?"

Naa, sir," replied the old lady, in a provokingly indifferent manner. "We hears boot little oop at t' farm, and it's naa the woorse foor oos." "Ye carl to mind t' little bairn, Miss Doouglas, doan't ye?"

"A kenned her weel enou," said Mistress Crossman, with a sigh. "Poor thin', she's gang'd t' her reest."

"Ah, and folks think it joost likely thaat she ma' geet letters whare thaat is," added John, with a shake of the head and a knowing twinkle of the eye. "A took a letter to t' Hoose wi' her name on't."

"Ma'be a mistake," reasoned the old lady. "Sumbody fro' furren parts."

"Ye ma' think soo, and it's like enou' ye be right, boot A ha ma ain thooghts," said John. "Mr. Branburn haas gang'd oop to Lunnon, they say. His carriage was in Kelton. Whaw kens boot thare was boosness in t' letter?"

He thought that this speech would have excited some little curiosity in his companion, but she only sighed and said: "It's a baad fam❜ly. Naa gude wi' cum on 'em. T' prop'ty ooght to be wi' t' Doouglases.

This was a fact which had long been established throughout the neighbourhood, and, consequently, was nothing new to John. Mistress Crossman was dull that morning; all he had got out of her was, that Mr. Alfred Acton had returned home from college, and this fact would have a very minor interest for the gossips of Blaswick. Old John was sorry that he had wasted his time and thoughts over her, and he muttered half aloud, "Hump! A think A ha' been pla'en chairmaan t's mornin'." He evidently considered by this speech that chairmen have all the talk to themselves. Mistress Crossman did not hear what he said, and, with a polite "Gude day," the old woman passed slowly down the street, now advancing a few steps, now waiting patiently till the younger folks had brushed past her, and were well out of the way. She was the picture of what a good old woman of the middle class might be, but what they so seldom are; she was gentle and courteous in her manner, easily pleased and contented with everything. Instead of being a hindrance to the young family with whom she resided, she was one of the greatest comforts and ornaments of the farm. Granny, in her neat cap and apron, sitting in the spotless kitchen at the hill farm, was always shown to visitors with pride. She had a kindly word for everybody, and it would be a sad day when her chair should be left vacant and another green mound added to the dreary little churchyard over which the cold winds blew so piteously.

II.

A CONFESSION.

THE train drew up at Harboth station, where the branch to Kelton joined the main line and a middle-aged person, dressed in widow's weeds, got out of a first-class carriage, carrying a little black bag in her hand.

"Is there any one here who is expecting a lady by this train ?" she asked the porter.

"There's Mr. Acton, the priest," was the reply. "He's in his carriage outside."

THE HOUSE, BLASWICK.

The stranger then produced her ticket, and following the man through a side-door, found herself confronted by Mr. Acton and his wife, who were both wondering at the moment whether their correspondent was forthcoming, or whether they were the victims of some conspiracy. The sun was in her eyes, and she could not see Mrs. Acton grasp her husband's arm, and whisper, “It is she, there is no doubt about it;" neither could she perceive the expression of wonder and curiosity depicted on their faces, but she felt the restraint of their manner, and they could not be otherwise than reserved towards her, for they were all placed in so peculiar a position. After the first greeting, and the inquiry if Mrs. Martin had any luggage, and when they had received the somewhat startling information that what she held in her hand contained the requisites for her toilette, and that lady had seated herself in the back seat of the waggonette, then Mr. Acton felt it incumbent on him to say something. He hoped that she had had a good journey, he stammered something about Australia, and then they lapsed into total silence. It was very awkward. Mrs. Acton wondered within herself what would come of their adventure, how she should account to her son and daughter for their strange visitor-the subject of the letter had been kept a profound secret-and how she should ever break the ice which seemed to be congealing their thoughts and encrusting itself so closely round them as to destroy the possibility of any confidence. "It will thaw when we are at home," she meditated, and so they drove on in silence.

Alfred and Louisa had not returned from their fishing expedition; this was a great relief, and Mrs. Acton conducted her strange guest to her chamber. She would now have time to prepare them for her in the family circle at dinner. The letter had been followed up by subappearance stantial fact. It could no longer be altogether a hoax, and there was nothing to conceal from her children, nothing that she need blush to relate.

After expressing a hope that Mrs. Martin would find all she wanted, and that she would ring the bell should she require any assistance, Mrs. Acton was about to withdraw, when the thought struck her that they were all acting as if in a play, and that something ought to be said to show that they understood each other.

"We have met together again under strange circumstances," she said, stiffly, "and many things have happened since we parted some eight years ago."

"Yes," rejoined Mrs. Martin; and grasping her hostess's arm with a trembling hand, she said, hurriedly, and in a voice choked by emotion, "I come to retrieve what I can of the past. The terrible secret weighs heavily on my conscience. I must unburden myself, and I trust there is time to free one who has been bitterly wronged, and to give your children the chance of succession which is their due. All that he does is so veiled, so hard to see through, I cannot pretend to say anything for certain, but you shall be made acquainted with all that is past-only not now-and when you most proper." know the particulars, you must act as you think

Mrs. Acton had gazed at the excited face turned towards her with undisguised interest and wonder. She could not let the moment for explanation be put off, her thoughts had been busy on the subject, and an intense, almost feverish anxiety to know what Mrs. Martin had to tell, made her voice tremble, as she bent forward, and eagerly inquired:

"Did she die, then? Tell me, was it true ?"

There was no answer to her appeal.

"Is she alive now? Have you come from Australia to tell me this?" again demanded Mrs. Acton.

There was a knock at the door, and a servant asked permission to bring in a jug of hot water; she was admitted, and remained bustling about the room, so that Mrs. Acton was obliged to leave her guest and to retire to her own apartment, there to regain her composure and arrange her thoughts.

"Well, Elizabeth?" said her husband, on seeing her. "Well?" she replied, with a short sigh.

"Have you heard anything ?"

A shake of the head informed him to the contrary.

Dinner-time came; they were all waiting for Mrs. Martin in the drawing-room; the parlour maid stood in the passage outside with folded arms; Alfred looked very hungry, and Mr. Acton grew impatient.

"Do you think, my dear, that she is aware that dinner is on the table? Had you not better go and see?" he remarked, being very desirous that something should be done. The good man had not quite made up his mind as to whether or no he was harbouring a thief in his house. It was so mysterious, and every little contretemps was sufficient to raise a perfect hurricane of suspicion in his brain. People were so clever in their contrivances to rob and murder; she might still be an impostor, and her story a complete hoax. He did not give vent to his feelings in words, however; he was afraid that his wife might laugh at him, that she might ridicule the idea of a person taking all the trouble to make up a plausible story, and go to the expense of so long a journey simply to get into an humble rectory, to carry It was off what little property she could find. certainly a preposterous idea, more especially as there was no doubt as to Mrs. Martin's identity.

Alfred gave utterance to several highly uncomplimentary speeches relating to the tardy movements of the visitor, who was keeping him so long from his dinner, and then Mrs. Acton was roused into going in search of the delinquent. She found Mrs. Martin's door locked, and upon intimating to her that they were waiting dinner, she received a polite excuse from that lady. "The journey has given me a headache; if you would allow me to have a cup of tea here, it is all I require."

This request was granted as soon as asked, and the family saw nothing of their guest that evening. She was, however, the subject of much conversation. All the events in Switzerland were raked up again from the dusty corners in their memories, where they had lain dormant. A great deal was said, but no conclusion arrived at. Alfred suggested that his aunt's sad fate had turned the brain of the good lady up-stairs, and that she had a monomania. This was a very unsatisfactory solution of the mystery, and no one gave any heed to it.

Late in the evening, Mr. and Mrs. Acton were walking up and down the terrace walk in the garden, and they saw a light burning in their guest's chamber; the shadow of a head, too, rested on the window-blind; the shadow was very still-perhaps she was reading, and perhaps she was sleeping.

It was twelve o'clock; Mrs. Acton, who had sat up late to look through some old papers, was retiring to rest. She had to pass Mrs. Martin's door

in going to her own bed-chamber. The sound of a falling book met her ear, that lady was still stirring; the headache could not have been very acute, at least so thought Mrs. Acton, as she passed on, wondering when her curiosity was to be satisfied. Ideas similarly detrimental to the character of the lady, as such as her husband had indulged in, never crossed the good hostess's mind. Yet, what if she were to commit suicide that night in their house; what if she were to murder them in their beds, out of some petty revenge? Mrs. Acton might have conjured up such things, but she would only have tortured herself in vain, for no such terrible events were destined to occur.

Morning came, breakfast lay on the table, the urn sent up a goodly steam, and the viands looked inviting enough, but Mrs. Martin never made her appearance. She sent an excuse, and a cup of tea and a slice of bread-and-butter were taken to her room. It was certainly singular behaviour. Alfred was more convinced than ever that she was crazy, but he did not say much about it, as he saw that his doing so vexed his mother.

Eleven o'clock struck; Mr. Acton was in his study, his wife was busy with household matters, Alfred was writing a succession of very short, concise letters, and his sister was mending his landing net, when, to the surprise of all, Mrs. Martin was seen slowly to descend the stairs, with a sheet of letter paper in her hand. It was covered with very close writing, and Louisa, who was the first to be aware of her approach, thought that the document looked exceedingly ominous.

"Here she comes, Alfred," whispered she; and a very meek, unpretending person she was to cause so much excitement and speculation. Without taking any notice of the young people, Mrs. Martin walked directly up to Mr. Acton, and said, in a resolute tone of voice," Will you call your household together? I wish them all to witness to my having signed this document."

Mr. Acton stammered something about exposure, things were better kept secret till the right moment for bringing them before the public, &c.

"Nothing shall be said on the subject. I merely wish for witnesses to my signing my name here." She placed her hand on a clear space at the bottom of the sheet she had brought with her, and looked so resolute, that Mr. Acton, who was naturally afraid of strong-minded females, immediately rang the bell.

When the servant answered, he ordered her to tell her mistress to come, and to return with her herself. A few minutes more and a goodly party had assembled round the writing-table in the study. It would have been an excellent psychological lesson for a bystander, there were such various expressions on the different countenances, all directed towards the commonplace-looking woman, who stood, pen in hand, in the act of writing her name at the bottom of the document, about which they knew nothing, or next to nothing. There was a dignified interest expressed in Mrs. Acton's face; surprise in that of her husband, who was gazing at the whole proceeding over his spectacles; entertainment in Alfred's; curiosity in Louisa's; and innocent perplexity in that of the servant-girl.

The name was signed, and beneath it were affixed the signatures of the witnesses. Mrs. Martin then folded up the paper and presented it to Mr. Acton, together with a packet of letters. "I give these to you in the hope of repairing the evil which I, in some measure, have been instru