prepared me for the scene I had to witness
up-stairs. At the top of the house, in a low,
squalid garret-room, worse than any
belonging to the meanest peasant on my estate,
with daubs rather than pictures scattered
confusedly about it; with dirty strips of red
and blue hung round at various points in
hideous mockery of the bits of colour artists
delight in; in the midst of one tangled mass
of dirt, confusion, and poverty, crouching in
bed beneath a heap of soiled blankets, lay my
son, my only child, the one-time pride and
glory of my life. Mercy! how he was
changed! I should not have known him had I
met him unexpectedly: he had not the faintest
trace of resemblance with his former self.
It was another man, more hideous and more
degraded than the college roué who had so
shocked and estranged me at Haredale. By
the side of the bed sat a pretty-looking
woman, her hair dishevelled, her dress
disordered and dirty; herself evidently a creature
of the humblest class of society; but with a
certain frank good-nature in the midst of her
vulgarity that I could imagine might have
prepossessed some who were not quite so
exclusive as myself. She gave me a broad bold
stare when I entered, not moving from her
place till Derwent said in a languid tone,
"My mother, Melly," when she got up from
the bed and offered me her hand. I was
astonished—too startled to refuse it. She
shook mine warmly, saying,—

"O! how glad I am you have come!"

I turned to Derwent, and I felt that my
lips were set and my brows contracted as I
looked at him inquiringly. I fancied that I
saw a blush cross his pale haggard face as he
answered my silent inquiry by, "My wife,
mother," adding as he took her hand, "and a
good wife, too!"

I do not know what strange feeling took
possession of me; but all the room grew
dark, my son and that terrible creature faded
into small dim specks; I thought I was
dying and fell prone on the floor, for I fainted
—the first and only time in my life that such
a thing happened to me. When I recovered,
I found they had placed me on the bed by
my son: that fearful woman bending over
me and tending me, I must confess, carefully
and tenderly enough. Derwent was weeping;
sobbing passionately. I felt his tears fall
hot on my hand, as he kissed it again and
again. I was bewildered. There was evidently
a mystery in all this beneath the mere surface
of degradation easy enough to read. But I was
afraid of nothing now: it seemed to me as if
nothing could be worse to hear than the shocking
fact of his marriage with such a woman.

When I had recovered sufficient physical
strength to speak and move, I withdrew
myself from Derwent's side, and placed myself
on a chair, fronting them both.

"Tell me frankly," I said, "the meaning of
all this. Why have you sent for me? Why
are you in this state? Why do I find you
living the squalid life of a pauper, when your
allowance ought to have kept you like a
gentleman? Why have you married so far
out of your own sphere?" And I shuddered,
and they both saw I shuddered. "Without,
too, telling me that you were even engaged?
Tell me what it all means!"

"It is a long story, mother," said Derwent,
trying hard to speak in a composed voice,
but failing sadly in the effort, poor soul. "I
have been unfortunate, and I have been guilty,
and between the two" (here he smiled with
a flash of reckless gaiety more painful to
witness than any despair) "I am done for. I
have lost at play, heavily, the officers are after
me, and I want you to save me, mother!"

"What do you mean, Derwent?" I asked,
for he spoke so fast, and in such a changed
voice—so weak, and yet so hoarse—that I,
confused yet by my own sudden failure of
strength, could not follow half he said.

"I have committed forgery," said Derwent,
with terrible distinctness, "and if I cannot
redeem the bill before to-morrow at noon, I
shall be arrested as a felon. Besides all this,
I am dying of fever and ague."

Here that woman bent over him and kissed
him, and I heard her whisper:

"No, my Derwent, you shall not die if
Melly's love can save you!"

Had I been a man—had I been even a
passionate woman—I should have struck her.
I never knew before what passion might
arise from mingled jealousy and disgust. But
I conquered myself, and said in a cold,
measured voice:

"And what do you ask me to do for you,
Derwent?"

I saw my son's lips quiver; I saw that
woman's face flush, and her hand involuntarily
clench, as she set her teeth, as if to
keep back rebellious words. But Derwent,
who had my blood in him, answered as coldly
as I had spoken:

"I want you to pay the forged bill, mother,
and so to rescue me from, the hulks."

"For how much, Derwent?"

"For five thousand pounds!"

"I have not got it," I said. "I have not
above twenty pounds at my bankers; with
your allowance I live now up to my full
income, and have not saved."

"Is there nothing to sell?" exclaimed the
woman, savagely, her large black eyes
glaring at me from under her tangled hair.

"Hush, Melly!" said Derwent; "do not
interfere, you will only do harm, and make
bad worse."

"Curses on her proud cold heart!" I heard
her mutter. "It is she who has brought you
to this by her pride and want of love!"

"Well, mother," said Derwent, " I cannot
advise you what to do. If you have not got
the money, and will not raise it for me, I
must suffer for my own act. My last chance
was to send to you; if that fails me, I can
meet my fate like a man. I have been the