Basil

your place, Ralph would have spoken before this.'

Ralph, and Ralph's example quoted to me again!—I could remain silent no longer.

'My brother's faults towards you, and towards his family, are not such faults as mine, Sir,' I began. 'I have not imitated his vices; I have acted as he would not have acted. And yet, the result of my error will appear far more humiliating, and even disgraceful, in your eyes, than the results of any errors of Ralph's.'

As I pronounced the word 'disgraceful,' he suddenly looked me full in the face. His eyes lightened up sternly, and the warning red spot rose on his pale cheeks.

'What do you mean by 'disgraceful?'' he asked abruptly; 'what do you mean by associating such a word as disgrace with your conduct—with the conduct of a son of mine?'

'I must reply to your question indirectly, Sir,' I continued. 'You asked me last night who the Mr. Sherwin was who has called here so often—'

'And this morning I ask it again. I have other questions to put to you, besides—you called constantly on a woman's name in your delirium. But I will repeat last night's question first—who is Mr. Sherwin?'

'He lives—'

'I don't ask where he lives. Who is he? What is he?'

'Mr. Sherwin is a linen-draper—'

'You owe him money?—you have borrowed money of him? Why did you not tell me this before? You have degraded my house by letting a man call at the door—I know it!—in the character of a dun. He has inquired about you as his 'friend,'—the servants told me of it. This money-lending tradesman, your 'friend!' If I had heard that the poorest labourer on my land called you 'friend,' I should have held you honoured by the attachment and gratitude of an honest man. When I hear that name given to you by a tradesman and money-lender, I hold you contaminated by connection with a cheat. You were right, Sir!—this is disgrace; how much do you owe? Where are your dishonoured acceptances? Where have you used my name and my credit? Tell me at once—I insist on it!'

He spoke rapidly and contemptuously, and rising from his chair as he ended, walked impatiently up and down the room.

'I owe no money to Mr. Sherwin, Sir—no money to any one.'

He stopped suddenly:

'No money to any one?' he repeated very slowly, and in very altered tones. 'You spoke of disgrace just now. There is a worse disgrace then that you have hidden from me, than debts dishonourably contracted?'

At this moment, a step passed across the hall. He instantly turned round, and locked the door on that side of the room—then continued:

'Speak! and speak honestly if you can. How have you been deceiving me? A woman's name escaped you constantly, when your delirium was at its worst. You used some very strange expressions about her, which it was impossible altogether to comprehend; but you said enough to show that her character was one of the most abandoned; that her licentiousness—it is too revolting to speak of her—I return to you. I insist on knowing how far your vices have compromised you with that vicious woman.'

'She has wronged me—cruelly, horribly, wronged me—' I could say no more. My head drooped on my breast; my shame overpowered me.

'Who is she? You called her Margaret, in your illness—who is she?'

'She is Mr. Sherwin's daughter—' The words that I would fain have spoken next, seemed to suffocate me. I was silent again.

I heard him mutter to himself:

'That man's daughter!—a worse bait than the bait of money!'

He bent forward, and looked at me searchingly. A frightful paleness flew over his face in an instant.

'Basil!' he cried, 'in God's name, answer me at once! What is Mr. Sherwin's daughter to you? '

'She is my wife!'

I heard no answer—not a word, not even a sigh. My eyes were blinded with tears, my face was bent down; I saw nothing at first. When I raised my head, and dashed away the blinding tears, and looked up, the blood chilled at my heart.

My father was leaning against one of the bookcases, with his hands clasped over his breast. His head was drawn back; his white lips moved, but no sound came from them. Over his upturned face there had passed a ghastly change, as indescribable in its awfulness as the change of death.

I ran horror-stricken to his side, and attempted to take his hand. He started instantly into an erect position, and thrust me from him furiously, without uttering a word. At that fearful moment, in that fearful silence, the sounds out of doors penetrated with harrowing distinctness and merriment into the room. The pleasant rustling of the trees mingled musically with the softened, monotonous rolling of carriages in the distant street, while the organ-tune, now changed to the lively measure of a song, rang out clear and cheerful above both, and poured into the room as lightly and happily as the very sunshine itself.

For a few minutes we stood apart, and neither of us moved or spoke. I saw him take out his handkerchief, and pass it over his face, breathing heavily and thickly, and leaning against the bookcase once more. When he withdrew the handkerchief and looked at me again, I knew that the sharp pang of agony had passed away, that the last hard struggle between his parental affection and his family pride was over, and that the great gulph which was hence- forth to separate father and son, had now opened between us for ever.

He pointed peremptorily to me to go back to my former place, but did not return to his own chair. As I obeyed,