annie maurice was aroused from the brooding loneliness in which she had sought refuge, in the first bewilderment and stupefaction of her grief, by a communication from lord beauport. all was over now; the last sad ceremonial had taken place; and the place which had known arthur, in his patient suffering, in his little-appreciated gentleness and goodness, should know him no more for ever. the crippled form was gone, and the invalid-chair which had for so long supported it had been removed, by order of the housekeeper, to a receptacle for discarded articles of use or ornament. lord and lady beauport were not likely to notice the circumstance, or to object to it if they did. the blinds were decorously drawn; the rooms were scrupulously arranged; every thing in them in its place, as though never to be used or handled any more. the books, the objects of art, the curious things which the dead man alone of all the house had understood and valued, had a staring lifeless look about them in the unaccustomed precision of their distribution; the last flowers which annie ha placed in the venetian glasses had withered, and been thrown away by the notable housemaids. a ray of sunlight crept in at one side of the blind, and streamed upon the spot where arthur's head had fallen back upon his friend's arm,--ah, how short a time ago!--and yet all looked strange and changed, not only as if he had gone away for ever, but as if he had never been there at all. annie had not gone into the rooms since he had left them for the last time; she had an instinctive feeling of how it would be, and she could not bear it yet; she knew that in nothing would there be so sharp a pang as in seeing the familiar things which had been so like him, grown so unlike. so, when her maid told her that lord beauport wished to see her immediately, she asked nervously where he was.

"in the library, miss annie," said her maid, and looked very pityingly at the purple eyelids and white face.

"alone?"

no, his lordship was not alone; one of the lawyer gentlemen and her ladyship were with him.

annie went slowly and reluctantly to the library. she did not think for a moment that lord and lady beauport were indifferent to the death of their eldest son; on the contrary, she knew that the event had come upon them with a mighty shock, and that they had felt it, if not deeply, at least violently and keenly. but she had the faculty of vivid perception, and she used it intuitively; and in this case it told her that shame, self-detection, and remorse,--the vague uneasiness which besets all who cannot reckon with themselves to the full in the daylight of conscience, but, like the debtor called to an account, kept something back,--mingled largely with their grief. it was not wholehearted, lavish, sacred, like hers; it was not the grief which takes the spontaneous form of prayer, and chastens itself into submission, elevating and sanctifying the mind and character of the mourner. annie knew, by that keen unreasoning instinct of hers, that while her sole and earnest desire was to keep the memory of her dead cousin green, recalling his words, his counsels, his wishes,--dwelling on his views of life and its duties, and preserving him in her faithful heart, for ever near her, as a living friend,--while her chosen thoughts would be of him, and her best consolation in memory,--his father and mother would forget him if they could. they mourned for him, but it was with captious impatient grief; there was a sting in every remembrance, every association, which they could not yet escape from, but would have put away if they had had the power. to them, sorrow for the dead was as a haunting enemy, to be outwitted and left behind as speedily as might be; to her it was a friend, cherished and dear, solemnly greeted, and piously entertained.

when annie entered the library, she found that the "lawyer gentleman," whom her maid had mentioned, was the family solicitor, mr. knevitt, who was well known to her, and for whom caterham had had much liking and respect. lord beauport and he were standing together beside a long table, strewn with papers, and on which stood a large despatch-box open, and, as she saw while she walked up the room, also full of papers. at some distance from the table, and in the shade, lady beauport was seated, her hands clasped together in her lap, and her figure leaning completely back in the deep arm-chair she occupied. she looked very pale and worn, and her deep mourning was not becoming to her. sharp contention of thought and feeling was going on under that calm exterior,--bitter pangs, in which vexation had a large share, as well as regret, and a sense that she was to be baffled in the future as she had been defeated in the past. ay, the future,--she had begun to think of it already, or rather she had begun (when had she ever ceased?) to think of _him_. lionel was the future to her. what if there were more trouble and opposition in store for her? what if arthur (ah, poor fellow! he had never understood young men different from himself, and he was always hard on lionel) had left any communication for his father, had written any thing touching the particulars of lionel's career which he knew, and had warned her not to ask? hitherto nothing of the sort had been found in the examination of lord caterham's papers instituted by lord beauport and mr. knevitt. there was a packet for annie maurice, indeed; they had found it an hour ago, and lord beauport had just sent for annie in order to hand it over to her. lady beauport had, however, no apprehensions connected with this matter; the virtues of the dead and the vices of the living son (though she would not have given them their true name) secured her from feeling any. whatever lionel had done she felt convinced was not of a nature to be communicated to annie, and caterham would have guarded her with the utmost caution from hearing any thing unfit for her ears. no, no; there was no danger in that quarter. had she not felt sure, before this "dreadful thing"--as she called lord caterham's death to herself--happened, that the scrupulous delicacy of her son, where annie was concerned, would be her best aid and defence against his defeat of her projects? the letter, the packet--whatever it might be called--was probably an effusion of feeling, a moral lecture on life, or a posthumous guide to studies, in which arthur had desired to see his gentle and interesting cousin proficient.

so lady beauport looked at the packet as it lay on the table, close to the despatch-box, without the least anxiety, and fixed her impatient attention on the further investigation of the papers, continued by lord beauport and mr. knevitt. it was not until they had concluded as much of their melancholy task as they proposed to undertake that day, that the earl sent the summons which brought annie to the library.

he took up the packet as she drew near, and said, very sadly:

"this is for you my dear."

"from--from arthur?" she asked, in a trembling voice. "yes, annie,--we found it among his papers."

she took it from him, looked at it, and sat down in a chair beside the table, but made no attempt to break the seal. lady beauport did not speak. the earl resumed his conversation with mr. knevitt, and annie sat still and silent for a few minutes, then she interrupted lord beauport by asking him if he required her for any thing further.

"no, my dear," he said kindly; "you may go away if you like. how weary you look!" he added, with a deep sigh. still lady beauport spoke no word; but her keen unsympathetic eyes followed the girl's graceful figure and drooping head as she left the library.

arrived at her own room, annie opened the packet, which she felt was a sacred thing. her departed friend had written to her, then, words which he intended her to read only when he should be no more; solemn counsel, very precious affection, a priceless legacy from the dead would no doubt be in the letter, whose folds felt so thick and heavy in her hand. she removed the outer cover, placing it carefully by her side, and found an enclosure directed to geoffrey ludlow, and merely a few lines to herself, in which the writer simply directed her to place the accompanying letter in geoffrey's hands _herself_, and privately, as soon after it came into hers as possible.

surprise and disappointment were annie's first feelings. she looked forlornly enough at the meagre scrap of writing that was her share, and with some wonder at the letter--no doubt voluminous--which was geoffrey's. what could it be about? arthur and ludlow had been good friends, it is true, and had entertained strong mutual respect; but she could not account for this solemn communication, implying so strange and absolute a confidence. she turned the letter over in her hands, she scrutinised the address, the paper, the seal; then she rose and locked it carefully away, together with the note to herself in which it had been: enclosed. "give this letter _privately_ to ludlow," were arthur's words; then, if he did not wish its delivery to be known, it was plain he wished to conceal its existence. if lady beauport should question her as to the contents of the packet? well, she must either give an evasive answer, or refuse to answer at all; the alternative should be decided by the terms of the question. she could venture to refuse an answer to a question of lady beauport's now; her heiress-ship had secured her many immunities, that one among the rest.

lord beauport was right; annie was weary, and looking so. the sickness and dreariness of a great grief were upon her, and she was worn out. the stillness of the great house was oppressive to her; and yet she shrank from the knowledge that that stillness was soon to pass away, that life would resume its accustomed course, and the dead be forgotten. by all but her; to her his memory should be ever precious, and his least wish sacred. then she debated within herself how she should fulfil his last request. there were difficulties in the way. she could not tell geoffrey to call on her yet, nor could she go to his house. then she remembered that he had not written to her. she had forgotten, until then, that there had been no answer to the letter in which she told geoffrey ludlow of caterham's death. could a letter have come, and been overlooked? she rang for her maid and questioned her, but she was positive no letter had been mislaid or forgotten. several papers lay on her writing-table; she turned them over, to satisfy herself, though nothing could be more improbable than that she should have overlooked a letter from her dear old friend. there was no such thing. puzzled and vaguely distressed, annie stood looking at the heap of notes, with her hands pressed on her throbbing temples; and her maid entreated her to lie down and rest, commenting, as lord beauport had done, upon her appearance. annie complied; and the girl carefully darkened the room and left her. for a while she lay still, thinking how she was to convey the letter to geoffrey, without delay, "as soon as possible," arthur had said; but she soon dropped into the dull heavy sleep of grief and exhaustion.

it was late in the evening when she awoke, and she again eagerly inquired for letters. there were none, and annie's surprise grew into uneasiness. she resolved to write to ludlow again, to tell him that she had something of importance to communicate, without indicating its character. "he may tell margaret, or not, as he pleases," she thought "that is for him to decide. i daresay, if she sees my note, she will not feel any curiosity or interest about it. poor geoffrey!" and then the girl recalled all that arthur had said of his suspicion and distrust of ludlow's beautiful wife, and thought sorrowfully how large was his share in the loss they had sustained of such a friend. something must be wrong, she thought, or geoffrey would surely have written. in her sore grief she yearned for the true and ready sympathy which she should have from him, and him alone. stay; she would not only write, she would send her maid to inquire for geoffrey, and margaret, and the child. she could go early next morning in a cab, and be back before breakfast-hour. so annie made this arrangement, wrote her note, got through a short hour or two in the great dreary drawing-room as best she could, and once more cried herself to the merciful sleep which in some degree strengthened her for the intelligence which awaited her in the morning.

she was aroused by her maid, who came hurriedly to her bedside, holding in her hand annie's note to ludlow. she started up, confused, yet sufficiently awake to be startled at the look in the girl's face.

"what is it?" she said faintly.

"o miss annie, dreadful, dreadful news mrs. ludlow has gone away, nobody knows where, and mr. ludlow is raving mad, in brain-fever!"

lord caterham's letter lay for many days undisturbed in the receptacle in which annie maurice had placed it. not yet was the confidence of the dead to be imparted to the living. he was to read that letter in time, and to learn from it much that the writer had never dreamed it could convey. little had the two, who had lived in so near and pleasant an intimacy, dreamed of the fatal link which really, though unseen, connected them. this was the letter which, in due time, annie maurice deposited in geoffrey's hands:

"my dear ludlow,--i have felt for some time that for me 'the long disease called life' is wearing toward its cure. under this conviction i am 'setting my house in order;' and to do so thoroughly, and enjoy peace of mind for the brief space which will remain to me when that is done, i must have recourse to your honest and trusty friendship. i have to bequeath to you two services to be done for me, and one confidence to be kept, until your discretion shall judge it expedient that it should be divulged. these two services are distinct, but cognate; and they concern one who is the dearest of all living creatures to me, and for whom i know you entertain a sincere and warm affection--i allude to annie maurice. the confidence concerns my unworthy brother, lionel brakespere.

"in the fortune left her by mr. ampthill, annie has security against material ills, and is safe from the position of dependence, in which i never could bear to feel she must remain. this is an immense relief to my mind; but it has substituted a source of uneasiness, though of considerably less dimensions, for that which it has removed. when i wrote to you lately, asking you to come to me, it was with the intention of speaking to you on this subject; but as our interview has been accidentally prevented, i made up my mind to act in the matter myself, as long as i live, and to bequeath action after my death to you, as i am now doing. my brother is as worthless a man as there is on the face of the earth--heartless, depraved, unprincipled to an almost incredible degree, considering his early association with men and women of character. you have, i daresay, heard vaguely of certain disgraceful circumstances which forced him to leave the country, and which brought immeasurable distress upon us all.

"i need not enter into these matters: they have little to do with the thing that is pressing on my mind. if lionel's vices had been hidden from society ever so discreetly, i was sufficiently aware of their existence to have shrunk with as much horror as i feel now from the idea of his becoming annie's husband. let me preface what i am about to say by assuring you that i do not entertain any such fear. i know annie; and i am perfectly assured that for her pure, upright, intelligent, and remarkably clear-sighted nature such a man as lionel,--whose profound and cynical selfishness is not to be hidden by external polish, and whose many vices have left upon him the _cachet_ which every pure woman feels instinctively, even though she does not understand theoretically,--will never have any attraction. she knows the nature of the transaction which drove him from england; and such a knowledge would be sufficient protection for her, without the repulsion which i am satisfied will be the result of association with him. i would protect her from such association if i could, and while i live i do not doubt my power to do so. it will be painful to me to use it; but i do not mind pain for annie's benefit. a sad estrangement always existed between lionel and me; an estrangement increased on his side by contempt and dislike--which he expressed in no measured terms--but on my part merely passive. the power which i possess to hinder his return to this house was put into my hands by himself--more, i believe, to wound me, and in the wanton malice and daring of his evil nature, than for the reason he assigned; but it is effectual, and i shall use it, as i can, without explanation. when i am gone, it needs be, some one must be enabled to use this power in my stead; and that person, my dear ludlow, is you. i choose you for annie's sake, for yours, and for my own. my mother designs to marry lionel to annie, and thus secure to him by marriage the fortune which his misconduct lost him by inheritance. with this purpose in view, she has summoned lionel to england, and she proposes that he should return to this house. she and i have had a painful explanation, and i have positively declared that it cannot and shall not be. in order to convince her of the necessity of yielding the point, i have told her that i am in possession of particulars of lionel's conduct, unknown to her and my father, which perfectly justify me in my declaration; and i have entreated her, for the sake of her own peace of mind, not to force me, by an attempt which can have no issue but failure, to communicate the disgraceful particulars. lady beauport has been forced to appear satisfied for the present; and matters are in a state of suspense.

"but this cannot last, and with my life it will come to an end. lionel will return here, in my place, and bearing my name--the heir to an earldom; and the follies and crimes of the younger son will be forgotten. still annie maurice will be no less a brilliant match, and my mother will be no less anxious to bring about a marriage. i foresee misery to annie--genteel persecution and utter friendlessness--unless you, ludlow, come to her aid. with all its drawbacks, this is her fitting home; and you must not propose that she should leave it without very grave cause. but you must be in a position to preserve her from lionel; you must hold the secret in your hand, as i hold it, which makes all schemes for such an accursed marriage vain--the secret which will keep the house she will adorn free from the pollution of his presence. when you hear that lionel brakespere is paying attention to annie under his father's roof, go to lord beauport, and tell him that lionel brakespere is a married man.

"and now, my dear ludlow, you know one of the services you are to do me when i am gone; and you are in possession of the confidence i desire to repose in you. to explain the other, i must give you particulars. when my brother left england, he sent me, by the hands of a common friend, a letter which he had written at liverpool, and which, when i have made you acquainted with its contents, i shall destroy. i do not desire to leave its low ribaldry, its coarse contempt, its cynical wickedness, to shock my poor father's eyes, or to testify against my brother when i am gone.

"i enable you to expose him, in order to prevent unhappiness to one dear to us both; but i have no vindictive feeling towards him, and no eyes but mine must see the words in which he taunts me with the physical afflictions to which he chooses to assign my 'notions of morality' and 'superiority to temptation.' enough--the facts which the letter contains are these: as nearly as i can make out, four years ago he met and tried to seduce a young lady, only eighteen years old, at tenby. her virtue, i hope--he says her ambition--foiled him, and he ran away with the girl and married her. he called himself leonard brookfield; and she never knew his name or real position. he took her abroad for a time; then brought her to london, where she passed for his mistress among the men to whom he introduced her, and who were aware that she had no knowledge of his identity. he had left the army then, or of course she would have discovered it. when the crash came, he had left her, and he coolly told me, as he had next to nothing for himself, he had nothing for her. his purpose in writing to me was to inform me, as especially interested in the preservation of the family, that not only was there a wife in the case, but, to the best of his belief, child also, to be born very soon; and as no one could say what would become of him, it might be as well to ascertain where the heir of the beauports might be found, if necessary. he supposed i would keep the matter a secret, until it should become advisable, if ever, to reveal it. mrs. brakespere had no knowledge of her rights, and could not, therefore, make herself obnoxious by claiming them. if i chose to give her some help, i should probably be rewarded by the consciousness of charity; but he advised me to keep the secret of our relationship for my own sake: she was perfectly well known as his mistress; and as they were both under a cloud at present, the whole thing had better be kept as dark as possible. i read this letter with the deepest disgust; the personal impertinence to myself i could afford to disregard, and was accustomed to; but the utter baseness and villany of it sickened me. this was the man who was to bear my father's name and fill my father's place. i determined at once to afford assistance to the wretched forsaken wife, and to wait and consider when and how it would be advisable to bring about the acknowledgment of the truth and her recognition. i thought of course only of simple justice. the circumstances of the marriage were too much against the girl to enable me to form any favourable opinion of her. i turned to the letter to find her name and address; they were not given: of course this was only an oversight; he must have intended to subjoin them. my perplexity was extreme. how was i to discover this unhappy woman? i knew too well the code of honour, as it is called, among men, to hope for help from any of his dissolute friends; they would keep his evil secret--as they believed it--faithfully.

"algy barford had brought me the letter, and on that occasion had referred to his being 'no end chums' with lionel. but he had also declared that he knew nothing whatever of the contents of the letter. still he might know something of her. i put a question or two to him, and found he did not. he had known a woman who lived with lionel for a short time, he believed, but she was dead. clearly this was another person. then i determined to have recourse to the professional finders-out of secrets, and i sent for blackett. you have often seen him leaving me as you came in, or waiting for me as you went out. the day mrs. ludlow fainted, you remember, he was in the hall as you took her to the carriage, and he asked me so many questions about her, that i was quite amused at the idea of a detective being so enthusiastic. the materials he had to work on were sparing indeed, and the absence of all clue by name was very embarrassing. he went to work skilfully, i am sure, though he failed. he went to tenby, and there he ascertained the name of the girl who had deserted her widowed mother for leonard brookfield. the mother had been many months dead. this was little help, for she had doubtless discarded the christian name; and the personal description was probably coloured by the indignation her conduct had excited. blackett learned that she was handsome, with red hair and blue eyes,--some said black. he could get no certain information on that point.

"but i need not linger over these details. no efforts were spared, yet our search proved vain. when some time had elapsed, their direction changed, and a woman and child were sought for: in every part of london where destitution hides, in all the abodes of flaunting sin, in hospitals, in refuges, in charitable institutions,--in vain. sometimes blackett suggested that she might have taken another protector and gone abroad; he made all possible inquiry. she had never communicated with her home, or with any one who had formerly known her. i began to despair of finding her; and i had almost made up my mind to relinquish the search, when blackett came to me one day, in great excitement for him, and told me he was confident of finding her in a day or two at the farthest. 'and the child?' i asked. no, he knew nothing of the child; the woman he had traced, and whom he believed to be my brother's deserted wife, had no child, had never had one, within the knowledge of the people from whom he had got his information; nevertheless he felt sure he was right this time, and the child might have died before she came across them. she must have suffered terribly. then he told me his information came through a pawnbroker, of whom he had frequent occasion to make inquiries. this man had shown him a gold locket, which had evidently held a miniature, on the inside of which was engraved 'from leonard to clara,' and which had been pawned by a very poor but respectable person, whose address, in a miserable lane at islington, he now gave to blackett. he went to the place at once and questioned the woman, who was only too anxious to give all the information in her power in order to clear herself. she had received the locket in the presence of two persons, from a young woman who had lodged with her, and who had no other means of paying her. the young woman had gone away a week before, she did not know where; she had no money, and only a little bundle of clothes--a handkerchief full. she had no child, and had never said any thing about one. the woman did not know her name. she had taken a picture out of the locket she had red hair and dark eyes. this was all. i shall never forget the wretched feeling which came over me as i thought of the suffering this brief story implied, and of what the wretched woman might since have undergone. i remember so well, it was in january,--a dirty, wet, horrible day,--when blackett told me all this; and i was haunted with the idea of the woman dying of cold and want in the dreadful streets. blackett had no doubt of finding her now; she had evidently fallen to the veriest pauperism, and out of the lowest depths she would be drawn up, no doubt. so he set to work at once, but all in vain. dead or living, no trace of her has ever been found; and the continuous search has been abandoned. blackett only 'bears it in mind' now. once he suggested to me, that as she was no doubt handsome, and not over particular, she might have got a living by sitting to the painters, and 'i'll try that lay,' he said; but nothing came of that either. i thought of it the day annie and i met you f, at the private view, and if i had had the opportunity, would have asked you if you knew such a face as the one we were only guessing at, after all; but you were hurried, and the occasion passed; and when we met again, blackett had exhausted all sources of information in that direction, and there was nothing to be learned.

"this is the story i had to tell you, ludlow, and to leave to your discretion to use when the time comes. within the last week blackett has made further attempts, and has again failed. lionel is in london; but while i live he does not enter this house. i shall, after a while, when i am able, which i am not now, let him know that search has been unsuccessfully made for his wife, and demand that he shall furnish me with any clue in his possession, under the threat of immediate exposure. this, and every other plan, may be at any moment rendered impossible by my death; therefore i write this, and entreat you to continue the search until this woman be found, dead or living. so only can annie's home be made happy and reputable for her when i shall have left it for ever. you will receive this from annie's hands; a packet addressed to her will not be neglected or thrown aside; and if it becomes necessary for you to act for her, she will have the knowledge 05 your interference and obedience to your advice. i confide her to you, my dear ludlow--as i said before--as the dearest living thing in all the world to me.--yours ever,

"caterham."