further expenses of the prosecution-the loss of time-the-" He stopped. He saw his wife's indignant eyes fixed upon him; and shrank from their look of unconscious reproach. "Yes, inspector," he said, "I give him in charge. Do what you will. Do what is right. Of course I take the consequences. We take the consequences. Don't we, Margaret?" He spoke in a kind of wild low voice, of which Margaret thought it best to take no notice. "Tell us exactly what to do," she said, very coldly and quietly, addressing herself to the policeman. He gave her the necessary directions as to, their attending at the police-office, and bringing Christie as a witness, and then went away to take measures for securing Crawford. Margaret was surprised to find how little hurry or violence needed to be used in Crawford's arrest. She had expected to hear sounds of commotion in the house, if indeed Crawford himself had not taken the alarm and escaped. But when she had suggested the latter apprehension to the inspector, he smiled, and told her that when he had first heard of the charge from the policeman on the beat, he had stationed a detective officer within sight of the house, to watch all ingress or egress; so that Crawford's whereabouts would soon have been discovered if he had attempted to escape. Margaret's attention was now directed to her husband. He was making hurried preparations for setting off on his round of visits, and evidently did not wish to have any conversation with her on the subject of the morning's event. He promised to be back by eleven o'clock; before which time, the inspector had assured them, their presence would not be needed. Once or twice Doctor Brown said, as if to himself, "It is a miserable business." Indeed, Margaret felt it to be so; and now that the necessity for immediate speech and action was over, she began to fancy that she must be very hard-hearted-very deficient in common feeling; inasmuch as she had not suffered like her husband at the discovery that the servantwhom they had been learning to consider as a friend, and to look upon as having their interests so warmly at heart-was, in all probability, a treacherous thief. She remembered all his pretty marks of attention to her, from the day when he had welcomed her arrival at her new home by his humble present of flowers, until only the day before, when, seeing her fatigued, he had, unasked, made her a cup of coffee, coffee such as none but he could make. How often had he thought of warm dry clothes for her husband; how wakeful had he been at nights; how diligent in the mornings! It was no wonder that her husband felt this discovery of domestic treason acutely. It was she who was hard and selfish, and thinking more of the recovery of the money than of the terrible disappointment in character, if the charge against Crawford were true. At eleven o'clock her husband returned with a cab. Christie had thought the occasion of appearing at a police-office worthy of her Sunday clothes, and was as smart as her possessions could make her. But Margaret and her husband looked as pale and sorrow-stricken as if they had been the accused, and not the accusers. Doctor Brown shrank from meeting Crawford's eye, as the one took his place in the witness-box, the other in the dock. Yet Crawford was trying-Margaret was sure of thisto catch his master's attention. Failing that, he looked at Margaret with an expression she could not fathom. Indeed, the whole character of his face was changed. Instead of the calm smooth look of attentive obedience, he had assumed an insolent, threatening expression of defiance; smiling occasionally in a most unpleasant manner, as Doctor Brown spoke of the bureau and its contents. He was remanded for a week; but, the evidence as yet being far from conclusive, bail for his appearance was taken. This bail was offered by his brother, a respectable tradesman, well known in his neighbourhood, and to whom Crawford had sent on his arrest. So Crawford was at large again, much to Christie's dismay; who took off her Sunday clothes, on her return home, with a heavy heart. hoping, rather than trusting, that they should not all be murdered in their beds before the week was out. It must be confessed Margaret herself was not entirely free from fears of Crawford's vengeance; his eyes had looked so maliciously and vindictively at her and at her husband, as they gave their evidence. But his absence in the household gave Margaret enough to do to prevent her dwelling on foolish fears. His being away made a terrible blank in their daily comfort, which neither Margaret nor Christie-exert them selves as they would-could fill up; and it was the more necessary that all should go on smoothly, as Doctor Brown's nerves had received such a shock, at the discovery of the guilt of his favourite trusted servant, that Margaret was led at times to apprehend a serious illness. He would pace about the room at night, when he thought she was asleep, moaning to himself-and in the morning would require the utmost persuasion to induce him to go out and see his patients. He was worse than ever, after consulting the lawyer whom he had employed to conduct the prosecution. There was, as Margaret was brought unwillingly to perceive, some mystery in the case; for he eagerly took his letters from the post, going to the door as soon as he heard the knock, and concealing their directions from her. As the week passed away, his nervous misery still increased. One evening the candles were not lighted -he was sitting over the fire in a listless attitude, resting his head on his hand, and that supported on his knee,-Margaret determined to try an experiment, to see if she could not probe, and find out the nature of the sore that he hid with such constant care. She took a stool and sat down at his feet, taking his hand in hers. "Listen, dearest James, to an old story I once heard. It may interest you. There were two orphans, boy and girl in their hearts, though they were a young man and young woman in years. They were not brother and sister, and by-and-by they fell in love; just in the same fond silly way you and I did, you remember. Well, the girl was amongst her own people, but the boy was far away from his, -if indeed he had any alive. But the girl loved him so dearly for himself, that sometimes she thought she was glad that he had no one to care for him but just her alone. Her friends did not like him as much as she did; for, perhaps, they were wise, grave, cold people, and she, I daresay, was very foolish. And they did not like her marrying the boy; which was just stupidity in them, for they had not a word to say against him. But, about a week before the marriage day was fixed, they thought they had found out something-my darling love, don't take away your hand-don't tremble so, only just listen! Her aunt came to her and said:-'Child, you must give up your lover: his father was tempted, and sinned, and if he is now alive he is a transported convict. The marriage cannot take place.' But the girl stood up and said: 'If he has known this great sorrow and shame, he needs my love all the more. I will not leave him, nor forsake him, but love him all the better. And I charge you, aunt, as you hope to receive a blessing for doing as you would be done by, that you tell no one!' I really think that girl awed her aunt, in some strange way, into secrecy. But, when she was left alone, she cried long and sadly, to think what a shadow rested on VOL. I. | the heart she loved so dearly, and she meant to strive to lighten the life, and to conceal for ever that she had heard of the burden; but now she thinks-0, my husband! how you must have suffered" as he bent down his head on her shoulder and cried terrible man's tears. "God be thanked!" he said at length. "You know all, and you do not shrink from me. O, what a miserable, deceitful coward I have been! Suffered! Yes-suffered enough to drive me mad; and if I had but been brave, I might have been spared all this long twelve months of agony. But it is right I should have been punished. And you knew it even before we were married, when you might have drawn back." "I could not: you would not have broken off your engagement with me, would you, under the like circumstances, if our cases had been reversed?" "I do not know. Perhaps I might, for I am not so brave, so good, so strong as you, my Margaret. How could I be? Let me tell you more: We wandered about, my mother and I, thankful that our name was such a common one, but shrinking from every allusion in a way which no one can understand who has not been conscious of an inward sore. Living in an assize town was torture: a commercial one was nearly as bad. My father was the son of a dignified clergyman, well known to his brethren: a cathedral town was to be avoided, because there the circumstance of the Dean of Saint Botolph's son having been transported, was sure to be known. I had to be educated; therefore we had to live in a town; for my mother could not bear to part from me, and I was sent to a day-school. We were very poor for our station-no! we had no station; we were the wife and child of a convict,-for my poor mother's early habits, I should have said. But when I was about fourteen, my father died in his exile, leaving, as convicts in those days sometimes did, a large fortune. It all came to us. My mother shut herself up, and cried and prayed for a whole day. Then she called me in, and took me into her counsel. We solemnly pledged ourselves to give the money to some charity, as soon as I was legally of age. Till then the interest was laid by, every penny of it; though sometimes we were in sore distress for money, my education cost so much. But how could we tell in what way the money had been accumulated?" Here he dropped his voice. "Soon after I was oneand-twenty the papers rang with admiration of the unknown munificent donor of certain sums. I loathed their praises. I shrank from all 25 recollection of my father. I remembered him dimly, but always as angry and violent with my mother. My poor, gentle mother! Margaret, she loved my father; and for her sake I have tried, since her death, to feel kindly towards his memory. Soon after my mother's death I came to know you, my jewel, my treasure!" After a while he began again. "But, O Margaret! even now you do not know the worst. After my mother's death I found a bundle of law papers-of newspaper reports about my father's trial. Poor soul! why she had kept them, I cannot say. They were covered over with notes in her handwriting; and, for that reason, I kept them. It was so touching to read her record of the days spent by her in her solitary innocence, while he was embroiling himself deeper and deeper in crime. I kept this bundle (as I thought so safely!) in a secret drawer of my bureau; but that wretch Crawford has got hold of it. I missed the papers that very morning. The loss of them was infinitely worse than the loss of the money; and now Crawford threatens to bring out the one terrible fact, in open court, if he can; and his lawyer may do it, I believe. At any rate, to have it blazoned out to the world,-I who have spent my life in fearing this hour! But most of all for you, Margaret! Still-if only it could be avoided! Who will employ the son of Brown, the noted forger? I shall lose all my practice. Men will look askance at me as I enter their doors. They will drive me into crime. I sometimes fear that crime is hereditary! O Margaret! what am I to do?" "What can you do?" she asked. "I can refuse to prosecute." "That scoundrel Crawford has sent for an answer to his impudent note," said Christie, putting in her head at the door. "Stay! May I write it?" said Margaret. Whatever you may do or say, there is but one course open to us. No threats can deter your master from doing his duty. MARGARET BROWN. "There!" she said, passing it to her husband; "he will see that I know all, and I suspect he has reckoned something on your tenderness for me." Margaret's note only enraged, it did not daunt Crawford. Before a week was out every one who cared knew that Doctor Brown, the rising young physician, was son of the notorious Brown the forger. All the consequences took place which he had anticipated. Crawford had to suffer a severe sentence; and Doctor Brown and his wife had to leave their house and go to a smaller one; they had to pinch and to screw, aided in all most zealously by the faithful Christie. But Doctor Brown was lighter-hearted than he had ever been before in his conscious lifetime. His foot was now firmly planted on the ground, and every step he rose was a sure gain. People did say that Margaret had been seen, in those worst times, on her hands and knees cleaning her own doorstep. But I don't believe it, for Christie would never have let her do that. And, as far as my own evidence goes, I can only say that, the last time I was in London, I saw a brass-plate with Doctor James Brown upon it, on the door of a handsome house in a handsome square. And as I looked, I saw a brougham drive up to the door, and a lady get out, and go into "Let Crawford go free, you knowing him to that house, who was certainly the Margaret be guilty?" "I know him to be guilty." "Then, simply, you cannot do this thing. You let loose a criminal upon the public." "But if I do not, we shall come to shame and poverty. It is for you I mind it, not for myself. I ought never to have married." "Listen to me. I don't care for poverty; and as to shame, I should feel it twenty times more grievously if you and I consented to screen the guilty, from any fear or for any selfish motives of our own. I don't pretend that I shall not feel it, when first the truth is known. But my shame will turn into pride, as I watch you live it down. You have been rendered morbid, dear husband, by having something all your life to conceal. Let the world know the truth, and say the worst. You will go forth a free, honest, honourable man, able to do your future work without fear." Frazer of old days-graver, more portly, more stern I had almost said. But, as I watched and thought, I saw her come to the dining-room window with a baby in her arms, and her whole face melted into a smile of infinite sweetness. THE EXCHANGE. We pledged our hearts, my love and I, But, oh! I trembled like an aspen. Her father's love she bade me gain; ROBIN HOOD AND HIS MERRY MEN AT SHERWOOD FOREST. The merry pranks he play'd would ask an age to tell, Of archery they had the very perfect craft, At long-buts, short, and hoyles, each one could cleave the pin. No lordly bishop came in lusty Robin's way, To him before he went, but for his pass must pay. The widow in distress he generously relieved, DRAYTON. THE STORY OF MARULLO. [Charles Shirley Brooks, born 1815. He studied for the bar, but adopted literature as his profession. He began his literary career as a dramatist, and produced a number of successful plays, amongst them Honour and Riches; The Creole; The Lowther Arcade, &c. He was even more successful as a novelist, and ought not to defend themselves when attacked, or that a government with false economical principles had starved their armaments, for they lived a great many years ago, and had not arrived at that point of enlightenment. But the fact is, that the Syracusans were rich and luxurious; and though, as has been told, the island was rich in brave men and virtuous women, it abounded also with men and women who were neither rich nor virtuous, and these had given the tone to public opinion, such as it was. They had splendid houses, lovely gardens, beautiful equipages, and large wealth; lected and published in Longman's "Travellers' Lib- and while they could enjoy these things, all rary." For years he was one of the principal contribu- good in their way, they cared nothing about tors to Punch, and on the death of Mark Lemon, he the general welfare. There was a show of an succeeded him as editor of that journal. Mr. Brooks army and a navy, and the services were favourwrote for the Gentleman's Magazine a series of Talesites, especially with the ladies. The naval Aspin Court, The Gordian Knot, The Silver Cord, and Sooner or Later obtained a large share of public favour. In 1854 he visited Russia, Turkey, and Egypt; and the letters descriptive of his travels, which first appeared in the London Morning Chronicle, were afterwards col from the Old Dramatists, and has succeeded in imbuing with new life several of the works of our early play writers. The following is one of the tales; and in this, as in all his writings, will be found humour, delicacy, and vigour.] I purpose, with the aid of an old friend, to tell an old story. But I have reasons for thinking that it will not be old to all who may do me the honour of reading it. If I satisfy myself at the end that I have not quite spoiled my friend's tale, I will mention his name; if I do not, I shall only say, "Ah, but you should hear him tell it." A great many years ago, in a certain magnificent island, rich in all that nature can do for islands, and richer in a race of brave men and virtuous women-take note, if you please, that this is not a satire, nor an allegory, but a story-there was great alarm, confusion, and trouble. For which, this was the reason. A strong nation, that dwelt at some distance from the island, but not too far for war-ships to cross a sea, and throw an overwhelming force upon the coast, coveted larger empire than it possessed, and sent forth a powerful fleet against the islanders. It is convenient to give the island a name, so we will call it Sicily, and we may as well call its ambitious and greedy enemy Carthage. The beautiful city in which most of the incidents of our story occurred, we will name Syracuse. and military reviews enabled the young officers to display themselves in gorgeous uniforms, and to look like heroes; but the heroic spirit was wanting. When the time came for the hard and cruel work of war, the Syracusans shrunk from it, and felt that they had no chance against men with whom soldiering meant business, and not an excuse for delightful and picturesque spectacle. I need not say that everybody, at the crisis, began to lay the blame of the helplessness on everybody but himself, and rushed about declaring that the people who had brought the island into such a shameful condition ought to be burned; but such declarations, though they might be true, did very little good. The Carthaginian fleet was coming, and people told one another of the terrible cruelty of the nation, and how captives were put to death by prolonged tortures when Carthage wanted a particularly pleasant holiday. Some little comfort they found (while the better among them were showing a good example, hastily fortifying, drilling volunteers, and acting the part of brave men, who would not go down without a fight) in saying that the Carthaginian admiral was but a weak young fellow, named Gisco, whose life had been passed in admiring himself and making ladies admire him, and who would be seized with a headache if he wore his helmet and plume. That was not much. But there was better comfort for them. The wiser men among them had met in council, and had resolved on sending to ask aid from another The Syracusans, I say, were in a state of great alarm. For not only did they know that the Carthaginian fleet was a very strong one, manned by skilful sailors, and bringing soldiers of extraordinary fierceness and admir-state-let us say Corinth. The Corinthians able discipline, but they knew that they them selves had much neglected the duty of being armed against an enemy. It was not that any Syracusans were of opinion that people had a great general and a fine army, and their rulers were not deaf to the argument that if Carthage took Sicily, Corinth would be in danger; for in those days statesmen looked |