The Catholic World Volume Iii Part 77

"And now, my child, I must go. You know the inquest is to take place this afternoon, and I have to be there; but first I must return to Merrivale's, and settle many things with him."

"You will come back to me afterward."

"Surely; as soon as it is over."

"Do you think _he_ will be present?"

"I trust not, oh! I trust not! But perhaps he will wish to watch the proceedings himself, as well as Merrivale. G.o.d be with you, Ada, and good-bye!"

I was on the threshold of the door when she called me back.

"I am very foolish, guardian, not to have said it before; but I could not--and yet I ought and must."

Her hand was resting on a well-worn morocco case. I knew it well--it was Hugh's likeness, and a faint color tinged her white cheeks; but she mastered the shy feeling, whatever it was, and looked clearly and earnestly at me.

"Something was said by Lister Wilmot of what had dropped from poor Mr.

Thorneley the last night of his life about you and me. I don't know why he should have repeated it; but as it is, I wanted to ask you not to mind it; at least, not to notice what may be said by others--by my mother. I only fear lest anything of the kind being said should come between us, and destroy our confidence in one another, because we understand each other so well--you and I and Hugh,"--how lingeringly she spoke his name!--"and we have no secrets between us that all three may not share. And I have feared lest this worse than foolishness, dragged out publicly, should change anything in our intercourse, or prevent you from acting, as. .h.i.therto, a parent's part toward a fatherless girl."

"_Nothing_, Ada, can change me toward you; and when people think of you and then of me, they will not heed the childish babble that may go about."

"Thanks, guardian."

"Worse than foolishness!"--I said the words over to myself many times as I drove back to Lincoln's Inn; and in the hazy distant future I saw a weary wayworn pilgrim slowly toiling along life's lonely road, who, looking back to this past year come and gone, would still repeat, "Worse than foolishness!"

I found Merrivale in deep conference with a mean-looking little man with a short stubbly head of hair that bristled up like a scrubbing-brush, and of a melancholy cast of countenance, as if accustomed to view life darkly, through the medium of duns and such-like evils to which man is heir. His eyes were the only redeeming point about him, and they really were two of the sharpest, most intelligent orbs I ever saw in my life. They lighted upon me the moment I entered the room, and seemed to take in my whole exterior and interior person with a knowingness that was perfectly alarming.

"This is the gentleman, I suppose, sir, who was with the defunct party the night of the murder," said a wonderfully soft voice.

"Yes; Mr. Kavanagh.--This is Inspector Keene, the very clever officer I mentioned to you, Kavanagh."

I acknowledged Mr. Keene's salute with becoming deference.

"Have you any news?" I asked.

"Well, sir," with a quick cautious glance at Merrivale, "I have and I have not. Before I say anything further, I should be glad to ask the gentleman a few questions, Mr. Merrivale, if agreeable."

"By all means," I answered.

He put me through a sharp cross-questioning on every point with which the reader is acquainted, making rapid notes of all my answers and remarks. Then he sat silently sc.r.a.ping his chin and gnawing his nails for some minutes. At last he looked up suddenly.

"The funeral, I understand, is fixed {462} for next Tuesday, and after that is over _the Will is to be read_. Perhaps that may throw some light on the subject."

I could not for the life of me repress a start, and Inspector Keene made a mental note of it, I knew.

"Good-day, gentlemen. I will call on you, Mr. Merrivale, to-morrow. _I think I am on the scent_."

"Come," said Merrivale, "we must be off, or we shall be late."

TO BE CONTINUED.

[ ORIGINAL. ]

OUR MOTHER'S CALL.

Come home, O weary wanderers, from error's tangled maze, My mother-heart yearns sore for you in all your troubled ways.

I've rest, and food, and shelter, for all the earth can hold-- Then hasten, weary wanderers, home to the single fold.

I am the Master's gamer, which ever yieldeth more, The more the needy millions receiving from my store; No number's can exhaust me; no beggar at my gate For rest and food and shelter, shall ever have to wait.

If in mine inner chamber the Master seems to sleep, While fearful storm and peril are out upon the deep.

My lightest tone will call him to rescue of his own For his dear children's haven I am, _and I alone_.

Almighty wisdom made me the home upon the rock-- The Saviour's fold of safety to all his ransomed flock.

My door is ever open, and they who enter in.

Find rest from all their wanderings, and cleansing from their sin.

One thing, and but one only, the Master doth demand.

That they who seek shall find him as he himself hath planned; Beneath my lowly portal shall bow each haughty head, And to my narrow pathway return each wandering tread.

_I cannot lift the lintel, nor widen out the posts, For every stone was fas.h.i.+oned by him, the Lord of hosts_.

_My Master_, and thy Master if thou wilt hear his voice And in his pleasant pastures for evermore rejoice.

Can human handcraft ever compete in skill with him, Whose throne is in the heavens amid the cherubim?

Then cease your idle toiling another home to raise; He on my fair proportions toiled all his mortal days.

{463}

When out of depths of darkness he called the glorious sun In all its dazzling splendor, _he spoke_ and it was done; His sweat and blood were both poured out that he might fas.h.i.+on me His sun to souls in darkness till time no more shall be.

Hold it no light offending that you can turn aside, And scorn in wilful blindness the Saviour's spotless bride.

He who hath full dominion unchecked o'er all the earth, Made me the mighty mother of the blest second-birth.

Come, weigh ye well the value of his three and thirty years, And number o'er the treasure of all his prayers and tears.

And count ye out the life-drops that flowed from his cleft side.

And learn the wondrous bounty with which he dowered his bride.

Rich-dowered for your salvation, ye dearly bought of earth!

By his dying, and my living, oh! weigh salvation's worth, And in the single shelter his mighty love hath given.

Learn the dear will that maketh the blessedness of heaven.

GENEVIEVE SALES.

EASTERTIDE, 1866.