OWEN MORGAN'S VISIT.

THE spring was a very fine and early one, and Mrs. Anstruther came home before she had intended, and, as it proved, before she ought. Hannah saw her arrival in the paper; for she bought one nearly every day now, to watch for some advertisement which might concern little Jack, who grew and prospered, and was learning to walk.

Hannah lost no time in going to consult Mrs. Anstruther, for she was getting more and more anxious about Ellen, who really seemed to be losing her health completely. Mrs. Anstruther welcomed her with all her usual kindness.

"Why, Hannah, is this you? Only this morning, I said to Miss Cartwright, that we must write to you. I wanted you to see how much better I am, and how well she looks. She is out now, but will soon be here. And tell me about that delightful baby."

"Indeed, you do look better, ma'am. What does your doctor say to you?"

"Scolds me for coming home so soon, but he acknowledges that, with care and a quiet life, I may do very well. Come now, tell me what is the matter? For I know you have something on your mind."

"Indeed, I have, ma'am. You'll maybe remember my sister Fanny?"

"Oh, certainly! A pretty creature she was! She was our nursery maid after you."

"Yes, ma'am, but only for a little time. You went to the schoolroom, and the mistress got Fanny a fine place in Wales. Well, ma'am, as you may perhaps remember, she married, and we lost sight of her."

"I remember."

"I think, ma'am, her husband was a bad lot. Anyhow, about a month ago, Fanny, looking like a ghost—and not even her own ghost, so changed she was—knocked at my door, not knowing that I lived there, but having heard about the child. And she knew him the moment she saw him. But I knew her voice, and called her by name. And the surprise and joy—for she was very glad to see me—overcame her so, that she fainted. I got a doctor at once, but no one could save my poor girl. I even had Dr. L'Estrange from St. Anne's to her, but she never was able so much as to tell me the child's name."

"You do not mean that she is dead, Hannah!"

"Died that same day, ma'am. Hardship and sorrow were the cause of it, I'm sure. She was so poorly clad, and so thin, it would have gone to your heart to see her. And only a couple of shillings in her pocket. But she managed to tell me, at the last, that it was all in a letter that she had written, but that letter I could not find. I thought maybe she had posted it, but though I've watched the papers, I've seen nothing that could concern Jack."

Mrs. Anstruther asked a few questions, and heard every particular. Hannah also told her of Ellen's illness, and said she really did not know what to do for her.

"What papers do you see, Hannah?"

Hannah named one or two.

"I will watch in the 'Times,'" said Mrs. Anstruther; "it is more likely to be chosen than those you name. But I think you ought to put in an advertisement yourself."

"I'll do anything you advise, ma'am, but I don't see what I could say."

Mrs. Anstruther took up a pencil and a sheet of notepaper, and wrote as follows:—

"Fanny Morgan. The child is safe. Apply to Hannah Rule, 3, Wellington Road, Clapham."

"I think that would catch the eye of any one connected with the child."

"Yes, ma'am, but it will bring Morgan down on me, most likely; not that it matters, only, suppose he claims the boy?"

"On no account let him have the boy, Hannah."

"How can I help it, ma'am? Suppose he says it is his own child? Fanny is not here to say no, and she did not actually say it was not hers, though I am certain it is not."

"I will tell you what we can do. I am going to the Isle of Wight for a few weeks; let Ellen and the child come with me. The change is the very thing for Ellen, and the boy will be safe. I can go to-morrow. The doctor will be delighted to get me out of town. We will not have this printed till the day after to-morrow. Bring Ellen and the child here this evening, and do not tell any of your neighbours where they are going."

"You're very kind, ma'am. It seems the very best thing that could be. I'll go home and get them ready."

"Yes, and come with them, Hannah. Do not lose sight of them till you give them up to me. As poor Fanny found out where the boy is, so may Morgan, and so we must be very cautious."

"He'd have come before now in that case, I think."

"Well, perhaps; but be careful. You will see Mildred in the evening. I have to thank you for her; and she is such a good, nice girl, and a great comfort to me."

"She's a lucky girl to find such a home," replied Hannah.

And then, arranging to return at about six o'clock, she left the house and hastened home.

Ellen was out with the child, and Hannah set to work to get ready a box, and to pack up baby's belongings, and such clothes as she thought Ellen would like to take with her. She was thus employed when Ellen came home.

"Why, Mrs. Rule dear, what are you doing?"

"Packing your box, honey. Mrs. Anstruther's going to the Isle of Wight—which I believe is a lovely place—and she'll take you. The change will do you good, and you really need it, Ellen; and—"

"Oh, don't send me away! I'm not ill! I'll make myself eat, and get strong! Dear, dear Mrs. Rule, don't send me away. I shall never have the courage to come back."

Hannah stared at her, then laughed uneasily, and said—

"Is it the passage by sea that you're afraid of? Why, child, you can see the island, I've been told, when you get into the steamer. It's nothing of a passage. And how could Jack go without you?"

"Then she's going to take Jack from us? I always knew she would."

"Not a bit of it. It's only for a few weeks. Jack will be safer out of London, for I'm going to put an advertisement in the paper. Mrs. Anstruther wrote it for me. It has poor Fanny's name to begin with, and it says the child is safe, and here in this house—at least, I mean, to apply here about him."

Ellen had the boy in her arms. She set him down, and crept to a chair, into which she all but fell. She sat silent, her hands clasped, and great hot tears rolling over her checks.

"Now, Ellen, my dear girl, I know you must be sorry when the child is claimed, but we have no right to keep him—no right to leave anything undone that may help to find out who he is. If his rightful parents claim him, you and I must give him up with thankful hearts. But the danger is that this advertisement may bring my poor Fanny's husband on us—a bad man, I fear—and if he knows all about Jack, he may want to take him, in order to get a reward for giving him back. He'd very likely say he was his own child, and what could we do? So Jack is safest away for a while, and you must go to take care of him."

Ellen listened attentively, but made no reply.

Hannah went on with the packing, and presently, among the girl's clothes, she came upon a big blue envelope, not directed, but carefully closed.

"What's this?" she said. "Some of your school papers, I suppose? It may as well stay at home."

Ellen was crimson, and then pale in a moment.

I think, had Hannah looked at her, she would have opened the envelope. But she did not look, and Ellen, quieting herself as well as she could, said—

"I'd rather take it with me, please."

Hannah tossed it in.

"Now we must have something to eat, and then we'll go. We're to be at Mrs. Anstruther's at six. We'll get a cab, but we won't go all the way in it, but get a second—you see, I don't want any one to know where you are going, and then they can't tell if they're asked. And I'll write and tell you if anything happens—you shall know at once."

She looked at the girl, and added fondly—

"Indeed, 'tis time you got a change or something to set you up. You've never been the same since the day my poor Fanny came to me. You got a great fright that day, Ellen, but you must try to forget it, or you'll end in being downright ill. You'll have a lovely time now, with Miss Mildred too, you know. You'll be quite sorry to come back to me."

Ellen got up and hurried over to her, flung her arms round her, and clung to her, crying out—

"Oh no! 'Tis you—you'll maybe love me no more! Oh, I wish—I wish—I'm so miserable—I'm such a coward—I don't know what I'm saying. Only promise me—promise me you'll not give me up! You won't leave off loving me!"

"Now, Ellen, all this fright because I let you go for your own good, just for a few weeks! Have sense, honey!"

Here Jack set up a terrible roar, being a little frightened, and decidedly of opinion that he was being neglected.

But for once Ellen did not run to console him. She clung to Hannah, crying—

"Promise me—do promise!"

"Not to forget you in six weeks or so? I may promise that for sure, unless I lose my senses. So, after all, Ellen, you think that you and I can be enough for each other, even without Jack?"

"I sometimes wish—I shall be glad when 'tis over!"

Hannah was rather alarmed; the usually quiet girl seemed so excited. But she said no more, and Ellen went to Jack.

All was done as Hannah had planned. She desired the first cabman to drive to a small inn, the mistress of which was one of her friends. Here she dismissed him, and presently took another cab, and was driven to Mrs. Anstruther's. When questioned by the ever-watchful Collins, she said she was sending Ellen and the child into the country for a few weeks, and managed to avoid saying more.

The advertisement came out in the "Times," and had only appeared twice when "something came of it, just as I thought," Hannah said.

She had finished her housework, and was resting before setting out to fulfil an engagement in the cooking line. She was looking at her flowers when she saw a man pass the window, and immediately there was a knock at the door.

"Well, I never saw Owen Morgan," said she to herself, "but somehow I feel sure that's him. And, if it is, I'm glad my poor Fanny is safe from him."

If the truth must be told, she felt a little bit nervous, and, after a moment's consideration, she opened the window wide and pushed aside the stand of flowers, so that any one passing by could look in. Then she went to the door.

"Is your name Rule, ma'am?" said the stranger, a short, powerful-looking man, with beady, black eyes, a very red nose, and a very bad expression of countenance, at once fierce and cunning.

"Yes, I'm Hannah Rule."

"Is my wife here?—Your sister Fanny?"

"Then you're Owen Morgan. No, my poor sister is not here. She came to me some time ago."

"About a child that some woman handed over to you, or to some one belonging to you?"

"Yes."

"And where is Fanny now?"

Hannah looked at him in silence for a moment. Then she asked him to come in.

"Step into the parlour and I'll tell you about Fanny."

He followed her, and she placed a chair for him.

"Were you fond of Fanny?" she said, looking hard at him. "I know you were not a good husband to her, but some men are not kind even to those they love."

"Oh, I'm a good enough husband, as men go," he said carelessly. "Fanny was a pretty lass when I married her, and, if all had gone well with me, I'd have made her happy; but I've had nothing but ill luck."

"If your love ran off with your good luck, it was a poor sort. But it's no concern of mine, and it don't matter to my poor Fanny now. She knocked at my door one morning, looking, as she well might, a dying woman. She fainted in the hall there. All that mortal could do for her was done—but she died before night."

"Fanny dead!" the man cried out, and then sat silent for some time.

Hannah watched for any sign of grief, but could see none. His face was grave, indeed, but he looked more like one whose plans have been upset, and require reconsidering, than like one in grief. This set her on her guard, and she determined to say as little about the child as she possibly could.

"Poor Fanny," he said presently. "I may say she'd have done better to stay where I left her. What about the child, ma'am?"

"Ay," said Hannah, "what about the child?"

"Where is it?"

"I've sent it to the country with a lady who offered to take it."

"You know, ma'am, Fanny came here after that child?"

"She did."

"By your advertisement, I'm sure she did not tell you who he belongs to."

"Can you tell me?" said Hannah.

Again he kept silence for some time, then said—

"I have some idea, but it suits me better to manage the matter for myself. Fanny stole him, you know."

"I don't know it; and nothing will make me believe it!"

"Oh, well, she did, all the same. She was his nurse, you see. She was in service somewhere in the country, and she did not know where I was. I had been down on my luck for some time, and had gone to America. After a time, I got employment as steward on board a liner, and made a few passages, but I've hit upon a kind of business that may make my fortune, and I wanted her to help. So I wrote to her to give notice and to meet me in London. When she got my letter, her master and mistress were away, and she came to me at once, bringing the child with her, and a lot of its clothes, which she sold. And she left the child in the care of the old woman you know of, meaning, I expect, to get money for restoring it. I think she came back to get the child, and see what she could do. I had her in lodgings, for she wasn't able for the work I wanted her for, nor for any work at all. Last time I went back, I found she had left, and no word for me as to where she was going, but, of course, I guessed. When I reached England yesterday, I saw your advertisement in the 'Times.'"

"That's a very fine story, Owen Morgan, but I saw you making it when you sat there silent. I don't believe it. Fanny could have stolen the clothes without stealing the child. If she had turned thief, and no one would take charge of it for her without being paid, which would be a certain expense, whereas getting money for restoring it was a very doubtful matter. She'd get taken up and punished more likely. Now, you tell me who the child is, and I'll restore him to his parents, and if there's a reward going, you may have it. I suppose that's what you're after. And that's my last word. I don't believe your story, and I won't hand the child over to you."

"I'm not quite a fool, thank you," said Morgan, with a wink; "you own to having the child, and I dare say I can manage just as well without him. I'll see his parents, and make my own bargain with them, and if you don't want to see the inside of a jail for aiding and abetting your sister in stealing the child, you'll have him here when they come for him."

"When do you suppose they'll come?"

"Oh, I've no time to lose; I must get back to the ship. Day after to-morrow say."

"I'll have him here then, and very glad I'll be to see him safe with his father and mother. But I can prove how he came to me, and the police know all about it. You won't frighten me, and I don't believe a word against Fanny."

"I believe you have the child in the house. Now, you just go for him this moment, or it may be the worse for you," Morgan began in a blustering tone. And as he spoke, he stood up and took a step or two towards her.

But Hannah's spirit was up.

"Sit down again," she said, with great contempt; "if either of us is frightened presently, it won't be me. The window's open, and there's a policeman and the old pensioner at the other side of the street, and if you go on like that, I call out to the policeman in half a moment. The child is not here, as I told you before, but I shall go for him, and bring him here. But you won't get possession of him then, or at any other time. I will give him up to his father and mother, and to no one else. I shall ask the police to keep an eye on the house. Make what bargain you like, and can, but you don't get the child."

Morgan subsided into his chair, and quite laid aside any notion of frightening his sister-in-law. She was of stouter stuff than poor Fanny had been. Yet, had he only known it, his next words frightened her thoroughly.

"Which is the shortest way to Orfer Street? There's a place there called Armine's Trust, a kind of Foundling Hospital. I've a child in it."

"A child! Do you mean a child of Fanny's?" Poor Hannah, her voice was quite hoarse.

"Yes. Now Fanny's dead, I shall want the girl. She's old enough now to be of use. We lost the three children that were born in Wales; they died of scarlet fever. And this child came when we were in great want, and we left it where the people were sure to see it—the people at Armine's, I mean. I know they took it in. I suppose I've a right to claim her."

"How will you know her?"

"I pinned a bit of writing to her clothes, with just her name and the date on it. They'll have kept that. Maybe she died—she was a weakly brat. But if she's alive, she may be of use to me. I'm setting up a kind of eating-house, with a bar, you know, and I must have some one to help me. I'll go and ask about the girl now, and see about the other matter to-morrow."

"What's the child's name?" asked Hannah.

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, she's my niece, you know."

"So she is, surely. I have the name and date in my pocket-book. Ay, here it is—

"'Ellen, born August 1, 18—, and left near Armine's Trust, August 16, same year.'

"I always thought I might want her."

He got up, and looked round the comfortable room, saying—

"You seem to be very well off."

"Yes," said Hannah, rousing herself. "I have plenty of employment, and a tidy sum of money saved. And, poor Fanny being gone, her child is the only relation I have in the world. And, mind you, I as little believe that Fanny deserted her own child as that she stole the boy. The few words she said about you were,—

"'He was very cruel to me twice.'

"And I feel sure she meant about the little girl, and about this boy. There is no use in telling that story to any one, for I'll contradict it, so you may as well speak the truth."

"You'll find your case rather hard to prove, ma'am, seeing Fanny's dead, and you know nothing about it. However, I'll say good morning now; I'll see you again perhaps."

"Not with my will, Owen Morgan. I don't want to see you again. I'll give the boy to his own parents, and to none other."

Here she shut the door, shutting Morgan out. Going to her parlour, she closed the window, pushed the flower-stand into its proper place, and sat down to think.

"My poor, poor Ellen! What can I do to save her? Mrs. Anstruther will help me, I know, if help there is. I remember thinking the child like Fanny. Let me see—I must lose no time. He'll take an hour to reach Armine's Trust, but his business there won't take long. They'll tell him that Ellen's with me, and he'll come back here at once. He'll be here in about two hours and a half. I must get away at once. I won't see him till I've made up my mind what to do. It may be best for Ellen to stay where she is. I'll go myself and bring Jack home."

She began her preparations at once by packing a few things in a little black handbag, which she used for carrying her cap and apron when she went out to her engagements. And so much was she upset by this discovery about Ellen that even the sight of the bag failed to remind her of her engagement for that day. Never had Hannah failed one of her employers before, but there was wrath and dismay in Mrs. Arnott's house that day.

She was far too early for the train to Portsmouth, but that she did not mind, as she felt safe from Morgan. And in the interval, she sent a telegram to Mrs. Anstruther, begging her to send some one to meet her when she left the steamboat, as she did not know the way. So when in due time she landed at Ryde, she found Miss Mildred waiting for her, with a little pony carriage, in which they drove what seemed a very long way, and it was rather dark when they reached "Sea View House."

"Miss Mildred, how is Ellen? Do you think she is any stronger?"

"I am afraid not, Mrs. Rule. Yet Ellen does not seem to me ill, so much as—uneasy. She was out with the child when your telegram came, or she would have come with me."

"Poor child! I'm sure I don't know how to tell her. Is this the place? Ay, and poor Ellen on the watch for me!"

And Ellen's voice called out—"Is that you, Mrs. Rule dear? Has Jack's mother claimed him?"

To Hannah's pleased surprise, the girl spoke as if hopefully; she had expected to find her in despair.

"Not yet, Ellen; but he has both father and mother, and they will claim him the day after to-morrow."

"Oh, I am thankful!" cried Ellen. "It is a burthen off my heart. You're to come to Mrs. Anstruther at once; she's longing to know all about it."

Mrs. Anstruther welcomed Hannah kindly, and would not hear a word of her story till she had had some tea and bread and butter.

"It is only my very great goodness, Hannah, that makes me able to wait; for I am just wildly curious to know how any people lost that lovely child, and took no steps to find him for nearly eight months! And now, to begin—what is his name?"

"I know no more than you do, ma'am. It was poor Fanny's husband, Owen Morgan, that saw the advertisement, and came to me. He knows the father and mother; at least, he knows who they are, and he's to see them and tell them to come to me for the child. But that's not all I have to tell."

"No; I felt sure there was something, or you would have had Ellen and the baby sent to you. Why, Hannah, you look—what is it, dear Hannah?"

"Ellen, my dear, it concerns you. I remember thinking you were like her—like my poor Fanny, but you lost the look as you grew up. You are my own niece, Ellen—my dear sister's child."

Ellen stood up, trembling all over.

"Not 'hers!'" she said. "Not Fanny's—who—died at our house?"

"Yes, dear. I never had but one sister."

Ellen uttered a kind of wail—it was really the most piteous sound possible. She slipped down on her knees, and hid her face in her hands.

"And she was my mother—and I—"

"How could you know it? But I don't wonder you feel it like that. It was very pitiful—my poor Fanny. But I must consult Mrs. Anstruther, and get her advice as to the best way of defending her character, and I must say things you had better not hear, Ellen. So go away, dear, just for a time."

"No; I want to know all. Let me stay."

"She must know some day, Hannah. Let her stay."

Then Hannah told the story of Morgan's visit; his assertion that Fanny had stolen the boy, and his determination to claim Ellen. Poor Ellen still knelt in the same place, with her face hidden, but she listened intently.

"I do not think you need alarm yourself, Hannah. I will speak to my solicitor—a man of such a character will not be allowed to remove Ellen from your care. Besides, Mr. Hastings will no doubt prosecute him—he will not trouble you, I suspect. You will not lose your child."

"Oh, she has lost her!" said Ellen. "She'll be glad to let me go, and I deserve it—I deserve anything. I've acted so that no one can ever love me again. I'll go with him—he's good enough for me."

"What on earth can the child mean?" Hannah whispered anxiously.

"Ellen," Mrs. Anstruther said, "I have more than once told you that I feared you had something on your mind. Speak out now; what is it?"

"I must speak out," Ellen said, "if such things are being said of my mother. Only that she is my mother, I don't think I ever could do it. Mrs. Rule—oh, dear! it's like killing myself—you'll hate me; you won't be able to help it. That day when she came, you went for a doctor and left me with her, bidding me send for Dr. Jephson if she woke up able to speak. She did wake; you were not long gone when it happened. She told me of the letter, and made me get it out of her pocket. She bid me give it to you. She said,—

"'It tells the whole story as well as I could write it. But if I die before Hannah comes back, ask her not to use it against Owen if she can help it.'

"And she told me something about how he took the child, but I did not understand it. I didn't send for Dr. Jephson. I thought if I kept the letter, Jack would not be claimed. I gave her beef-tea, but she did not take much. She asked me how old I was, and said that would be the age of a little girl that she lost. She said I was very kind. Oh she little knew! She seemed very drowsy, and fell asleep again. It was then, while I was sitting by her, that I made up my mind to keep Jack if I could. I've never had a happy moment since. I even thought I'd read the letter—I never opened it—and some day when you were out, I could take him to his people. I had fifty plans, but I never meant to tell, because I knew you would say I had done a wicked thing. But if she was my own mother, and would be thought to have stolen the baby, I feel I must tell. Now, I've told, and I wish I could hide myself away."

There was a long silence, only broken by Ellen's miserable sobs.

At last, Mrs. Anstruther said—

"Have you the letter here, Ellen?"

"Yes, ma'am, in my box."

"Go and get it. Bring it here at once."

Ellen got up, made her way to the door as if she were blind, and presently came back with a big blue packet, which Hannah recognized at once.

Mrs. Anstruther held out her hand for it, saying—

"May I open it for you, Hannah? Ellen, remain here, if you please."

She broke open the envelope, and took out several papers, all folded up in a large sheet of foolscap, all covered with writing. This was poor Fanny's letter. It began—

"HONOURED MASTER,

"I write this in fear that I may be prevented seeking the child. I cannot bear to think what you and my dear kind mistress have suffered. I am very ill—I know I am a dying woman—so you will believe what I tell you.

"When you landed me and the baby at Southampton along with Derrick, we did just what you told us. We went to London. When we got there, Derrick told me to wait a bit in the station, and he would go to the lady, and get her to send her carriage for the child, for he heard there was so much illness about that he did not like to take him in a cab. We stayed in the waiting-room; but the baby began to cry, and I got up and walked him about. I went out on the platform. There I met my husband, Owen Morgan. You did not know I was married, for he had deserted me; and as all my discharges were in my old name, Rule, I somehow went back to it.

"Owen said he was in search of me; he wanted me at once. I begged and prayed, but he would not even wait till Derrick came back; but he said he'd send the child home in the evening. He was not quite sober, and he got a cab and put me and baby in it, and the box I had in the waiting-room, that you told Derrick to be so careful of. Owen had lodgings in a horrid low place, and here he kept me and the child in spite of all I could say. He said he had friends going to America, and I should go with them; he would not lose sight of me, as he had the luck to pounce on me. The child was very fretful, from the bad air and bad milk, and not like his dear little self. One morning when I woke, the child was gone. Owen said he had taken it to a woman he knew, who would take cart of it for awhile, and that when you were well frightened you would give a round sum to get him back. I nearly went mad, but he did not care; he sent me off to New York with the people he had spoken of. He himself was employed as steward on board an American liner, so he soon joined me in New York. I was never allowed to write a letter, and I had no money, for he took both my own and what you gave me; and he took the box, and I know he opened it. When he came he told me the child was dead. I was very ill, and that killed me—I'm dying now.

"I cannot remember how long it was when I saw a letter from London to Owen, and I read it. It was signed Martha Jacobs, and she wanted money, and would tell the police about the child, and where it was, unless he sent the money. She would tell him where it was if he promised her half the reward.

"I said nothing of having read this letter; but I got away. I took a little money, but I felt it was right—he had taken yours. So I took my passage, and got safe to London. I found the woman, her address being on her letter, and by threatening to go to the police, I made her tell me where the child is. But for fear I may not live to see the child, for I feel so very bad, I write this to make all sure; he is at No. 3, Wellington Row, Clapham, and is well and well-cared for, the woman says. That you may be sure this comes from his nurse, I send copies of my discharges—you have the real ones; and I send your letter that I was to give your cousin. I hope my mistress has not had to know the baby was lost, for it would nearly kill her; but indeed, sir, I was not to blame, unless for not telling you that I was married.

"Now I remember that I do not know where this letter would find you, I must take it to Mrs. Amesbury's house, and she will direct it to you. I should like to know that you believe my story, but I never shall. I feel sure I am near death.

"I remain, honoured master, "Your poor, unhappy servant, "FANNY MORGAN (or RULE)."

Hannah was crying, if less miserably, quite as bitterly as Ellen.

The unopened letter enclosed was addressed to:

"Mrs. Amesbury, 15, B— Square, London, W."