"What, from above?" said Sir Ethelred, and laughed like a choking hippopotamus. "What is it, Charles? A boy, I'll bet a guinea." "Sex not known-baby not born, but on the road. Boy or girl, gentlemen, I'll take your bets all round either way. What say, Sir Hetty?" "A boy, for a thousand guineas." “Done,” said the intoxicated husband.” "But mind, old boy, I'll have the chick, if I'm right; is it a bargain?" "Yes, you shall; I don't want any brats, except for Sarah's sake, poor devil. I wonder how she is: go and see, Mot. Will no other gentleman oblige me with a bet ; there may be two, you know?" "Oh! curse me, I forgot that, Charles; let me hedge." But as there was no response, and the other worthies were looking on in dull amazement at the whole scene, the drift of which they were too far gone to catch, they began again with the one business which had brought them there, which business was to drink and be drunken, to talk obscenity and nonsensical politics, to prize horses, and devise remedies for faulty dogs, to sin the old year out, and sin the new year in. At about eleven o'clock the door opened, and in rushed a tall, thin respectable female, neither lady nor servant, but something between, a very stately and decorous female, even when as now she condescended to rush. In she came, so excited, so deadened to her wonted sense of propriety and virgin delicacy, that she seemed not even to be aware that the delirious Mottram was stumbling in at her heels with his arms fast locked round her waist, shouting savagely—“Tell me, Miss Bethia, or by the Lord I'll grip you in two, and kiss you into the bargain!" But she had a mission-(as what woman has not?) and she was not to be thwarted-so in a lean, but very appropriate voice she announced to Mr. Charles that it was a daughter, God bless her! and that she, Miss Bethia Gibbins was so, so glad, and that it was five minutes old-the picture of its papa; and Mrs. B. was as well as could be reasonably expected. The truth being that Mrs. B. was infinitely better than Miss Bethia had ever conceived it possible that any woman ever could be in such shocking circumstances-much better than, in her opinion, any of them deserved to be—and, besides, this was her first direct acquaintance and participation in any such-like disreputable business. Charles felt a sudden spasm at his heart when he really understood that he was a father of a living child; and even in his drunken stupor there was a flush of kindly feeling for the dear, dear wife, and of solemn thankfulness for the gift of the little daughter. He gave a rich jewel from his hand to the fair angel of annunciation, and a goodly benison in gold, much to the chagrin of the waist-embracing Mottram, who now regretted relinquishing his hold—so handy was the pocket into which the glittering pieces sank. Indeed, if there had been any possibility of carrying Miss Gibbins's deeprooted prejudices by assault on such a night of all othersthe hardy and arrogant bachelor would have married her out of hand. CHAPTER IX. THE DREGS OF THE CUP. WHEN the door was closed, the unwieldly Sir Ethelred rose, and with ludicrous gravity stumbled through a few congratulatory sentences-proposed the health of the newly-born in thick words which nobody heard or cared to understand. Then drinking off his glass, and refilling twice in quick succession, drank again and again, as he said, a treble health, to father, mother, and baby. This was the sort of peroration which all could understand, and notwithstanding its powerful effect as a peroration, all could imitate in degree, to the very life; all did so imitate, and then the bell rang, and Mottram was dispatched for a punch-bowl to christen the baby in, and all the servants he could lay hands on were to come in and stand sponsors at this Devil's font. The domestics came, did their devoirs as they best could, and vanished as quickly as they could from the strange spectacle (to them) of five (all but noble) gentlemen in the last frenzy of intoxication. The wassail mirth grew loud and furious, and when the great Hall clock, and the neighbouring village bells rang out that another year had gone up to God with all its sins-these maniacs stormed and cheered, and held high riot in the midnight hour, when a new year and a new being were born unto the world. Oh, who would seek to dash the flowing bowl to the ground? Hark to their hilarity, their charity, the good-will of generous and softened hearts, breathed out in benediction, in prayers, in tears, in grasping of hands, in earnest affectionate embraces -who would deny the blessedness of the draught which could so bless and exalt the human spirit-all selfishness, and ancestral pride, and even money loving, melting on this birthnight of the heiress of a good old family. By the way, Sir Ethelred would like to see the baby “No, no-never mention such a thing," squeaked out a young lack-brain, who had been three parts drunk when dinner began, and had now slept himself half sober; "you'll be the death of the little beast-don't be a bundle of old fools just because you've got a daughter between you. Besides, that old what's-her-name will see you d―d first." "Who will? I should like to see them, any of them, see me d-d first," said the madman host, and he rose staggering, but with a fixed idea from which neither dissuasion nor drunkenness could turn him. Steadier at each step, until he gained the door, then out into the silent hall, up the wide staircase white with the moonbeams, as the snowy fields without, up with stealthy tread, past the busts of the glorious dead who would have bidden their stone images to fall and crush him could they have known his hideous purposealong the silent gallery, on every panel the frowning picture of some noble father of his house who would have perished rather than have sunk the chivalric shield of untarnished honour before the base temptation which had made him a willing victim. Was it could it be that the long gallery of the illustrious dead, shook with the hisses of a thousand years; or was it but the wine seething in his brain ?—On! no earthly voice hath power now-none is spoken. Great Heaven! art thou, too, silent? No human hand is there to stay him. Father above-where, where was thine? What fiendish instinct led him straight to that hallowed spot-the resting place of the weary mother and her nestling babe? Within, all was warmth, silence, sleep. The very dial ticked with bated force-the huge cat purred soothingly, peering into the sinking fire. The breath of the sleepers, soft as it were the waving of an angel's wing-that double breathing where yesterday there had been only one! Faithful friend, incredibly sleepless Bethia-why art thou too sitting straight up in that painful way, as if thou wert free of the waking world and couldst sleep no more, and yet asleep? The footfall of the thief is not a sound-it cannot stir even the halfwakeful Tabby-the bed is reached-hot-air pours in like blasts from hell on those sweet flowers. A moment, and the babe is snatched into its parent's murderous hands-away! The startled mother springs from her sick couch-wildfrantic-speechless-quaking; leaps to the floor-gazes out into the moonlit passage. Does she dream? Oh, Godwhat a dream! No. What means it? Is it Charles? What will she? If she cry, the house will rise-the husband she had so loved will be exposed for the first time (she thought)-oh, even now her heart beats so true. But, ahthe shadow yonder!-It stumbles-falls. That weak childcry-answer, shrieking maniac mother, what ails thee in this midnight hour? * * * * The thief had stumbled. The robbed mother obeyed the mighty inward cry of mother-love, and shrieked. He heard, but knew not what it meant. He never heard that voice again. The guests below were sobered by that loud, ringing cry; and rushing from the house as if incarnate vengeance were pursuing, gave no thought to horse or servants, but ran to the jingling echoes of that fearful peal of woe. Charles was conveyed to bed; and when the morning of the new year dawned, he was in the earthly hell of brain fever. Sarah gathered up her remnant strength for a final sacrifice in her great love to him; she conjured the faithful Bethia to explain to none, to break no syllable of the truth—above all things to be a mother to the orphan baby, to shield it from. that deranged father till in happier years it might stand between him and evil, between God and him, as intercessor for a sinful and acursed father, as a reconciler of that father to a forsaken God. With one last effort she pencilled a few lines, and sealed them up, directing them to her second father, Mr. Drake, and then she suffered the waiting household to come in, and her mother hastening to her side besought an explanation which now the dear sufferer could not, and Miss Gibbins would not give, and when that New Year's Day, went up to Heaven it bore the meek and patient spirit of our stricken Sarah tenderly and safely to her God. The weeks passed slowly on, and still the sick man gave no sign of conscious life. The father had been summoned to the scene of the great disaster. He had come with a reluctance and a dread which none could measure, but with the haste of that love which no fear could repress, no sin, no infamy on his child could quench. In vain he sought explanation of so much shipwreck; none could tell but one, and her lips were sealed. Death had carried into heaven the record of her vow, and with rare delicacy, as well as faithfulness, Miss Gibbins put aside the eager questionings of the distracted father. From Mr. Mottram, however, who was sorely troubled, for a wonder, by this sudden explosion and catastrophe, Mr. Barton gathered that "Mr. Charles had been so long stretched in painful anxiety, that his nerves were fairly unstrung, and perhaps having taken a little more than his usual quantity, it and the nervousness together, had flown to his brain." Mr. Barton was glad to believe this, not that he had any suspicion of the real state of matters, but merely because with his new creed of abstinence he was disposed to associate all misfortunes whatever with the practice he had abandoned. He had for some time pondered more deeply the absolute necessity of his son's complete abstinence. He had exaggerated to himself the difficulty of such a step on Charles's part, for he knew by report, at least, the vast drinking capacities of the set with which Charles had recently mingled, and he was now glad to conclude, from the severe effects of one single hour's indulgence, that moderation was the rule of his life. With a heavy heart he pressed the motherless babe to his breast, praying that his dear Charles might be spared to guard and train the little one, but vowing, even in Miss Gibbins's presence, that if need should arise, he would be more a father to |