Not until he had been heavily asleep sometime, and was snoring roundly, did the old woman turn towards the door where Mr. Dombey stood concealed, and beckon him to come through the room, and pass out. Even then she hovered over Rob, ready to blind him with her hands, or strike his head down, if he should raise it while the secret step was crossing to the door. But though her glance took sharp cognizance of the sleeper, it was sharp too for the waking man; and when he touched her hand with his, and in spite of all his caution, made a chinking golden sound, it was as bright and greedy as a raven's.

The daughter's dark gaze followed him to the door, and noted well how pale he was, and how his hurried tread indicated that the least delay was an insupportable restraint upon him, and how he was burning to be active and away. As he closed the door behind him, she looked round at her mother. The old woman trotted to her; opened her hand to show what was within; and, tightly closing it again in her jealousy and avarice, whispered:

"What will he do, Ally?"

"Mischief," said the daughter.

"Murder?" asked the old woman.

"He's a madman, in his wounded pride, and may do that, for any. thing we can say, or he either."

Her glance was brighter than her mother's and the fire that shone in it was fiercer; but her face was colorless, even to her lips. They said no more, but sat apart; the mother communing with her money; the daughter with her thoughts; the glance of each, shining in the gloom of the feebly-lighted room. Rob slept and snored. The disregarded parrot only was in action. It twisted and pulled at the wires of its cage, with its crooked beak, and crawled up to the dome, and along its roof like a fly, and down again head foremost, and shook, and bit, and rattled at every slender bar, as if it knew its master's danger, and was wild to force a passage out, and fly away to warn him of it.

CHAPTER LIII.

MORE INTELLIGENCE.

THERE were two of the traitor's own blood-his renounced brother and sister-on whom the weight of his guilt rested almost more heavily, at this time, than on the man whom he had so deeply injured. Prying and tormenting as the world was, it did Mr. Dombey the service of nerving him to pursuit and revenge. It roused his passion, stung his pride, twisted the one idea of his life into a new shape, and made some gratification of his wrath, the object into which his whole intellectual existence resolved itself. All the stubbornness and implacability of his nature, all its hard impenetrable quality, all its gloom and moroseness, all its exaggerated sense of personal importance, all its jealous disposi tion to resent the least flaw in the ample recognition of his import

ance by others, set this way like many streams united into one, and bore him on upon their tide. The most impetuously passionate and violently impulsive of mankind would have been a milder enemy to encounter than the sullen Mr. Dombey wrought to this. A wild beast would have been easier turned or soothed than the grave gentleman without a wrinkle in his starched cravat.

But the very intensity of his purpose became almost a substitute for action in it. While he was yet uninformed of the traitor's retreat, it served to divert his mind from his own calamity, and to entertain it with another prospect. The brother and sister of his false favorite had no such relief; everything in their history, past and present, gave his delinquency a more afflicting meaning to them.

The sister may have sometimes sadly thought that if she had remained with him, the companion and friend she had been once, he might have escaped the crime into which he had fallen. If she ever thought so, it was still without regret for what she had done, without the least doubt of her duty, without any pricing or enhancing of her self-devotion. But when this possibility presented itself to the erring and repentant brother, as it sometimes did, it smote upon his heart with such a keen, reproachful touch, as he could hardly bear. No idea of retort upon his cruel brother, came into his mind. New accusation of himself, fresh inward lamentings over his own unworthiness, and the ruin in which it was at once his consolation and his self-reproach that he did not stand alone, were the sole kind of reflections to which the discovery gave rise in him.

It was on the very same day whose evening set upon the last chapter, and when Mr. Dombey's world was busiest with the elopement of his wife, that the window of the room in which the brother and sister sat at their early breakfast, was darkened by the unexpected shadow of a man coming to the little porch which man was Perch the Messenger.

"I've stepped over from Ball's Pond at a early hour," said Mr. Perch, confidentially looking in at the room door, and stopping on the mat to wipe his shoes all round, which had no mud upon them, "agreeable to my instructions last night. They was, to be sure and bring a note to you, Mr. Carker, before you went out in the morning. I should have been here a good hour and a half ago," said Mr. Perch, meekly," but for the state of health of Mrs. P., who I thought I should have lost in the night, I do assure you, five distinct times."

"Is your wife so ill?" asked Harriet.

Why, you see," said Mr. Perch, first turning round to shut the door carefully," she takes what has happened in our House so much to heart, Miss. Her nerves is so very delicate you see, and soon unstrung! Not but what the strongest nerves had good need to be shook, I'm sure. You feel it very much yourself, no doubts."

Harriet repressed a sigh, and glanced at her brother.

"I'm sure I feel it myself, in my humble way," Mr. Perch went on to say, with a shake of his head, "in a manner I couldn't have believed if I hadn't been called upon to undergo. It has almost the effect of drink pon me. I literally feels every morning as if I had been taking more than was good for me over-night."

Mr. Perch's appearance corroborated this recital of his symptoms, There was an air of feverish lassitude about it, that seemed referable to drams; and which, in fact, might no doubt have been traced to those numerous discoveries of himself in the bars of public houses, being treated and questioned, which he was in the daily habit of making.

"Therefore I can judge," said Mr. Perch, shaking his head again, and speaking in a silvery murmur, " of the feelings of such as is at all peculiarly sitiwated in this most painful revelation."

Here Mr. Perch waited to be confided in; and receiving no confidence, coughed behind his hand. This leading to nothing, he coughed behind his hat; and that leading to nothing, he put his hat on the ground and sought in his breast pocket for the letter.

"If I rightly recollect, there was no answer," said Mr. Perch, with an affable smile; "but perhaps you'll be so good as cast your eye over it, Sir."

John Carker broke the seal, which was Mr. Dombey's, and possess ing himself of the contents, which were very brief, replied, "No. No answer is expected."

"Then I shall wish you good morning, Miss," said Perch, taking a step toward the door, "and hoping, I'm sure, that you'll not permit yourself to be more reduced in mind than you can help, by the late pain. ful rewelation. The Papers," said Mr. Perch, taking two steps back again, and comprehensively addressing both the brother and-sister in a whisper of increased mystery, "is more eager for news of than you'd suppose possible. One of the Sunday ones, in a blue cloak and a white hat, that had previously offered for to bribe me-need I say with what success?—was dodging about our court last night as late as twenty min. utes after eight o'clock. I see him, myself, with his eye at the count ing-house keyhole, which being patent is impervious. Another one," said Mr. Perch, "with milintary frogs, is in the parlour of the King's Arms all the blessed day. I happened, last week, to let a little obser wation fall there, and next morning, which was Sunday, I see it worked up in print, in a most surprising manner."

Mr. Perch resorted to his breast pocket, as if to produce the paragraph, but receiving no encouragement, pulled out his beaver gloves, picked up his hat, and took his leave; and before it was high noon, Mr. Perch had related to several select audiences at the King's Arms and elsewhere, how Miss Carker, bursting into tears, had caught him by both hands, and said, "Oh! dear dear Perch, the sight of you is all the comfort I have left!" and how Mr. John Carker had said, in an awful voice, "Perch, I disown him. Never let me hear him mentioned as a brother more ! "

"Dear John," said Harriet, when they were left alone, and had remained silent for some few moments, "There are bad tidings in that letter."

"Yes. But nothing unexpected," he replied. "I saw the writer yesterday."

"The writer?"

"Mr. Dombey. He passed twice through the counting-house while I was there. I had been able to avoid him before, but of course could not

hope to do that long. I know how natural it was that he should regard my presence as something offensive; I felt it must be so myself." "He did not say so?"

"No; he said nothing: but I saw that his glance rested on me for a moment, and I was prepared for what would happen for what has happened. I am dismissed!"

She looked as little shocked and as hopeful as she could, but it was distressing news, for many reasons.

"I need not tell you,' ," said John Carker, reading the letter, "why your name would henceforth have an unnatural sound, in however remote a connexion with mine, or why the daily sight of any one who bears it, would be unendurable to me. I have to notify the cessation of all engagements between us, from this date, and to request that no renewal of any communication with me, or my establishment, be ever attempted by you.'-Enclosed, is an equivalent in money to a generously long notice, and this is my discharge. Heaven knows, Harriet, it is a lenient and considerate one, when we remember all !"

"If it be lenient and considerate to punish you at all, John, for the misdeed of another," she replied gently, "yes."

"We have been an ill-omened race to him," said John Carker. "He has reason to shrink from the sound of our name, and to think that there is something cursed and wicked in our blood. I should almost think it too, Harriet, but for you."

"Brother, don't speak like this. If you have any special reason, as you say you have, and think you have-though I say, No!-to love me, spare me the hearing of such wild mad words!"

He covered his face with both his hands; but soon permitted her, coming near him, to take one in her own.

"After so many years, this parting is a melancholy thing I know," said his sister, "and the cause of it is dreadful to us both. We have to live, too, and must look about us for the means. Well, well! We can do so, undismayed. It is our pride, not our trouble, to strive, John, and to strive together."

A smile played on her lips, as she kissed his cheek, and entreated him to be of good cheer.

"Oh, dearest sister! Tied, of your own noble will, to a ruined man! whose reputation is blighted; who has no friend himself, and has driven every friend of yours away!"

John!" she laid her hand hastily upon his lips, " for my sake! In remembrance of our long companionship!" He was silent." Now, let me tell you, dear," quietly sitting by his side. "I have, as you have, expected this; and when I have been thinking of it, and fearing that it would happen, and preparing myself for it, as well as I could, I have resolved to tell you, if it should be so, that I have kept a secret from you, and that we have a friend."

"What is our friend's name, Harriet?" he answered, with a sorrowful smile.

"Indeed I don't know, but he once made a very earnest protestation to me of his friendship and his wish to serve us: and to this day I believe him.”

"Harriet!" exclaimed her wondering brother, "where does this friend live?"

"Neither do I know that," she returned.

and our history-all our little history, John.

"But he knows us both,

That is the reason why,

at his own suggestion, I have kept the secret of his coming here, from you, lest his acquaintance with it should distress you."

"Here! Has he been here, Harriet?"

"Here, in this room. Once."

"What kind of man?"

་

"Not young. Grey-headed,' as he said, ' and fast growing greyer.' But generous, and frank, and good, I am sure."

"And only seen once, Harriet?"

"In this room only once," said his sister, with the slightest and most transient glow upon her cheek; " but, when here, he entreated me to suffer him to see me once a week as he passed by, in token of our being well, and continuing to need nothing at his hands. For I told him, when he proffered us any service he could render-which was the object of his visit-that we needed nothing."

"And once a week."

"Once every week since then, and always on the same day, and at the same hour, he has gone past; always on foot; always going in the same direction towards London; and never pausing longer than to bow to me, and wave his hand cheerfully, as a kind guardian might. He made that promise when he proposed these curious interviews, and has kept it so faithfully and pleasantly, that if I ever felt any trifling uneasiness about them in the beginning (which I don't think I did, John; his manner was so plain and true) it very soon vanished, and left me quite glad when the day was coming. Last Monday-the first since this terrible event-he did not go by; and I have wondered whether his absence can have been in any way connected with what has happened."

"How?" inquired her brother.

"I don't know how. I have only speculated on the coincidence; I have not tried to account for it. I feel sure he will return. When he does, dear John, let me tell him that I have at last spoken to you, and let me bring you together. He will certainly help us to a new livelihood His entreaty was that he might do something to smooth my life and yours; and I gave him my promise that if we ever wanted a friend, I would remember him. Then, his name was to be no secret."

"Harriet," said her brother, who had listened with close attention, "describe this gentleman to me. I surely ought to know one who knows me so well."

His sister painted, as vividly as she could, the features, stature, and dress of her visitor; but John Carker, either from having no knowledge of the original, or from some fault in her description, or from some abstraction of his thoughts as he walked to and fro, pondering, could not recognize the portrait she presented to him.

However, it was agreed between them that he should see the original when he next appeared. This concluded, the sister applied herself, with a less anxious breast, to her domestic occupations; and the grey-haired