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THE SILENT WITNESS.

BY EDMUND YATES,

Author of "Broken to Harness,” “Kissing_the_Rod,” etc., etc.

BOOK III. CHAPTER VIII. GEORGE HEATH'S WIFE. THAT was a dull week of waiting, and Grace Middleham's patience was almost exhausted. It was not as though she had any great hope of being rewarded at the end of the appointed time; she knew that the letter which she had received was not in Anne's writing, and she felt that some one, to whom the advertisement was not addressed, and with whom it had no concern, had answered her appeal in all honesty, but under a misapprehension. George Heath was, after all, a sufficiently common name, and there was no reason why the wife of any George Heath should not be the heroine of one of those domestic complications which are constantly happening and thus fancying herself pointedly appealed to. Clement Burton, however, was more hopeful; he said vaguely that he thought something would come of it"-what, he did not say. Nor could he have explained, had he been pressed upon the point; but he had a kind of intuitive idea that, though Miss Middleham was possibly right in her supposition that her correspondent was not the friend of her childhood -the person she desired to see-yet that the letter written in reply to the advertisement might possibly be the means of bringing about the required end, and gaining some information as to Anne Studley's fate.

It was expedient for their purpose, Clement thought, that inquiries should be made as to what had become of George Heath himself, who, since he retired from the management of the bank, had scarcely been heard of. Miss Middleham consenting, Clement undertook to make these inquiries himself, and arrived one morning at the Hermitage earlier than usual, primed with information.

"Something extraordinary must have happened to have brought you here so soon," said Grace, after the first salutation. "I suppose it would be too much to hope that you had heard anything of George Heath's wife ?"

"Nothing at present," said Mr. Burton; "but, failing that, I have some news about George

Miss

Heath himself. I think, if I dare say so, Middleham, that you are to be heartily congratulated in having been freed from that prospective alliance, and that it would have been impossible for Miss Studley to show her real affection for you more strikingly than by breaking it off."

"Your words convey the reproach which I have long since admitted to myself," said Grace; "but what have you heard about Mr. Heath ?"

"In the City, everything to his favor," replied Clement Burton; "he is spoken of as a marvellously clever man of business, and the greatest wonderment is expressed at his having retired, when at the height of his prosperity, and in the zenith of his career. But success in the City does not mean anything, dear Miss Middleham; and, as I said before, I fancy you are well out of the connection.”

"Has he wholly relinquished business?" asked Grace. "I had a notion that, in giving up the management of the bank, he was merely desirous of extending his operations. Mr. Hillman told me, that Mr. Heath's talents were considered quite thrown away in such a comparatively small business."

"Either his desires were limited, or his longing for rest was great," said Mr. Burton; for when he gave up the management of the bank, he retired finally from all business, and, so far as I learn, has scarcely been seen in the City since."

"You would think it scarcely possible for a man, who had led such a busy life, to exist without excitement under some form or other," said Grace.

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seeing him. He is in bad health, and has established himself, oddly enough, in a village called Loddonford. Ah, you start! It is the same then the place where, as you have told me, your uncle lived. From what I learn, Mr. Heath resides there quite alone, in a lonely little house in the midst of a jungle-like garden, all dreary and desolate.”

"Has he no acquaintance?" asked Grace.

"Apparently none. He discouraged the polite advances made to him, on first taking up his residence, by the people in the village, and no strangers ever come to see him."

"What an awful, solitary life," said Grace. "And he is ill, too, you say?”

"So my informant judges, from his never moving from the house, though that may be from choice, not necessity; but it is certain that, when last seen, he was considerably broken in health. And that reminds me that there are several sick people waiting for me, and that I must hurry off to them.”

"Tell me first about the poor woman whose case you mentioned to me the other day; how is she getting on?"

"Not quite so well within the last few days," said Mr. Burton; "she is irritable and uncom fortable to a degree, and keeps herself in a state of feverish excitement, which seriously militates against her progress."

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"Is the same nurse still with her-she of whom that rough man, Mr. Channell, spoke so warmly?" What, Sister Gaynor? Oh yes, she is still there, and she merits all the good things said of her, although the other day, though you seemed to think them rather exaggerated, I scarcely know any one else who would have remained with poor Mrs. Walton and put up with her temper and exaction." "Have you any idea of the cause of this disturbance ?"

"None, beyond that it is mental, and not physical. She is extremely close and secretive; most patients with a grievance take their nurse, if not their doctor, into their confidence; but she has never said a word to Mrs. Gaynor on the subject. I will bring you to see her one day if you will come; I have a notion that your practical common sense might work a good effect upon her."

"I have my doubts," said Grace, smiling; "but I will go for all that ;" and Mr. Burton took his leave.

That morning, when the surgeon paid his da visit to Lydia Walton, Mrs. Gaynor met him of the stairs. "I think you must speak to her," she said, "for she is getting beyond my control." Any fresh symptom ?" he asked.

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"No," said Sister Gaynor; "just the same, restless and irritable to a degree. Yes! one new symptom-a notion that she will not be kept a prisoner any longer.'"'

"I will see what I can do with her," said Mr. Burton, "for your sake as well as for hers. This worry must be put a stop to; you are looking thoroughly worn out."

"Well, doctor," said Mrs. Walton, as Mr Burton entered the room, "when are you going to give me my ticket-of-leave? I am all right, you know; and I don't want to be bothering on your hands any longer."

"You would have been all right; but you are going the very way to make yourself all wrong," said Mr. Burton. "Your excellent nurse, who, as you must allow, has borne with you with the greatest patience, tells me that lately you have become almost unmanageable. I myself have noticed your irritability and excitement, and it is my duty to tell you plainly, that by all this you are doing yourself irreparable injury."

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Lydia Walton was silent for a moment. Then she spoke, her voice shaken by passion, winch found its relief in tears. "I know it," she sa:i: I know I am a brute, and have been behaving like one to you, and that dear, good soul, when I owe both of you so much; but I cannot help it. I have bothers and worries enough to upset a woman in good health, let alone a poor wretch like me, that is tormented with this wound and tied up with these bandages."

"If you would tell us the cause of these worries, we could do something to help you; but you won't."

"Not I," said Lydia. "I keep every thing to myself. That has been my game through life. I might have done better if I had spoken out and asked for things; but I have got a bit of pride which prevents me and keeps my mouth shut."'

"Well, if you won't speak, it is impossible to give you any help," said the doctor.

"Oh no, it is not," said Lydia. "You can do that without my saying a word. Just you give me leave to get out; that's all I want."

"To get out ?" echoed Clement Burton;

"when you have been kept so carefully secluded turning restive, when you were so far advanced on for six weeks !" the high road to recovery."

That increases the necessity," said Lydia. “I must go out, and I will-there!"'

"Oh, if you will, there is an end of the matter," said Clement Burton, shrugging his shoulders. "What a rude brute I am!" she cried, putting up her hands, appealingly; "but I really didn't mean it; and if you only knew how important it is to me to get out, you would forgive me. Look here," she continued, bending forward and sinking her voice to a whisper, "I want to go out and see some one on an errand-it may be-of life or death."

"You are not fit to go out," said Mr. Burton. "Cannot the person come to see you? There would be less risk in that, though you ought to avoid every kind of excitement."

"No; that would be quite impossible," said Lydia. "Oh, do let me go; it isn't far-only to Kensington!"

"I know all you have done for me, and I am grateful for it," she said; "but you are not kind to me now. I must get out-I will go out !"

"You are like Sterne's starling, Lydia," said Mr. Burton, with a pleasant smile; "you must go out, and you must go out, but you will not give me the reason for the must.' Why tell me a rigmarole story about some mysterious' person' whom you want to see, and of whom you know nothing? Why not trust me fully ?''

"I will trust you," she said, after a moment's hesitation; " but, though it may seem a rigmarole story, I have not been telling you any lies-I will swear that. I know you are to be trusted; and I was a fool to attempt to hide anything from you. But I won't any longer; so here goes. I saw an advertisement the other day, addressed to a person—well, a woman; I don't want to say 'person' this time-addressed to a woman whom I know

"Is this person you want to see a man or something about. It is in answer to that adverwoman!" asked the surgeon.

"I do not know ?" replied Lydia, suddenly. "You do not know ?" he echoed.

"No, I do not know," she said; "and there you have got it. It seems very strange, I daresay, and very suspicious; but I am not going to tell a pack of lies about it—and there it is-I don't know!"

Then

There was a pause for a few moments. Clement Burton said, shrugging his shoulders, "All I can say is, that I cannot sanction your going out in your present state. Under different circumstances it might be otherwise; but you have failed to satisfy me of the urgency of the necessity, and I, therefore, give a strictly professional opinion."

"All right," she said, in a kind of desperation. "Your professional opinion has no power, I suppose, to turn a lock on me against my will, and, therefore, out I go."

"Just reflect for a minute, Lydia," said Clemont Burton, laying his hand upon her arm. "What motive could I possibly have for wishing to prevent your going out, except my knowledge that it would do you harm. You must give Sister Gaynor and myself the eredit of having been tolerably patient with you throughout your illness, and you must not do away with the high opinion we have formed of your powers of endurance by

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tisement I want to go out now. The place is at Kensington, and the advertiser is G. M.-and that is all I know about it."

Clement Burton was completely staggered at this intelligence. Not for one moment had he connected the desire manifested by his poor patient in Bloomsbury for permission to go out with the anxiety under which Miss Middleham was laboring. Now he saw a link between the two; the spark which, at his suggestion, Miss Middleham had attempted to light, had kindled into flame in a direction totally opposite from that which they had imagined, and the whole process had gone under his eyes without his being conscious of it. There had been nothing to give him the slightest clue to the existence of such a connection. In her conversation with him about Anne Studley, Miss Middleham had more than once described her friend's appearance and manners, and from what he remembered of their talk, Mr. Burton was sure that his Bloomsbury patient was not Anne Studley. The woman at whom he was then looking, while all these thoughts were revolving in his mind, must be considerably older than any school companion of Miss Middleham's. There was some further extraordinary mystery about the matter of which he had not yet got the key. It was obvious that the only plan of action open to him now, by which he could calm Lydia

Walton's excitement, although he did not know that it would have any effect in satisfying Miss Middleham's curiosity, was to bring the women together. Possibly, Lydia, believing the sincerity of the motives by which Miss Middleham was actuated, might be induced to make confidences to her which she otherwise would refuse to impart. "What have you got into your head, doctor, that you stand staring at me without ever saying a word?" said Lydia, after a pause. "Your face is so grave, that you must be thinking of something very serious."

"I will tell you what I was thinking of," said Clement Burton, with a smile, "how I could best. do what is always done by clever lawyers when they have intractable people to deal with-that is to say, arrange a compromise. You are obstinate, and so am I. You want to get out, and I daren't give you permission; but I will meet you half way -I will go myself to Kensington to this 'G. M.,' explain the state of the case, and persuade him or her, or whoever it is, to come here with me and see you."

"Will you?" said Lydia, cheerfully. "Then you are a good dear, and that is all one could possibly expect of you. I don't want to go out, bless you. To tell the truth, I am rather frightened at the notion. I have been here so long, that I am quite dazed and stupid; but it was most important that I should see this G. M.,' and I will tell you why some of these days; and if you will bring him or her here, and let me find out how much is known, and what is wanted, you will be doing me a service I can never repay. Now call that dear good nurse Gaynor in; tell her I am as mild as milk, and that I won't worry her any more."

"Have you said anything to the sister about the cause of your excitement?" asked Mr. Burton. "No; and be sure you don't open your lips to her about it either," said Lydia, earnestly. "I had trouble enough to write that letter without her knowing it, and very likely nothing will come of it after all, so she had better not be worried. She has got quite enough to think of without any 'G. M.'s,' or any nonsense of that kind.".

thought it better to leave Miss Middleham 1 ignorance that his Bloomsbury patient and her correspondent in reply to the advertisement were one and the same person; so that, when he called at the Hermitage that afternoon, he merely quired of Grace whether she had any engagement for the morning, and learning that she was free, proposed to take her to call upon Mrs. Walton, "about whom he had so often spoken to her. Grace consented, and the appointment was accur dingly made. "You will gain a new experience of life," he said to her. 'I suppose it has never happened to you to be thrown amongst any of those people who are called 'public characters'actors, singers, and so forth ?"

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"Never," said Grace. "When I lved in Eaton place, under Mrs. Crutchley's chaperonage, I several times met in society the Blanks and te Dashes, who, you know, were leading people upea the stage; but my tribute of admiration was paid from afar off, and I do not think I ever spoke to either of them."

This reply still left the matter shrouded in mystery. Clement Burton had put the questic with a vague idea that Lydia Walton might be an elder sister of Anne Studley's, or in some mort distant way related to her. If such were the cast. which now he very much doubted, it was pa that Miss Middleham had never heard of her.

The next day the surgeon was in waiting at the door of the lodging-house, when Grace drove up "I have not been upstairs yet," he said, assisting her to alight, "but no doubt we are expected, ♪ I said we should arrive about this time. AN now," he said, ringing the bell, you will see the fascinating Mrs. Walton,' as she used to le called, though, of course, very much altered by the sickness and suffering she has undergone.

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"Ay," said Grace, archly; and I shal & some one else who, if Mr. Channel is to be le lieved, is still more fascinating. Of the two, am far more anxious to make the acquaintance of Sister Gaynor.'

"She is the best creature in the world," sa the surgeon, as they ascended the stairs.

When they reached the second floor landi "Very Well," said Mr. Burton; "then, if I Mr. Burton knocked gently at the door. It wa have any luck, you may look out for me to-mor- quickly opened by Mrs. Gaynor, who, advan« "g row, about my usual hour, and may be pretty with her usual pleasant smile of welcome, start certain that I shall not come alone.” back on catching sight of Miss Middleham, and For more reasons than one, Clement Burton | uttered an ill-suppressed scream. Nor was Gruct

less affected. As soon as she saw nurse, she cried out, "Anne! Anne, at last!" and, rushing past Mr. Burton, clasped her long-lost friend to her breast.

That part of the mystery then was patent at once to Clement Burton. Under the disguise of Sister Gaynor, the hospital nurse, Anne Studley, the deeply lamented, the long searched for, had been living under his eyes for months, and now, by the merest accident, had been discovered by the friend to whom she was so dear. It was a marvel to him then, that the knowledge that Sister Gaynor's previous history had an element of mystery in it, which she desired to preserve intact, had not given him the clue to her identity as Anne Studley; but such an idea had never for an instant entered into his mind; and even nowwhen that was explained, as it had been simply by the mutual exclamations and the embrace, in which the friends were still locked-Lydia Walton's connection with the history yet remained to be elucidated. That the recognition between Anne and Grace was wholly unintelligible to her, was evident by the expression on her face. sat staring from one to the other, with knitted brows and puckered cheeks, and long before the friends would willingly have relaxed their grasp upon each other she burst forth.,

She

"What is the meaning of all this, may I ask? Do you know?" she cried, looking up to Clement Burton. "It is at your instance, I suppose, that this-this lady, who seems so delighted in hugging my nurse, has been brought here, and perhaps you can give me some explanation about it ?"

"Pray do not excite yourself," he commenced; but she interrupted him at once.

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'Excite myself! Don't attempt to put me off with any such paltry fribble. You profess yourself full of all sorts of friendliness to me; you won't let me go out, but you will bring to me the person whom I want to see; and when she comes, without so much as 'with your leave,' or 'by your leave' to me, she flings herself into nurse Gaynor's arms and commences a scene."

"Let me explain," said Anne, gently moving towards the invalid's chair, "at least, so far as I can. This lady is the dearest friend I have in the world, from whom I have been separated for a very long time, and who has now accidentally discovered me. It is not to be wondered at that

we should be glad to see one another!"'

"Oh, of course not," said Lydia Walton, "that's all right and proper, though it's curious how such accidents happen. What I want to know is, is she G. M. ?”

"Certainly her initials are G. M.," said Anne, in astonishment, after a pause, "but

"Perhaps I had better explain this matter," said Clement Burton, gently restraining Grace, who was about to speak. "If you had only placed any confidence in me," he continued, turning to Anne, "I might have helped you, for Miss Middleham had long since told me your story. Knowing you as I have, however, I can fully understand your reticence. Events have occurred of which you are in ignorance, and the narration of which will necessarily be very painful to you."

"I felt that there was some impending trouble," said Anne, calmly, "and I am prepared to bear it as best I may. What is it ?"

"Your father, Captain Studley, is dead," said Clement Burton.

"Dead!" echoed Anne, covering her face with her hands.

"I was with him almost at the last, my darl ing," said Grace, putting her arm round her friend. "He knew me-knew how fond we had been of each other, and told me many things— told me, above all, that you were George Heath's wife !"

"He lied!" cried Lydia Walton, who had been listening attentively to this dialogue. "With or without a purpose he lied! I am George Heath's wife! and no one else!"'

BOOK III. CHAPTER IX. UNSEALED LIPS.

LYDIA WALTON's outery naturally caused the greatest excitement to her three companions.

Clement Burton was the first to find his tongue. "Do you know what you are saying?" he exclaimed, in his clear, matter-of-fact way; “do you know to whom you are alluding? You proclaim yourself the wife of George Heath! Who is he, and what position does he hold ?”

"It did not strike me that I might have made a mistake," said Lydia, somewhat abashed; "the name sounded so familiar in my ears, that I spoke out at once, without thinking. The George Heath who is my husband was a cashier in Middleham's Bank, in Philpot-lane!"

"Tell us about him?" said Clement, with a glance at Anne's working features and tightly

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