"No, papa," answered she soothingly, "not a breath; I've been secret as the grave."

"That's right!" rejoined he--"that is right! I love George, but not as I do you. He only comes to me when he wants money. He is not like you, darling--you take care of and nurse your poor old father. Has he come in yet?"

"Not yet; he never gets home until almost morning, and is then often fearfully intoxicated."

The old man shook his head, and muttered, "The sins of the fathers shall--what is that? Did you hear that noise?--hush!"

Lizzie stood quietly by him for a short while, and then walked on tiptoe to the door--"It is George," said she, after peering into the gloom of their entry; "he has admitted him self with his night-key."

The shuffling sound of footsteps was now quite audible upon the stairway, and soon the bloated face of Mr. Stevens's hopeful son was seen at the chamber door. In society and places where this young gentleman desired to maintain a respectable character he could be as well behaved, as choice in his language, and as courteous as anybody; but at home, where he was well known, and where he did not care to place himself under any restraint, he was a very different individual.

"Let me in, Liz," said he, in a thick voice; "I want the old man to fork over some money--I'm cleaned out."

"No, no--go to bed, George," she answered, coaxingly, "and talk to him about it in the morning."

"I'm coming in _now_," said he, determinedly; "and besides, I want to tell you something about that n.i.g.g.e.r Garie."

"Tell us in the morning," persisted Lizzy.

"No--I'm going to tell you now," rejoined he, forcing his way into the room--"it's too good to keep till morning. Pick up that wick, let a fellow see if you are all alive!"

Lizzie raised the wick of the lamp in accordance with his desire, and then sat down with an expression of annoyance and vexation on her countenance.

George threw himself into an easy chair, and began, "I saw that white n.i.g.g.e.r Garie to-night, he was in company with a gentleman, at that--the a.s.surance of that fellow is perfectly incomprehensible. He was drinking at the bar of the hotel; and as it is no secret why he and Miss Bates parted, I enlightened the company on the subject of his antecedents. He threatened to challenge me! Ho! ho!--fight with a n.i.g.g.e.r--that is too good a joke!"

And laughing heartily, the young ruffian leant back in his chair. "I want some money to-morrow, dad," continued he. "I say, old gentleman, wasn't it a lucky go that darkey's father was put out of the way so nicely, eh?--We've been living in clover ever since--haven't we?"

"How dare you address me-in that disrespectful manner? Go out of the room, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Stevens, with a disturbed countenance.

"Come, George, go to bed," urged his sister wearily. "Let father sleep--it is after twelve o'clock. I am going to wake the nurse, and then retire myself."

George rose stupidly from his chair, and followed his sister from the room.

On the stairway he grasped her arm rudely, and said, "I don't understand how it is that you and the old man are so cursed thick all of a sudden. You are thick as two thieves, always whispering and talking together. Act fair, Liz--don't persuade him to leave you all the money. If you do, we'll quarrel--that's flat. Don't try and cozen him out of my share as well as your own--you hear!"

"Oh, George!" rejoined she reproachfully--"I never had such an idea."

"Then what are you so much together for? Why is there so much whispering and writing, and going off on journeys all alone? What does it all mean, eh?"

"It means nothing at all, George. You are not yourself to-night," said she evasively; "you had better go to bed."

"It is _you_ that are not yourself," he retorted. "What makes you look so pale and worried--and why do you and the old man start if the door cracks, as if the devil was after you? What is the meaning of that?" asked he with a drunken leer. "You had better look out," concluded he; "I'm watching you both, and will find out all your secrets by-and-by."

"Learn all our secrets! Ah, my brother!" thought she, as he disappeared into his room, "you need not desire to have their fearful weight upon you, or you will soon grow as anxious, thin, and pale as I am."

The next day at noon Lizzie started on her journey, after a short conference with her father.

Night had settled upon her native city, when she was driven through its straight and seemingly interminable thoroughfares. The long straight rows of lamps, the snowy steps, the scrupulously clean streets, the signs over the stores, were like the faces of old acquaintances, and at any other time would have caused agreeable recollections; but the object of her visit pre-occupied her mind, to the exclusion of any other and more pleasant a.s.sociations.

She ordered the coachman to take her to an obscure hotel, and, after having engaged a room, she left her baggage and started in search of the residence of McCloskey.

She drew her veil down over her face very closely, and walked quickly through the familiar streets, until she arrived at the place indicated in his letter. It was a small, mean tenement, in a by street, in which there were but one or two other houses. The shutters were closed from the upper story to the lowest, and the whole place wore an uninhabited appearance.

After knocking several times, she was about to give up in despair, when she discovered through the gla.s.s above the door the faint glimmer of a light, and shortly after a female voice demanded from the inside, "Who is there?"

"Does Mr. McCloskey live here?" asked Lizzie.

Hearing a voice not more formidable than her own, the person within partially opened the door; and, whilst shading with one hand the candle she held in the other, gazed out upon the speaker.

"Does Mr. McCloskey live here?" repeated Lizzie.

"Yes, he does," answered the woman, in a weak voice; "but he's got the typers."

"Has the what?" inquired Lizzie, who did not exactly understand her.

"Got the typers--got the fever, you know."

"The typhus fever!" said Lizzie, with a start; "then he is really sick."

"Really sick!" repeated the woman--"really sick! Well, I should think he was! Why, he's been a raving and swearing awful for days; he stormed and screamed so loud that the neighbours complained. Law! they had to even shave his head."

"Is he any better?" asked Lizzie, with a sinking heart. "Can I see him?"

"'Praps you can, if you go to the hospital to-morrow; but whether you'll find him living or dead is more than I can say. I couldn't keep him here--I wasn't able to stand him. I've had the fever myself--he took it from me.

You must come in," continued the woman, "if you want to talk--I'm afraid of catching cold, and can't stand at the door. Maybe you're afraid of the fever," she further observed, as she saw Lizzie hesitate on the door-step.

"Oh, no, I'm not afraid of that," answered Lizzie quickly--"I am not in the least afraid."

"Come in, then," reiterated the woman, "and I'll tell you all about it."

The woman looked harmless enough, and Lizzie hesitated no longer, but followed her through the entry into a decently furnished room. Setting the candlestick upon the mantelpiece, she offered her visitor a chair, and then continued--

"He came home this last time in an awful state. Before he left some one sent him a load of money, and he did nothing but drink and gamble whilst it lasted. I used to tell him that he ought to take care of his money, and he'd snap his fingers and laugh. He used to say that he owned the goose that laid the golden eggs, and could have money whenever he wanted it.

Well, as I was a saying, he went; and when he came back he had an awful attack of _delirium tremens_, and then he took the typers. Oh, laws mercy!"

continued she, holding up her bony hands, "how that critter raved! He talked about killing people."

"He did!" interrupted Lizzie, with a gesture of alarm, and laying her hand upon her heart, which beat fearfully--"did he mention any name?"

The woman did not stop to answer this question, but proceeded as if she had not been interrupted. "He was always going on about two orphans and a will, and he used to curse and swear awfully about being obliged to keep something hid. It was dreadful to listen to--it would almost make your hair stand on end to hear him."

"And he never mentioned names?" said Lizzie inquiringly.

"No, that was so strange; he never mentioned no names--_never_. He used to rave a great deal about two orphans and a will, and he would ransack the bed, and pull up the sheets, and look under the pillows, as if he thought it was there. Oh, he acted very strange, but never mentioned no names. I used to think he had something in his trunk, he was so very special about it. He was better the day they took him off; and the trunk went with him--he would have it; but since then he's had a dreadful relapse, and there's no knowin' whether he is alive or dead."

"I must go to the hospital," said Lizzie, rising from her seat, and greatly relieved to learn that nothing of importance had fallen from McCloskey during his delirium. "I shall go there as quickly as I can," she observed, walking to the door.

"You'll not see him to-night if you do," rejoined the woman. "Are you a relation?"

"Oh, no," answered Lizzie; "my father is an acquaintance of his. I learned that he was ill, and came to inquire after him."

Had the woman not been very indifferent or un.o.bservant, she would have noticed the striking difference between the manner and appearance of Lizzie Stevens and the cla.s.s who generally came to see McCloskey. She did not, however, appear to observe it, nor did she manifest any curiosity greater than that evidenced by her inquiring if he was a relative.