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But first, I confess, I should like again to see America, and Uncle Denover, and" with a little laugh "George Washington Parmalee." For Mr. Parmalee had gone back to Dobbsville, at peace with all the world, Sir Everard Kingsland included. "You're a brick, baronet," his parting speech had been, as he wrung that young man's hand; "you air, I swan! And your wife's another! Long may you wave!"
One night, when she thought herself dying, she called him to her bedside and told him her story." Clear and sweet Sybilla Silver's voice rang from end to end, each word cutting mercilessly through the unhappy prisoner's very soul. "Her maiden name had been Maria Denover, and she was a native of New York City.
"I am going to my uncle's house," she said; "my mother's brother. Hugh Denover is a rich merchant, and will receive us, I know. Keep my story secret, and come and see me next time you visit New York. Here is my uncle's address; give me yours, and if ever it is in my power, I will not forget how nobly you have acted and how inadequately you have been repaid." They shook hands and parted. Mr.
I wish she hadn't such a devil of a temper. I'll take her home to the farm, and if mother doesn't break her in she'll be the first she ever failed with." Mr. Parmalee retired betimes, slept soundly, and was up in the gray day-dawn. Breakfast, piping hot, smoked on the table when Mrs. Denover appeared. "Eat, drink and be merry," said Mr. Parmalee. "Go in and win.
She told her story with dry eyes and unfaltering voice; but Mr. Denover, looking in that pale, rigid young face, read more of her despair than she dreamed. "Her husband has been some English grandee, like Captain Hunsden, I dare say," he thought, "proud as Lucifer, and when he discovered that about her mother, despised and ill-treated her."
He left New York for England in his professional capacity as photographic artist, on speculation. On board the steamer was a woman a steerage passenger poor, ill, friendless, and alone. He had a kindly heart, it appears, under his passion for money-making, and when this woman this Mrs. Denover fell ill, he nursed her as a son might.
"She's the skipper's only daughter this 'ere craft, the 'Angelina Dobbs, is named after her and he'll foot the bill like a lud." The surgeon did his best, and was liberally paid out of the three hundred pounds which Mrs. Denover had found in the bosom of Harriet's dress. But for days and weeks she lay very ill ill unto death delirious, senseless.
Harriet and her mother sought out Mr. Denover. He lived in a stately up-town mansion, with his wife and one son, and received both poor waifs with open arms. His lost sister had been his boyhood's pet; he had nothing for her now but pity and forgiveness, when she looked at him with death in her face. "My poor Maria, don't talk of the wretched past.
He rowed ashore, lifted the lifeless form, carried it into the boat, and laid it across the mother's knee. "We'll put for the 'Angelina," he observed. "If there's any life left, we'll fetch her to there." "Her heart beats," said Mrs. Denover, raining tears and kisses on the cold face. "Oh, my child, my child! it is your wretched mother who has done this!"
Sybilla turned toward him and answered, in a voice plainly audible the length and breadth of the, long room: "She called herself Mrs. Denover. Mr. Parmalee called her his sister. Both were false. She was Captain Harold Hunsden's divorced wife, Lady Kingsland's mother, and a lost, degraded outcast!" There was the silence of death. Men looked blankly in each other's faces, then at the prisoner.
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