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She sat down before them, and beginning at the beginning, told them the whole story her forced and mysterious marriage and its very unpleasant sequel. "That I ever escaped," she concluded, "I owe, under Providence, to Mr. Ingelow. Guardy, I would have spared you if I could; but, you see, it was impossible. Of course, we won't prosecute your wife or her cousin.
"No," said Mollie, coloring slightly. "Mr. Ingelow came with me. He is waiting below." "That is well. It is growing late, and the neighborhood is not a good one. He saved you, did he not?" "He did. I owe him my life my liberty." "I knew he would I knew he would! I trusted him from the first Mollie, do you know why I sent for you in my dying hour?" "To tell me who I am."
The surrounding country is made up largely of marshes reclaimed from the sea, which are called fens, and slightly elevated tracts of land called moors. Here Jean Ingelow studied the green meadows and the ever-changing ocean.
They sprang up suddenly and tunefully as skylarks from the daisy-spangled, hawthorn-bordered meadows of old England, with a blitheness long unknown, and in their idyllic underflights moved with the tenderest currents of human life. Miss Ingelow may be termed an idyllic lyrist, her lyrical pieces having always much idyllic beauty.
Hemans and had given this copy to Marjorie; later, she had laid her aside for Longfellow, as Marjorie would do by and by, and, in his turn, she had given up Longfellow for Tennyson and Mrs. Browning, as, perhaps, Marjorie would never do. She had brought Jean Ingelow with her this morning to try "Brothers and a Sermon" and the "Songs of Seven" with Marjorie.
"I would much rather live with Hugh Ingelow than die with him. Handsome Hugh." Her eyes softened and grew humid. "You are right, Miriam. You can spae fortunes, I see. I do like Hugh, dearly. But he is not the man." "No? Are you sure?" "Quite sure. He is too chivalrous, for one thing, to force a lady's inclination." "Don't trust any of them.
Walraven," the young man said, his cool brown eyes looking the discovered murderer through. "I know all, and I believe all. You have been duped from first to last. Miss Dane is no child of yours, thank God!" He raised his hand as he uttered the solemn thanksgiving, with a gesture that thrilled the guilty man through. "Your secret is safe with her and with me," pursued Hugh Ingelow, after a pause.
No one moved or spoke until the house-door banged after him. Then Mme. Blanche, seeing all was lost, gave one horrible scream, clasped her hands over her head, and fell back in violent hysterics. "Ring for her maid, guardy," said Mollie. "You had best take her up to her room. Sir Roger, Mr. Ingelow, please to remain. Mr.
Ingelow was standing with his back to her, looking out at the last yellow line of the sunset streaking the twilight sky. He turned partly around, very, very pale, as the woman, could see, and answered, guardedly: "You had better do nothing, I think. You had better leave the matter altogether to me. Our game is shy, and easily scared. Leave me to deal with him.
To do good with it, makes life a delight to the giver. How happy, then, was the life of Jean Ingelow, since what she received from the sale of a hundred thousand copies of her poems, and fifty thousand of her prose works, she spent largely in charity; one unique charity being a "copyright" dinner three times a week to twelve poor persons just discharged from the neighboring hospitals!
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