A Perilous Secret | Page 9

of sham sprightliness and real anguish, "Thank you,
sir; I only trust that you will always find servants as devoted to your
interest as my gratitude would have made me. Good-morning, sir." He
clapped his hat on with a sprightly, ghastly air, and marched off

resolutely.
But ere he reached the door, Nature overpowered the father's heart; way
went Bolton's instructions; away went fictitious deportment and feigned
cheerfulness. The poor wretch uttered a cry, indeed a scream, of
anguish, that would have thrilled ten thousand hearts had they heard it;
he dashed his hat on the ground, and rushed toward Bartley, with both
hands out--"FOR GOD'S SAKE DON'T SEND ME AWAY--MY
CHILD IS STARVING!"
Even Bartley was moved. "Your child!" said he, with some little feeling.
This slight encouragement was enough for a father. His love gushed
forth. "A little golden-haired, blue-eyed angel, who is all the world to
me. We have walked here from Liverpool, where I had just buried her
mother. God help me! God help us both! Many a weary mile, sir, and
never sure of supper or bed. The birds of the air have nests, the beasts
of the field a shelter, the fox a hole, but my beautiful and fragile girl,
only four years old, sir, is houseless and homeless. Her mother died of
consumption, sir, and I live in mortal fear; for now she is beginning to
cough, and I can not give her proper nourishment. Often on this fatal
journey I have felt her shiver, and then I have taken off my coat and
wrapped it round her, and her beautiful eyes have looked up in mine,
and seemed to plead for the warmth and food I'd sell my soul to give
her."
"Poor fellow," said Bartley; "I suppose I ought to pity you. But how
can I? Man--man--your child is alive, and while there is life there is
hope; but mine is dead--dead!" he almost shrieked.
"Dead!" said Hope, horrified.
"Dead," cried Bartley. "Cut off at four years old, the very age of yours.
There--go and judge for yourself. You are a father. I can't look upon
my blasted hopes, and my withered flower. Go and see my blue-eyed,
fair-haired darling--clay, hastening to the tomb; and you will trouble
me no more with your imaginary griefs." He flung himself down with
his head on his desk.
Hope, following the direction of his hand, opened the door of the house,
and went softly forward till he met the nurse. He told her Mr. Bartley
wished him to see the deceased. The nurse hesitated, but looked at him.
His sad face inspired confidence, and she ushered him into the chamber
of mourning. There, laid out in state, was a little figure that, seen in the

dim light, drew a cry of dismay from Hope. He had left his own girl
sleeping, and looking like tinted wax. Here lay a little face the very
image of hers, only this was pale wax.
Had he looked more closely, the chin was unlike his own girl's, and
there were other differences. But the first glance revealed a thrilling
resemblance. Hope hurried away from the room, and entered the office
pale and disturbed. "Oh, sir! the very image of my own. It fills me with
forebodings. I pity you, sir, with all my heart. That sad sight reconciles
me to my lot. God help you!" and he was going away; for now he felt
an unreasoning terror lest his own child should have turned from
colored wax to pale.
Mr. Bartley stopped him. "Are they so very like?" said he.
"Wonderfully like." And again he was going, but Bartley, who had
received him so coldly, seemed now unwilling to part with him.
"Stay," said he, "and let me think." The truth is, a daring idea had just
flashed through that brain of his; and he wanted to think it out. He
walked to and fro in silent agitation, and his face was as a book in
which you may read strange matter. At last he made up his mind, but
the matter was one he did not dare to approach too bluntly, so he went
about a little.
"Stay--you don't know all my misfortunes. I am ambitious--like you. I
believe in science and knowledge--like you. And, if my child had lived,
you should have been my adviser and my right hand: I want such a man
as you."
Hope threw up his hands. "My usual luck!" said he: "always a day too
late." Bartley resumed:
"But my child's death robs me of the money to work with, and I can't
help you nor help myself."
Hope groaned.
Bartley hesitated. But after a moment he said, timidly, "Unless--" and
then stopped.
"Unless what?" asked Hope, eagerly. "I am not likely to