nder that a tongue should be so glib on
matters of no earthly interest. At last, Laura said in an undertone: "I
am the bearer of a message from Mr. Pericles; do you walk at all in the
garden?"

Emilia read her look, and rose. Her thoughts struck back on the
creature that she was when she had last seen Mr. Pericles, and again, by
contrast, on what she was now. Eager to hear of him, or rather to divine
the mystery in her bosom aroused by the unexpected mention of his name,
she was soon alone with Laura in the garden.

"Oh, those poor Poles!" Laura began.

"You were going to say something of Mr. Pericles," said Emilia.

"Yes, indeed, my dear; but, of course, you have heard all the details of
that dreadful night? It cannot be called a comfort to us that it enables
my brother Albert to come forward in the most disinterested--I might
venture to say, generous--manner, and prove the chivalry of his soul;
still, as things are, we are glad, after such misunderstandings, to
prove to that sorely-tried family who are their friends. I--you would
little think so from their treatment of me--I was at school with them.
I knew them before they became unintelligible, though they always had a
turn for it. To dress well, to be refined, to marry well--I understand
all that perfectly; but who could understand them? Not they themselves,
I am certain! And now penniless! and not only that, but lawyers! You
know that Mrs. Chump has commenced an action?--no? Oh, yes! but I shall
have to tell you the whole story."

"What is it?--they want money?" said Emilia.

"I will tell you. Our poor gentlemanly organist, whom you knew, was
really a baronet's son, and inherited the title."

Emilia interrupted her: "Oh, do let me hear about them!"

"Well, my dear, this unfortunate--I may call him 'lover,' for if a man
does not stamp the truth of his affection with a pistol, what other
means has he? And just a word as to romance. I have been sighing for
it--no one would think so--all my life. And who would have thought that
these poor Poles should have lived to convince me of the folly! Oh,
delicious humdrum!--there is nothing like it. But you are anxious,
naturally. Poor Sir Purcell Barren--he may or may not have been mad, but
when he was brought to the house at Brookfield--quite by chance--I mean,
his body--two labouring men found him by a tree--I don't know whether
you remembered a pollard-willow that stood all white and rotten by the
water in the fir-w