that the design was probably wholly unsuspected by the women whom I had
just left. My silence, at parting, might have been ascribed by them to
the intimidating influence of invectives and threats. Hence I proceeded
in my search without interruption.

Presently I reached a front chamber in the third story. The door was
ajar. I entered it on tiptoe. Sitting on a low chair by the fire, I
beheld a female figure, dressed in a negligent but not indecent manner.
Her face, in the posture in which she sat, was only half seen. Its hues
were sickly and pale, and in mournful unison with a feeble and emaciated
form. Her eyes were fixed upon a babe that lay stretched upon a pillow
at her feet. The child, like its mother, for such she was readily
imagined to be, was meagre and cadaverous. Either it was dead, or could
not be very distant from death.

The features of Clemenza were easily recognised, though no contrast
could be greater, in habit and shape and complexion, than that which her
present bore to her former appearance. All her roses had faded, and her
brilliancies vanished. Still, however, there was somewhat fitted to
awaken the tenderest emotions. There were tokens of inconsolable
distress.

Her attention was wholly absorbed by the child. She lifted not her eyes
till I came close to her and stood before her. When she discovered me, a
faint start was perceived. She looked at me for a moment, then, putting
one spread hand before her eyes, she stretched out the other towards the
door, and waving it in silence, as if to admonish me to depart.

This motion, however emphatical, I could not obey. I wished to obtain
her attention, but knew not in what words to claim it. I was silent. In
a moment she removed her hand from her eyes, and looked at me with new
eagerness. Her features bespoke emotions which, perhaps, flowed from my
likeness to her brother, joined with the memory of my connection with
Welbeck.

My situation was full of embarrassment. I was by no means certain that
my language would be understood. I knew not in what light the policy and
dissimulation of Welbeck might have taught her to regard me. What
proposal, conducive to her comfort and her safety, could I make to her?

Once more she covered her eyes, and exclaimed, in a feeble voice, "Go
away! begone!"

As if satisfied with this effort, she resumed her attention to her
child. She stooped and lifted it in her arms, gazing, meanwhile, on its
almost lifeless featur