NEXT morning, after a sleepless night, Nancy Rouse said to Mr. Penfold, "Haven't I heard you say as bank-notes could he traced to folk?"
"Certainly, madam," said Michael. "But it is necessary to take the numbers of them."
"Oh! And how do you do that?"
"Why, every note has its own number."
"La! ye don't say so; then them fifties are all numbered, belike."
"Certainly, and if you wish me to take down the numbers, I will do so."
"Well, sir, some other day you shall. I could not bear the sight of them just yet; for it is them as has been the ruin of poor Joe Wylie, I do think."
Michael could not follow this; but, the question having been raised, he advised her, on grounds of common prudence, not to keep them in the house without taking down their numbers.
"We will talk about that in the evening," said Nancy.
Accordingly, at night, Nancy produced the notes, and Michael took down the numbers and descriptions in his pocket-book. They ran from 16,444 to 16,463. And he promised her to try and ascertain through what hands they had passed. He said he had a friend in the Bank of England, who might perhaps be able to discover to what private bank they had been issued in the first instance, and then those bankers, on a strong representation, might perhaps examine their books, and say to whom they had paid them. He told her the notes were quite new, and evidently had not been separated since their first issue.
Nancy caught a glimpse of his meaning, and set herself doggedly to watch until the person who had passed the notes through the chimney should come for them. "He will miss them," said she, you mark my words."
Thus Helen, though reduced to a standstill herself, had set an inquiry on foot which was alive and ramifying.
In the course of a few days she received a visit from Mrs. Undercliff.
That lady came in, and laid a prayer-book on the table, saying, "I have brought it you back, miss; and I want you to do something for my satisfaction."
"Oh, certainly," said Helen. "What is it?"
"Well, miss, first examine the book and the writing. Is it all right?"
Helen examined it, and said it was: "Indeed," said she, "the binding looks fresher, if anything."
"You have a good eye," said Mrs. Undercliff. "Well, what I want you to do is-- Of course Mr. Wardlaw is a good deal about you?"
"Yes."
"Does he go to church with you ever?"
"No."
"But he would, if you were to ask him."
"I have no doubt he would; but why?"
"Manage matters so that he shall go to church with you, and then put the book down for him to see the writing, all in a moment. Watch his face and tell me."
Helen colored up and said: "No; I can't do that. Why, it would be turning God's temple into a trap! Besides--"
"The real reason first, if you please," said this horribly shrewd old woman.
"Well, Mr. Arthur Wardlaw is the gentleman I am going to marry."
"Good Heavens!" cried Mrs. Undercliff, taken utterly aback by this most unexpected turn. "Why, you never told me that!"
"No," said Helen, blushing. "I did not think it necessary to go into that. Well, of course, it is not in human nature that Mr. Wardlaw should be zealous in my good work, or put himself forward; but he has never refused to lend me any help that was in his power; and it is repugnant to my nature to suspect him of a harm, and to my feelings to lay a trap for him."
"Quite right," said Mrs. Undercliff; "of course I had no idea you were going to marry Mr. Wardlaw. I made sure Mr. Penfold was the man."
Helen blushed higher still, but made no reply.
Mrs. Undercliff turned the conversation directly. "My son has given many hours to Mr. Hand's two letters, and he told me to tell you he is beginning to doubt whether Mr. Hand is a real person, with a real handwriting, at all.
"Oh, Mrs. Undercliff! Why, he wrote me two letters! However, I will ask Mr. Penfold whether Mr. Hand exists or not. When shall I have the pleasure of seeing you again?"
"Whenever you like, my dear young lady; but not upon this business of Penfold and Wardlaw. I have done with it forever; and my advice to you, miss, is not to stir the mud any more." And with these mysterious words the old lady retired, leaving Helen deeply discouraged at her desertion.
However, she noted down the conversation in her diary, and made this comment: People find no pleasure in proving an accused person innocent; the charm is to detect guilt. This day a good, kind friend abandons me because I will not turn aside from my charitable mission to suspect another person as wrongfully as he I love has been suspected.
_Mem.:_ To see, or make inquiries about Mr. Hand.
General Rolleston had taken a furnished house in Hanover Square. He now moved into it, and Helen was compelled to busy herself in household arrangements.
She made the house charming; but unfortunately stood in a draught while heated, and caught a chill, which a year ago would very likely have gone to her lungs and killed her, but now settled on her limbs in violent neuralgic pains, and confined her to her bed for a fortnight.
She suffered severely, but had the consolation of finding she was tenderly beloved. Arthur sent flowers every day and affectionate notes twice a day. And her father was constantly by her bedside.
At last she came down to the drawing-room, but lay on the sofa well wrapped up, and received only her most intimate friends.
The neuralgia had now settled on her right arm and hand, so that she could not write a letter; and she said to herself with a sigh, "Oh, how unfit a girl is to do anything great! We always fall ill just when health and strength are most needed."
Nevertheless, during this period of illness and inaction, circumstances occurred that gave her joy.
