not fire on the mob, according to orders,--so, at least, it was said.
John Walter Ardworth was tried by a court-martial, and broke! But you
know all this, perhaps?"

"My poor father! Only in part; I knew that he had been dismissed the
army,--I believed unjustly. He was a soldier, and yet he dared to think
for himself and be humane!"

"But my uncle had left him a legacy; it brought no blessing,--none of
that old man's gold did. Where are they all now,--Dalibard, Susan, and
her fair-faced husband,--where? Vernon is in his grave,--but one son of
many left! Gabriel Varney lives, it is true, and I! But that gold,--
yea, in our hands there was a curse on it! Walter Ardworth had his
legacy. His nature was gay; if disgraced in his profession, he found men
to pity and praise him,--Fools of Party like himself. He lived joyously,
drank or gamed, or lent or borrowed,--what matters the wherefore? He was
in debt; he lived at last a wretched, shifting, fugitive life, snatching
bread where he could, with the bailiffs at his heels. Then, for a short
time, we met again."

Lucretia's brow grew black as night as her voice dropped at that last
sentence, and it was with a start that she continued,--

"In the midst of this hunted existence, Walter Ardworth appeared, late
one night, at Mr. Fielden's with an infant. He seemed--so says Mr.
Fielden--ill, worn, and haggard. He entered into no explanations with
respect to the child that accompanied him, and retired at once to rest.
What follows, Mr. Fielden, at my request, has noted down. Read, and see
what claim you have to the honourable parentage so vaguely ascribed to
you."