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<h2>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> When the dean’s family had been at Anfield about a month—one misty morning, such as portends a sultry day, as Henry was walking swiftly through a thick wood, on the skirts of the parish, he suddenly started on hearing a distant groan, expressive, as he thought, both of bodily and mental pain.  He stopped to hear it repeated, that he might pursue the sound.  He heard it again; and though now but in murmurs, yet, as the tone implied excessive grief, he directed his course to that part of the wood from which it came. As he advanced, in spite of the thick fog, he discerned the appearance of a female stealing away on his approach.  His eye was fixed on this object; and regardless where he placed his feet, he soon shrunk back with horror, on perceiving they had nearly trod upon a new-born infant, lying on the ground!—a lovely male child, entered on a world where not one preparation had been made to receive him. “Ah!” cried Henry, forgetting the person who had fled, and with a smile of compassion on the helpless infant, “I am glad I have found you—you give more joy to me than you have done to your hapless parents.  Poor dear,” continued he, while he took off his coat to wrap it in, “I will take care of you while I live—I will beg for you, rather than you shall want; but first, I will carry you to those who can, at present, do more for you than myself.” Thus Henry said and thought, while he enclosed the child carefully in his coat, and took it in his arms.  But proceeding to walk his way with it, an unlucky query struck him, where he should go. “I must not take it to the dean’s,” he cried, “because Lady Clementina will suspect it is not nobly, and my uncle will suspect it is not lawfully, born.  Nor must I take it to Lord Bendham’s for the self-same reason, though, could it call Lady Bendham mother, this whole village, nay, the whole country round, would ring with rejoicings for its birth.  How strange!” continued he, “that we should make so little of human creatures, that one sent among us, wholly independent of his own high value, becomes a curse instead of a blessing by the mere accident of circumstances.” He now, after walking out of the wood, peeped through the folds of his coat to look again at his charge.  He started, turned pale, and trembled to behold what, in the surprise of first seeing the child, had escaped his observation.  Around its little throat was a cord entwined by a slipping noose, and drawn half way—as if the trembling hand of the murderer had revolted from its dreadful office, and he or she had heft the infant to pine away in nakedness and hunger, rather than see it die. Again Henry wished himself joy of the treasure he had found; and more fervently than before; for he had not only preserved one fellow-creature from death, but another from murder. Once more he looked at his charge, and was transported to observe, upon its serene brow and sleepy eye, no traces of the dangers it had passed—no trait of shame either for itself or its parents—no discomposure at the unwelcome reception it was likely to encounter from a proud world!  He now slipped the fatal string from its neck; and by this affectionate disturbance causing the child to cry, he ran (but he scarcely knew whither) to convey it to a better nurse. He at length found himself at the door of his dear Rebecca—for so very happy Henry felt at the good luck which had befallen him, that he longed to bestow a part of the blessing upon her he loved. He sent for her privately out of the house to speak to him.  When she came, “Rebecca,” said he (looking around that no one observed him), “Rebecca, I have brought you something you will like.” “What is it?” she asked. “You know, Rebecca, that you love deserted birds, strayed kittens, and motherless lambs.  I have brought something more pitiable than any of these.  Go, get a cap and a little gown, and then I will give it you.” “A gown!” exclaimed Rebecca.  “If you have brought me a monkey, much as I should esteem any present from you, indeed I cannot touch it.” “A monkey!” repeated Henry, almost in anger: then changing the tone of his voice, exclaimed in triumph, “It is a child!” On this he gave it a gentle pinch, that its cry might confirm the pleasing truth he spoke. “A child!” repeated Rebecca in amaze. “Yes, and indeed I found it.” “Found it!” “Indeed I did.  The mother, I fear, had just forsaken it.” “Inhuman creature!” “Nay, hold, Rebecca!  I am sure you will pity her when you see her child—you then will know she must have loved it—and you will consider how much she certainly had suffered before she left it to perish in a wood.” “Cruel!” once more exclaimed Rebecca. “Oh!  Rebecca, perhaps, had she possessed a home of her own she would have given it the best place in it; had she possessed money, she would have dressed it with the nicest care; or had she been accustomed to disgrace, she would have gloried in calling it hers!  But now, as it is, it is sent to us—to you and me, Rebecca—to take care of.” Rebecca, soothed by Henry’s compassionate eloquence, held out her arms and received the important parcel; and, as she kindly looked in upon the little stranger, “Now, are not you much obliged to me,” said Henry, “for having brought it to you?  I know no one but yourself to whom I would have trusted it with pleasure.” “Much obliged to you,” repeated Rebecca, with a very serious face, “if I did but know what to do with it—where to put it—where to hide it from my father and sisters.” “Oh! anywhere,” returned Henry.  “It is very good—it will not cry.  Besides, in one of the distant, unfrequented rooms of your old abbey, through the thick walls and long gallery, an infant’s cry cannot pass.  Yet, pray be cautious how you conceal it; for if it should be discovered by your father or sisters, they will take it from you, prosecute the wretched mother, and send the child to the parish.” “I will do all I can to prevent them,” said Rebecca; “and I think I call to mind a part of the house where it must be safe.  I know, too, I can take milk from the dairy, and bread from the pantry, without their being missed, or my father much the poorer.  But if—”  That instant they were interrupted by the appearance of the stern curate at a little distance.  Henry was obliged to run swiftly away, while Rebecca returned by stealth into the house with her innocent burthen. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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